“I need a huge favor tonight,” scrolled across my cracked cell phone screen.
It wasn’t unusual for Joran, Creative Loafing Marketing Director, to ask for strange favors. Just last week he asked Emma if she would pose nearly nude at a wine tasting while a body artist painted grapes over her pasties. What worried me was the fact that he didn’t include what the favor was on this exploratory text. Considering that we were hosting Beer Club that night at Skipper’s Smokehouse, I was optimistic that the favor involved beer sampling or helping the Bud Girls get dressed for the event. Such hopes died twelve minutes later when the next text came.
“Can u bring a cake and a speedo to beer club tonight?”
The cake had to be for Joran’s wife, Jennifer, whose birthday it was, but the Speedo? I was lounging in my St. Pete hangout, Kahwa Coffee, at the time and felt the need to confirm with the barista Catherine who was used to dealing with absurd requests from male customers like, “We should get some coffee sometime.” For her the text wasn’t cryptic.
“He wants you to bring his wife a cake while wearing your fancy Speedo and doing your little booty-shaking routine.”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by her response or Joran’s request. Catherine, like all the Kahwa baristas, had seen me with my pants off. Not to imply that the baristas paid me for this pleasure. I volunteered my services at one of their Halloween parties. I came as Ron Burgundy, with a burgundy blazer, striped tie, a fake mustache soaked in beer, and boxers that I repeatedly hiked up to demonstrate various muscle constructions on my thighs.
Taking off my pants was just my way of saying hello. It had become something of a nervous tick. In high school I discovered that the only way to overcome my shyness was by streaking parties—putting all my insecurities on parade. Joran had witnessed a similar exhibition at a costume party I threw. By the night’s end I was running around in aviator shades, and American flag scarf, and an “Unpaid Intern” shirt tucked into my bejeweled and embroidered Speedo while violating attendants with a bubble gun. And, he, along with the Kahwa baristas had seen various photos of similar escapades repeatedly on my Myspace.
Some might say that dancing pants-less was my one superpower, but it was also a curse. Earlier this year I had vowed to cut back on the number of times I exposed my pasty legs to the public. I didn’t want the joke to get old. Of course I immediately broke this rule a few weeks back when I ran out of material for my tailgating toga party and ended up with a man-dress shorter than most cheerleading skirts.
Too cheap and techno-retarded for texting, I emailed Joran for more info, hoping at least I might move up in the world of pants removing by possibly getting paid for my talents.
“I figured right at 7:30 you can come out with the cake wearing the speedo (maybe Emma can help) candles/sparklers would be great and we could all sing. Text me if you hit a snag.”
Along with being shy, I’m also anxious, which I cope with through planning—planning my route when streaking or the perfect pattern of rhinestones to accentuate my minimal ass. Joran wasn’t giving me much to work with. He was relying too heavily on the power of the Speedo. Besides that, it was the day after Thanksgiving and my stomach was as stuffed as a baked turkey’s ass.
I debated doing the performance as I jogged around picnickers in the park. Another huge issue was shoes. Naturally, the instinct is to go without, as this looks natural against bare chicken legs, but this is a problem if you need to make a quick escape or a startled partier drops her beer. Sure, pole dancers have heels, but what do teabag bouncers wear?
I arrived at Skipper’s an hour early, still unsure if I would go through with it. My only reason for agreeing was the same rational behind every ridiculous stunt I pull: I’m planning for the future. Such things are the making of stories I’ll one day tell the grandkids after I’ve had to much to drink on Thanksgiving.
I arrived an hour and a half early, to calm my nerves, by doing a few practice moves in the open backyard style stage termed, “The Skipperdome.” There was too much space to fill with my violent moves, and too much light to illuminate my anatomical and rhythmic shortcomings. Also, most pants-less parties I attend, the space was small, making it easier to find victims for my timeless thrusting. There I might have had to chase people around the tables all while holding a cake.
The beer girls, Lorrie and Aleana Klodakis arrived with cases of beer. It was the first time I wished the girls weren’t so attractive. I asked them for legal advice, if they thought I should sue Joran for sexually harassing an employee. Since their job basically consisted of confronting sexual harassment on a daily basis, their only advice came in the form of teacup sized beer samples.
When Emma arrived I informed her that Joran needed her to help me with my performance.
“How could I possibly help?”
“Have you ever heard of a fluffer?” I asked. “One who fluffs.”
Just as I began praying Joran wouldn’t show, he escorted his wife toward a group of awaiting friends—one with a wide-eyed baby strapped to her chest. Joran took me aside to tell me the plan. The sound man was going to play the Beatles’ “Birthday,” in five minutes at which time I was to magically appear with a lit cake. Noticing my expression, he asked me what was wrong. He didn’t realize there was a chance that I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to flaunt my darling legs. That, and he obviously had not respect for the fact that an artist needs time to prepare.
Emma and I ran backstage where The Legendary JCs were drinking whiskey from beer sampling mugs. I didn’t bother explaining myself while I clipped on my bowtie and white shirt cuffs, then removed my pants.
The trombonists Clay approached me with a distant scowl.
“Hey,” he said putting a stern hand on my back, “If you need any musical accompaniment, we got your back.”
I just smiled then took a swig from his handle of Jim Beam gift wrapped in a plastic sack.
Emma was no help at all. She was just laughing hysterically and snapping pictures as I ducked into the shadows to mold my manhood into a prestigious posture. The benefit of wearing a Speedo as opposed to your more traditional tea-bag, is coverage. The material nicely conceals unpracticed razor burn bumps and anything else that might peek its head out. The problem is that the tight material neutralizes jigglage and bounce while making me look like a glorified Ken doll. Before I could find something, anything, to stuff my shorts with, the music blared and Joran ran back yelling, “Go, go, go.”
I pranced out from backstage like a horny rooster with a nervous dancing tick. The hardest part is lasting through the first ten seconds, before people realize what is going on and when a flash of horror washes over their facial features. I quickly zeroed in my thrusting on the birthday girl who was hiding her embarrassment in her hands. Was this worse or better than having a group of teenagers at the Olive Garden sing for your birthday? I couldn’t hear the beat. All I could hear was intermittent laughter and gasps.
After delivering the cake, I faced the problem of what to do with my hands and who to hump next. Beer clubsters had given me plenty of room to work, like partiers backing away from the drunk shaking a champagne bottle. I began humping the shit out of everyone’s legs, guys or girls, like a hyper dog begging to be picked up. Before the joke went limp and my audience began to turn away, (there’s only so much wonder a glorious Speedo can bring to a party) I skipped backstage.
Back in my sports jacket, fell into talk with Jennifer’s friends to assess my performance. I was a bit worried that neither Jennifer nor Joran had slipped even a dollar in my spandex. Even lunch-hour strippers at clubs with burnt-out neon signs make a few bucks. Neither of the girls had any tips on how I could have improved my performance, but they were interested in hiring a “performer” for a friend’s bachelorette party.
“Do you do anything else beside take off your pants and run around like a horny monkey.”
I was taken aback. What else was there to entertaining and captivating women’s hearts than taking off your pants?
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t” one said. “We just need someone cheap.”
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This article appears in Dec 3-9, 2008.
