"Tips in my G-String, made my living!"

At the weekend, Bobby reminded me of an incident that occurred while we were out in Italy. I’d locked this memory away, deep in the darkest recess of my brain for my own protection. I instantly shook as the memory came back, but then I quickly got over it and laughed. Some things are too funny to get overly stressed about.

The year was 1996 and as a serving military man of 25, I was in the prime of my life. My body was a temple, lean and toned. The Mediterranean sun ensured my skin was permanently tanned, and my head was practically covered in hair. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway; sadly the photographs taken at the time reveal a slightly different story. At least the bit about the tan is true!

We were enjoying the freedom that is available to a bunch of young folk, who live on a very large NATO base so far removed from the usual military life. The looming vista of an active, and frequently devastating, volcano only added to the atmosphere of young people living for the day. I’ve already reported about the day we discovered that Americans do actually have a sense of humour, but on this day I was about to learn that so do we Brits!

“Oh Please? Come on Glen, we are desperate – we have tried everything, asked everyone – you are our last hope!” The pleading had been going on for a full 10 minutes, “No one else will do it, we even asked dodgy Pete the perv, and even he wouldn’t do it!”

“You can’t make Sue’s last day of singledom go without a bang can you?”

Eventually I buckled, for 50,000 Lire and as much Nastro Azzurro as I could quaff, I was going to be a stripper.

Sue (whose name wasn’t really Sue, but I feel I ought to protect her innocence) was getting married to one of the American GI’s on the base (it was a long time ago – I can’t really remember who she was marrying). The girls had organised a Hen party in the pub under our accommodation block, but had completely failed to hire a real stripper for the night. General consensus among the ladies was that no Hen party was taking place on their watch, without a stripper. Eventually the girls had resorted, in sheer desperation, to asking me.

Moreover – I was just flattered enough to do it!

The afternoon was spent preparing my act, this was tricky because, to be honest, I’d not seen many male strippers and didn’t really know what they did. I knew what female strippers did, but correctly guessed that lying back with my legs in a Y shape probably wouldn’t cut it. As it was, I found one of my older uniforms and set to work cutting the trousers along the legs and sewing on some Velcro (what can I say; Sailors know how to sew). Then I popped out to buy some baby oil and hair gel. As I said – I’m no expert on what the Chippendales get up to.

Finally I was ready; I stood back and stared at the creation in the mirror. American Gigolo meets Ron Jeremy. A couple of beers helped me to relax as my mate Nobby, covered me in oil. Soon I was done.

Navy uniform? – Check.
Tan? – Check,
Oil? – Check,
Great body? – ah well, you can’t have everything!

I made my way downstairs and waited in the kitchen of the bar, as the group of 30 wined up, hormone popping, pack of whooping, restless animals were calmed. It was at this point that the enormity of what I was about to do hit home, and the fear hit me with Thor’s hammer. I hadn’t needed the oil after all, I was dripping with sweat (sexy sweat), and the hair gel was failing to stop the hairs on the back of my neck from rising uncontrollably.

My name was called.

The music played.

The door opened.

Sue stood in absolute amazement and horror as I strode slowly out towards her, I could see her jaw was fixed wide open, her eyes were desperately trying to ignore the orders from her brain to close. The crowd cheered so loudly that in an instant I was lost. I was no longer Glen; I was Heath Love-Pole the Third. Tom Jones was telling someone to keep her hat firmly on, as I threw mine to the side of the room and grabbed poor Sue for a bit of a thrust. I turned away and successfully completed the manoeuvre that I’d spent all afternoon preparing and rehearsing; I tore off my trousers in one easy slick movement, to wails of ecstasy and amusement. The shirt was off (I can’t even remember when the shirt came off) and before I knew it, I was down to my skimpy shorts. Sue’s face was filled with terror as she realised that she was about to meet ‘Little Glen’, this snapped me out of my dream, and back in to the real world.

I bottled it; there would be no full Monty for me today.

I jigged a bit and tried to look butch, which really isn’t easy when you are only wearing a set of military boots, a pair of shorts scrunched up to look like a thong and baby oil.

Thankfully the music stopped and I ran out of the room – the crowd was cheering and happy – they had seen enough, in some cases more than they wanted.

Sue got married, and I really do hope she is still happy.

More importantly, I can genuinely say, and may well have to put it on my C.V. that I was once a professional, paid stripper! And that memory is one that I will no longer be locking away, but instead will remember with pride. Even though most of the people who saw it are still in therapy!