The following story is Rate R for strong language and sexual content. Parental guidance is suggested.

When I was 18,19,20, and 21, I was a gym rat. Somehow, deep inside, I found the energy to go to the gym 5 or 6 times per week. A typical week at 19 years old included 16 credits or more of school, 25 – 30 hours work on nights and weekends at a local catering hall, and 12 hours in gym. When I was 19, my body was good.

Somewhere in there, the temptation for steroid use became strong. It was readily available, though expensive, and socially acceptable, even encouraged. The biggest barrier was fear of needles (seriously), and the price. When an oral format, relatively inexpensive steroid called Anadrol became available, some of us jumped at the idea. So, for five weeks, when I was 19 years old, I took steroids, and let me tell you, they WORK.

When I stopped, it was the end of the summer, nearly time to go back to school. I was 190lbs, could bench press 325lbs 2 times, and could run a mile in 6 minutes. It was the best shape of my life.

At the time, I worked at a catering hall as a waiter, mostly for weddings and sweet 16s. Some of my best friends worked there with me, and it was pretty much a perfect college job, The money was good, we met tons and tons of women, we made cash in hand every night.

One Sunday afternoon, when we assembled to get our schedules for the following week, I was called aside along with a few of my friends. We entered the manager’s office and I quickly realized that the group was predominantly young and good looking and in-shape. It was conspicuous. We learned that the coming Wednesday night had been booked out by a local male review group, called “Lady Killers”. They wanted us to serve cocktails to a room full of women screaming for semi-nude male dancers. We jumped at the opportunity.

When the night came, we showed up, seriously, with very low expectations. We set up as if for a normal night, and waited for the show to begin. When the male dancers arrived, we greeted them and showed them to their dressing area , or undressing as the case may have been. They were cool guys, for the most part, and we actually knew some of them from the gym. They got dressed into the appropriate costumes, a construction worker, a cop, a fireman, and a leather-pants-ed rocker.

Slowly but surely, the women began to filter in. Well-behaved, middle-aged, mostly Italian, Irish, and Jewish. Their gold chains, diamond jewelry, and deep dark cleavage were exposed. Then they started ordering their drinks: Sex On The Beach, Vodka Cranberry, and Malibu Bay Breezes were consumed by the gallon. The Cosmo wasn’t invented back then, and I’m glad. After 40 minutes or so, the lights dimmed, the music turned up, and the double doors of the main banquet room, called the “lilac” room burst open.

A guy emerged from darkened hallway, dressed in a white, silk, flowing-like-a-pirate shirt and leather pants. Welcome To The Jungle blared above the instant chaos of women’s screams that erupted. “Rich” skipped in the middle of the dance floor and did his thing. He caterpillared, and backflipped, stretched against the walls and grinded the occasional onlooker. He tore off his own shirt somewhere between Wanted Dead Or Alive and Pour Some Sugar On Me. Kamikaze shots were had by all, including the waiters. Over and over again, were served them, and we drank them. By the time he removed his leather pants, the night had already become a blur.

This went on for an hour or so, dancer after dancer, shot after shot, crotch after crotch. The women became increasingly intoxicated, and increasingly aggressive. The MC, a guy named Wayne, said more than once over the mic, that the waiters were preparing for a big surprise. A big surprise is right. Nobody had told us shit. Fueled by alcohol, lust, and dimwittedness, the full-on assault on the waiters began. The waiters panicked. All the big men, attractive, good bodies, workout addicts, horny, we all panicked and had to leave the room to regroup. The thought of baring it all in front of hundreds of women was more than most of us could take. We met in the coat-check room right outside the Lilac room. Guys named Danny and Corrado and I discussed what might happen.

“Dude, do we have to strip?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about doing some pushups right here so I can get a pump going. I look so small right now.”
“Good idea.”
“We could do chin-ups on this bar.”
“I don’t think the bar can hold you.”

We had a race to 100 pushups. Nobody actually tried the chin-ups. When we finished, we flexed our biceps to each other, and then went on to the bathroom to fix our hair. We anticipated some trouble, but really had no idea of what was to come.

We got back into room and realized the mood was different. Women were standing on the tables. As we walked by we were assaulted with ass smacks, pinches, cat calls, and kisses.

Then all hell broke loose. To this day, nobody knows exactly who’s shirt was ripped off first, but it wasn’t long before we all stood in rags. Shirts were torn, yes torn, from our bodies. T-shirts were pulled apart like wishbones on a fucked up nude Thanksgiving. Women tugged at our pants. Most of us kept them on, at least for a while. Wayne, now dressed only in a construction hat, toolbelt, and blue thong took advantage of the situation. He grabbed back the mic and announced the waiters “show”. And we gave one. We danced and grinded and climbed up on tables. We forget all about the drinks for a while, and served ourselves. We got smacked, and we smacked back. We grinded, and gyrated, we poured shots down our stomachs, and we made out. Yes, we made out with everybody. Tongue kissing was sport, and we were winning. Numbers were stuffed in our pockets, at least for those of us still with our pants. Slowly, but surely, we all migrated our way towards the few tables packed with college girls, and really worked our stuff. Even the 19 year olds were in a frenzy. It was awesome.

At some point, I am really not sure when, it all began to wind down. The show ended, but we continued to work without shirts, since they were mostly destroyed anyway. Those guys with spare t-shirts in their bags put them on. We cleaned up, financially and socially, while we cleaned up the tables and floor. My pockets were filled with small pieces of paper containing names and phones numbers, but were bunging from the dollar bills stuffed in there alongside.

We each walked away with something like $300, and 10 to 20 phone numbers. Our heads were 15 to 16 pounds heavier. I don’t know about the other guys, but afterwards I followed up on a few of those numbers.

One such follow-up was with a much older woman named Janet. At the time, I was 19, she was 30. She was a rocker chick, from the tattoos down to the brown suede jacket with tassles. She was hot. And even back then I had great “dirt-dar” (radar for dirty, dirty girls), and it was pinging off the charts. She and I spoke a few times and made plans to go out. She met me at a local restaurant that was attached to the local mall. She brought a friend. Her friend was horrendous looking, but I was nice, and flirty, and gave my best 19 year old attempt at charming. It worked, and her friend eventually left, which left us alone, and also made me Janet’s only way home. After some more talking, we decided to leave. On our way back to her house, she suggested a detour, to a place near her house that was known as a sort-of “inspiration point.” In reality is a clearing out behind the soccer field of a local high-school.

I was excited. This hot older woman had now made it clear that she wanted me. When she wasn’t looking, I stared at her ample breasts pushed tightly against her suede tank top. She was in suede and leather – now that I think back on it, it was a mess. When we stopped in this park area near a tree line, it wasn’t long before we were making out. It was passionate and deep and a little rough, and she talked dirty while she rubbed against my crotch. I made a move at one to point to remove her top, but she stopped me, acting like a good girl, in between her whispers of “wanting me inside her.” It didn’t really make any sense. I suspected it was just how older women acted. Eventually, she turned towards me and opened her leather clad legs. I slid over onto the passenger side, and she stayed on her back with seat fully reclined. She kissed my neck as we sort-of dry humped, denim on leather, which wasn’t so great, and made sounds that reminds me still of Bonanza. Soon after, her top did come off, and her breasts were exposed, and let me tell you, that they were even better exposed than contained, which is rare. And she was moaning, and talking, about my “cock” and about her “pussy” and I couldn’t stand the pressure. And then I came in my pants. Yes, I prematurely ejaculated right in my 19 year old pants. And she didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to tell her.

So, I played it off and pretended to still be interested, and grinded anyway. She moaning with excitement and clearly ready to go. And then all hell really let loose, when she slid off the seat and twisted me around and unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants, and I realized that she was going to go down on my and this was going to go very badly. But I went with it anyway. I hoped that my 19 year old penis could recover, as it sometimes had, very quickly, and I would not be embarrassed, and it would work out.

I’d like to tell you that when she got down there I sprang to action like a true stud. I’d like to tell you that she went down on me and I threw her in the back seat and that we made rough, dirty love under the moonlight. She was completely under the control of my 19 year old prowess. I made her scream with pleasure. It was like porno movie.

Well, I can’t tell you those things because they didn’t happen. Instead, she played with my limp penis for what seemed like a month before she started top get impatient and asked me what was wrong, and tell me I should relax. I didn’t relax, and her urgings just made it worse, and worse, and worse. And instead of telling her that I got too excited by her and ejaculated already, but if we waited a little while I would come b ack better than before, I told her I was nervous, and I never had this happen before and I didn’t know what was going on. But I did know.

Instead of getting sick rocker girl action that night, I drove her home. And I said goodnight. She was nice and everything, but I could imagine her disappointment with the 19 year old stud she picked up at the male review, and how his penis didn’t work when it counted, and even now it makes me sick. I imaginge her telling her friends and laughing. We never spoke again.

Months later I ran into her at a local bar. I said, “Hi, how are you? How have you been?” And she turned her back and pretended not to know me. At that very moment I understood how important erections were to older women, and that’s a lesson I keep with me even now that I am the age she was when it all happened. The moral of the story: steroids may make you hard, but they won’t make you hard. It’s the second kind that matters most.

Only one picture was taken of me that night, by a girl with a Polaroid.

This story is dedicated to some of those fine boys I worked with:
Jay, Danny, Corrado, Franky “Eyes”, Richy, Frank, and Tommy Boy. Thanks for a hilarious time.