The Khalil Amani Reader

Hip-hop/Spirituality/Freethinking. Speaking for all underdogs!

When I Was a Stripper Exotic Dancer…

By Khalil Amani


I used to shake my ass for a dollar—do something strange for a piece of change! I was an “exotic dancer”—a male “sckripper!”


Maybe I'm just a bitch-made nigga, but I don't see why rappers like Game (and the whole rap industry!) think being a stripper is something to hide! When I was doing it (da 80's), I was loved and beloved by lots of hood niggas--even the biggest drug boys in Miami like Big Ike, Convertible Burt and rapper Uncle Luke knew me! I was that nigga! I knew lots of strippers that were thugs, hoodlums, and gangsters! Fuck y'all new-jack niggas talkin' about it ain't gangsta to be a stripper? It used to be! Just like Game's supposed "stepdad" (How are you "stepdad" and Game's mom never married you?) said, he was getting dudes who had just come out of the joint (jail) to strip--Crips, Bloods, whateva! Wasn't any faggotry associated with slinging dick! So, with all due respect to rapper Game, tell ya "stepdad" to eat a dick, and you Game, own that shit!


Erry’body has a past—some boring, predictable and unexciting and some full of adventure and mayhem. Such was mine—a maze—a labyrinth of confusion—a seething cauldron of coonery—a frantic life full of fuckery—from joining a religious cult—to selling drugs—to sticking up your favorite fast-food restaurants—to having a bevy of women at my beck & call and living with two chicks at the same time and having nightly ménage à trois—to being a stripper—to being in newspapers, magazines and on National TV shows—to being a college-boy and getting that piece of paper—to publishing six books—to being in the Federal Witness Protection Program--nobody I know has lived a more decadent and profligate life than I! Nobody, excluding no one! I am a story of trial and triumph—the ghetto equivalent of Twain’s, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” (traveling all over the goddamned place!), Henry Miller’s, “The Tropic of Cancer” (just a sex-fiend!) and J.D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” (fuck the world attitude)—all balled up into one licentious black man.


But this blog is about when I was a stripper exotic dancer—one of my many stopovers on the road to the here & now. How did I start stripping? By accident. The short end of it is that I was at a nightclub where they were having a “Best Buns” contest—you know—the guy with the best ass. Being a natural dancer, I thought I’d enter, having seen the contest prior and thinking to myself, “I can out-dance those niggas and I think my body is better than most of them!”


So there I was, backstage with about 40 dudes, but something had changed from the last time I spied this contest; there were professional strippers with costumes & shit trying to win this contest! 1st prize $500, 2nd prize a bottle of Dom Perignon, 3rd prize $100. Back in 1986 these were great prizes!


I ended up winning 2nd place! (Too bad I didn't know what Dom P. was back then! I gave that shit away!) The guy who won was a Puerto Rican guy who asked me if I wanted to dance with his group, “The Nasty Boyz” in Miami. Sure!

(Khalil aka "Prince" ca. 1989)


I started doing the stripping thing. I became a new-jack Rasputin, a paramour, a ghetto Ovid, the Song of Solomon and a boy-toy all rolled up into one piece of decadent black flesh! Shit was off-the-chain fun! Not only was I making good money, but I started fucking hella chicks— married, single, engaged, in-a-relationship, MILF (Mother-I’d-Love-To-Fuck), cougars & cubs, rebound, I love my man pussy! Was it wrong that I used my dancing skills, my good looks, my nice physique and my big dick elongated phallus to get money?


Your 20’s are supposed to be about sexual experimentation, educational goals, finding a career and freedom to think outside the box—finding your 
Raison D’être (Reason for Existence). Stripping, for me, was part of my maturation process, although, back then, when I was living “La Vida Loca”—I was just being me. But I wasn't just a stripper! I was a dancer who studied and performed ballet, jazz, tap, modern, and African dance.

(Khalil, as a jazz dancer)


I was broke-as-a-joke back then! I’d tell a woman in a minute, “I can’t give you nothin’ but hard dick & bubble gum and I’m fresh out of bubble gum!” I worked a day job, but that stripping money helped me live comfortably.


The streets knew me by “Prince.” I was only 5’6”, 150 lbs.—but I was put together quite nicely.


Without acknowledging it, I was a prostitute. That’s part of the game. I didn’t prostitute myself in the traditional sense—sex for money, but there were chicks (especially ugly chicks, that is!) that knew they had no business being with a nigga as fine as I was back then. They got the dick, but in return, I was driving their cars, eating their food, letting them buy me shit and of course, getting that cash from them.


There was never a time that I wasn’t fucking five or six chicks a week! I had stamina like a motherfucker! (Ahhh... youth!) At one point I had a Cuban chick that became my bottom-bitch (pimp talk for #1 bread winner) who loved my dirty G-strings to the point where she was pulling chicks for me to fuck! One, in particular became our live-in girlfriend—Ann, a sista from Louisiana who was sho’ nuff toten-a-wagon (had a big ass).


We three were strippers. We’d make a shed-load of money and come home and I’d put them two chicks in my California King bed and play Ringling Brothers Circus! And if I was tired, I’d watch them lick and lap one another until I couldn’t take it anymore.

(Khalil Amani & strippers. White girl & black girl on left where my live-in girlfriends.)


Some niggas lie on their dicks! I was about that life—fo’ real, fo’ real!


What I found peculiar about male strippers versus female strippers is that we male strippers were happy-go-lucky fucking machines. We viewed women as women without thinking they were lustful, nasty, whorish or sex-starved perverts. They were simply chicks who wanted to see a great show and the older the chick, the better the show. Cougars and M.I.L.F.s are the best tippers and the most fun to perform for. I guess, when a woman gets—say 35/40ish—she’s not ashamed to exhibit her sexuality. She’s a woman of experience who knows what looks good to her. But the chicks that were my age (20ish)—a lot of them were sticks-in-the-mud when we performed. They hardly tipped and had an expression on their faces like, “I look good too! Why would I give you money?” Yes! Older babes rock! They tip better! They party better! And oh, they fuck better! They are appreciative of a young firm body and a stiff cock.


Now these female strippers. Stripping is work for them. Stripping is a job for them. Stripping does not arouse them in the least. (Of course, I’m generalizing, but it’s the basic truth.) When I was a stripper I’d get so turned on thinking about stripping! I’d get turned on while I was stripping! And when the night was over, somebody in that club is gonna let me dump a load in their face or poonnanny!


But female strippers? They’re looking at the male customers as “johns” and “tricks.” Let me see how much money I can get out of this nigga! It’s strictly about the money! For male strippers, it’s about the sex and the money. They are equally important.

(Khalil still loves da strippers! Don't get it twisted!)


You can watch HBO’s “Real Sex” and hear this condescending—almost mad at the world mentality by female strippers. Some of them downright hate men! They can’t stand men to touch them! They say they feel violated, ocularly raped and dirty. Juxtapose that with male strippers. We love being touched, groped, felt on and stroked! We love when chicks in the audience eye-fuck us when we dance.


Perhaps this is why shows like Australia’s “Thunder From Down Under” and America’s “Chippendales” thrive in Las Vegas. These are male stripper shows that women from all over the world come to see. Stripping, for men is a wonderful experience that does not leave them disgruntled and hateful towards women. There is no personality change (at least not a negative change).


But for women strippers—many of them go from loving daughters to angry, bitter, spiteful man-haters. They look at their male patrons as “tricks,” “johns,” “easy game,” "disgusting dogs,” etc. Female strippers really look at men with a very negative and condescending mindset. And for some female strippers, they carry this mentality home and take it out on the men in their lives—their daddies, brothers, sons, boyfriends, husbands—males! I speak from firsthand experience!



The stripping business saps them of who they are. In the movie, “The Player’s Club”—it’s said best; “Ebony! Make the money! Don’t let it make you!” This movie exhibits every point I’m making about female strippers. It is a prime example of how many female strippers get “hardened” by that life. They can’t even see their disposition change. These chicks start drinking, cursing, taking drugs, pimping each other, fighting and selling pussy (not to mention experimenting with lesbianism). They lose their femininity and womanhood. This is an occupational hazard for female strippers.



I know some great strippers—who remain nice—who haven’t let the business kick their ass. But I know far too many who are mentality beat the fuck up by living the stripper life. It doesn’t help that MEN have made them this way. Men label female strippers as whores, prostitutes and say all manner of nasty things about them. "You can't turn a hoe into a housewife!" Most of the men that frequent strip clubs would neither have a stripper as a girlfriend or wife. Truly, there is a mentally antagonistic mindset at work. You're a john and you're a whore! That's how they see each other.


Male strippers are looked upon as cool and players and there is little to no negative connotation associated with male stripping. On the other hand, female stripping is frowned upon—treated as a phase or stage of one’s life that must be overcome. It is a misnomer that female strippers come from broken homes, fatherless homes, sexually abused homes, physically abusive relationships, which drive them to the strip club. No one thinks this about male strippers! What a world we live in—a sexist world! It is shameful and many women that strip dare not tell their parents what their chosen occupation is; for to do so can get a woman excommunicated from the family.


As someone who’s been a stripper—who’s had daughters that were/are strippers—I’ve seen it all and have been an observer of the strip club lifestyle and mentality. I neither condone nor condemn stripping. I simply want women to understand how the strip club can take your very being from you—and even your very life!


Make money! Enjoy your young life! But above all else, be who you were when you first walked through those doors and don’t allow that life to make you view all men as something other than who they are—men. If you can’t do these two things, change professions. One.


Khalil Amani writes for DJ Kay Slay's Originators & Straight Stuntin Magazine and Hoodgrown Magazine, Maybach Magazine, Sext Magazine. Follow on Facebook/Twitter @khalilamani

Views: 1380


You need to be a member of The Khalil Amani Reader to add comments!

Join The Khalil Amani Reader

Comment by Khalil Amani on January 6, 2013 at 11:42pm

thanks Courtney... and ur absolutely right! Some jobs can change the person you really are!

© 2022   Created by Khalil Amani.   Powered by

Badges  |  Report an Issue  |  Terms of Service