(editor’s note: Pete Vogel’s good friend Mark Deffet passed away in 2020, of cardiac arrest at the too-early age of 54.  Last Saturday – July 24th, 2021 – a post-Covid Celebration of Life was held for Mark; a gifted artist, songwriter & comedian.  Here’s Pete’s remembrance of Better Days.)

I

When you’re a 30-something working stiff employed by a Fortune 100 Corporation on the verge of expansive growth in your area of newly-acquired expertise, there’s one question you’d never expect to hear in a workplace conversation: “Will you strip for our bachelorette party?”

But that’s exactly the question asked of my colleague, Mark Deffet, and myself as we chatted idly with our female co-workers – Jen, Tiff and Alyssa – one spring afternoon.  The girls were planning a bachelorette party for the upcoming weekend and were in desperate need of entertainment.  They were on a limited budget so bona-fide strippers were definitely out of the question.  As they discussed their dilemma with Mark and I, one of the girls popped the question: “Hey. why don’t you guys come?  You can be our strippers!”  

A buzz of excitement coursed through our veins: Mark and I looked at each other, as wide smiles crossed our lips.  Strippers?  Mark and I?

Before we continue, I must make you aware of our physical dimensions so you can better appreciate the nature of this proposal.  Mark and I were hardly in the category of “stripper friendly.”  He stood about 5’7” and weighed approximately 150 pounds soaking wet.  His fiery red hair complemented an ivory physique that would be more appropriate for a physics professor than a male stripper.  I didn’t fare much better: I stood a little taller than him – 5’10” and 180 pounds – but my frame flirted closer to a bowling pin than a broad-shouldered, small-waisted man.  It would also be safe to say that neither of us was “gifted” in other areas as well. 

There was a part of me that was initially flattered that a group of young, attractive ladies would even make a request such as this, but as we ruminated on their intentions, I wasn’t so sure what to think.  Whenever a woman disrobed in public, it spawned a dozen reactions: from sheer lust to spiritual ecstasy.  To me, there’s nothing more poetically perfect than the female form—it always inspired feelings of awe and fascination within me.  A female nude was art, poetry, beauty & awe rolled into one—no wonder we’ve celebrated its splendor in paintings and sculptures since the beginning of time.

My body, sadly, didn’t emit the same emotions: Slender shoulders, skinny legs, beer gut, tuft of hair on my concave cleavage—it was hardly the same experience as a Rodin painting.  And Mark had similar concerns—probably more than mine.  When a man disrobed in public, people laughed.  Comedy, futility, Shakespearean tragedy—such a cruel and bitter joke Mother Nature played on her masculine minions.  A woman’s body?  Beauty, perfection, art.  A man’s body?  Uncontrollable laughter.  

So as the mirth continued, we both realized why we were being summoned for this task:  We weren’t being asked to perform this ritual as a form of titillation, as a way of luring young women into the vices of lust.  We were being asked for the opposite reason: comic relief. 

As Mark and I deliberated on the request, we decided it would be the one-and-only time in our lives that a bunch of young, attractive co-workers would ask such a favor as this.  As we looked at each other with curious, mischievous eyes, we looked back at our co-workers and said the following: “Where do we go and what time do we show up?”

II

A lot of things had to be coordinated before one strips in front of his co-workers.  The first order of business was obvious: What will be my motif?  My muse?  My schtick?  Sad, misunderstood artist?  Corporate sex machine?  Lonely bachelor on the make?  Sheriff?  Cowboy?  Transvestite?  

I decided on something close to home, something that wouldn’t stray too far from who I already was.  I’d dress as a corporate working stiff: White shirt, green tie, slacks, socks and shoes.  But I’d give them something worth remembering: I’d purchase a pair of red bikini briefs and stuff it with a sock to give it some extra pizzazz.  That’ll keep the kittens purring, I thought to myself.  

The girls gave us the details about the bachelorette festivities: it was to be held that Saturday night at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Columbus.  The room was a suite on the 10th floor—we were expected to commence our routine at 7pm.  This gig was now set in stone—time, date and place.  There was no turning back—the show must go on. 

There was one last detail that needed to be ironed out before I could go through with this spectacle.  The party was the same night as a date with my new girlfriend, Melissa.  I needed to figure out what would be the best way to navigate my stripping in front of co-workers, then heading out to dinner with her.  Do I bring her along as backup?  Do I not tell her at all?  Do I confess that I had a prior commitment and reschedule?  Do I strip, drive home, change, drive to her place and pretend nothing happened?  And what would her reaction be?  Would stripping in front of my co-workers be a turnoff for her?  A turn-on?  A last will and testament?  Our last date? 

Stripping in front of female co-workers is a very difficult excursion, on many levels.  Many factors come into play that one doesn’t take into account when one accepts the gig.  For starters, the most important thing to address was the following: What if pictures circulated around the office?  Would this be the glass ceiling to my career advancement?  Would this keep me from getting a promotion and eventually running the company?  

“Mr. Vogel, while we think you are a qualified candidate to supervise a staff of ten, we’d request you keep your pants on at all times.”  

“Mr. Vogel, we thought you’d be a good long-term consideration for middle management, but after seeing pictures of your fun parts we’ve reconsidered.  After all, even WE have our standards.”

Hmmm.

On the day of the party, I called Mark to see if he was ready to roll.  He was experiencing many of the same qualities of angst and restlessness that I felt.  In fact, he was much worse.  

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked.  

“Hell yes!  I just spent $15 on a pair of bikini briefs and know I’ll never wear these again!  They’re riding all the way up my ass!  I don’t know how women deal with this!”

“Well okay then—I’ll be over in a bit.”

I hung up the phone and carefully arranged my wardrobe: white t-shirt, then a nice white dress shirt over that.  Green tie with multiple patterns.  Charcoal gray slacks with black belt.  And of course, my coup de grace:  the infamous red bikini underwear.  I fashioned a white tube sock in a strategic position underneath my briefs, then took a long look in the mirror.  Bingo!  Couldn’t see any sign of white underneath all that red.  The women will go crazy—then laugh like freaks.

Mark would soon be arriving at my apartment.  We had a fifteen-minute drive to the hotel downtown.  Then the elevator ride to the 10th floor.  This was more than enough time to reflect on the reality of our situation.  Hopefully he won’t try to renege on the 10th floor at the 11th hour.

Regarding my date dilemma, I’d decided to invite Melissa and surprise her in the process—it would either be the smartest or dumbest move of my life.  I figured this would give her little time to react, so she’d have to sit there and watch like the rest of them. 

Mark arrived around 6:30pm—I was disappointed that he hadn’t spent much time on his motif: He wore a white shirt, gray slacks and nothing else.  Nothing to titillate, I thought.  No belt, no tie.  I didn’t have the guts to ask him what kind of underwear he had on.  He looked depressed and sullen, as if he was about to be carted off to jail.  

“This’ll be fun!” I cajoled him.  Mark looked ashen.

Melissa arrived shortly thereafter and I took her aside:  “Hey there…Mark and I have an appointment before we go out…it shouldn’t take too long…you might as well tag along then we can go out for dinner afterwards...”

“Is it business-related?” she asked.

“Well…kinda…” 

“Ummm…okay…” she mused.

We piled in my car and made our way downtown.  Mark was especially quiet.  I was already working my routine in my head: dance a little, rip off my tie, unbutton my shirt slowly, slip it off and throw it across the room, etc.  I looked across at Mark: he didn’t look like he was particularly enthusiastic about removing his attire for a group of women.  

We pulled up to the Sheraton and climbed out of the car.  We found the elevator and pressed the button.  After a short wait, we stepped onto the elevator and pressed the 10th floor. There was a tense, uneasy silence as we made our way up to the room.

That’s when it happened: the supreme moment when the heat of battle took its toll on one of its lone warriors.  Somewhere between the 5th and 7th floor, Mark committed the gravest crime in the history of male stripping—it’s something that’s ruined thousands of would-be strippers in the process of carrying on with their mission: he got cold feet.

“Dude…I don’t know about this...”

“You’re fine, man…it’ll be fun…”

“What are you talking about?” Melissa asked.

“Nothing,” I said.  “Mark, you’re fine…it’s alright.  We’ll be done in twenty minutes.”

“Done with what?” Melissa asked.

“Nothing.”

“What are you guys doing?”  She was more curious than upset. 

“I can’t tell you…but you’ll find out soon enough—”

The elevator stopped on the 10th floor and Mark and I walked down the long corridor.   We found the room—we could hear the chatter of female voices inside.  But there was something wrong, the chatter was much louder than expected.  It sounded as if there were a thousand voices booming from inside that room.  My heart was racing a mile a minute—Mark looked nauseous.  We knocked on the door and a total stranger greeted us at the entrance.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The entertainment!” I said.

She looked disappointed.  “The entertainment?”

“Yes!” We made our way into the room.    

This was already a disaster: Mark and I had set up this little soiree with three of our co-workers and they weren’t even in plain sight.  And now a complete stranger came to the door, opened it and asked who we were!  Didn’t these chicks inform anybody we were coming?  And why didn’t they greet us at the door?

We walked into the room: Mark, myself and a curious and befuddled Melissa.  We turned toward the main wing and I looked out at the vast expanse of strangers that sat before us.  There were more than 30 women in the room—and I hadn’t recognized a soul.  And their collective look wasn’t very welcoming either: these women ranged in age from early twenties to mid-fifties, and I didn’t realize how many would be in attendance.  I looked over to Mark, who appeared as though he was going to vomit.  I scoped the room and finally found our three co-workers: they were sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, giggling like mad.  None of them made any attempt to come over and greet us; they just sat in the corner, talking amongst themselves and acting as if they barely knew us.

I told Melissa she had a choice: either sit with the rest of the girls and enjoy the show or hang out backstage.  She took a seat near the bathroom and waited patiently, trying to figure out what in the world was about to happen.

As the ladies realized who we were and what we were there for, there was palpable confusion in the room.  Our co-workers obviously did a lousy job of informing the party that they had talked two of their male co-workers into stripping for comedy’s sake, and now three-quarters of the women were wondering how two skinny, out-of-shape douchebags ever made it on the local circuit.  Their looks were of befuddled amusement and I realized this was a train-wreck ready to happen.  

They were expecting Chippendales and instead got Bert and Ernie’s.

III  

Our co-workers sat with smiles on their faces and watched the wreckage unravel before them; I wasn’t sure whether to scold or laugh with them.  One of the girls turned on some music and pointed to the bachelorette—she was a twenty-something brunette who looked like she already had too much to drink.  She took a seat in the middle of the room and offered herself up to whatever activity would ensue.  I assumed she was a friend of our co-workers – perhaps a college friend or something – but we didn’t know her or know what she was expecting.  To summarize, this wasn’t going smoothly at all.  She must’ve thought we were experienced in the art of seduction, but I didn’t have the guts to tell her that my vast experience was limited to buying a pair of red underwear from Target.  

It didn’t take long for the whole situation to unravel before our eyes.  My three co-workers – whom I thought would be coordinating the event and detailing each moment as it progressed – sat rather timidly in the middle of the room and watched Mark and I make complete fools of ourselves.  The other 27 women were in a mild rage, as if they’d been bamboozled by the promise of real entertainment and had to endure two out-of-shape jerkoffs instead.  

There was a cooler of beer sitting next to the bachelorette—Mark grabbed one quickly.  He must’ve figured it was the only way to get through this ordeal.  Then a lady shouted: “Five bucks to the first guy to remove his pants!”  That’s when Mark did the unthinkable: He unbuttoned his slacks and let his pants fall to his ankles.  

Just like that.  

No dance.  

No routine.  

No seduction.  

Nothing.  

Mark performed his striptease with as much eroticism as a guy disrobing for a prostate exam.  He’d been in the room a grand total of four minutes and was already showing his crotch to the world.  Mark invested zero imagination – and even less artistry – into his stripping skills. His gray slacks revealed white boxer briefs that hung quite unimpressively over his pasty white legs.

Well shit.  So much for titillation, I thought.

I knew I was in this alone—Mark ruined the stripfest.  He was an insult to amateur strippers everywhere.  He invested little ambition into his stripping prowess and now the show had fallen into the hands of yours truly.  

Laughter and confusion filled the room.  Mark had a beer in his hand—he stood rather awkwardly in the center of the room with his pants around his ankles, complaining of the cold temperature.  What was he going to do now?  His show was over—he couldn’t go any further.  If he took off any more clothing he’d have a lot more to deal with than glass ceilings.  And his complaining about the cold obviously didn’t help his situation either; everyone knows what cold temps do to a man’s pizzazz.  On a male stripper’s seduction spectrum, I’d definitely give him a negative score.

I figured – since all was now lost – that these ladies were entitled to some entertainment and it was up to me to give it to them.  Mister Quick Buck ruined it for most of them and now it was up to me to redeem ourselves before this got totally out of hand.  I whooped and hollered and pulled off my tie, using it as a lasso to wrap around the necks of these confused women.  Their responses were multi-faceted: some tried to embrace the spirit of recklessness I encouraged, while others were disappointed I even attempted to be sexy.  As for me, I was having the time of my life: stripping in front of co-workers is quite therapeutic, if not liberating.  We were taught to be stuffy and appropriate in my 12-year-parochial school career, and now I had loosened up in front of a roomful of estrogen.  I wondered what the nuns would think?    

The music played loudly: I threw my tie towards a woman and slowly unbuttoned my white shirt—whoops & hollers beckoned me further.  I pulled my shirt from its tucked-in position and whirled it around like a banshee as the yells continued.  

All the while I looked back at Mark—he was still standing in the center of the room, his pants around his ankles and his pasty white legs covered with goose bumps.  He was practically immobile; there wasn’t much else he could do except stand there with a beer in his hand.  

“Man, it’s cold—” he muttered.    

I continued with my routine; I removed my belt and whirled it over my head like a whip.  Some of the women were getting into my bit; their expressions changed from mild disappointment to subtle enthusiasm.  Titillating or not, I was going to give it my best effort. 

Next came the slacks: I pulled them down to my shoes and exposed my red bikini underwear, with the white sock strategically hidden from view.  The reactions went from wide-eyed wonder to exasperated laughter within seconds.  To know I disappointed at first, then rebounded in a comic fashion was a glorious feeling.  Even though I was far from sexy, at least it was funny.

I looked back at Mark.  He finished his first beer and was reaching for his second.  He hadn’t moved an inch in the past couple minutes—his striptease was a thing of the past.  He was hamstrung by the fact that he couldn’t move at all because his pants were still around his ankles and his shoes were still on.  He was, by far, the worst stripper in history.

The crowd continued to howl with a combination of laughter and confusion; I continued with my seductive dance.  Then I felt something brush across my backside: I looked down and felt something stiff and cold go into my underpants.  I checked to see what was distracting me: it was a one-dollar bill.

My amateur status was over—I was now a professional.

IV

The next thirty minutes was a whirlwind of confusion.  When a man has red bikini underwear with a sock stuffed in it – surrounded by 30 confused women who weren’t sure whether to seduce or scold him – it’s a surreal experience.  Mark had finished his second beer and decided his striptease was over: he pulled his pants back to G-rated position and resumed non-stripper status.  As for myself, I still had my underwear/sock exposed and endured the uncomfortable feeling of having $1 bills stuffed from every possible angle.  Being a professional is tough work. 

By now most of the women were imbibing and enjoying themselves.  Most had accepted the fact that the promise of real male strippers was behind them, so they could enjoy the ruse.  The music blared loudly, girls were dancing and laughing, and Mark and I made our rounds with gusto.  I’m not sure what actually transpired during that half-hour – being a professional stripper is a lot of smoke and mirrors – but all I knew was I made eleven dollars that evening. 

As for Melissa, she was sorely disappointed in us.  She thought Mark and I were on our way to some big important downtown conference and would be surrounded by executives, talking multisyllabic jargon that she’d find sexy.  Instead we were prancing around half naked in front of 27 strangers and 3 co-workers.  This definitely put a damper on our dinner date.

As for Mark, he had resumed some level of confidence after pulling his slacks up to his waist.  He began his comedic routine with the girls and everyone ended up having a good time.  While he was not a good stripper by any stretch, he was a great companion at the party.  Frankly, I think he had more fun than me, even though he only made five bucks.  Personally, I think he was overpaid.  

Around 8 pm we made our way to the exit and waved goodbye.  Between the laughter, dancing and innocent groping, I thought everyone had a pretty good time.  It was, by far, the most memorable night in my short-lived career as a professional stripper.  But I was glad to hang up my bikini briefs – and tube sock – by the end of it.  

As for Mark, he retired his stripper status and went back to being the funny guy at work.  As for me, I secretly relished the opportunity to strip again—there was something liberating about taking off your clothes in front of a roomful of women.  I’m not even sure it’s sexual—it’s more of a liberation of sorts. 

V

One month later, I heard giggling coming from the cubicle of two co-workers: Shelly and Angela.  I asked them what was so funny.  They handed me a 4 x 6 photo of a lunatic with a bowling-pin-shaped body in red bikini underwear with a crazy smile on his face.

“Look familiar?” they asked.

“Oh boy—wow—burn that, okay?” I responded.

So much for running the company. - stripping engagement, 1998 / story written April, 2012.