kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
I decided to document something something scandalous in my poem “Radical Honesty”. What is Radical Honesty? Radical Honesty is a kind of communication that is direct, complete, open and expressive. How did I do? Hmmm.

Radical Honesty

I’ll write a confession
scratch the words with a pen
declarations I’ll preface
with disclosure of what I mean

from the realm of privacy
once put to ears of the divine
clerics no longer bear witness
to the life I choose to share

honesty from the bleeding edge
these admissions may seem radical
I’ll lie no longer to protect
the image projected upon the world

perhaps I’ll apologize
penance for the thoughts I have
with these statements I’ll exit
reducing stress by contrition’s breath

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170627.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
“The Most Fashionable” is a humorous tribute to my friends who do dress to impress on the dance floor. I just do the artsy t-shirts. One of these days I’ll ascend the fashion staircase.

The Most Fashionable

It's off to the dance
this fashionable guy
to rock what others will not wear

no more jeans down below
I'll leave the dockers
mere pants are not enough

forget the artsy t
and the pola shirt
I'll find another top!

put me in my man-skirt
perhaps the elephant pants
I'll bend the masculine

my dance shoes won't go outside
fresh from their sacred box
even if they don't match

perhaps I'll go dapper
with jacket, vest, and top hat
never mind the cane, it's extraneous

even a one-piece may be worn
RompHim is the brand
pink with poka-dots

I'll share where I will not go
forget Borat, that fashion whore
a mankini will not grace my decor

now the dance has seen it all
I'm the most fashionable
rocking what others will not wear.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170517.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
I knew a French psychic, named Marie-Claire Wilson, when lived in Atlanta in the mid 90s. Apparently she is still in the biz now, some twenty years later. One of the enduring tings about Marie-Claire was her pronouncement of a particular word with the synonyms of “appealing” and “charming”. The poem “I Was Queet” is based on her delightful pronouncement of that word.

I Was Queet

They said I was ‘queet’
I’d understand if you question
perhaps this is special pet name
between them and me?

It's not the meaning from the urban tome
dictionary of slang's common terms
while I'd not object to this other gist
it's not the meaning they had in mind.

The explanation stems from origins
'mon amour, le seul que je chéris'
I'll speak the words in my tounge
'my love, the only one I cherish'.

Look south from the British Isles
west of the Italian boot
straight from the town of lights
that blessed land across the sea.

Now here in my arms, countries forgot
they stated how they saw me
'mignonne' would be homeland word
which meant naught to me, though now I know.

Have you guessed my appeal to this special one
expressed in a word beyond lexicons?
this I know with all my brimming heart
they are also cute, oh so queet, in my eyes.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170427.
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
“Behind the Rabbit” was written for the contest “The Satan-Bunny”.

Behind the Rabbit

No man has fought with it and lived
so say the skulls in separate piles
each is a tribute to the brute
Spring’s dire mascot with death to bring

proceed with courage and greatest strength
you’ll not survive is doubt betrays
Brave Sir Robin - run away, run away
a prime example for all involved

beware the creature so foul, so cruel
“what, behind the bringer of Easter’s bling?”
it waits with nasty, big pointy teeth
“all I see is a rabbit there!”

Don’t look BEHIND the rabbit, it is the fiend
none have seen a worse rodent
bad-tempered would only be a start
to describe the danger the hare presents

its viscous streak is a mile wide
never to just nibble on your bum
it will leap from here to there
you’ve been warned ahead of time

“Rabbit stew is coming up!
thanks for the warning, man named Tim
I’ll advance to meet this foe
prepare the holy hand grenade”.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170413.
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
The poem “Jesus Made Them Hot” was written for a contest that asked “write a poem mixing religious and secular images and all that jazz into one poem”. The contest host stated “this is your hall pass”. I’ll take them at their word!

Jesus Made Them Hot

They said that Jesus made them hot
with perfect love and perfect trust
wait that was my other lover
the Wiccan who worshiped in the buff

I asked my Christian why this was so
what qualities provoked the chemistry
they said look to the ancient truths
and then apply them between the silk sheets

first be faithful that bodies gush
when rapt attention is put forth
though unseen at the start
the end will come at long last

send the prayers to heavenly father
asking for aid in foreplay’s pleasure
off to a great start helps towards the end
any assistance is better than none

the blessed son was the most wise
quoting scripture to teach the lost ones
red letter text could be the last word
regarding the love of all fellow men

I’d humble myself to gifts of the flesh
on my bent knee I offered pleasure
yes ma’am, yes sir, what can I do
to solicit climax at the end of our play?

with patience I waited for apex’s peak
they asked to pace with due diligence
not rushing or racing to my own end
this is what he would want in the bed

lastly insisted on charity’s bliss
giving the all towards coital joy
to give and not take was the highest goal
put forth by their savior as bodies were pressed

I asked them how they came to my bed
they answer was simple: I was then led
to be with another with these attributes
I was as hot as Jesus was pure.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170409.
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
It’s that time of year again! SMU Inc has begun work on their 2018 Senior Men’s Underwear Calendar and Art Book. I am promoting this because I have both modeled for past projects and acted as staff photographer. These have included the original 2015 “Senior Forward” that focused on a modern view of underwear and the 2016 “Back to the Forward”, a historical view at undergarments. These were equal parts beef cake, boudoir, and positive body image for the senior man. The trailblazing publications have been celebrated by multiple industry awards, including Best New Indy Calendar and Men’s Fashion Milestone.

2018 promises to be even better. Now the call is going out for senior models and underwear design entries. Next year’s Senior Men’s Underwear Calendar and Art Book is in the planning stages. The theme will focus on a future look with the working title of “Streaking Forward”. The former artistic focuses will be retained with the thrilling elements of “high concept couture” added. The outfits will be bolder, revealing how men’s underwear will both organically and synergetically evolve beyond today’s boxers and briefs. Form will replace function as the boundaries are pushed into realms only dreamed of in the present. This is an opportunity for designers step forward with their best work ever!

Do you dream of the men’s underwear of the future? Submit your design! Are you over forty and want to break into the exciting world of underwear modeling? It’s never too late, in fact, the motto of SMU is “the later the better”. Selected designers and models will be featured in a landmark 2018 fashion calendar. In the past the calendar has sold-out, and the same is expected in given the cutting-edge nature of the 2018 theme. In addition, all photographs meeting the high SMU standards will be included in an art book printed on 80lb glossy stock, creating permanent memories ready for the coffee table. Both products are sold online and in world-famous art galleries all over the world.

The camera is waiting for another celebration of the older generation. Designers have never had a better time to create undergarments not previously seen before. Please join me in this celebration of sexiness of the senior masculinity. I look forward to the exciting possibilities presented by the yet to be conceived future!
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The poem “Eternal Oktoberfest” is a tribute to uplifting spirit of polka music. It was inspired by an anonymous friend who keenly lifts my spirits.

Eternal Oktoberfest

When life is cast in darkest shades
Nine Inch Nails is the refrain
clothes are black and shoes are red
I search for comfort in polka's sway
where NPR provides my fix
mainlined music straight into my veins
polkamania is now my passion
cultural dance by the Yankovic.

Bohemian is the origin
gypsy maverick, ancient beatnik
name derived from Czech pulka
brought forward to the present
the beats are fast as metal's pulse
though less severe than acid rock
Motorhead may own the bangers
polka rules with off-beat accents.

Every country has their own
witness Brazil and Irish versions
Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway
all are marked with Nordic labels
the accordion has oom-pah bellows
clarinets are the winds
trombones shine with brass
tubas bring the big boom-ba.

I no longer dress in black
red accents below the socks
I instead embrace the dirndls
with lederhosen on the thighs
my happiness now has no limits
polka in the primary colors
raise a beer while you hop
to life's eternal Oktoberfest.

© 2017, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170207.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
College Stripper Journals – Branding (Beyond Thunderdome)

Branding is all the rage now. A company’s or person’s image, their public persona, is as carefully managed as is their actual product. Some firms make their living by cultivating reputations. I wish I had known more about this during my days as a college stripper before I was labeled as the loser of Thunderdome.

Like all stories, this one has a beginning before the ignominious ending is revealed. Rusty and I were looking for a decent paying gig to tie us over finals. Studying does put a crimp in the amount of time we could strut our stuff. One of the greeks (short for the Greek Houses, fraternities and sororities) had a themed event that they thought we “would be perfect for”. Consider that we are just hard working skinny white guys. There wasn’t much going in our favor aside from ambition and the willingness to shake what we had. The request for us, specific to the event, should have set off alarm bells, but the dollar figure dangled was enough to pique interest.

Back to the branding angle! Rusty and I didn’t have a brand. Yes, we were known for the Abba tribute strips, but having one set that featured the anthem Dancing Queen did not make for a brand. If anything we were the typical college stripping group. Translation: poor students working with what nature gave us. We would arrive in Rusty’s orange 1978 AMC Matador station wagon. Side entrance please! It was better than my collision scarred 1976 Honda Civic CVCC! Out of the spacious back seats would come our backpacks accompanied our JVC boombox, our big splurge of the cooperative enterprise. That thing stood three foot high. Add to this the skinny white guy angle, and I am not kidding about skinny, and we were a just a “boom, shake, and bake” brand.

The dance organizer, probably now working in Hollywood as a big time producer, had grand ideas for the event. A group of pledges had finished their shake-down. The greeks wanted to gift them with a down and dirty contest themed celebration. This wasn’t unusual, the part about our providing entertainment for survivors of the greek gauntlet. The weird part began when we were asked to leave Boomer, our pet name for our JVC sound system, at home. They also requested that we bring a set of clothes that we didn’t mind having ripped up. I’m sure our faces expressed concern, so the generous largess was again mentioned. They asked if we had seen the recent movie “Beyond Thunderdome”. We hadn’t, which probably was for the worst.

The night of the event arrived. Rusty and I arrived at the columned house. With Matador station wagon was parked a block over, we presented ourselves at the side door. Our hearts dropped when we saw that we would have company on the stage. Especially prime examples of the chips were also present. What’s a chip? Visualize Chippendale wanna-be. These guys were large, impressive in physical size at least. It as our experience that the nether regions were not as much. Rusty and I could hold our own. The organizer laid out their script for the night. High production values were in play. Aside from our regular show the greeks wanted a strip-off. Think the walk-off scene in Zoolander where the title character and Hansel employed the insight of David Bowie to determine who was the best. These were not unheard off, but they wanted it in the spirit of Thunderdome, wasteland warriors in de-clothing combat.

Rusty held his own. He and his opponents were equal in height. Rusty’s lack of bulk was compensated for in his wild beard, giving him the visage of Rasputin at his most mad. The chip was crushed as the other trait shared with Rasputin was revealed, unequal proportions manifest as the Tina Turner pounded out the words from “Out of the Living” on the greek’s superior sound system. My turn was next. I stepped to the “Thunderdome” with clothing that had been ripped to convey post-apocalypse men’s wear. “We Don’t Need Another Hero” began as the chip and I discarded our ravaged garments. He would remove one, then I would. Flourishes and menacing grimaces were employed. I attempted to emulate Rusty in his victory. Sadly my opponent had at least two inches of height on me, with his forearms as large as my calves. The strip-off began with gyrations as our costumes were shed. Shirt followed bandanna. Pants followed shirt and so on. I hoped and prayed that the final reveal would even the playing field as the fruits of our birth were on display. The moment came and went.

My brand was not the winner that day. With a ruler used to measure the win by a tip, I was not the one that left the arena. The consolation prize was not so bad. Pat, my friend from the “The Pats”, soothed my hurt feelings as I released my embarrassment. The night ended with yet another greek taking advantage of Rusty and my good graces. We trooped to the Matador and drove into the early morning. I was branded, at least for a short time, as the loser of Thunderdome. I still can’t watch that movie without flashbacks. I feel better now, content with the knowledge that I don’t need Thunderdomes to measure who I am. My brand is me, ready for the world to see.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
College Stripper Journals – Rule #5 (Vs. a Shave Is Nice)

There was a month that had Rusty laid low while he recovered from an appendectomy. He ended up with a cool scar that matched my own, much to the clients’ delights, but for that short time he was knocked out of working order. The practical distribution of labors prompted me to find a temporary partner from the other stripper groups. A very few of the groups had representation by both genders. They performed more specialized acts. Mind you, this was the Deep South in the 80s, so everything was pretty clean compared to what you see on the circuit today. You couldn’t ask for the Alpha-Pinto Stack back then! Know what I mean?

One of the groups was named “The Pats”, made up of Patricia and Patrick. Both went by the name Pat. They got a laugh out of that of course, referring to themselves as P1 and P2. It was easy to tell them apart because P2 had alopecia areata. What is this? The autoimmune disease causes hair loss, and in Pat’s case, it was across their entire body. Pat and I started working the clients. I’d do my thing and Pat would do theirs. About two weeks in we broke Rusty’s #5 rule: don’t fall for a co-worker, or as he was keen to quip, “don’t lay it where you shake it”.

The hours together, pushing ourselves hard to please the shared customer base, bonded Pat and myself in ways that Rusty and I never did. I think it started when I wanted to show my sympathy to Pat’s condition. While I did normally pursue the motto “shave it to show it”, it was quite different shaving head, legs, armpits, and so on. I couldn’t get some areas but Pat was nice enough to do the razor work in those hard-to-reach spots. It seemed like half our time was spent shaving my body, with the efforts equally distributed. These sessions seemed to take longer and longer, with Pat’s portion consuming the most time. I suspected something was up. Sure enough one fateful night Pat took my hand and rubbed it across their skin saying, “see, this is how it should feel”. One thing led to another, and rule #5 became a victim of the workplace.

At this point I’d expect a hand to do up and the question be thrust, “why did you shave your hair off?”. Yeah, sympathy goes a long way, but the college stripper scene was pretty professional as a whole. Good work ethics were learned there, with the Pat thing being the exception. My only excuse is that Pat was majored in media, specializing in advertising and promotions. They convinced me that the clients would tip that much better when we were matching, both hairless. Yeah, there were differences, like the eye color. One of us was taller also and one of us still had our tonsils. OK, the second isn’t readily apparent. I also wore glasses and Pat had contacts. Pat was right though. We were almost twins, but completely different because of the obvious, when we both lacked body hair.

The customers loved the novel nature of the temporary team. I got to show it all, plus some. Pat was up to their usual standards of display. My classwork was suffering even though the money rolled in. Pat took up so much of my time outside of the work hours. I can’t count how many times Pat would say “oh Brown Eyes (their pet name for me), let me check if you need to be shaved”. Between the sleep deprivation, struggling through Radar Theory, and wanting to keep on my clothes at some point outside of school hours, I was glad when Rusty returned home from his medical leave. About the same time the other Pat, who also had brown eyes, returned to the circuit. I then realized that Brown Eyes was not an exclusive pet name. C'est la vie. Blue Eyes (my pet name for Pat) returned to their protege and I to mine. The college stripping world restablished balance.

I learned some valuable lessons during my time as a hairless college stripper. The first was that hair itches like the dickens when it is growing back. Never gain. The second was that Rusty was the fount of wisdom, especially in regards to rule #5. There was that time that he and I broke rule #9, but that was with consenting adults and we only did it twice. At the end of the month I looked back with and thought, beware of the shave when five’s on the line.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
College Stripper Journals – The Audition (Plan ADQ)

Some people think the world of the college stripper is fun, games, and eager paying customers. I wish this was the case. Aside from being hard work and long hours, there are difficult clients that took advantage of the struggling artist that has nothing to bring to the table but himself. Rusty and I faced this when a particularly powerful customer demanded free product in the form of auditions. We responded as only the truly emancipated artist can, with colorful cats and blond wigs.

Consider that in the 80s there was no internet. A college town in the Deep South did not have an alternative paper with the “adult entertainment” section. Maybe in Hotlanta you could advertise in “male exotic dancers” sections. That was such a laugh. We didn’t have funds to spend on a collection of Village People outfits. Besides, my housemates would wonder why I had a police officer outfit with rip-away pants in the closet. How I got the rent money was my business! So, aside from a bit of seasonal stage propping, what you saw was what you got, and what we had was advertised by word of mouth.

One of the most productively vocal client bases was also the most problematic. The Greek Houses, fraternities and sororities, were collectively known as “the greeks”. These fine institutions kept us busy between the pre-marriage parties and risque birthday bashes. The greeks’ money was green and the biz was steady. Some greeks were great to work with and others, well, were a necessary evil if the word of mouth was to continue. A particular greek insisted on auditions for their events.

If you think “casting couch” you’re close to the truth. This greedy client basically wanted it for free, complete with show and shake. We usually put in a half-hearted effort and let the gig go to somebody else, usually one of the chip groups. Chip is short for “Chippendale wanna-be”. Damn beefcakes. One year we really needed the money. The next quarter was coming up and there were books to buy! We found out that the greeks were abusing their privilege, and our good nature, by having two chip groups audition along with us two skinny white guys. We had to find a way to prevail without giving away all the goods. Rusty reached way back into his closet to implement our ace card, plan ADQ.

Two blond wigs later, cut to shoulder length, we arrived at the audition dressed in tall white boots, cat imprinted shirts, and white short-shorts. One of the chip groups strutted their stuff, flexing and posing while showing off their loined graces. Like I said, any other time we would have gone through the paces, cutting it short of the big reveal, and then just gone home. This time was different. We were there to take it all, standing side-by-side on as our song’s intro led to “You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life”. The hair bobbed in a way that would make Scandinavians everywhere proud. What followed was a motion-by-motion mimic of a taped video straight off of MTV. We put hands in the air, swayed side-to-side, lip syncing to the infectious lyrics “You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen, dancing queen”. Fun fact, neither Rusty nor I looked like we were seventeen, though I was closer than Rusty given his dark shaggy beard and fake blond hair. We spun around and teased our audience with some hot bun action as we finished the act, “Having the time of your life, ooh, see that girl, watch that scene, dig that dancing queen”.

Did we get the job? Sadly, no. The second chips group did have Village People outfits. Nobody can resist as muscled hunks spell out “Y M C A” while shaking what nature gave them after the outfits had hit the floor. We hung our heads in defeat. Either the chips had much more expensive textbooks or they had gotten wind of our flanking Abba Dancing Queen (ADQ) attack plan. The effort wasn’t entirely wasted. Word got around about our effort and we got steady booking dancing as a show-it-all Abba tribute group. “You’re a teaser, you turn ‘em on, leave ‘em burning and then you’re gone”. You know it baby, with the help of ADQ.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
College Stripper Journals – Golden Boys (All That Glitters)

Rusty’s affinity for effects sometimes got us in trouble, though at times one does suffer for their craft. I’ll be clear here. There is such a thing as artistic suffering and then there is a humiliation that calls a show short. More on that later, but first you should understand why Rusty went to these lengths to fully satisfy our clients.

The college stripping scene was opening up in the middle 80s. Consider the time. MTV was established with a flamboyant worldview available on the small screen. The astronaut on the moon had given way to a mix of music gravitating between the titillation of Queen to the over the top “fashions” of Headbangers Ball. George Michael had made it OK for guys to be sexy while Prince gave permission for sexual ambiguity. This sounds like peaches and cream, but remember that I was located in the Deep South. The biz was more open than veterans reported in their tales of past woe, but there was still incredible pressure to be incredibly discrete while going big, big, big.

Against this background, and before I reveal our humiliation, I want to put to rest a trope of stripping seen in the movies. The pressure felt on the college stripping scene pushed together teams of strippers. Rusty and I were one such duo. We were somewhere between Queen and Headbangers, leaning to Duckie in Pretty in Pink. Yeah, skinny white guys, no matter the equipment, did not have the visual impact of the muscled “chips”. No, not the guys with motorcycles in California, though Ponch and Jon would have made a good duo. We meant the over muscled dancers seemingly straight out of Chippendales male revue show. The local chips worked in smaller groups, usually no more than three, and mostly consisted of the jocks muscling in, pun intended, on the biz of hard-working amateurs. You have to find humor where you can, damn natural talent. Anyway, I’ve digressed.

My point is that most stripping events were performed by two or more dancers. Why was stripping performed by two or more, with two the optimal number for splitting the proceeds: distribution of labors! I was a few years past nineteen, the supposed height of my sexual drive. Rusty was a little further along given his collegiate career, but with advanced age comes knowledge. He explained life was all about polarities. Remember, he was the philosophical English major. “With the hard comes the soft, with the long comes the short”. My translation: there are good nights and bad nights. The distribution of labors increases the odds that somebody would be on their A game. Both of us is a golden night with many appreciative customers. One of us, well, it was still a good night. The problems developed when we were, in Rusty’s sage words, soft and short. This occurred one New Years Eve week.

We were both under the weather after a grueling week of prior engagements. We considered calling in a chip to help out, but Rusty, being the theatrical type, decided to try out a prop he had been holding back for just an occasion. He figured that it would dazzle the customers and perhaps cheer us onto the hard and long. He had gotten his hands some golden craft glitter. It almost looked like spice, but Rusty explained to me that it was the real thing ready for “the show”. I don’t want to bore you with particulars here given that I’m still vague on the long past incredibly embarrassing topic, but the craft glitter is plastic and not the higher grade polyester. It does not respond well to moisture as it tends to run and clump. With all of this precursor hinting of doom explained, Rusty and I broke out the golden powder for a show.

Before we got to the party we liberally applied the glitter with helping amounts of lube. Our costumes, fitting the time of the year, were Father Time and Baby New Year. Rusty, of course, was the former given his flowing beard. We had a whole “out with the old, in with the new” show planned. Yeah, dazzle them with effects if the plot isn’t fully there. We had to present. Disaster struck after I did my “I am here to relieve you of your place” line with Rusty proudly responding “does it look like I’m spent?”. The great “reveal” had our equipment looking like it was struck with sores placed there by a Midas touch. In addition to that, the golden color had rubbed off all over. It was a gilded horror show. The enthusiasm we had managed to collect in anticipation of the unveiling quickly vanished. I don’t want to share the humiliating attempt we made to recover from this, but suffice to say, the night ended early.

There was an upside. Every cloud has a metallic lining. The incredibly fine nature of the glitter made it very difficult to fully remove even with vigorous rubbing. That led to an interesting challenge for all involved, and several did try. For a few months, our folly made our names shine that much brighter on the stripping scene. The chips may have had their abs, but we had gone through the craft fires to come out brighter on the other side. Fame recouped our spirits and the team was fully at bat. All that glitters is not gold, but we lived it large as the Golden Boys for long enough.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
College Stripper Journals – Seasonal Allergies (Don’t Ho Ho the Mistletoe)

In the dog-eat-dog world of the college stripping it’s useful to have a kitsch that the clients appreciate. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry can get brave enough to remove a few clothes to reveal what Mother Nature graced them with. That’s not enough to keep the work coming in regular. It’s not that people are shallow when it comes to stripping. Well, that may be an oxymoron. Entertainment by strippers could the height of contradictory terms, but who’s to complain if it’s consensual and money is on the table, or at the least, in the armband. Rusty, my stallion endowed partner in dancing, had his kitsch established before I met him and I was more than willing to ride that pony. His thing was holiday-themed dances.

It seems obvious that holidays should be fully exploited for their money earning potential. This was true at the mall and it was doubly so for us. Before I get into the particulars, and specifically how things can go terribly wrong when pursuing the festive path, I have to say something about the times. It was the middle 80s. There was no internet and Amazon Prime was still decades in the future. Grand ideas were hatched in our fevered minds with the associated the props were sourced locally. The prior year we had done the whole “Santa and his horny elf” gig. You can guess who the elf was. Rusty already had the beard and I, well, was the sprite in pointy shoes and little else. We needed a new idea.

Rusty, the long time English major, was well read, but this didn’t stop him from indulged in pop culture, leading to a fascination with the animated movie “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”. He got a chuckle out of the whole “the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day!”. Yeah, our gig had a preoccupation with such things. Rusty pointed out that we couldn’t stage a Whoville scenario to set up the gag, but then he remembered the part about Grinch stealing the mistletoe, and what if when it was brought back the enlargement was triggered? OK. That was an idea. Rusty could recycle the prior year’s outfit with zero funds outlaid. The only thing we needed was mistletoe.

This was in pre-Hobby Lobby years and we were poor college students. Yeah, we could have purchased fake mistletoe at a florist shop, but who would do that when the real thing grew in trees? Fast forward past two skinny dudes, a rickety ladder, and a near death experience. Mistletoe picking is NOT for the faint of heart. Little did we know that the almost fatal, or at the least wound inflicting, narrowly avoided mishap was karmically waiting in Rusty’s near future. Greenery with berries in hand, we were ready for our event.

Before I tell you what happened I have to explain something that Rusty did for the much appreciative clients. He enjoyed hanging things from his junk. The elf’s fearless leader of year prior featured stockings hung with care. That went over big. On that cherished theme Rusty thought it would be great if he hung the mistletoe above the heads of our clients. I was tasked with celebratory participation underneath. It worked for me given that I was not the “Rod the Mod” of the duo. With seasonal shrubbery in hand we worked the first of what we hoped were several appreciative holiday events.

The mistletoe was featured only once. After a few days recovery Rusty hustled us back to the Santa and elf personas. It wasn’t voluntary mind you. Rusty loved working his plans. The first signs that “mice and men” were in trouble came when Rusty complained of itching around the draped member. I was too busy to pay his comment much mind, but when he went bright red, almost matching his festive hat, I was worried. He began to sweat for no reason, and that was strange given that I was the one doing all the hard work at the time. Then the rash began. Rusty cast off the offending plant as if he was on fire. The night was over. Sadly we hadn’t brought backup stockings, and it was just as well because the clients acted like we had just splashed them with cold water. Yes, we sometimes did that as part of the act, but it was thrown on ourselves and not the paying customers.

Rusty was a philosopher at heart. You have to be if you’re a near-career college student in the liberal arts. He noted that it’s not wise to fool with Mother Nature. The near-fatality with the ladder, razor sharp garden shears, and standing on the rung that’s NOT a step did not bode well for the future. Perhaps it was meant to be. Live and learn. Hang and blister. Darn oils. Some final words, Rusty had a flair for exits. Big reveals lead to these. His final words that night, as he drove away in this Pinto sleigh, was that he would never again ho ho the mistletoe.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
College Stripper Journals – Truly Tease (The Beginning)

When people find out I was a stripper in college they have questions. Yes, I was a male dancer hired to “entertain”. The most forward queries lead to the shortest conversations, such as “do you still strip?”. I’m sure they mean it in jest, given that it’s been quite a few years since those days. It’s time to share, and the best place to start is at the beginning and not the end.

I prefer that we start the inquisition with how I began in the trade. It seems like yesterday even though it was twenty-five plus years ago. Funds were stretched and I had very little time on my hands in between studying for classes like radar theory and numerical analysis. The need to study ruled out typical part-time jobs of grocery bagging or fast-food “would you like fries with that burger?”. I’d tried my hand at immersive oil frying the summer prior to college and did not relish the return to the crispy battered burns. Besides, physics textbooks were difficult to juggle while cleaning grease out of fume hoods. My search for money to spend on something more than ramen noodles was answered by my buddy Rusty who never seemed to lack for a pocket change.

First, let me tell you about Rusty. He was a long lingering English major who should have graduated years before. The college had become the warm womb that my friend relished even while the rest of us wished to leave its embrace. He was tall, skinny, and had more facial hair than the average student. Was he handsome? Perhaps, but only in a Shaggy of Scooby Doo kind of way. We met through mutual friends and became fast buds. Rusty was my mentor and inspiration. I won’t claim to be his Scooby, but I definitely played second fiddle during my collegiate performing years. This rang true in several ways. While I was a little more buff, not by much mind you given I was coming off of years of running competitions, I was downright bulky compared to my friend. He was skinny with big hair, like Tommy Chong of Cheek & Chong. This didn’t matter. Rusty’s fame was the tool of the trade combined with words of wisdom that have rung down through the years. His maxims, jingles for the dancing gigolos, allowed me to prosper even as I wished I had more, down there.

His most memorable instructed me how to carry myself with decorum. This is a fancy word for working a crowd to pile up the tips. Here’s the scoop on the money. You didn’t get much up front and still don’t. The pockets are filled, well, when you have pockets available afterward, by the tipping of appreciative customers. Rusty had looked me over and told me that I had to fully embrace his rule #3, “tease to please”. He explained that it wasn’t about what I brought to the show. It was instead about how I used it during the show. “Imply everything, they create the story”. Well, that’s an English major for you. He explained it was like a paragraph: beginning sentence, the body of the paragraph, closing sentence. The audience handled the middle if I set the mood and road it to the ending, figuratively mind you.

“It’s all about the middle” he would say. That was easy for him to say, but his sage words about the framing of the happy trail ending were gold. “Shave it to show it, shake it to make it” became the outwardly manifesting mantra that I still embrace. When I got tired of the maintenance Rusty would exclaim “don’t hide it under a bush”. Too true! The shaking seemed so much more dramatic with an unobstructed view. The clear-cut was a good combination with my Paul Simon like baby-face. Rusty and I became a compare and contrast duo with something for everyone. I was the bouncy bunny to Rusty’s steady stallion. Not surprisingly this led to my stage name, a persistent shadow that is never shaken no matter how much you do.

I can’t give out Rusty’s stage name. He’s still working the senior circuit. My nickname came from my “making it” motions. I had always been a fan of the movie Bambi, and in particular, its sassy little rabbit. It didn’t take me long to decide to use Thumper, or more often, “Lil’ Thumper” when compared to my partner in crime. To each, their own name, to each their tools. I made the most of the situation, often second fiddle, but somebody’s got to be on the bottom and somebody’s got to be on top.

That’s how I got my start, a few words about my inspiring partner, and a bit about my modus operandi, long for the short of “how I strutted it”. Rusty and I had some good times, made a few bucks, and those years launched me into a realm beyond the bright lights of the conventional world. Ramen noodles were left behind while I discovered how to truly tease.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
I had to admit that I didn’t have the rip-off pants during my short college-based career as a stripper. I may have had a fancy name, Lil’ Thumper, but that didn’t mean I had the props. The poem “Fancy Pants” looks back at the trials and tribulations of those times.

Fancy Pants

I wish I had the fancy pants
the ones that ripped away at the touch
so I could show off the goods
not so sexy in underoos
washing day was my friend
no extra clothes on hand to wear
nudity was my natural state
when laundromat had the threads.

No AC on, I’d strip on down
my ten by ten was basic digs
windows opened to cool the skin
lifting weights to keep it hard
a peek show for neighbors close
practice the moves for perfect pose
the paying gigs got me through
with average grades and flesh to show.

My backpack held all the toys
set to tease the customers
easy transport on my bike
just don’t ask me to travel far
budget stripping was my thing
no fancy props from college man
a lack of cake to leap out from
instead the donuts to show the love.

There was no change for me to tip
none in pocket after groceries bought
Top Ramen was protein’s source
with pizza days when I splurged
I took the drinks where I could
Milwaukee Best got real old
I put my best out on display
when Coors Light began to flow.

So little sleep when I danced
flashing night then hit the books
test in the morning to earn the grades
then back to lovin to pay the bills
a morning snack after work
meet the dawn with a smile
put the popcorn on the stove
college stripping memories.

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161013.
kokopelle: (Shake - That's What it Does)
The poem “One Time at Band Camp” was inspired by a series of scenes in the 1999 movie “American Pie”.

One Time at Band Camp

And one time at band camp
the flute was my tool
just as these words
fill your head full
with pillow fights
lost music sheets
playing forever
thinking of Bach
whenever I’m bored
so much time to spend
it’s half what I learn
education at hand
to fluting the reed
finding the base
getting myself out
when antsy feels
I just want to bang
the cymbals together
this one time at band camp
are we going to screw?

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161003.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The poem “Magic Mike” is about my former profession as a male stripper while I was in college.

Magic Mike

Magic Mike was my gig
Lil Thumper was my name
velcro pants to remove
exotic dancing in the groove
I was the fireman with a hose
the policeman with cuffs
Magnum minus the mustache
it was so an eighties thing
every woman’s fantasy
showing it for the guys as well.

Down to boxer shorts
wow them with the standard fare
then off with the clinging briefs
that was the E ticket ride
clothing optional was the job
in my stripper days college bound
to share my body to pay my bills
to share my love with patrons dear.

Don’t judge my youthful choice
I had the goods nature blessed
youth’s keen luster shined still bright
complete with my still easy smile
in those days I’d dance for you
show you all the manly goods
I’d dance for you in near buff
Magic Mike before his time.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160727.
kokopelle: (Professor Chaos - Evil)
The poem “Monster's Lair” is based on a dream I experienced.

Monster's Lair

Welcome to the monster's lair
where innocents die under moon's dim glare.
The inhabitants can be strange
though after nightfall they become more deadly.
Fighting will be the only way
you'll see daylight after most perish.

The evening passes with much running
as common objects become death's instruments.
The placid ones will not object
when it is they or you in this unkind contest.
Letter openers become dire sickles
as heads are lopped off of walking dead.

The aftermath distresses me
loved ones are missing and must be found.
The aftermath offers no answers
as locals deny all in the light of day.
To stay is the only choice
it is at risk of becoming one of them.

Now I live in the monster's lair
with no memory of nights' events.
I wonder if I am still sane
this could be debatable because I stayed.
To become a creature is the way
to survive in the depths of nightmare's grip.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160501.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
A person I follow on Tumblr posted a farcical health bulletin that portrayed Donald Trump as a disease. It reminded me that artists, no matter their stripe, have the very special ability to speak out against the rigid fears of life. I've done a bit of this, and I appreciate those artists who are brave enough to make statements against the relative evils of the world.

Fall This Day
Poem for Day 255 – 20150913

Watch them poke at the giant,
with only art held in their hands.
Armed with the muses' gifts,
the mighty will fall this day.
Foolish mortals of lax morals,
deviants seeking to speak their mind,
what hope do you have my friends
when you turn the world on it's head?

The battle is guile against laughs,
dogma of man versus humor.
The former provides the ammo,
while the latter tosses it back.
Your enemies fall on their own petards,
explosions felt across the web,
slipped on their own banana,
hit by the pie they made themselves.

The giant is taken down a notch,
made shorter by Satan's jest.
God's true name is spoken
by the profane to save us all.
Don't feel sorry for The Man,
struck by your pens and paints.
They provided the means for
the mighty to fall this day.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: (Red Guy)
The poem “Ode to Johnny Smith” is a humorous, but serious, look at the Trump candidacy. Don't know who Johnny Smith is? Replace “Twilight Zone” with “Dead Zone” and you're there.

Ode to Johnny Smith
Poem for Day 244 – 20150902

Welcome to the Twilight Zone,
played out on political stage,
courtesy of the RNC
with help from the right wing pundits.

Spawn of incessant FUD
fear, uncertainty, and doubt,
he now walks upon the earth,
fully ready to build the wall!

Ignore his minions at your risk,
creations of fair and balanced.
They'll rise up in their rage
to carry the white haired one to his place.

Gain the world and lose your soul
the good book warns within.
Heed these words disgruntle ones,
consider what the movies tell us here.

Against a Clinton he may win,
your creature of lesser evils,
just remember where his thumb will be,
like that character played by Martin Sheen.

This time there will be no Johnny Smith,
Christopher Walken to you and me,
to save the world from a fiery fate
in our own version of the Twilight Zone.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
The poet / lyricist is asked to discover new realms of writing. Sometimes this goes very very well. Other times, not. The lyrics “Songs About Love and Lust” are about this journey of exploration.

Songs About Love and Lust
Poem for Day 233 – 20150821

Songs about love and lust offered
statements of desire from a far.
Promises of attention reciprocated
on the words of song's soaring voice.
Sentiments from many muses,
common thoughts spring from desires.
I'll share their thoughts with you my friend,
with hopes that I’ll write much more.

That’s what I’ll write, about love and lust,
Songs to tempt the body and sing the heart,
That’s what I’ll write, about love and lust.

I want you and we're apart
the world will shift when we are not.
Unseen vistas promise me all
so let's begin the exploration.
You've got what I want, really want,
give it to me, things will be right.
I'm the one that truly deserves you,
put your thing here in my spot.

Oh my, never mind that last request,
the naughty muse had my tongue.
I'll restate my fervent words
to keep this song on the radio.
This needs to stay hot to trot,
implying the most base acts,
hint hint nudge nudge say no more.

That’s what I’ll write, about love and lust,
Songs to tempt the body and sing the heart,
That’s what I’ll write, about love and lust.

Oh baby baby, undress me now,
I want you and you want me.
Oh baby baby, be nasty with me,
put it where the sun don't shine.
No no no, this won't do at all,
fire the muses of sexy rock.
I'll go back to my day job
of writing sexy greeting cards.

Never again songs to tempt the body
and sing the heart,
and sing the heart.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.


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