By Alissa Von Bargen
Walking into Hot Shots male strip club, I felt like I’d stepped through the X-rated looking glass. I was there with friends to be an extra in an upcoming television show titled Mann to Mann, filming in Ottawa. I admit, I was curious about the sexed-up atmosphere of a strip club. I’d never been in one before.
Talk about anti-climactic.
The strippers had no necks. Their pecs were larger than the breasts of most of the women present, who were all gaping like slack-jawed yokels. These walking torsos, however, were obviously immune to the female attention. They were more interested in themselves, doing push-ups, oiling their chests and staring at themselves in any available reflective surface, which wasn’t difficult in a club full of mirrors. Their bodies were frightening machines.
But the women were much scarier than the men. A casting call for extras to be patrons of a male strip club on a weekday at 2 p.m. brought out a diverse crowd, to be polite. At least the gaggle of frothing women kept me from complete boredom.
Even though the strippers’ overdeveloped bodies repulsed me, I was secretly hoping for more nudity. It was a bigger letdown than EuroDisney. Waiting around a film set all day is definitely not glamorous, and if it wasn’t for the bizarre spectacle swirling around me, I might have fallen asleep.
But I learned two things pretty fast. Number one, strip clubs are overwhelmingly surreal. Number two, nobody likes a tease.
The women became rabid once they realized the men weren’t taking off their pants. One stripper shimmied and grinded for the crowd while director Derek Diorio filmed “reaction shots.” Women hooted and screamed even after the cameras stopped rolling, fisting fake twenties into his jeans like they were stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey.
They were getting downright aggressive; since he wasn’t stripping, they were about to do it for him.
But ladies, you can’t get something for nothing. I’m pretty sure the strippers didn’t want these freaky women ogling their junk unless they were getting paid.
I’m starting to think that strippers should come equipped with the spray bottles some people use to keep their pets off the good furniture.
I tried to distance myself from the more intense groups ofwomen, but I did shake my booty on the dance floor out of sheer boredom. However, there was no music playing because the microphones had to pick up the actors’ lines. It became weird performance art, following one-word directives: “Action!” “Cut!” “Quiet!”
I have to admit, as an extra, I was expecting slightly better working conditions. The “refreshments” we were promised finally showed up after three hours, but the food was an eclectic mix: there was a big bag of Munchie mix, a bag of oranges, some Nutra-Grain bars and a giant bag of Tostitos along with three Styrofoam cups of salsa. It was nowhere near enough to feed the 40 to 50 hungry extras. I enlisted myself into indentured servitude for this? The cold reality of being an extra glared at me off the strippers’ shiny chests.
We were finally released from our duty after seven. Tired and grudging about the crummy snacks and long hours, I headed home. A friend of mine summed up the experience best.
“This day has been a total waste of cleavage.”