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It happened about 5 years ago. To suppliment my income, I sometimes wrote as a freelancer for a local newspaper. I only got about $25 per article, but it did help out.

I suppose I should back up a bit. I've always been somewhat of a closet exhibitionist. Not the sort who would expose himself willingly as I felt very self-conscious about my body. I never thought it was good enough, even though it was a swimmers' body with some weight-training thrown in. I had always thought about being naked in front of a group of appreciative women, even sometimes went to the pool just for the experience of being unclothed except for a swimming suit. But somehow that wasn't quite the same as my fantasy as everyone there was wearing swimming suits. Of course, that's what made it acceptable, kept me from getting arrested, but it also took quite a bit of the edge off. I tried to compensate by wearing extremely cut briefs, closing my eyes to pretend that the female voices came from fully clothed women, but I still knew I was safe. In fact, no one ever commented on me.

Well, it so happened that a male-strip club was opening in a large city about 90 miles away from where I lived. I didn't even notice this, but the editior gave me a call and asked if I would cover the story. I agreed. I always felt women sould have such places anyway and I needed the money. What I failed to do was call the place before I left, but I just had time to deposit the check and buy some food with the money before heading out. Now I had to do the story no matter what.

As I got to the city, I decided to call the owner from a phonebooth. Essentially, I found out, somewhat to my surprise, that the ability to dance was considered very important. This was not the case at female strip shows, so I was curious about it. I asked him if I could come in and talk to him, exchanged names, and I arrived there a few minutes later.

I arrived extremely nervous. A preminition, I suppose. I told him about my desire to do an atricle on the show and he explained a few things to me, the most ominous being the rule that only women were allowed in the club with the exception of the strippers. I suggested that perhaps I could wait on table while covering the show, but he informed me that only waitresses worked the floor and that even the bartender was female. I asked if I could watch from back stage, but even that was dismissed. Finally, in desperation, remembering the money I had already spent, I asked "I'd really like to feature your club, sir, isn't there anyway I could?"

"Only if you are in the show," he said.

"But I can't dance very well at all," I protested.

He got up and looked at me, then said "Wait here for Donna. She'll try to work something out" and left. So, there I was, sitting in this sparce office, waiting.

In came Donna. She was in her mid-fourties, well-preserved, brimming with energy and self-confidence, assertiveness. "Hi, handsome, I'm the manager and I understand you want to cover a show?"

"Yes, but I can't dance."

She smiled, "Now let me be the judge of that. Take off your shirt."

I looked at her, red-faced.

"Oh, how modest you are, and I love that blush. But if you want me to help you, take off that shirt."

I took off the shirt, slowly, and she frowned. "No, not like that at all. Remove it quickly, all at once."

So, I did it. "Much better, yes, much better. Now, all we need to do is get you some sort of act. You lift wieghts, obviously, so this is what we'll do...."

I was intrigued by the notion and, to make it short, after a bit of further instruction, she decided to let me go on as the third act. Now, I am describing it as the act happened even though we had carefull coreographed the routine.

The dancers were isolated prior to thier act, alone in tiny cubicles so I wouldn't have seen much from back stage anyway. As I sat there, I could hear Donna announcing the acts, the screams, applause, occassional wolf-whistles, shouted comments, of the women. They sounded very wild, unrestrained, and I had second and third thoughts about the whole thing. I started to think of ways out of this, promise to pay back the money later, etc., but I was more or less paralized.

After 30 minutes, I heard Donna: "And now, a new feature. He's very shy girls and I'm sure he's nervous and thinking of ways to escape, so let's make him feel welcome -- The Exerciser!" The applause was overpowering and I walked nervously onto the stage, dressed in a sweat suit. The idea was to do exercises in time to the music, taking off a bit of clothing after each one.

So, I started with the situps. After about 10, Donna said "Aren't you warm, dear?" This was my cue to take off the top, leaving my shaved torso naked. The women started to applaud again, some giggled, and one shouted, "Back to exercise, Hunk."

My complexion must have reddened as I did some more situps before being given the next cue, "Doesn't that make your legs feel a bit cramped, eh?"

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On cue, I stripped off my pants and was left wearing short short leather shorts. More applause. The trapeze was lowered, but I wasn't to swing on it, "Pullups," Donna shouted and was joined by the crowd in a chant. "Pullups, pullups," it came.

I jumped up to the trapeze and did five, still in time to the music which had fortunately slowed. Donna knew what she was doing, alright. When doing chin-ups, with the ankles together, trying to keep straight, it's amazing how every muscle in the body tenses. "Nice stomach!" one shouted.

After that, the trapeze lowered me and I removed the shorts, quickly again, and was treated to a gasp of approval. I was wearing only a speedo now, small-cut, like the ones I had worn at the pool, but I had never felt like this before. I didn't even realize until I removed the shorts that I had an erection and still I felt very vulnerable at the same time, vulnerable and exposed. The screaming and whistling increased as I reached up and was raised once again off the floor. This time, the trapeze swung me into the crowd and one of the women pulled off my suit, leaving me in nothing but a g-string, ass exposed. More whistles. "Nice ass!" one shouted as my body began to be covered with perspiration.

The hardest part was yet to come. "Leg raises," said Donna, this time walking out onto the stage with a whipe and a towel. I wrapped the scanty towel around my hips and removed the g-string, tossing it to the crowd as arranged. One woman caught it and held it up for all to see.

At this point, I reached up to the trapeze and did several leg raises, being very careful not to let my cock be seen. My balls rested on my legs and I lifted them up, hiding them from the crowd upon which Donna snatched the towel away, leaving me completely naked. The only way I could prevent complete exposure was to keep my legs raised, but they were getting sore from the effort. I began to tremble all over as a result of the exertion, sweating, the women going wild as I tried to preserve that last bit of privacy to myself. Finally, however, my legs gave out, lowered slowly, leaving me complete exposed, shivering, hearing the screams, giggles, and shouts. My cock was still erect and dripping with precum. Then, mercifully, the curtain fell.

Now I wonder why I was so reticent because as I look back it was an experience not to be forgotten. :-)