Authors: Greg Raffetto
It was still light out and it was four hours until my flight out back to the mainland. We were staying in the Kailua area of Oahu, and I decided that I would go for a walk on the beach of Kailua Bay and see some of this island paradise. It was a beautiful, balmy evening, with lots of electricity in the air. I strolled down one of the small streets, between the big fancy hotels, and emerged out onto a large, crescent-shaped beach that stretched on for miles, and I was at the southeast end of it.
It was just reaching dusk, and I noticed a luau beginning behind the lofty hotel I had passed by on my right. The drumsmen had just begun playing and some other men were twirling fires of light. Tiki torches periodically lit the audience, couples mostly…couples
actually, I noticed. The music seemed to be coming from all around. It was then that I turned to my left and realized that there was a nearly identical luau going on behind that hotel, save for the twirling guys being replaced by hula girls. I scanned the audience there, more carefully this time—all couples again, not one “single” person amongst them. Here in this tropical paradise, everybody was coupled off, it seemed.
I kept trudging a beeline between the two luaus, straight outward toward the water, where the sun was now setting, and at the same time the moon was now already looming low towards the horizon. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was a beautiful sight—truly an astounding work of Gods creation. Making it all the more beautiful was the long, crescent-shaped beach running its length before me, like an enormous mile-long curved carpet of sand, with the rising moon’s reflection flickering off the wet shore as the tide came in and out to reveal even more of its excellence. It was then that I became aware of the massiveness of it all—as it was not just these two hotels, with their brilliant luaus of love going on in their perfect tiki-torch illuminated backyard firepits and entertainment beyond compare—it was everywhere. It was just the same at every hotel all up and down the crescent shaped paradise, as far as the eye could see. All the audiences filled up by loving couples, in perfect paradise—paradise—that word kept coming back to me, and as it should have, because it was. It truly was. It was the most beautiful place and time and moment that I had ever experienced in my life, I realized. I was all right here, right now, and I was in it, and it couldn’t get any better. Or could it.
Suddenly one thing dawned upon me in grave clarity--one thing was missing—one thing was gone here. I had
to share this awesome
beauty of God with. I was alone. Not to belittle God’s beauty at all—it was amazing. But the point of it all seemed clear to me, as if God himself was speaking to me. I was to get a mate to share things
with in life. I was not to go a
bout whoring myself the way I was. It was clear. And with that I took the long walk. I stepped forward with one foot of resolution, and then two. I looked upwards at the sky and then the moon, and I said aloud, “I know, God…I know. I hear you. Loud and clear.” And then a tear rolled down my left cheek. It was a tear as much of joy as sadness. A point of clarity had occurred. My whole life had probably just changed. Just in that second or two, something had spoken to me, and I knew. I was different then. I would be different from that point onward…or at least I thought. And you know what? I was, kind of. At least insofar as I knew what I should be looking for.
I strolled onward on that beach, with the pitch of a new man, and I kept thinking to myself, that what I should be looking for in women was QUALITY and
Oddly, I did not pass a single person on my walk, not a couple—NOBODY. I was all alone for the entire mile and a half or so that the beach stretched. Then I turned around and I walked back, and STILL nobody walked by me as I strolled along the waveside. Truly, what are the statistical odds of that, on such a beautiful night with all those hotels being packed
with tourists? I think that God or whatever higher power there might be up there reeeeaallllly wanted me to be alone on that beach. And so I was…ALONE. Frankly, I had gotten the message in the first five minutes, but I guess God thought it would take about an hour and a half.
I would like to say that I’d had some sort of a life-changing epiphany at this point, and perhaps I did to some extent. Thereafter, I was perhaps not quite so shallow and hell-bent on the conquest of women. Quality, not quantity, Greg—that’s been in the back of my mind ever since, even when I wish it wasn’t. But it would surely take some more time to implement such a new life strategy, as the following chapters will show. I mean, after all, I was a kid in a candystore—I was a Chippendale for God’s sake…and the temptations were just too great.
Well, it seems that, eventually, they finally did make me a waiter again at Chippendales, and I quickly rose through those ranks to become one of the lead waiters—which meant I would be getting the better sections. The most coveted of these areas was the “VIP” section, also known as “the pit,” which meant toward the front and center of the stage. Much like my beginnings of all my other jobs and duties at Chippendales, I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and once again, nobody saw fit to warn me in advance, either. God forbid that any other Chippendales employee had given me any helps or hints as to how to perform my job.
When you were a waiter, only the bartenders would give you a few tips as to how to go about your job—and the bartenders worked for the club where we were playing at. At this time, we were the permanent “guest” act at the downtown L.A. “Stock Exchange,” so named because it used to house the actual Los Angeles Stock Exchange, back in the forties and fifties. The only helpful hints I got were two: first, to try to get the women to all order the same drinks (they’re quicker and easier to fill that way); and second, that when you give change back, place the bills ON your own tray, at the edge, so that the customer has to take the bills OFF of your tray...you get bigger
tips that way. That last one proved so useful that I share it with waitresses to this very day.
The “lead” waiters, of which there were four or five, would rotate themselves among the best sections of the nightclub, so that nobody was ever favored among them, although there was significant bickering over whom would get the best sections on Saturday night, our biggest night, as opposed to the comparatively slower Thursdays and Friday nights. (Chippendales’ primadonna waiters always found something to snipe about.) When I finally became a “lead waiter,” I knew that the stakes were higher—not just for tips, but rather, the expectations of the ladies who sat in the better sections. And you had to look your best, because the stage lights, as they danced around, would occasionally illuminate any flaw in one’s physique. I knew I had to be at my very best, and I only hoped that I would be up to the task.
My first day waiting the best tables in the Chippendales primo VIP section would be one I would never forget. It was a banner night, a full house, a Saturday, of course. Front and center was a large group of Asian women out celebrating the 80
birthday of their clan’s eldest member, who sat closest to the stage. The women had ordered all champagne for the table,
14 glasses total, and I was just bringing the tray of flutes to the table as the opening music began playing, signaling the beginning of the show.
The birthday lady sat stiffly as a statue, almost corpse-like, to my right as I began ceremoniously passing out the bubbly, the tray held high, over my head, waiter-style. As I leaned in to serve the first drink, the new octogenarian suddenly came to life. In one fluid motion, this seemingly harmless old woman
jammed her whole forearm
down the front of my spandex trousers, past where I kept my big bills and tips, and down to where I keep my private “man things.” Her frigid, bony claw latched onto my penis as though it were the fountain of life. Just then, the blazing center spotlight came on, with me right in its path. I froze, like a deer in the headlights…(a deer with some sort of strange E.T.-like creature clinging to its penis.) Slowly, one by one, each of the remaining 13 champagne flutes fell from the tray, each hitting in rapid succession first my head, then my chest, then my crotch, and finally, each glass breaking on the stone floor. As if the old woman’s frozen fist was not cold enough, now I had chilled champagne on my dick, and between the freezing hand and the frigid hooch, there was, sadly, some “shrinkage.” Taking in the well-lit spectacle, there were several seconds of painful silence, and then, even more painfully, the
entire auditorium suddenly broke out into an uproar of laughter, all at my expense.
They delayed the opening of the show until we could get the area cleaned up. The little birthday lady did, finally, let go of my penis, only when no less than three of her younger counterparts tugged her off of me. Needless to say, when I re-served the replacement champagne to the group, I served it from the back. Neither I, nor my penis, wanted anything to do with that lady’s frigid, bony hands again.
Sandy was a fixture at Chippendales--she had been a bartender for us for many years, and followed the club to whatever new location we were playing at.
Keep in mind, Chippendales had no longer had its own club since the mid-1980’s when owner Steve Bannerjee had kept overfilling the capacity club, then refusing to pay off the Fire Marshal during unannounced “inspections” like all the other popular clubs did. Soon, Chippendales had lost their liquor license and having their own club (the famous L.A. Chippendales at National & Olympic) became useless. From then on, we had had to be guests like we were at other nightclubs—Bannerjee could not secure a liquor license anywhere in Los Angeles County due to his completely pissing off everybody in county government and just plain refusing to play ball. Even Mr. Bannerjee’s attempt in 1989 to set up an upscale men’s and women’s strip club down in far south county in Long Beach (by the Queen Mary liner) was resoundingly rebuffed by the long arm of L.A. County Commissioners. It had been said that Bannerjee’s failure to
obtain another liquor license ANYWHERE, was as a direct result of owner Bannerjee having an already megalomaniacal personality (call it a ‘superiority complex’), coupled with
what I had heard was something of
cocaine. I never saw Mr. Bannerjee do a
ny cocaine myself, but his fondness
for the drug was
talked about, in however hushed tones. So the upshot was, that we would play at various clubs, three nights a week (Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays) and we would stay as long as that club location worked for us and we did not have too many problems with the owners—so about a year or so.
Anyway, Sandy, would follow us and become a bartender at whatever nightclub we were headlining at—either as an employee of the nightclub, or, if Chippendales were allowed to control the bar, then under Chippendales employ.
Sandy was a pretty, blonde, 27-year old, with a girl-next-door look about her, and a tomboyish attitude that allowed her to get along well with all the guys. She was always sweet and polite, but could joke around and hold her own with any Chippendale—suffice to say, the guys liked and respected her.
One night, Sandy and I had been flirting as I worked out of her well (her bar) serving drinks. This was not uncommon, though, Sandy flirted
with all the guys. After the show, Sandy and I struck up a conversation, and started pounding back some heavy drinks. It became clear that she had her sights set on me that evening. Two things went through my mind: firstly, don’t shit where you eat, meaning that Sandy was a longtime Chippendales bartender, and I couldn’t afford to piss her off, and hence, I really couldn’t afford to chance sleeping with her. Secondly, Sandy looked hot and seemed particularly lonely that evening. I was just the right amount of sober versus buzzed to be caught on the fence over this quandary…so naturally, I decided that I better mull this over…over a few more drinks. I think I knew which way I was leaning the whole time, don’t you?
An hour later, Sandy was inviting me over to her apartment nearby for some more drinks. Sufficiently buzzed to throw caution to the wind, I accepted. Sandy and I decided to be on the “down low” about what we both knew we were going to do. We left the club separately, and met down in the parking garage at my car.
In the parking garage, we started making out right away. I felt how hot her body was as she pressed it firmly up against me, and I knew she wanted me…bad. I could even feel the extra warmth, radiating off of her vaginal area—even through her thick jeans skirt and panties. There was no turning back now.
I drove, buzzed, to the downtown L.A. hotel around the corner where she was renting a room (all to be close to Chippendales!) and as we entered, Sandy advised me that I would have to pretend to be her brother, because they had a strict, “no-prostitution” rule and watched closely from the front desk. This was not one of L.A.’s better “hotels”…or at least it hadn’t been in around fifty years or so. The word “seedy” comes to mind…and stays…when thinking about this hotel. Sandy was way too good for this place, but apparently she didn’t have a car, and this was just a cheap place for her to live close to where she worked.
Once up at her room, a sparsely-decorated studio, Sandy and I made out some more, and had a couple of more drinks. Pretty soon Sandy was pulling me toward the bed, and then pushing me down on it. She went down on me, and, before too long, pulled a rubber out from the nightstand and without a word, put it onto me. Then she laid down on the bed and pulled me into her. Her warmth was intoxicating. If I wasn’t already buzzed with “whiskey dick” (where a man’s penis has lessened sensitivity due to drinking alcohol), I think I might have come too fast, because Sandy felt TOO good, if you know what I mean. After a few minutes of lovemaking, Sandy stopped me and said she wanted me to try something. She reached for her nightstand and pulled out three vials of “poppers” (amyl nitrate, the
kind that they used to sell out of the backs of porno magazines). I recognized what the stuff was, but she was right—I hadn’t ever tried the stuff before. She had me sniff or “huff” the open bottle, and immediately I got a warm, flushed feeling. She said “do some more…until you get really high,” showing me how as she breathed deeply herself of the nauseating nectar. I followed, and before I knew it, my head was flying…everything seemed a color of red, and all I wanted to do was fuck.
I tried to stand up for a moment, just to measure the degree of my buzz, and I immediately fell down on the bed again. “You okay there, dear?” asked Sandy. “I think so,” I replied. “Then come here,” she smiled, pulling me towards her once again. Her nimble hand slid down and grabbed my cock, massaged it gently, and then slid it into her womanhood. Oohhh YEA, I thought…this stuff is awesome! I began pumping my cock furiously in and out of Sandy, who was grabbing my ass and thrusting me into herself with each pump. Sandy wrapped her legs around me and started moaning uncontrollably. “Oh, Greg!” Suddenly, she started to shake, and I could tell she was coming. Sandy grabbed the back of my head with one hand and dug her nails into my back with the other. That did it for me…I was coming too, then. Oooohhhh!!!! We both let out a simultaneous moan of ecstasy as we came together in near unison.
Five minutes later, we were sniffing more poppers and fucking again like rabbits. And this went on for hours. Finally, when we were just too physically tired to go on, and we both just fell asleep in each others’ arms.
The next morning, I not only had the usual gratuitous hangover, but also an extra-massive headache from all the amyl nitrate we had huffed the night before. It was about seven in the morning when I ducked out of there…Sandy was still sleeping, so I gave her a peck on the cheek and said goodbye. She roused, but only for a moment. “I’ll see you at work next week.” “Okay, Bye,” she said, without opening her eyes.
When I saw Sandy the next week, it was as if nothing had happened. Other than a knowing wink here or there, nothing changed in our relationship. Nothing at all. It had been the perfect crime.