A Day in the Life of a Chippendales Dancer

The curtain rises, and Carlton O'Neal starts gyrating his g-string clad behind to a 1970s disco tune. The five well-muscled men with whom he shares the stage are in identical attire - American flag patterned thong and a smile. O'Neal and his crew - all hairless and some unnaturally orange - look like an X-rated boy band. With his mocha skin and shaved head, O'Neal is more modest than Henry, his blonde colleague, who sheds his underwear in the next number and elicits ear-splitting screams from hundreds of college-age women by writhing atop a large black box.

O'Neal, a 29-year-old middle school music teacher from Marlborough, Mass. says he never harbored dreams of becoming a Chippendales dancer. At his friends' behest, he signed up to audition among hundreds of wannabe dancers at an open call held on this same stage at the Roxy in Boston's theater district two years ago. Now O'Neal is one of six in the Chippendale's Male Dance Revue, and the self-proclaimed "shy guy who just likes to dance" shakes it for hundreds of women every week.

"I just went to the audition not being nervous because it was on a whim anyway. I just wanted to give it a try," O'Neal said. Each Friday night O'Neal molts his innocent, daytime teacher image in favor of multiple male sex-symbol identities including that of astronaut, telephone repairman, and firefighter. The Chippendales Male Revue celebrates thirty years of the male striptease this month, and O'Neal is proud to be a part of it.

Now, in a pair of tight white briefs, O'Neal bends over to reveal his bulging set of gluteus muscles to a throng of screaming girls. He said that his on-stage mantra has evolved over the past two years from "Don't mess up" to "Work it." Still, he'll knock back a cocktail or a couple of Red Bulls before show time.

"Now that I'm really comfortable, I want to exaggerate things. I don't hold back," he said. The revue allows for frequent intermissions during which O'Neal and the other dancers leave the stage to interact with the crowd, and this is where shaking it really counts.

He deftly navigates the line between protecting himself from the aggressive groping of drunk college women and gingerly allowing them to slide their money beneath his waistband. He doesn't show any annoyance with the women who scream in his ears, spill cocktails on his bare skin, or squash him under the collapsing folding tables they stand upon to get a better look. The dollar denominations, pressed between O'Neal's flesh and his tight briefs, are nearly legible.

The boy-next-door smile never leaves his face. His underwear will be stuffed by the end of the night. O'Neal earns $100 per performance and collects up to $500 in tips on a good night.

Some in the audience wave bills higher than the standard one-dollar fare, but O'Neal said that the extra money does not guarantee the women will receive extra attention.

In the blur of lights, sweat, and cleavage, O'Neal admits he does not know who gives him what. "However, I see older women flashing higher denominations," he said.

A big tip does not secure a date with O'Neal either. He has a hands-off policy when it comes to pursuing off-stage relationships with audience members.

"I wouldn't do that. I would think they might want to go out with me for the wrong reasons," he said.

Just because O'Neal does not get intimate with audience members does not mean that he does not have an intimate fan base, including the principal of the school where he teaches and the parents of his students, whom he describes as "supportive." He does enjoy being recognized in restaurants in the Boston area and likens his status to "wannabe fame."

When emcee Jean-Paul signals the end of intermission, four of O'Neal's colleagues are back on stage in leather, slave-and-master inspired costumes, complete with handcuffs and whips. The audience screams in appreciation, trampling each other on their way to rush the stage.
O'Neal is backstage changing into a sleeveless janitor uniform. He is getting ready to appear with two other dancers to perform a routine with buckets and mops, which proves that janitors are more than sex objects - they can break dance too.

From blue collar to dog collar, these boys do it all.

When O'Neal was first chosen for the cast, he had to adhere to a grueling six-week rehearsal schedule, Monday through Friday, six hours a day. Rehearsals have since tapered down, but O'Neal stays in shape by weight training five days a week and playing on an intramural basketball league in the winter - not to mention the continuous pushups and stretches the dancers perform backstage between acts.

Most of the acts involve a high level of improvisation, but two years of on-stage striptease experience have helped O'Neal mellow.

"I used to get really nervous. But now I only get nervous for the opening number, which is really choreographed," he said.

The opening and the finale are the only exactingly organized parts of the show. The minute synchronization that goes into the ending is most likely imperceptible to the casual viewer. It is a fanfare of ripped T-shirts and pectoral muscles glistening with cold beer. The flourish concludes with the donning of the famous Chippendale trademark - bare-chests, white shirt collars, and black bow ties.

O'Neal likes the navy number best because it elicits the most enthusiastic audience response.

"The dance is nice and slow and seductive," O'Neal said. "Plus, I just like wearing the uniform."