Guest Stalker

Susan McBride

Dear Kelly:

I have to confess that the reason I’m writing has less to do with books than with something a bit less literary. Namely, male strippers. Okay, the Chippendales in particular, and I figure you know a little about these guys, since your hubby used to be one. I thought of you last night, as I attended a Chippies performance with my sister and my friend Allison at Harrah’s in St. Louis. (It was for research for my fourth Debutante Dropout Mystery, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEB. Really.)

As the lights dimmed and the spots swirled…and the guys strutted onto the stage (as cowboys and naval officers and in those little bowties, soon discarded for G-strings or nothing at all)…I wondered, “Hmm, how did Kelly feel, knowing that Mark once earned his paycheck, dollar by dollar, stuffed into his undies by groping, middle-aged women, drunk on rum and Cokes and bad cologne, drenched in sweat coming off the hard bodies of grinning hotties whose lap dances left nothing to the imagination?”

Yeah, Kelly, that’s precisely what I was thinking of for over an hour while the Chippendales flexed and thrust. I worried about you, wondered if Mark had kept any Polaroids from his dancing days, when all he had to do was look pretty and remember the choreography (which goes mostly like this: spin, drop to the ground, pretend to hump the floor, pop up, flex and rip your tear-able T-shirt straight down the middle, drop to the ground, pretend to hump the floor…you get the picture…oh, wait, maybe you have a picture).

I wonder, too, did Mark keep his bowtie and French cuffs for sentimental reasons? Does he ever put them on and say, “Watch me, Kelly, I can still do the old moves,” and then you humor him, thinking it was a good thing he got that gig with you at “All My Children” so he could (mostly) keep his pants on at the office.

All right, so what this is really all about is jealousy. A couple hundred women last night lusted after guys who spend their days in gyms so they don’t lose their jobs (though one dude seriously needed a tanning booth and a few hundred extra crunches). But, sweetie, you lived the dream. You hooked a Chippie and settled down. You get the six-pack abs at home every night. You don’t have to slide a buck in anyone’s pants to put your hands on a tight butt or see a whole lotta shakin’ going on.

I salute you, girlfriend. You make the rest of us proud; give us something to aspire to, beyond successful careers, nuclear disarmament and world peace. And you get to mouth off to Regis Philbin each morning besides. Sigh. You are a real-life example that fairy tales do come true. And I’m not just saying that because I want you to read my books. Really.

Yours truly,
Susan McBride
Author of BLUE BLOOD, THE GOOD GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER, and THE LONE STAR LONELY HEARTS CLUB
http://susanmcbride.com/
http://www.thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/