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 By: Ron Harris If you had ever told me I would one day be stripping in front of a thousand screaming women, ages 18-25, I would have asked you to please stop kidding. But here I was, and this was no fantasy sequence out of one of those teenage sex comedies like "American Pie" or "Road Trip." It was really happening, and I had bodybuilding to thank for it. I had been recruited in advance by two of the lovely female "activity directors" at the Blue Bay Village Resort, Karen (pronounced "Kah-renn) and Jimena. Karen is one of those girls most women love to hate, because she wore a thong bikini every day and had many otherwise loyal husbands drawn to her despite their best efforts not to stare. They told me that guys won a certain "male hot body" contest all the time every Wednesday night at a disco called La Boom with far lesser physiques than mine. Of course it sounded fun, but an added incentive was the $500 cash prize for first. You don't get too many pesos for a dollar anymore, and this trip was running way over budget. "I'll do it!" I declared. My wife just shook her head. Having been married ten years, we can actually read each other's minds at this point. She was thinking, "what a jackass my husband is." Well, Mexico is famous for donkey shows, is it not? Janet decided at the last minute not to accompany me, feeling that 20 bucks an hour for the sitter plus her cab fare was akin to extortion. Besides, leaving your kids alone with a stranger in a foreign country isn't going to get you voted Parent magazine's Mom of the Year. I actually breathed a sigh of relief. No, not because I would be going alone with the two Latina hotties (perish the thought!), but that at least if I made a fool of myself Janet wouldn't be there to soak in the humiliation with me. Then she would have reminded me about it on a regular basis for a year or two, just to rub it in. I signed up at the club and drew competitor badge number thirteen, which didn't seem like it could have been a good sign as to the final outcome. The club was packed to capacity with drinking, smoking young people. As I met my fellow competitors, one thing became clear. I wasn't as young as I used to be. The first kid I met told me he was only eighteen. "Eighteen!" I exclaimed. "I have underwear older than you." Eventually, there were 14 of us crowded into an upstairs office/holding pen for nearly an hour before the actual contest. All of them were weight trainers to some extent, but I was the big Kahuna, ripped at 215. Most of the 18-23 year-olds were around 140-170 pounds, and they looked up to me as the Great and Powerful Oz of muscle. As they puffed away on cigarettes, they inundated me with training and nutrition questions. First I explained that the partying lifestyle they were leading was not conducive to gaining muscle. Most of them went out at least twice a week and totally obliterated their senses with a combination of drink and drugs. I was more than happy to answer their questions, but soon it became abundantly clear that they needed far more help than I would be able to offer in that short time. I directed them to scour the Internet, as there is a wealth of great info out there for anyone who cares to look for it.  This was the third time Janet and I had been to Cancun, Mexico. Finally, I handled all their supplement questions in one fell swoop. "Get yourself some protein powder and bars right away. None of you eat frequently enough or take in enough protein, so that's the first thing you should take care of before you start worrying about all the extras like creatine. Drink two or three protein shakes a day on top of three quality solid meals, and have a shake after you train with either a mix of whey protein, maltodextrin, table sugar, and L-glutamine. And try to lighten up on the smoking and drinking, too. Just those changes will make a big difference right away." My little buddies all nodded in unison at the sage wisdom they had been given. The club manager, an attractive woman about my age who seemed unfazed at all the prime beefcake before her, came up top lead us to the stage wings where we would emerge and shake our moneymakers. I was a bit nervous, but very much looking forward to being objectified as nothing more than a piece of meat. Hell, I eat meat every day. I did my little striptease to the rousing strains of "Rollin'" by Limp Bizkit. While shaking my booty for the drooling panel of ten female judges, I wished I had paid more attention while watching all those Jenny Jones episodes with male strippers. After getting off, the guy that eventually won went on. As soon as he started, the rest of us knew he had this thing all wrapped up. "That's a pro right there," said one kid, echoing our collective sentiments. His slinky hip motions and practiced bumping and grinding were dead giveaways that he did this for a living. That, and the fact that he was the only guy who wore thong underwear and had a ponytail. When the results finally came in, our ears were ringing from all the high-pitched screaming of the oversexed, drunken young women in the club. As expected, the stripper won first prize. Another fellow with a sleek, defined body and a lot of the same moves as the stripper clinched second place, dinner for two at a fancy restaurant. I, the 215-pound bodybuilder most of the guys were worried about, walked away with third place and a La Boom T-shirt to remember the night by. The other guys all high-fived me and thanked me for the advice. I looked at my watch and was horrified to see that it was going on four A.M. My wife can usually sleep through a Metallica concert with no problem, but she somehow has some sixth sense that wakes her up on the rare occasions when I come home late through a type of motion sensor she has built into her brain. Sure enough, though I swear I entered our hotel room without making a peep, Janet's eyes popped open in the dark and I braced myself for the inquiry. "So how'd it go? Did you win?" "Uh, no, but I got this really neat T-shirt for third place." "Great. You only have about two hundred T-shirts at home." She was exaggerating a bit. It was more like 150. "You didn't dance with any girls, did you?" "Of course not! I danced in my little bikini underwear for a thousand girls, that's all." "Oh. Good." I had not prevailed. Still, I felt great about how the night had went. I had met some cool guys and had been able to steer them in the right direction for better results. I had lived every man's fantasy of having a thousand hot young chicks screaming in raw lust over my sweaty, scantily-clad body. And I had bodybuilding to thank for all of it. Now I just have to pass the polygraph exam my wife set up for me to verify that my version of the story is accurate and I'm all set. Ron Harris Recommend this article to a friend by e-mail here!
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