Sugar Shack

During the 1960's Dana Montana was a young Playboy Bunny at the Chicago Playboy Club. Her grandmother had a small house near Lake Geneva on Lake Como where Dana would visit and often enjoy her favorite pastime, horseback riding. One wintry day as Dana rode her horse, Cass, down rural Wisconsin County Road #H, she spotted an old ramshackle building. The broken-down sign tried to say THE CLUB J-MAR. Dana dismounted to take a closer look.

Originally, the club was just a typical polka bar with live bands. Dana had a vision for what the club could become and went ahead to purchase the building. Fate intervened when Dana was unexpectedly let go from the Chicago Playboy Club, forcing her to renovate and open her Sugar Shack as a way to earn a living and pay the family's expenses.

The club's initial success was based on the draw of the rock bands and Go-Go Girls. After the Go-Go Girls went topless improved attendance, Dana began booking burlesque acts, but it was during a winter Sunday night poker game, the winnings of which Dana depended on to keep the lights on at the club, that she got the idea for an iconoclastic and rebellious entertainment revolution that would turn American society on its head and inadvertently fuel the American Feminist Movement in the bargain. 

The idea . . . To reverse the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment and turn men into strippers. She mentioned the idea to several people including a bodyguard for the famous performer Liberace, whom often attended the poker game. Incredibly she talked him into becoming her first male dancer . . . . his name was Larry Slade.

The rest is history, for more than 20 years women from across the country have visited " THE SUGAR SHACK" and loved it! As a result Dana has been featured on The Phil Donahue Show, The Tom Snyder Tomorrow Show, The 20/20 Show, The Geraldo Rivera Show, as well as scores of other radio and television shows. She has been written about in Time Magazine, People Magazine, and every major newspaper in the United States.

Dana Montana and THE SUGAR SHACK are a legitimate rags to riches story. A true American phenomenon!!!

The full story can be found in Dana's book, Dancing Stallions, soon to be released.

Find below Chapters 11 & 12 from the book which tell the actual birth of the guys-stripping-for-gals moment in more detail.

11

TURN THE TABLES

I HAD JUST BEEN THROUGH ONE of the most difficult periods in my life. During all of the struggles overturning the charges connected to the Morganna incident, Darryl was distant and did not offer any support. Over the years I came to expect this sort of thing from my troubled, unstable husband, but at least I saw him occasionally. That was more than I could say for my totally absent father growing up.

Darryl could not cope with any responsibility or difficulty. This pattern became a bad habit during his troubled childhood when family issues at home caused him to escape rather than face his problems and fight back, vanishing into the oblivion induced by an alcohol stupor. When things were going well, however, Darryl would be around to share in the success.

During the prosperous summer months at the Sugar Shack, Darryl worked steadily and helped himself to a portion of the profits. As business slacked off, so did Darryl, drinking more and doing whatever he wanted in Chicago.

I knew I had to rely on my own initiative to work out the solutions to the many problems that threatened my ability to support myself and my family.

Darryl was around when I didn't really need him, and gone when I did. I survived by not expecting anything from him. But then, why would I expect anything more from a husband and father?

Young children learn their parental expectations while growing up. What they observe from their parents are the patterns that all too often repeat when they find themselves in parental roles.

I WAS BEING VICTIMIZED ON TWO levels, neither of which I could do much about. From my childhood I was predisposed to becoming involved with a man who would recreate the childhood script of an absent, distant father. From a broader perspective I was a member of an oppressed minority.

Women have long been expected to bear the responsibility of raising children, whether or not the father is a present and active member of the family. Darryl and I went through periods of court-sanctioned separation. If I ever brought up the possibility of divorce, Darryl threatened to insist that the Sugar Shack be sold and the resulting assets split between us as part of any settlement.

I yielded to Darryl's blackmail because I couldn't risk the possibility of losing the one thing that made it possible for me to maintain my independence—my business, the Sugar Shack. During this period of contention I did not have the funds to buy out Darryl's share of the Sugar Shack so we stayed married, on paper.

My conscience would not allow me to actually carry on an extramarital affair. Regardless, I was not even entertaining fantasies along those lines, which made our separation marginally manageable. Remaining married meant that my children had a father and together we had at least the form of a family. Within the context of my conservative Catholic background, the marital vow was before God and for better or worse until death do us part.

Without being able to count on Darryl, and with revenue down over the winter months, I was always looking for extra income to support the family. It was risky, but to that end I organized a high-stakes poker game on Sundays at the Sugar Shack.

My intuition has always served me well and I used it to pick up the feel of the game. Routinely I seemed to get the cards I needed or at least just knew how to play the cards I was dealt. I coupled a certain amount of luck and instinct with an expert understanding of the principles of the game. The result, I won much more than I lost.

My winnings helped put food on the table and keep a roof over my family. The word spread about the poker game and those who showed up were charged a $10 fee to help cover the cost of snacks and refreshments. Usually the group numbered around eight.

I played with the money remaining after paying for the food and beverages. If I lost that money early, typically $50 or $60, I was out of the game. Most of the time I won, and sometimes as much as $1,000. During the slow winter months my gambling windfall often made the difference, putting the Sugar Shack on the black side of the fickle balance sheet at the end of the month.

On a Sunday evening one of my regulars, Brandy Scott, arrived to play poker on the arm of an exceptionally tall and handsome young man, introduced as a friend.

Brandy was unquestionably attractive and had auditioned to dance at the Sugar Shack. She was also working as a bartender at another club in Lake Geneva. During her audition I found myself questioning something about what the overall impression she was giving off.

The person on stage who seemed to be a beautiful young lady, with long legs, perfect breasts, and a tantalizing figure, also had hands that were just too large. I finally saw through more than Brandy's filmy negligee, realizing I was looking at what originally was a man's body, artfully transformed through silicone implants, hormone injections, and surgical nips and tucks.

The most telling sign that she was a he had been pulled down, back, and taped completely out of view. For some reason I drew the line at allowing a female impersonator to flaunt her phony physique in front of my patrons. Although she was definitely a talented dancer and had a terrific stage personality, I was honest and explained to Brandy why she couldn't dance at the Shack.

She understood, and despite that became one of my close friends. Brandy would stop by the club to chat and I would visit her at the bar where she worked. No one else even suspected that this gorgeous woman actually possessed a full set of male genitalia. Brandy was simply a miracle, or others would say a departure from nature, a woman trapped inside a man's body.

On this Sunday night Brandy’s guest was personable and offered each one at the table a firm friendly handshake. She introduced him as Larry Slade.

With the poker game underway Brandy kept insisting that Larry tell us what he did for a living. Being naturally reserved and a little shy, he was reluctant to do so. Naturally, we all became curious until I finally spoke up.

"You've got to tell us now, Larry, if only to shut Brandy up!"

"Well, I work for Liberace in Las Vegas.”

"Right . . . and I'm a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers," I shot back sarcastically.

"Honestly, I'm his bodyguard and chauffeur. Liberace always carries most of his jewelry and money around with him in a case, you know, like a briefcase. Well, I'm responsible for the case and he is never without it. Also, I drive the Rolls Royce limousine he takes to the show each night," Larry told us, without giving any impression that he was bragging.

By this time I realized he was telling the truth and wished he had gone into more detail about his fascinating employer who happened to be a nearby Wisconsin native.

But much more than Larry’s celebrity connection, I was drawn to his humble sincerity and interesting manner. Larry was more interested in playing serious poker than churning the gossip mill.

The game continued and Larry kept losing, and losing, and losing. He had no understanding of the game and after a few drinks his attempt to manage his play became even worse. He literally could have just dropped by and placed a $500 contribution right in the middle of the table and left.

Despite losing he became a regular and stopped in for the Sunday game every time he was in town. I eventually learned he was so casual about losses because he played with money borrowed from Brandy.

His inept card playing aside, I continued to be drawn to the ruggedly handsome, yet polite and pleasant man. He added more than money to the weekly poker games.

He shared stories about Las Vegas and we talked about the entertainment business in general. During that period he visited the Sugar Shack several times, always complimenting me on the quality of our dancers and how well the show was presented.

LARRY UNDERSTOOD THAT I selected, costumed, trained, and choreographed the regular house dancers rather than go through agents to find experienced strippers with seasoned acts. What surprised him most was that the class of the Sugar Shack stage shows rivaled those he’d seen in Las Vegas.

I appreciated the compliments, but already knew I understood the business of tastefully presenting exotic performers. Several of my personally-trained local dancers went on to tour and headline and I was proud of that accomplishment.

Then, later Larry found himself attracted to one of the Sugar Shack dancers—stage name, Shenanigans.

Larry kept saying how smooth, provocative, and professional the svelte former waitress was. He felt she had the potential to headline around the country because of my expert coaching, guidance, and packaging. Sensing we had a useful rapport building, one Sunday night during the poker game I felt comfortable bringing up a radical idea that had been brewing in my rebellious brain for some time.

"What would you think if I were able to turn the stripper world on its head?" I asked carefully, but confidently.

"What do you mean exactly?" Larry responded.

"You know, I could teach men to strip for women just like I now teach women to strip for men.”

"What do you mean, men?" Larry responded, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

"Men Larry, MEN! I could coach them just as effectively as I do the girls and I think women are ready for it. I've never heard of this being done anywhere in the world before!"

I BOLDLY BEGAN TO BELIEVE in what I was saying. Everyone sitting around the poker table laughed at the prospect of men taking off their clothes to entertain women. They dismissed my idea as frivolous. They imagined the reaction of the men in the audience when the first male stripper took the stage and started his act.

They couldn't have done or said any more to discourage me from pursuing my bold rebellious concept of turning men into sex objects for the hedonistic, indiscriminate, and impersonal pleasure of women. The very thought of male stripping embarrassed them. Finally I heard, "Shut up about it and deal!"

The card game resumed. I won some, lost some, all while processing the nasty reactions I’d just been slapped in my innovative face with. Undeterred, my usually reliable sixth sense told me there was blockbuster potential in what I was proposing.

My obsession with male stripping gradually subsided as I got my mind back on the game. Other, more fundamental core issues next began to stir my emotions as much as the radial concept of male exotic dancing.

I found myself being drawn to Larry. He made me miss the warmth and tenderness of having a man in my life. It had been months since Darryl and I made love, if you could even use that term. As in other areas of his life Darryl was a selfish lover. He never spent the time needed to take care of my needs. How did we ever have enough sex for me to give birth to three children?

I’d been raised in the Italian-Catholic tradition. Their message to young Catholic girls—sex was a sin, sex was a duty, and sex was only for making babies, not pleasure. And, if you didn't believe and practice that Catholic decree, you were going to hell. Not exactly a healthy orientation to anyone’s sexuality.

My husband wielded sex like a sword and a shield, to both defend and excuse his own infidelities. It was convenient for him to blame his philandering on the fact that my sex drive wasn't as intense as his. For other women, this might have been a significant issue, but not in my case.

What I knew of sexual expression and its connection to relationships involved cruel and hurtful images. Consequently, finding ways to express my sexuality was never important to me. Although I didn't necessarily miss making love to Darryl, his countless affairs were still hard to take. One instance was particularly painful.

A young, attractive local girl came to the Sugar Shack looking for employment. During her interview I learned of the 18-year-old's personal problems connected to a home broken because of the relentless hammering of alcohol abuse. I empathized and hired her.

After demonstrating she was a good and trustworthy employee, I invited her to come and live with me and my family. June appeared to appreciate what I was doing for her. She willingly gave back by helping take care of the children and keeping up with the household chores. She was even pleasant to Darryl when he was around. I never suspected anything out of the ordinary was going on until events surrounding Darryl's birthday.

A surprise party was planned for the end of the evening shift at the Sugar Shack. I scraped together enough money for a small cake, some champagne, and a new watch. Darryl and June were both scheduled to work that night—neither showed up.

I was more than concerned and became suspicious. Calls to locate him revealed clues that wove a tapestry of connection that evening. One bartender when questioned innocently gave them away when he answered, "Yeah, I guess I did see him. Darryl and Juney were here celebrating their birthdays!" Finding this out, I became incensed with rage.

I closed the Sugar Shack early that night, determined to find them. Calls to all the other bars in town turned up nothing. I got into my car and cruised past all the restaurants looking for their vehicles. Then it was on to the motels.

I found Darryl's car parked behind the Shady Lane Motel. June's was in front. The owner was a family friend so though it was now late, I didn't hesitate waking him up.

"Oh . . . hi Dana. What brings you by this time of night?" he asked, feeling just a little put out.

"Hey I'm really sorry, but my husband's drunk and he called me a little while ago to come here and get him. It's his birthday and I guess he celebrated a little too much. He forgot to tell me the room though," I said calmly, acting as if nothing was really wrong.

He reached up to the extra-key board and after rubbing his eyes handed it to me saying, "Just throw it on the dresser after you get him. He's in #22. I'm going back to bed."

I was now shaking uncontrollably and a trembling tirade was about to erupt.

I walked deliberately, but briskly, toward his room and quietly slipped the key into the lock. Without making a sound I eased the door open, but a security chain kept me from going in. I reached past the chain and switched on a light. The telling rays revealed a nightmarish scene—my husband with my trusted house guest, naked and in bed together. Unable to contain my rage, I lashed out.

"I'll see you both in court. I trusted you, June. When I catch you outside this room I'm going to kill you! I treated you like a daughter. You lived in my house. You whore! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

June quickly covered herself. Darryl, obviously in a drunken stupor, just calmly looked at me as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I slammed the door in his face and stumbled back toward my car.

Driving home was difficult with every muscle in my body trembling and my vision blurred with tears. Arriving home, I called June's mother.

"Your daughter is nothing but a self-serving whore. She's in bed with my husband right now. She's a tramp and a fucking whore!"

I slammed the receiver down and swore I would never again care about Darryl or concern myself about anything he did.

YES, DARRYL PLAYED AROUND. Most men did and within the brotherhood that kind of behavior won tacit approval, if not praise.

Everyone in our small town knew that Darryl and I were having marital problems. Word of this incident spread through the gossip mill quickly, especially since it involved a local celebrity—me. I was probably the only one in town who was actually surprised by what happened.

There were so many incidents like this where bitterness broke out because of something Darryl said or did.

During a Sunday night poker game Darryl staggered in dead drunk. No one paid too much attention to him until he began falling over me as I tried to play my hand. He kept insisting I play a different card.

"C'mon Darryl, I'm winning. Don't mess with my luck.”

It was so humiliating being treated that way. I tried to ignore him, but he made that impossible. Finally, one of the guys at the table told him to settle down so the game could continue.

Of course, since the request came from one of his male friends he just laughed and left to get himself another beer. A little later he lost interest in harassing me and disappeared back into the night, well on his way to blurring the reality from another day in a drunken stupor.

WHY MUST WOMEN SUFFER SO at the hands of men? Why must men prove their manhood at the expense of a woman's pride? I forced myself to think of Darryl as unimportant. He was like a dormant disease—only noticed when it flared up causing pain or discomfort, and like a disease the flare-up would eventually pass and life would go on.

A terrible way to live, but that was about to change. I would soon shift from having no feelings for Darryl, to desperately wanting to detach myself from the ball-and-chain that was our dysfunctional marriage.

BUSINESS CONTINUED TO BE SEASONAL during the ‘70s. Many times I considered giving up and moving on to some kind of better business. When the Playboy Club and Resort opened, I was at least able to keep the Sugar Shack operating on the weekends during the snowy months.

When money was available, I felt obligated to spend it on my children and attempt to live a normal life. They paid the heaviest price during the lean winter months. I kept searching for the entertainment formula that would provide a steady year-round income for my family and the Sugar Shack.

The exotic specialty acts were only a step in that direction. The idea of a male exotic review continued to resurface as a viable possibility with a potentially lucrative upside.

I experimented with the idea by bringing it up to two of my cocktail waitresses. They were ecstatic! My male bartender thought I’d completely lost it while a couple of other onlookers just nodded it might work.

A few weeks later, during one of our Sunday night poker games, I came right out and spoke to Larry Slade.           

"I'm going to do it!"

"What now?" Larry asked, turning in my direction, reacting to my bold declaration without being exactly sure what I was talking about.

"I'm going to try the idea of presenting male strippers at the club, what did you think I meant?"

"Hey, well, good luck but remember what I told you the last time we talked about this. You've got to have real men up there—no sissies!"

I knew he was right, but where would I find a man's man willing to dance on a stage and end up naked just to give gratuitous thrills to a group of women. All the studs I told about the idea just laughed in my face.

I had no guide to go by. Male exotic dancing was not taking place anywhere in the world at the time. Signing up my first male stripper would be tough sell.

I turned back to Larry.

"You're absolutely right. I need good-looking, tough, real, macho types—guys that have the courage to try something different and the willingness to listen and learn about what needs to be done to make this work. On the up side, it should be an amazing experience for them and the money could be outstanding!"

"Dana, spare me. You sound like an Army recruiter."

"I'm deadly serious. I know exactly the kind of man I need. Larry, you are that man!" I declared, looking directly into his deep, dark, daunting Clint-Eastwood eyes.

"Me . . . dance?" he shot back in shock.

"Look Larry, you’re perfect. You only work about six months out of the year and they are mostly in the winter when you wouldn't need to be here. You're handsome, charming, well built, and you've even been on stage before. One other thing, I think you've got the guts to try it and the talent, balls, and swagger to pull it off."

I sank the hook as deep as I could into his psyche and started reeling this 6’ game-changing prize in.

One of the guys playing poker was fed up at that point.

"Either shut up about this idiotic idea or get out of the game!"

LARRY AND I TOSSED IN our cards and went to another room to continue talking. Clearly involved in the discussion, I called upon all of my persuasive skills knowing how important it was to present the right kind of man for my first male exotic revue.

If I could land Larry, others like him would follow and my dream to turn the tables on the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment might become a viable moneymaking reality. Larry reopened the dialogue which was a good sign.

"What would I do? I mean what would I wear? How would I act on stage? When would you actually want to start?"

Larry’s rapid-fire questions were like being peppered with rounds from an AK-47 assault rifle.

"Hold on! I can't just start with one dancer. I need two or three at least," I shot back.

"Yeah, well, where the hell are we gonna find 'em?" Larry added cynically.

I had no idea, but I liked the way Larry phrased the question. Where are we going to find them? I had my first male stripper sitting right in front of me!

I began to imagine the kind of show I wanted to stage. The men had to be performers and present themselves with class and sophistication. Drawing from my own attitudes about sexual fulfillment, I knew that it would take more than bare flesh to stimulate a woman's fantasies.

I had long learned to trust my instincts when it came to designing, training, and choreographing exotic performers for the club and justifiably so. I just knew I could also select and guide the men in ways that would reach into a woman's sexual psyche and cause her to respond to the sensual scenario unfolding on stage.

Not that it would be easy. These men would have to stir up a romantic whirlwind around up to 300 women with both the pulse of their personalities and their potent physical presence. Furthermore, the men had to be understanding. Women have been sexually repressed for years and getting them to let go might take some patient coaxing.

I needed self-confident guys who could break through a woman's natural defenses and set off their sexual fantasy fireworks. I was traveling through uncharted territory and like a Christopher Columbus or Marco Polo feeling both apprehension and exhilaration. One of my greatest concerns involved the moral character of my male performers.

Over the years I’d seen so many of my female dancers destroy their lives with drugs and alcohol. I didn't want that for my male entertainers. I wanted them to be stable, responsible young men with strong self-images, upstanding values, and life goals beyond the Sugar Shack stage.

Larry shared my concern and actively helped me locate another prospect.

He spoke to Elliot Lanzanna, a friend and airplane pilot, about the prospect of becoming part of a new business venture at the club. Six feet of gorgeous, muscular, Mediterranean man-hunk, Elliot wanted to hear more and Larry suggested he stop by the Sugar Shack to speak with me.

As Elliot approached I could see that he was both dressed and groomed meticulously, sporting a trendy pants suit and fashionable ‘70s shag cut with black hair over his forehead and ears. His gracious greeting included kissing my hand in a respectful gesture embracing old world charm.

"Oh Miss Montana, I'm so pleased to meet you. You're much younger than I expected . . . and so lovely, and to have a club like this of your own. Larry wasn't real specific about the reason for my coming here to meet you he just said it was some sort of business opportunity."

"Yeah, you might say that, Elliot.”

All of my first impressions were go for moving forward with him.

“What do you do for a living?" I probed, wanting to get a better sense of just who this handsome man was on the inside.

"I'm a pilot. I fly private charters and private commercial flights. It's okay, but I'm not going to fly airplanes forever."

I knew choosing my next few words would be critical because they would shock him, but he was definitely qualified as the kind of man‘s man I was looking for.

"I've decided to do something pretty radical here at the Sugar Shack. For the first time anywhere in the world I'm going to present male exotic entertainers on my stage. I want to talk to you about becoming one of them."

While he was taking in the bombshell I’d just dropped, and before he could respond with any sort of dismissive reaction, I went on.

"I've been watching you for the past ten minutes and you are just the type of man I've been looking for. You're good looking, charming, comfortable in your own skin, you're mysterious—and all in one package! Just one more thing though, can you dance?"

He smiled, which I knew was a good sign, and nodded he could, along with providing tacit approval of the rest of my proposal. The full impact of what he just heard had not hit him yet.

"I grew up thinking I'd be a fireman, or maybe a cowboy—certainly not a male stripper."

"Elliot, the world we live in keeps changing. When you were a boy there was no such thing as an astronaut so you couldn't have wanted to become one. Now we have them and it's a goal anyone can strive for."

We both laughed. I was determined to have all the answers for any problematic questions he might throw at me.

I went on to reassure Elliot that I would work with him every day for as long as it took to get him ready. I reminded him that his act would be thoroughly choreographed; complete with sets, music, and costumes.

My instincts told me Elliot would be more than just adequate. He had an entrancing personality mixed with magnetic charm. Sitting in the chair across from me, I sensed the flair of a young Errol Flynn and the raw sex appeal of a Rudolph Valentino. In my mind all he had to do was show himself on stage and he would be a sensation.

Elliot agreed to make the commitment.

Two down—one to go.

The next day, Larry brought another prospect to the club. Frank Lilly was the best dancer of the three, but just didn't have the look I thought would be appealing. The more we worked together, however, the more I began to discover his inner John-Travolta potential.

Besides, it wasn't as if I had a long list of prospects to choose from. Here was a man, now committed to the project, who was a great dancer. I told myself just to drop my reservations for the time being. Preparations could now be made for opening night!

I TRULY ADMIRED THESE MEN. There was no way I could give them any kind of guarantee that this was going to work. They might be laughed off the stage, or worse. They were demonstrating so much courage. I understood what that meant and appreciated what they were doing.

Together they were explorers, probing through a possibly dangerous Wild-Wild-West entertainment wilderness. The guys were eager and willing, but the rehearsals were hell.

Men have fragile egos anyway and the possibility of the worst kind of humiliation made them temperamental and hard to work with. Men hate rejection, even if it’s only coming from a single female. How much worse would the feeling be if the ego castration came from 100 women all at once and in public.

EARLY IN MARCH OF 1976, four of us stood backstage in the Sugar Shack’s small dressing room listening to the incessant taunts and chants from the assembled crowd.

"Bring ‘em on!”

“Where are the guys?”

“C'mon let's see these hunks!"

The day had arrived!

Elliot was the first to worry out loud, wondering if he would be jeered by the ladies.

"Oh God, Dana, my legs are so skinny, they're going to boo me right off the stage!"

"You'll do fine," I said to reassure Elliot, while knowing full well that words alone weren’t going to dispel his fears.

Larry and Guy Garrett, who at this point had replaced Frank Lilly, seemed understandably nervous but ready.

It was a Monday. I’d been feeling the pressure all day. The negative attitudes of the people around me were draining. I’d been told by so many that I must be crazy—that this just couldn't work—that I would bankrupt the club.

The last remark had me worried since male stripping was one of my last ideas to put the Sugar Shack on a year-round firm financial footing. If this didn’t work, what would I do next?

That first night there were just under 100 people in the club—not a bad crowd. About half of them were true friends who came to support me no matter what. The others, anything could happen.

Everyone applauded as I walked out on the stage to announce the act.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. This is a very special night as the Sugar Shack goes into yet another radical dimension of entertainment. It's new and it's different! It's risky, but damn it's about time. Now let's have a really big welcome for my first gorgeous male dancer—the first anywhere! Ladies and gentlemen . . . !"

ON MARCH 15, 1976, ELLIOT LANZANNA strutted on to the Sugar Shack stage and became the first male exotic entertainer the world had ever seen.

12

NAUGHTY NIGHT LIFE

FOR THREE YEARS I EXPERIMENTED with various formats trying to find the best combination and schedule for my male and female dancers to share the Sugar Shack stage. There were still the male conventioneers from the Playboy resort who wanted to see female exotics.

During the week we usually presented only the female dancers. On the weekends I mixed the schedule, sometimes the male dancers opened the show, on other nights the women. The men always gave me grief at the door on nights when our male review was being featured.

“You mean I’ve got to sit through a bunch of faggots in order to see some tits?” was a typical disgruntled remark.

I was usually able to joke about it and settle them down. If they heckled the male dancers too much I would have to take the stage and bargain with them, deftly but diplomatically singling out the offenders.

“Obviously, a few of the guys in our audience are not totally pleased with the show so far. I’m going to make a special accommodation for them this evening. You ladies can pick out one of the unhappy men here tonight who you’d like to see come up to the stage and take his clothes off . . . and if he does I’ll buy his table drinks for the rest of the evening.”

That strategy had an amazing effect. It took all the pressure off my dancers and put it right where it belonged—on the loudmouthed hecklers.

Surprisingly, I’ve seen guys almost come to blows because one of their friends refused to get on stage when picked by the ladies. Every now and then some guy did have the guts to get up there and fake his way through a few minutes of stripping and I never minded paying the resulting bar bill.

The policy controlled a potentially serious problem and everyone seemed to have a good time with it. In addition, my guys made a point to talk to the hecklers who soon learned there were no sissies among my Sugar Shack dancers—studs who put it all on the line night after night for what I was trying to accomplish at the club.

As our reputation spread by word of mouth, the curious would call for more information.

“I heard about your place from a woman in Milwaukee who was there recently,” a muted shy voice would say.

“Oh really, great, who was it?” I’d ask, sincerely wanting to know who was supporting the club with a recommendation.

“I can’t say . . . ,” was often the uncomfortable answer before continuing her call.

“Well, tell me about it. I mean, what kind of a place is it? What kind of dancing do they do?”

I always tried to make my description as enticing as possible, but it could never be like actually watching Elliot, Guy, or Larry strut their sassy studly stuff on stage.

It was all somehow naughty and forbidden—like sneaking into a speakeasy during prohibition. People were routinely whispering and concealing their identities when speaking to me about the club.

Women were having a difficult time admitting to themselves that they actually wanted to experience the sensual thrill and fantasy allure of male exotic dancing. I wanted to shake them and say, “Hey, don’t you realize your husbands have been doing this sort of thing forever? Now, it’s our turn!”

They just couldn’t admit to being sexually curious—a trait only sanctioned for men in our culture. Despite their inhibitions, the calls kept coming and the crowds kept growing for each show.

IT WS BECOMING OBVIOUS that deep down women wanted to stimulate their sexual fantasies just like men. The Sugar Shack was providing a wholesome public forum to do just that.

There was strength in numbers and women felt more secure as part of a group while catching on to this new public outlet for their sensual passions. Women were beginning to feel more equal to men in a society finally learning from feminist values while also reaping the rewards of the recent civil rights legislation.

The concept of male strippers had proven itself, but I couldn’t say it had really caught on yet. I felt that given proper media exposure we could make it in a big way—in the only way that really mattered—in the Sugar Shack cash register.

I WROTE A LETTER TO RICK KOGAN of the Chicago Sun-Times explaining the innovative thing we were doing. He was the Nightlife columnist for the paper. A few days later I gave him a follow-up call.

“I got your letter. You’re really serious about this being good wholesome fun?”

“It is Rick, and I wish you’d come up sometime and form your own opinion.”

“Whoa . . . hold on there. I might be able to use a little piece about the club, but I can’t be driving all the way to Lake Geneva to do a story on male strippers!”

I knew over the phone I would never be able to convince him what we were doing was something more than mere salty entertainment. You had to see a show to understand. You had to be there when the ladies erupted in collective revelry over being a part of the male exotic review.

The interplay between the ladies and the dancers gave away their wholesome, innocent joy with what was happening. It was the look in their eyes—not lust, more pure fun, adventure, and enchantment. Their laughter and comments always gave me the same impression.

I kept reaching out to the media, mainly small local Wisconsin newspapers. Whenever they published an article, business seemed to surge in response to the publicity, but even professionally written accounts couldn’t capture the Magic-Mike mystique of what was happening.

There was a remarkable electricity in the club you just had to experience to fully appreciate—like sky diving, you can read about it or you can jump out of a Cessna cruising at 150 mph at 10,000 feet.

Despite trying time after time I could never get a reporter to actually come out to the club and see what was going on. I understood; most of them were guys and watching male strippers isn’t something most men would want to do.

Business was better than ever, but there was still room to grow. I knew I had to get the word out to a much wider prospective audience. In the meantime, something I did to ramp up the sensual intensity of the show was to have the dancers go totally nude right at the end of a performance.

The guys were against the idea at first, but I persuaded them to try it. Most men are so insecure about the size of their genitals, especially when not erect.

I didn’t intend to shock the women in the audience with this change, but strangely many of them were astonished by what they saw. Speaking with them I learned that many women go through life having only seen their husband’s sex organ. The Sugar Shack now took their erotic romance-novel fantasies one step closer to fulfillment.

The Sugar Shack stage was an entertaining sexual playground free from any danger, contact, or emotional entanglements. It was delightful, playful, if not just a bit naughty fantasy fulfillment.

Still looking for a media breakthrough, I’d originally asked to speak with a female editor at the Chicago Sun-Times. I expected that a woman would be more understanding, curious, and comfortable enough to visit the club for a firsthand look. I was passed on to Rick Kogan because he handled club reviews and feature stories. When I made a follow-up call, he remembered my letter inviting him to the club.

He seemed friendly enough and I got the feeling he was taking notes, but wouldn’t make a commitment to visit us. The next time I called him during an actual show and held the phone out to the audience so he could hear the ladies screaming and clapping in response to one of the gyrating guys on stage.

“Certainly sounds like everyone’s having a good time!” Rick responded.

“So, when are you going to come out to see this for yourself?” I pressed.

“Look, maybe I’ll be in the area some night and if I can, I’ll drop in,” were his disappointing concluding comments.

More months went by without hearing from him.

IN LATE MAY OF 1979 two women accompanied by a single man walked into the club. The man was dressed in a golf shirt and blue jeans. He was about 26 years old and looked like someone I might hire as a waiter or bartender.

“I don’t know if you remember me, it’s been awhile. I’m Rick Kogan from the Chicago Sun-Times.”

“Well, it took you long enough to get here,” I said jokingly, after recovering from being stunned that he’d finally showed up.

Fortunately, Rick had a sense of humor. I led his party to the best booth I had, then, hurried backstage to spread the news.

“Rick Kogan’s in the audience!”

“Who’s he?” one of the dancers chipped in.

“To you and me pal he’s the Chicago Sun-Times, that’s who! He’s sitting at booth number seven, so play up to the ladies he’s with, and make your show something really special tonight. This is so important guys!”

I watched Rick during the show. He was taking notes on a napkin. A couple of times he came up to me and asked a few questions.

“So, what do your lady friends think of the dancers?” I asked, hoping to get him to say something good about the experience his gal pals were having.

“They’re a little scared. They keep telling me to make sure the dancers don’t get too close to them.”

“Maybe they’d have more fun if you weren’t here, Rick,” I suggested.

“You might be right, Dana.”

Luck was with me. I couldn’t have handpicked the audience to be any more enthusiastic about the show and our crowd numbers were good that night. Rick got up and mingled with a number of different women to get their reaction to what was happening.

He spoke to a group of law students. One of the girls, a young, pretty, innocent-looking thing, was graduating. At another table a grandmother, mother, and daughter were celebrating a birthday. Gathering story ideas, Rick was fascinated to learn that Larry also worked as Liberace’s bodyguard and chauffeur. After the show, he spent time speaking with each of the dancers. Before leaving, he stopped to say goodbye.

“Well, Dana, that was really something!”

“So, what do you think—worthy of story in the Sun-Times?” I countered.

“I can’t say just yet . . . but I’ll let you know.”

I thought the whole experience made a good impression on Rick and his friends, but weeks went by without hearing from him.

Now, with only male dancers scheduled, our summer business was not as brisk as it should have been. I took a big risk dropping our female review and I was starting to panic.

Did I make a major mistake? Would my decision to present male exotics bankrupt the Sugar Shack as so many critics predicted?

I knew we needed the publicity that a major newspaper article could provide, so at the risk of offending him I decided to send Rick a follow-up letter.

Rick,

I don’t know how you felt about the show you saw the night you stopped in, but if you intend to publish anything about the Sugar Shack, you’d better do it because the electricity is going to be turned off soon!

           

Two days later I got a call.

“Go buy today’s paper,” he said glibly.

“What? Where is it in the paper? Is it a good story? What did you say about us?” I begged, too excited to wait until I got my hands on the actual article.

“Hey Dana, what are you trying to do save the price of the paper? Go get a copy,” and he hung up.

I raced out of the club, into my car, and down the road to a nearby convenience store. I fumbled for change, tore open the paper, and there it was spread across an entire page!

The article featured a black-and-white illustrated silhouette of a male dancer and several women reaching up to him. The headline read, “Naughty Night Life!”

The article represented the most publicity the Sugar Shack had ever received.

The Chicago Sun-Times was one of the most famous and widely read newspapers in the world. Rick’s article was more than I ever expected.

Here’s a sample of his actual words.           

Being naughty is what the Sugar Shack is all about; the only place this side of God knows where to feature nude male dancing. That’s right!

At the Sugar Shack, men dance without their clothes—without any clothes. The place is dimly lit, but noisy and active. There is none of the furtive whispering, sitting in the shadows, or lurking oddballs that one associates with some places where women take their clothes off. Rather, there is a boisterous, almost party-like atmosphere. The Sugar Shack is owned and operated by Dana Montana, a former Playboy Bunny, who is still quite pretty around the edges.

           

REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU RODE on a roller coaster—that feeling you were on a breathtaking adventure and there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it once it got going. Well, my whirlwind ride as a result of the publicity generated by the Sun-Times article began that Thursday morning, July 12, 1979.

The telephone started ringing off the hook. Reservations kept coming and coming. Among the calls I took later that day was one from Rick Kogan. I hadn’t called to thank him yet, but he wasn’t concerned about that.

“Dana, I thought you’d like to know that the article received so much attention it’s being sent across the country on our syndicated system, which means it will appear in over one hundred other major newspapers!”

“That’s incredible, Rick. How can I ever thank you for everything you’ve done?”

“Just doing my job, Dana. Enjoy your success.”

A week later calls were still pouring in. Piled-up reservations kept the Sugar Shack packed night after night. The next publicity bombshell struck the following week.

Time ran a story featuring the Sugar Shack. Hundreds of supportive women from all over our part of the country called. WMAQ Radio in Chicago invited me to bring the dancers for a live call-in show scheduled to last two hours. Then, another call came in from New York.

“This is NBC in New York. I’m the producer of the Tomorrow Show, hosted by Tom Snyder. He was wondering if you’d be interested in flying to New York and being a guest on his television show. The date is August 16th. Would that be possible?”

“Absolutely!” I answered, knowing I had to continue riding the media roller coaster until it came to a stop on its own.

“We’ll fly you out here and have a limo waiting at the airport to pick you up. Bring a couple of your dancers, too.”

“Sure . . . no problem!”

They offered to put us up for the night in New York, but I explained we had shows booked and it would be better for us to go right home afterwards.

The taping was scheduled for 5 p.m. making it possible for us to plan on being home in time for our Sugar Shack commitments. We’d actually be back on stage in Lake Geneva before the Tomorrow Show aired later that night.

The limo dropped us off at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. The show’s producer escorted us down the long light-green halls of the building housing NBC Television.

“Everybody on our staff is really looking forward to having you with us today!” she said excitedly.

Larry Slade and another dancer, Guy Garrett, were catching stares from every direction. They did their best to stay cool. I was petrified. How would I look on TV? What if I muffed his questions? What questions would he ask? What are we all supposed to say? Would he want the guys to dance?

“I imagine you’ve been on television before,” the thoughtful young assistant asked.

“Not exactly,” I answered bluntly.

We waited in what they called the greenroom, a theatrical term for a comfortable space to be uncomfortably anxious. There was a simple couch and three chairs in the small room, everything green in color. We sipped coffee and watched a television monitor directed at the empty stage and set being prepared for the show.

“Not as fancy as I pictured,” Larry said.

“Hey big shot, five hours ago you were laying in bed back in farm country and now you’re complaining about fancy!” I shot back.

Suddenly the set was filled with a flurry of activity; technicians, script girls, producers, a whole menagerie of people hustling about in every direction. Before long, Tom Snyder appeared.

“He looks bigger in real life,” Guy Garrett said, eyes glued to the monitor.

“Guy, he’s on TV. You haven’t seen him yet in real life!” I taunted.

We were all feeling the tension.

The show started with the usual fanfare. We all loved hearing our names being mentioned on national television.

“Our first guest, Linda Goodman, an astrologer, is here to share her insights with us; and in the second half of the show we have a woman named Dana Montana and two of her dancers. Now, these are not ordinary disco variety dancers. They are guys who dance naked at a nightclub owned by Montana in a little Wisconsin town called Lake Geneva. What a way to make a living!”

The crowd applauded. We all just stared at the television monitor, hardly able to believe what was happening. We were a long way from the obscurity of our life back in Lake Geneva.

Going to the restroom to freshen up and make sure every hair was in place, I ran into two women who worked for NBC Network News.

“You’re Dana Montana, aren’t you?” one of them asked.

“Yep, sure am.”

“You’ve been the talk of the office since your story broke in Time. We’re really glad you’re here. It’s a pleasure to meet someone that could do what you did, Miss Montana.”

I was flattered, but without having fully grasped the greater implications of what I was doing, wasn’t quite sure why they were treating me like a woman who’d earned a place in the history of feminist accomplishment.

“Hey, thanks, but it’s no big deal.”

“Yes it is. What you’ve done is fabulous. You’ve made everybody sit up and take notice. You’ve liberated women all over the country,” the other said.

Before I could thank them they were out the door. It meant something hearing their comments. I wanted to find out who they were so I could invite them to come to Lake Geneva and see a show. Looking in the mirror, I certainly didn’t see anyone like a Gloria Steinem or a Betty Friedan.

I DIDN’T SET OUT TO MAKE A MAJOR contribution to the women’s liberation movement in America, but the Sugar Shack touched a sensitive social nerve in our culture. Women have been second-class sexual citizens for so long. I was giving them a chance to come out of the closet and express their right to sexual and gender equity without doing anything vulgar, risky, or dangerous.

On my way back to the greenroom, I heard a commotion.

Tom Snyder and his first guest were arguing right on stage. Twenty-five minutes into the show we were taken to another room for makeup. From there we were guided to the stage and seated. Tom was sitting quietly in his chair as someone carefully combed his hair. He never looked up to acknowledge our presence.

“We’re taping, Mr. Snyder,” came the unseen electronically-amplified director’s voice.

“So . . . naked men dancing . . . are they dancing for you Dana?” were his cutting and sarcastic opening remarks.

Apparently his first guest got him into a foul mood. It was not uncommon for Tom to spew out caustic comments, but I was still shocked. He was unmerciful throughout the interview, but I tried my best to parry his verbal thrusts.

“We have a nice clean little club. Not at all like those sleazy strip joints in Cicero.”

“Now wait a minute Dana. Are you suggesting that all strip clubs in Cicero are sleazy? Is that what you’re here for, to make that stupid meaningless point?”

No matter what we said it was twisted and shot back with ill intent. We only taped for 17 minutes, but it felt like three hours.

“So Dana, are there any clubs in Manhattan good enough for you and your dancers to visit tonight?” came more of his slashing verbal provocation.

“We’ll be returning for a show in Wisconsin this evening.”

“Leave now, then. We wouldn’t want to be any part of holding you up seeing as you and your dancers can’t be spared from the Midwest and the Sugar Shack for even one night.”

The limo rushed us back to LaGuardia where we barely made our flight to O’Hare. Confused and more than a little upset because of how Tom treated us during the show, we somehow managed to laugh it off. All publicity is good publicity, right?

It was hard not to notice just how almost maniacal Tom Snyder looked when you saw him in person, and certainly when he was in one of his moods.

A small private plane shuttled us to Lake Geneva. Feeling like celebrities, we arrived five minutes before show time and a packed house. Late that night we all gathered around a small television in my office to watch the Tomorrow Show.

The first segment went by in a flash. We were all nervous with anticipation when the phone rang.

“Hello, this is Wolfman Jack. I’d like to speak to Miss Dana Montana,” came the words spoken in his identifiably iconic graveled voice.

“Look, I don’t have time to talk right now. Have your secretary call me tomorrow.”

“Who was that?” someone in my office asked.

“Some goof imitating Wolfman Jack from New York,” I said.

“Are you sure it was a joke? It could have been him. I’m sure they knew you were on the Tomorrow Show.”

“Well, I . . . suppose it could have been!”

The phone rang again. This time a gentle woman’s voice spoke to me.

“Good evening, this is Rhonda Maxwell calling for Dana Montana. I’m Wolfman Jack’s secretary. We’re on the air in New York.”

I stared at the telephone and didn’t say a word, for at that same instant I looked up and saw my face for the first time on national television. It was all so surreal.

Since the Sun-Times article on July 12, the Time Magazine spread on August 6, and now the Tom Snyder Tomorrow Show, the Sugar Shack and Dana Montana were hot copy.

People were mailing me clippings from every little paper throughout America. The major papers put out feature articles. Every journalist within 150 miles called to set up a time to see a show and write a story. I was featured in close to 1,000 interviews, many conducted by phone.

Without intending to I had become a symbol, an icon, a Joan of Arc fighting for the cause of liberating American women.

People believed I plotted and planned for years to turn the tables on Playboy and the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment. Yep, I had been plotting for years; desperately plotting to figure out how to pay my bills. The media believed differently.

It made them feel better and it worked for me. That’s not to say I wasn’t sensitive to the plight of the average woman in this country. It would seem that in working so hard to protect my rights and improve my life, I was able to do something for women everywhere. That’s okay, too. The media accelerator was open full throttle as the offers for appearances kept coming in.

We were featured on Hugh Downs, 20/20, then, back for a second appearance on Phil Donahue, one of the most popular shows at the time. I was actually beginning to feel comfortable in front of the camera.

I learned what the director’s hand signals meant and to talk to the camera with the small red light on. Wherever I went, women whispered.

“There she is. That's Dana Montana. Boy is she lucky to get to spend all that time with those gorgeous hunks!”

Thousands of women were crowding into the club every week. I understood the media-hyped fantasy they came to experience. People thought the same thing about Hugh Hefner; that he slept with all of his employees, that orgies went on constantly at the mansion, and that the bunnies slept around.

I learned that wasn’t true while working as a Playboy Bunny. Now, the same notion was being applied to me and again it wasn’t true. We were operating a business. Yes, it was a business based on selling sex, but we were really selling a fantasy. Then, something completely unexpected began to happen. I started getting fan mail asking for my advice on personal matters.

A Dr. Ruth I wasn’t, but they imagined I was an expert on sex, lovemaking, and qualified to help them with their relationship problems. I tried to answer every letter as thoughtfully and insightfully as I possibly could. Many times, though, I didn’t have a clue what they were getting at. By writing back I at least let them know that someone was listening and cared.

What an ironic twist. People seeking me out as an expert on how to conduct and maintain relationships. Relax, Sister Gabriela and Granny, it was just their image of me. The whole thing was hysterical, actually. Getting back to my real personal life, the relationship with my husband had disintegrated into a complete disaster.

I WAS GAINING WEIGHT and couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. I was 38 years old and had almost no sexual experience with men. All the attention I was getting didn’t swell my head because I knew the truth. Spending so much time thinking about other people’s relationships was a constant reminder of just how unfulfilled my personal life was.

Thrust into a media spotlight as the queen of my male-stripper kind only served to illuminate my inadequacies in this area. For the sake of business, I played the game.

“Hey Miss Montana, you tried all them dancers yourself?

“Every one of them had a personal audition,” became my standard answer.

ALL THE NOTERIETY KEPT THE Sugar Shack packed night after night right through the winter of 1979. A lot of money was coming in. The summer of 1980 was just as strong. We were booked with reservations three months in advance.

I was in my office one morning when a call came in from one of my former female dancers, Shenanigans.

“Dana, are you looking for any more male dancers?”

“I’m always looking, you never know when you’re going to find Mr. Superstar,” I told her.

“Well, I’m going out with this gorgeous bodybuilder. He wants to meet you. I think he’s really interested in becoming a dancer at the Sugar Shack.”

I kept my enthusiasm in check because this wasn’t the first tip I’d gotten from Shan, as we called her. She brought a virtual parade of men to see me, usually under the guise of becoming dancers. I think she was holding her own personal auditions, but I couldn’t pass up a chance to look over a new prospect.

There was a certain amount of turnover with my guys. Some of them simply tired of the tension of performing. Others moved on to other professional opportunities.

By the summer of 1980 we’d turned another corner and the Sugar Shack was open seven nights a week presenting male exotic dancers.

Eric Lantis was the featured performer at the time. At first he was just a beautiful body. I only hired him because Larry Slade began giving me trouble. After all the publicity he became more and more demanding.

Yes, Larry was the star of my original review of male dancers, but as the Sugar Shack became more successful he started acting like a male version of a prima donna, and the women in the audience sensed it.

His popularity began to wane. To compound the problem, if I didn’t agree to his every request he would threaten to leave. I saw it as an empty threat because there were no other male exotic clubs operating anywhere else. It became apparent, however, that it was just a matter of time before Larry, my old friend, my poker-playing buddy, and I would be parting professional company. Eric’s initial audition was a disaster.

He was obviously intoxicated walking up on the stage. That was somewhat understandable. For the guys, breaking in this new entertainment territory sometimes took a few stiff drinks to drown out their initial inhibitions. Eric stripped awkwardly and danced even worse. When he got down to his G-string he began rubbing his crotch in an obscene manner.

“Eric, stop! What do you think you’re doing? I’m not running a whore house. This is a classy show!”

Like so many men, he assumed that the sight of an erect penis was all it took to excite any woman. I didn’t hire him at the time, but when Larry started in again with his threatening demands, I called Eric back. This time he was willing to work with me and learn how to stimulate a woman’s fantasies through his movements and attitude on stage. I was grooming him for an act I wanted to stage featuring a barbarian.

There would be lots of strobe lighting and body-building poses. At the end of the act he would end up naked in the middle of the stage with no props.

Eric argued against the idea because all the other dancers had some kind of prop to take the edge off their nudity. We bucked each other, but I began to like him more and more. Before long, Eric was the star of the show. Larry finally made good on all his threats and left. When Shan showed up with this new prospect, I was both shocked and unexpectedly impressed.

He was a massive, muscular man wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt, sporting perfectly developed deltoids, biceps, and triceps that rippled down his Herculean arms. Shan left us and went over to the bar to speak with a couple waiters who came in early as her latest discovery slipped into my office.

He was soft-spoken and clearly a gentleman. His hair was too short and his body over developed, but his piercing blue eyes projected the captivating charisma of a Paul Newman. And, by coincidence, his name was Paul.

“I’ve never seen your dancers, but Shan’s told me a lot about you and them. I think it’s great what you’re doing here.”

First impressions were lock-and-load go as I sized him up down while he stood there as stoic as a totem pole carved from a great oak.

“Stick around and watch a show, since you’ve never seen one. Then we’ll talk afterwards, that’s if you still want to.”

Truthfully, I never expected to see him again after he walked out of my office. So many prospects were scared away when they first saw my dancers in action on stage.

They’d come in thinking there would be nothing to it, and later try to sneak out without me seeing them leave.

I kept my eye on Shan and Paul as they sat in the back watching the first show. To my surprise, they didn’t leave. After the show we played disco music and they danced. Shan, the former stripper, was putting on her own Gypsy-Rose-Lee show. Paul was moving on the fringes of her entertaining exhibitionistic display. When they stopped dancing, I noticed he helped her down from the stage.

“We’ve got to go now, Dana,” Shan said as she tugged on Paul’s arm. She had been drinking all night and her present plans for Paul didn’t include taking time out to talk to me. Paul gave me a disappointed look.

I wasn’t about to let this prize bluefin tuna slip away, so I had to think fast.

“Tell you what guys. Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow? We’ll sit out by the pool and talk this whole thing over.”

Sounds great, we’ll be there around noon,” Paul replied with Shan pulling on him impatiently.

They showed up on time and the first thing Shan did was to take off her top. When I glared at her she said she would put it back on if the kids came out. We all sat around dangling our toes in the pool. Paul’s sister was a Bunny at the Playboy Resort, as was Shan at the time.

Paul’s sister introduced them. They had been dating for several weeks. From my experience, that was usually a problem for guys in the flash-for-cash trade.

It was not easy to train a new dancer, but nearly impossible if he was involved in a serious relationship. Learning the art of male stripping took endless hours and required complete dedication. That usually aggravated significant others.

It wasn’t so much about jealously—they simply ended up spending too much time away from each other. Some of them, however, did have a problem with the fact that their man would be showing off his hot bod to other babes. It had been such a problem that I wouldn’t usually invest time in developing someone who was involved. When Shan went into the house for a minute, I spoke to Paul.

“Don’t be offended by this, but I need to know just how tied you are to Shan?”

He seemed stunned.

“Well, we’re good friends and we’ve been dating for a while. I don’t really understand the reason for your question.”

“You know Paul, the training period will be intense and demanding. I can’t have Shan at the club all the time. I hope you understand.”

“Good.”

“Good?” I reacted.

“That’s right. I want to learn as much as I can from you. I’m not going to marry Shan. She’s just a friend. What you’re offering fascinates me and I agree that a demanding relationship right now could damage my career,” he said sensibly.

“Paul, you’ve really got the right attitude and I’ll add you surprise me with your maturity.”

“Well, you surprise me a little too, Dana. I was afraid you’d be upset when I told you the truth about Shan and me. I mean, she told me you were like a mother to her and I didn’t want you to get angry with me for possibly leading her on.”

With just those few words Paul and I reached an important understanding that began the race leading to the checkered flag of Paul dazzling audiences on my Sugar Shack stage.

A swirling summer wind rustled leaves in the nearby trees sending soft ripples rolling along the previously still surface of the cool pool. Looking at Paul in the water I saw a vision of what he would become and it gave me Goosebumps.

Little did I know that Paul was destined to become more than just one of my new Sugar Shack headliners.