Christine McKellar

A trauma nurse friend of mine for over twenty years spoke about her job tonight. God knows what she has seen over the years that she’s never talked about. She loves her job. She just never goes into the gory details. She must have a heart and a spirit the size of the moon, the sun and the stars to internalize the horrors she has seen over the years.

But, tonight she had to speak it. She had to tell what she had been a witness to, what she had to participate in out of duty- the amputation of both arms of a twenty-three-year old male. This college student hadn’t been in a car or an industrial accident. He was simply “partying, dude” with his buddies over spring break.

After several days of nonstop drinking and who knows what else, this young man’s friends decided it would be really funny to leave him kneeling, passed out in front of the toilet. They even shut the lid on his head and folded arms to add to the humor. Unfortunately, he stayed passed out and they stayed stoned for over fourteen hours. When the young man was taken to the hospital, my friend, the doctors and staff were absolutely horrified: the tissue and blood vessels in his arms had necrotized—both arms had to be removed from above the elbow. Those familiar with amputation realize that one saving grace under such dire circumstances is to be able to keep a joint for prosthetic mobility—but not for this unfortunate Spring Break reveler.

“When I saw his (severed) arm on the table it made me sick,” my friend told me, with tears in her eyes and a quaver in her voice: This from the most stoic and devoted of nurses. This stupidity, this carelessness, this lack of adult discernment and this excuse to lose all moral and civilized restraint that has become Spring Break, is what made her sick.

The young man without arms is likely going to die—he’s in kidney failure on top of everything else. All in honor of an out-of-control college spring break that has become a monstrosity, a travesty of the once hallowed religious holiday that was the inspiration for this special week in the first place. Spring break was intended for students to go home to be with their families over Easter. To celebrate a resurrection with love and joy! And Easter hats and gloves! The sweet poignant scent of fresh-cut lilies on altars. The childish delight of hunting for gaily decorated eggs, the family dinner of ham and potatoes.

A rare few go home on Spring Break (yes, it used to be called Easter Break, but that was before the title offended certain parties). Too many students spend the week drinking, drugging and fornicating. One must respect that last word: It so conjures up the mindless thrusting and grunting of unconscionable (party) animals. Spring Break is about rape. It’s about boating accidents at popular lakes and beaches. It’s all about morally and socially unacceptable and shameful behavior. How many parents will see their topless daughters bumping, grinding and giving tongue on national TV this season? And watch their sons cursing, slobbering and being abusive.

Far too many. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring Easter back to this season. But, even an Easter miracle won’t bring that young man’s arms back. A miracle would be that his kidneys survive. And if they don’t? Then may a merciful God have pity on his partying soul.

Tucked away between the Hilton Theater and the Sports Book at the Las Vegas Hilton is the Tempo Lounge. Reminiscent of the 80’s with its tubular Plexiglas go-go-girl stations that are suspended over certain tables, it’s only natural this intimate venue features Moore and Gendal on Tuesday nights and weekends. The pop-and-rock duo keeps the audience on their feet. Llyda Moore and Mark Gendal interact with their fans and create an atmosphere that feels more like a private party than a casino lounge act.

A familiar figure on Ladies Night, Tuesdays, and on the weekends, is *Don Sueño. The attractive, trim and mature gentleman looks like any dapper entrepreneur, until–perhaps on a silent cue–Moore and Gendal break out a Michael Jackson or Prince standard. The dance floor clears. The low-key regular springs into a crowd-pleasing dance routine that leaves men green with envy and women calling for more.

Born into a military family in Palm Springs, young Sueño travelled the world with his parents, until fate and a natural ability to dance led him in the mid-eighties to become a male stripper at a nightclub in El Paso, Texas.

“I was twenty-five, recently divorced, and working as a bouncer in a strip club,” says Sueño, who has a third-degree black belt. “One night the girls insisted I go with them after hours to a certain club. There was a dance contest and the grand prize was a thousand dollar.”

The girls, who’d been witness to Sueño’s natural dance ability, assured him there was no doubt he would walk away with the grand prize. The only drawback was that he had to strip down to a “t-back”; the equivalent of a g-string (but enhanced, no doubt). Sueño’s love of dancing (and no shame about baring his butt) set a new and very lucrative career into motion.

“There I was boogying on stage with my stripper-girl fan club to the right. And, there to the left was my ex-wife in total shock. Her girlfriends were going wild.” Sueño won the contest and became a regular stripper at the club. He immediately began earning three grand a week–cash. An unexpected perk, aside from the generous tips, was “lots and lots and lots of sex.” He laughs. “I wasn’t a prostitute or a gigolo. I didn’t charge any of the women.”

Sueño’s career expanded when a customer at the club insisted he contact her friend who owned a strip-o-gram company that he wanted to sell. Sueño was reluctant to give up his night job, but he did. He took over the company and within three years he was grossing $400,000.00 annually. He drew the attention of another entrepreneur and literally cashed the business out for a million dollars.

Sueño followed more mundane career choices later on. He lives in Las Vegas now, and, ironically, has left his stripping days behind. “I’ve looked into it here. All the dancers strip down to the nude. It’s a personal choice to me not to do that.” He adds that male strippers have become the equivalent of gigolo’s and prostitutes.

“When I was doing the strip-o-grams, I would have bridesmaids ask if I would come back on behalf of the bride.” At first, Sueño couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “These women were already engaged.” However, it became so common that at last, he relented.

“Were you thinking a bride shouldn’t be left with regret?” I ask. “That she should have a last hurrah?”

“I never took any money,” is all s Sueño says.

“Were there any personal relationships that sprang from the many sexual encounters that went along with your profession?” I pursue the subject.

“None.”

Sueño is single these days. He goes out to dance several nights a week at the Tempo Lounge. He insists he is not and never has been a gigolo or a prostitute. Even today, his dance moves draw the attention of scores of women. “I have lots of phone numbers from women across the nation asking me to keep in touch.”

Historically, a common story among female strippers is, “I only do this so I can feed my kids!” (Think Demi Moore in “Striptease”). Sueño claims he was a stripper because he loves to dance, he loved the money, and he certainly appreciated the mega-sex. There is sincerity in his voice and no trace of apology.

In the age where a female adult porn star can become a bestselling author, (“Jenna Jameson’s Memoir, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale, Debuts at No. 9 on The New York Times Best Seller List.”) I wonder if the still sexy Don Sueño regrets indulging his passion but maintaining his personal integrity.

Guess I’ll have to hit the Las Vegas Hilton on a Tuesday night to find out.

* The dancer has asked this writer to use a pseudonym for personal reasons.

A Port of No Return was reviewed by the prestigious Kirkus Reviews and received a stellar review. “A sexy, thrilling ride. McKellar skillfully brings the characters to life, and she clearly knows not only the technical details of living and working on a boat, but also the heady thrill of life at sea.” This review was the seal of approval for me from my peers. Had it been a damning review I doubt I would have written three more novels; all of which have received similarly glowing reviews. I also know beyond a shadow of a doubt that without the constant love, understanding and support of my family and friends, I could never have accomplished as much as I have in the past four years. The face of rejection is ugly, indeed. Frustration isn’t good for the heart. But, I’ve had have plenty of strong shoulders to cry on. I’ve been rewarded countless times over when I see “the look” in my readers’ eyes when they tell me how much they enjoy reading my books. How I’ve kept them up late at night. It’s a look that doesn’t lie. It fills my heart with joy.

As luck would have it, I began my first book, A Port of No Return, in the spring of 2005. I had also begun a major remodel of my home: Not a good combination of elements. I’m sure the workers thought I was crazy half the time. Yes, I do tend to stride about on the back patio muttering to myself when wrestling with a character development or plot structure.  And, the look on my face when interrupted by a worker with a question or a request must have been quite alarming. What do you mean you want me to look at a color swatch when I’m right in the midst of bringing a chapter to a titillating climax?!? It’s no urban legend that writers live in their bathrobes. I’ve been supremely blessed in that I work out of my home. But, work is work and it takes structure and discipline to write a 110,000 word novel. I learned early on  not to venture anywhere NEAR my computer until AFTER my teeth were brushed and the dogs got fresh food and water. Once the computer goes on, it’s my master—seven days a week, 5 or more hours a day…(continued)

One of the first things people generally ask me at lectures and book signings is, “When did you start writing?  Have you done it your whole life?” I have been writing  for as long as I can remember. I was first published when I was eight years old in a Southern California religious newspaper. I had written a small poem that my proud mother submitted to the publication.  I also created reams of fairytale-princess-happily-ever-after tales, complete with illustrations and text balloons. Looking back, they were storyboards, actually. I was the publisher, editor, and reporter for the neighborhood newspaper, The Estrada Press, when I was nine or ten years old. I still have the first copy, although, alas, the storyboards were lost in a house fire. My mother was a gifted and prolific writer of poetry. One of her poems honoring General Douglas MacArthur is in the West Point Library. Did I inherit a gene? Did the bedtime ritual of having poetry read aloud to us have a profound effect on my subconscious? I can still recite The Highwayman, Little Boy Blue and several other well-loved poems by heart; including those of my mother….(to be continued)

Such a flurry of activity has been going on with the web site, recording The Devil’s Valet, and learning to manage auto-responder newsletter and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo bee! I confess I have neglected my media scheduling. In response to numerous inqueries, yes, I have book signings coming up. I plan to devote Monday to scheduling and posting local events. I’m pleased as can be with the web site my webmaster, Kathy, has built, and thrilled at the audio clips of each of my books that she incorporated. There are so many cool features including the listen-to-my-blog, powered by www.Odiogo.com