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He works {ITAL hard} for the money

Chris Azzopardi

Onyx's hypnotic eye-to-eye link seems to say something he wouldn't: "I want you to suck this." He's gliding over The Tap's stage – playing the lit-up platform like a pick to a guitar – and though most of his body is tucked under a robe, his penis peeks through.
Hours before, Onyx stood staring at himself in a mirror while lifting free weights, watching as his ripped biceps swelled, in an upstairs strippers' prep nook. Here's where the bisexual dancer pops in Super Suzy Sluts 11, lubes up and wraps a double-looped Island Ring at the base of his shaft to keep from going limp.
"When I'm trying to get it up quick, and when I want it responsive, (I turn to) women: women-on-women, women-on-guys, a couple of guys and a couple girls," he spills.
Though he doesn't unleash his penis until he launches the loungy look in the middle of the night, Onyx, 27, had been teasing the mostly middle-aged clientele earlier when he pole-danced to Wyclef Jean in a gangster get-up: an oversized 2Pac and Notorious B.I.G. T-shirt, baggy jean shorts and a bandana, which covers a short, white-colored carpet-textured mohawk.
The tattoos only add to that aura. A young man is inked on his right shoulder blade. He's a longtime friend. One Onyx lost two months ago.
"That's my daughter on my chest," he chirps, still zoned in on the up-and-down motion of his arms. She's one of three children Onyx struggled to raise, and one of the reasons he launched his stripping career two years ago when the economy was sinking and his longtime job as a mechanic wasn't making ends meet.
"Somebody said, 'Start stripping,'" he recalls. "I gave it a shot, it made me money and here I am." On an average night, Onyx will lure 250 bucks. Though, on busier ones, he's brought home $560. One of his children's mothers, also a stripper, can rake in up to $950.
"She's got me beat," he cackles.
As other dancers flash their multi-dexterous maneuvers – swinging their bare legs around the poles, performing the splits and humping the stage – Onyx schmoozes shirtless with guests, luring one up to the upper-level strip nook for a private dance.
When he sashays back onto stage, the simple robe is replaced by an ensemble resembling a construction worker: boots, torn jeans and a tool belt. Perched against the pole, he whips out a tape measure and suggestively holds it against his crotch, yanking the tape upward. He massages his genitals, which are, like the rest of him with the exception of his pits, absolutely smooth. "I shave like every two days so I don't get razor burn and stuff," he says. "Three days, tops."
With a sleek, chiseled bod, it's no wonder that 23 people have asked for Onyx's number in the last few weeks. And usually he drops the same line: "I can't give you my number, but I can take yours."
Despite collecting enough numbers to fill the White Pages since he began stripping, he's only been asked to trade one thing for sex: fast food. "When I worked at another club in Windsor, there was three women who all wanted to have sex with me in their limo and they promised me when we were done having sex – everybody was done making love to each other – they'd go to McDonald's and buy me a dinner," he laughs.
They were smokin'. And had they suggested a more upscale restaurant, he would've treated them to his Happy Meal. But that's usually not the case after a hard night's work.
When Onyx first emerged as an exotic dancer, his nerves ran rapid. To ease himself, he'd down a few drinks before dropping trou. The pre-stripping booze waned once he became accustomed to rousing the crowd until their hard-ons were hollering, "More! More!" and loot flew onto the dance floor faster than he could lose his pants. He's still modest about his developing dance stratagems, but he's fully confident that what his feet can't do, his eyes can.
Onyx insists, "I can connect with somebody, so I got that part of it down."

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