Let me turn up the heat a little bit.

It always takes a moment to warm up, when I'm getting used to writing in an unfamiliar place. Ah, that's better.

I've always been horrible with these formal introductions, but here goes. My name is Michael Macabre. It's not my real name... kind of like a stage name. A pen name actually, but that's another story.

I've been involved with the exotic dance industry for more than five years. In that time I've been everything from a bartender to a disc jockey, my current occupation. I've managed beautiful young ladies and supplied many different clubs. It's an addictive business.

Let's get a couple of things up front. I don't discuss money, religion or politics. Lucky for you. I really don't think you want to hear my theories on Zen Buddhism or the First Lady's health plan ideas. I won't mention club names and I am certainly not going to talk about anyone who might get me killed. I didn't see a thing in that trunk, honest.

Let's face it, guys, it's not the real world. We call it everything from the Twilight Zone to La-La Land. To quote a very dear friend, a dancer (hope you're well), "There is a lot of darkness in this business." So keep a candle burning, huh, guys?

But then, like the light side of the imposed balance of yin and yang (come again?) some of the most wonderful, noble and generous people I have ever met exist in this business. From the courageous young ladies who study books in between dance sets to the women whose other stage name is Mom the other 18 hours of her day. The generous customers and regulars who keep the lights burning for these ladies during hard times, the incredibly resilient people who wear a smile on their lips (and sometimes not much else) when there's three customers in the bar and one buck up on the rack. That's how it comes, one buck at a time, and if the dancers aren't getting it, then you sure the hell know that the wait staff isn't. It's for all these fantastic people that I regret my pact not to mention any names. My hat's off to you guys.

It can get a little strange here in the dark. Wealthy gentlemen who pay handsomely for sexy young ladies to wear their costumes backwards (among other things), sultry voiced women who insist it's a very well proportioned 190 pounds during audition (hey, it could happen!). Women from the audience who jump up on stage for impromptu auditions. Things that go bump and grind in the night (and early morning). To think I could have been an accountant.

But it all comes back to that seductive addiction, that old black magic that you weave so well. That and I love the sight of a beautiful naked woman as much as the next man. Maybe more. I tip when I go out. Then there's the music. Other jobs in the biz have come and gone, but I've remained a DJ. Let me show my appreciation to you gentlemen who, over the years, have taken such generous care of the ladies, because what's good for them is good for me. We got what you call a symbiotic relationship.

What kind of music do you want to hear? I'll get the word out. I'm what you call hooked into the inner circle. Tell you what; you guys continue to take good care of the hard working ladies and I'll arrange it so you might just find you get what you need. What do you say? Deal?

We got it all. From Cab Calloway to the Cramps and everything in-between. So, let me know. If enough of you want it, I'll even break down and play Air Supply... not! So, can we talk?

In this hurry up and wait, techno-babble, immediate gratification world we live in, there must be some way we can communicate. You can E-mail or snail mail the magazine, attention: Michael Macabre. Ladies, too. Please, I want to hear what you have to say. You have my ear, my heart, my helping hand, and, not least, my respect and gratitude.

Looks like I'm running out of rope to hang myself with. Let's see... I've sucked up, preached, shamelessly ripped off pop culture phrases, and probably put at least a couple more nails in my coffin. Yeah, just about covers it.

Until next time, C-Ya.