Mr. Capable in This One’s for the Ladies (NEON)

Director Gene Graham’s documentary is one of the few recent movies that have been released with the restrictive NC-17 rating, clearly for nudity and what is usually termed as “graphic sexual content.” But don’t let that fool you: its outlook is more wholesome than prurient. However, there are certainly some moments that probably caused the Motion Picture Association of America’s rating board to clutch their collective pearls.

And no wonder. Nasty Boyz, a troupe of African American male strippers in Newark, reveal more flesh and leave even less to the imagination than their flaccid “Magic Mike” counterparts, who appear overdressed and modest by comparison. These ecdysiasts are literally in spectators’ faces, often delivering onto them a slap with a barely concealed body part. (There is only one brief sequence that wouldn’t be out of place on Porn Hub.) Yet the emphasis is less on the bumping and grinding—although there is a lot of that, as well as twerking—and more on the camaraderie of the women who frequently attend the shows, which turn out to be homey and DIY gatherings. This is not mom’s Chippendales.

Every Thursday, the strippers strut their stuff to the bass beat of such interchangeable songs as “#Sexy,” “Nasty Bitch, and “No Panties,” in what appear to be either in church halls or community centers, with fold-out chairs for everyone and a merch table with sex toys. Hardcore fans Poundcake and C-Pudding are among those who make the food that’s served for free, while others make the Jell-O shots and vodka gummy bears. (This may be one of the few stripping venues that doesn’t enforce or impose bottle service.) Yet judging from the audience’s reaction, no one is jaded. Jaws drop and money flows from the women into the G-strings and onto the dance floor.

As if realizing that a G-string can only be stretched so far, Graham uses the strip-a-thon as a gateway. The film’s intention is not to ogle the men, and in fact, they only fleetingly flaunt their stuff. Essentially, the director profiles a panting sisterhood of mostly middle-age African American women, the self-described Classy Nasty Ladies, although there are a few white regulars, too: Michele, in particular, is very clear about what she doesn’t like in her entertainment: no slapping the face with the penis, no body odor, and don’t insist on a tip, gentlemen.

Regarding the dancers—like Mr. Capable, Young Rider, Satan (C-Pudding’s favorite)—the film only goes skin deep. Of course, the men, all of whom are muscular and heavily tatted, want to make money, but we don’t actually learn a lot about them with the exception of twins Raw Dog and Tygar, who are also associate producers of the movie.

They take the film crew to the condemned public housing where they grew up and were often left on their own—their mom, a former drug addict, is now one of their biggest boosters. Tygar, who is also an emergency medical service worker, has provided for his family through stripping, and they are all proud of him. Special mention must be made to his young adult son and teenage daughter: while other offspring would have been permanently scarred to see their father dancing with a visible outline of an erection, both have seen him in action and admire his moves.

The film’s other subjects include Blaze, a lesbian who occasionally dances with the troupe and has her fans among the attendees. But where are the male spectators ready to stuff a G-string with dollar bills? Both Raw Dawg and Tygar admit that the idea of stripping first scared them off as too “gay,” a phase that apparently quickly passed. Yet later on during a clip of a dance routine, the brothers lock lips as part of their act. The decision to keep gay male culture, or its subtext, in the background is curious, given that many of the nearest equivalents to the Nasty Boyz are usually found in gay clubs in cities like New Orleans.

The fans, on the other hand, receive from the filmmakers the star treatment. They may fondle and fantasize about the Nasty Boyz all they want, but what becomes clear is they have lives that are filled with family, work, and community. Graham wisely realized that his film couldn’t rely on just pecs and gyrations, and as such, the practically nude men are not the total, ahem, package.

We also get to know Poundcake’s husband, Big Daddy, who knows his wife loves her strippers, and yet there is not a sense of competition or embarrassment on his part. C-Pudding, whose brother was killed by police in what was determined to be “an accident,” protests in Washington, DC, against police shootings. She also cooks meals for the homeless and conducts her Baptist church’s children’s choir, while Michele organizes a benefit for autism at one of the strip shows.

This may be the most sex-positive film to come out in a while that actually embraces eroticism as only one part of daily living. Affectionate and unguarded, it’s a valentine to the fans.