Confined to the audience at queer bars, I’ve always been more of a rhythmically-challenged admirer than a performer. My stage experience peaked with a poorly received immersive play in college. Public displays of my erotic side felt blocked by a wall of self-consciousness. So, when a kink bar promoter in the San Fernando Valley offered me a go-go dancer audition, acceptance surprised even myself. Writers seek new experiences, I rationalized. Plus… what if I actually had a knack for it?
The promoter, a kind man with a mohawk, piercings, combat boots, and a yellow jockstrap, gave me 30 minutes to prove myself. He shared cautionary tales of toned hopefuls who, despite sculpted physiques, moved with the energy of timid robots. Determined to avoid that fate, I resolved to push my boundaries.
A month stretched before my debut. Even before hitting Barry’s Bootcamp to build stamina, my priority was securing the perfect Gogo Dancer Outfit. Go-go dancing, I understood, was about sophisticated teasing. The aim: reveal just enough to ignite fantasy and collect a shower of dollar bills. My partner, Brent, and I ventured into a West Hollywood underwear boutique. Amidst lace and leather, we landed on a fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string. Back home, facing my reflection, the image was… striking. A cross between raw meat and a Jolly Rancher.
Mission accomplished? Or so I initially thought.
An hour before showtime, I staged a dress rehearsal for an audience of one. G-string donned, Lana Del Rey blasting, I practiced suggestive movements in front of the mirror as Brent offered encouragement and minor critiques. Then, heading to the bathroom before leaving, disaster struck: an unwelcome stain on my blue thong. My world screeched to a halt. Should I…cancel everything?
