For someone whose stage experience peaked with a disastrous college immersive play, the world of performance has always felt distant. In the vibrant atmosphere of queer bars, I’ve usually been content as an observer, someone more comfortable tipping a go-go dancer than becoming one. My personal writings are a space for erotic exploration, but public displays of that side felt blocked by a wall of self-consciousness. So, when a message popped up inviting me to audition as a go-go dancer at a dimly lit kink bar nestled in the San Fernando Valley, my immediate reaction was disbelief. Yet, to my surprise, I found myself saying yes. Writers need to embrace new experiences, I reasoned. And, a small voice whispered, what if I actually have a knack for this go-go dancer thing?
The party promoter, a surprisingly gentle middle-aged figure adorned with combat boots, a bright yellow jockstrap, piercings, and a striking mohawk, laid out the audition terms. Thirty minutes was all I had to prove myself worthy of the go-go dancer platform. He shared cautionary tales of past hopefuls who, despite possessing the desired physique—chiseled abs, defined pecs, and sculpted glutes—moved with the stiffness of mannequins. Determined not to suffer the same fate, I resolved to push beyond my comfort zone and unleash any latent go-go dancer potential within.
With a month until my audition debut, preparation became paramount. Even before hitting the gym for stamina training, the go-go dancer uniform demanded immediate attention. Go-go dancing, as I understood it, was an art of strategic allure. The goal: reveal just enough to ignite the imagination, to dangle a tantalizing fantasy, and to collect a generous cascade of dollar bills in the process. My partner, Brent, became my sartorial guide, navigating racks of lace and leather at a West Hollywood lingerie boutique. We finally landed on a fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string that seemed to scream “go-go dancer.” Back in my apartment, the fitting room mirror reflected a figure that was, in my estimation, somewhere between a cut of raw meat and a vibrant Jolly Rancher candy.
Mission accomplished? Or so I initially thought.
An hour before venturing to the bar, a dress rehearsal was in order, with an audience of one. G-string donned, Lana Del Rey blasting, I practiced suggestive movements in front of the mirror as my partner offered encouraging words and some gently critical pointers. Confidence building, I headed to the bathroom before stepping out, only to be confronted by a jarring discovery: a noticeable stain on the vibrant blue fabric of my chosen go-go dancer attire. My world momentarily froze. Should I… just cancel this whole go-go dancer audition right now?
