Stage experience had always been a foreign concept to me, limited to a disastrous immersive play back in college. In the vibrant queer bars I frequented, I was content being a rhythmically challenged observer. My role was simple: appreciate the go-go dancers with a modest tip and retreat back to hushed conversations and shared cigarettes. Public displays of my more sensual side felt miles away, locked behind a wall of self-consciousness, even though my private Google Docs held a different story. So, when a message popped up offering me a go-go dancing audition at a dimly lit kink bar in the San Fernando Valley, my surprised “yes” surprised even myself. Writers need to embrace new experiences, I rationalized. And, a tiny voice whispered, what if I actually have a knack for go-go dancing?
The party promoter, a surprisingly gentle man with combat boots, a yellow jockstrap, piercings, and a mohawk, gave me the audition slot and a stark warning. Thirty minutes was all I had to impress. He recounted tales of past hopefuls, physically blessed with sculpted physiques, who faltered, moving with the stiffness of robots. His words resonated, and I resolved to push past my inhibitions and truly go for it.
A month stretched ahead to prepare for my unplanned debut into the world of go-go dancing. Stamina was the first hurdle, prompting a swift sign-up for Barry’s Bootcamp. But even before the gym, the outfit demanded immediate attention. Go-go dancing, as I understood it, was a delicate dance of allure. The objective: reveal just enough to ignite the imagination and, hopefully, collect a cascade of dollar bills. My partner, Brent, patiently navigated racks of lace and leather in a West Hollywood shop until we landed on a shocking fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string. Back in my apartment, the mirror reflected back a disconcerting image: part raw meat, part sugary candy.
Go-go dancer aesthetic achieved, or so I initially thought.
An hour before the bar, nerves hit. A dress rehearsal was essential, my partner as the sole audience. Donning the electric blue G-string, I blasted Lana Del Rey, channeling a newfound confidence, thrusting and posing in front of the mirror. Brent offered encouraging words and some helpful tweaks to my nascent go-go dancing moves. Then, a pre-show disaster. A bathroom trip revealed an unwelcome stain on the blue thong. My world momentarily froze. Should I even go through with this go-go dancing audition?
