Beyond a disastrous immersive theater piece in college, my stage experience is virtually nonexistent. In the vibrant atmosphere of queer bars, I’ve always been content as an observer, particularly when it comes to go-go dancers. My usual routine involves admiring from a distance, maybe offering a tip, and then retreating to conversations fueled by drinks and shared secrets. Public displays of sensuality? That’s always felt distant from my comfort zone. So, when a message popped up inviting me to audition as a go-go dancer at a dimly lit, intriguing kink bar in the San Fernando Valley, my automatic reaction was disbelief. Yet, to my own surprise, I found myself saying yes. An experience for the writer, I rationalized. But beneath that, a quieter question lingered: Could I actually be good at this go-go dance thing?
The promoter, a surprisingly affable man in his forties, sporting a mohawk, combat boots, and a bright yellow jockstrap, laid out the audition ground rules after extending the invite. Thirty minutes, that’s all I had to prove myself and show I could Dance A Gogo. He shared stories of past hopefuls who looked the part—chiseled physiques, impressive muscles—but moved with all the charisma of a wind-up toy. His cautionary tales resonated, and I became determined to push past my inhibitions and give it everything I had.
I had a month to mentally and physically prepare for my potential debut into the world of go-go dancing. Even before hitting the gym to boost my stamina, my first priority was securing the right attire. From what I understood, go-go dancing was about suggestion, a delicate dance of enticement. The aim was to reveal enough to ignite the imagination, to dangle a tantalizing fantasy, and hopefully, collect a decent stack of dollar bills in the process. My partner, Brent, gamely assisted in this crucial mission, navigating through racks of lingerie in a West Hollywood shop until we landed on a fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string. Back home, in front of my mirror, the reflection was…striking. I couldn’t decide if I resembled a cut of meat or a vibrant Jolly Rancher candy.
In other words, mission accomplished? Or so I initially believed.
Just an hour before I was due at the bar, I decided a dress rehearsal was in order. G-string on, Lana Del Rey blasting, I began practicing my moves in front of the mirror, my partner offering encouraging words and some gently suggested tweaks. Confidence was building, adrenaline was pumping. Then, as I was about to head out the door, a quick bathroom visit revealed a small, but noticeable stain on the bright blue fabric. My world screeched to a halt. Should I even bother going? Should I just cancel this whole dance a gogo audition?
