Stage performance has always been a foreign concept to me. My theatrical resume peaks with a disastrous immersive play back in college. In the dimly lit corners of queer bars, I’ve always been content as an observer, a rhythmically challenged admirer who tips generously and then melts back into hushed conversations and shared cigarettes. Sharing my private, sensual side publicly? The thought alone usually triggers a tidal wave of self-consciousness. So, imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to audition as a gogo dancer at a kinky bar nestled in the San Fernando Valley just a few months ago. “Writers need to embrace new experiences,” I reasoned. And, more enticingly… what if I actually had a knack for Gogo Dancing?
The party promoter, a kind man in his fifties with combat boots, a mohawk, and strategically placed piercings, gave me the audition invite and a stark warning: I had a mere thirty minutes to prove myself. He recounted tales of previous hopefuls, physically blessed but emotionally stiff, who moved with all the charisma of wind-up toys. Determined to avoid that fate, I resolved to push myself beyond my comfort zone and truly embody the spirit of gogo dancing.
I had a month to transform myself before my debut into the world of gogo dancing. My first priority, even before signing up for stamina-boosting Barry’s Bootcamp, was the quintessential gogo dancer uniform. From what I understood, gogo dancing was about the art of suggestion, a delicate dance of revealing just enough to ignite the imagination and, ideally, fill your dance belt with tips. My partner, Brent, patiently navigated racks of lace and leather in a West Hollywood lingerie shop until we found it: a vibrant, electric blue micro-mesh G-string. Back home, I tried it on and stared in the mirror. The reflection staring back was somewhere between a cut of beef and a sugary, neon Jolly Rancher.
In other words: mission accomplished. Or so I initially thought.
Just an hour before my audition at the bar, I staged a dress rehearsal for an audience of one. Donning the blue G-string, I blasted Lana Del Rey and practiced my moves in front of the mirror, my partner offering encouragement and subtle pointers. Then, disaster struck. As I went to the bathroom before heading out, I noticed a conspicuous stain on my carefully chosen blue thong. The world seemed to stop, and panic started to creep in. Should I just cancel this whole gogo dancing experiment?
