Stage experience for me has always been limited to a rather unfortunate immersive play back in my college days. In the vibrant atmosphere of queer bars, I’ve typically been more of an observer, happily handing over a five-dollar bill to a dancer while contenting myself with whispered gossip and the occasional gin and tonic. Public displays of my more sensual side? Definitely not my comfort zone. So, when an invitation arrived to audition as a go-go dancer at a dimly lit kink bar nestled in the San Fernando Valley, my acceptance surprised even myself. “Writers thrive on new experiences,” I reasoned. And, a tiny voice whispered, “What if I’m actually good at this go-go dancer thing?”
The party promoter, a genuinely friendly middle-aged man sporting combat boots, a striking yellow jockstrap, various piercings, and a mohawk, set the stage: 30 minutes to impress. He shared cautionary tales of past hopefuls—physically impressive specimens with sculpted physiques—who faltered, moving with the stiffness of robots. His words were a clear challenge: push boundaries. And that’s precisely what I resolved to do in my quest to become a go-go dancer.
A month stretched before my debut, time to transform into a go-go dancer. First priority, even before the stamina-building Barry’s Bootcamp sessions: the perfect outfit. Go-go dancing, as I understood it, was an art of suggestive allure. The aim was to reveal just the right amount, to ignite fantasy and, ideally, collect a shower of dollar bills. My partner, Brent, and I navigated racks of lace and leather in a West Hollywood underwear boutique before selecting a vibrant fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string. Back home, I tried it on, staring at my reflection. The image staring back was…striking. A blend, perhaps, of raw meat and a brightly colored Jolly Rancher.
Mission accomplished in terms of…something. Or so I initially believed in my go-go dancer aspirations.
An hour before heading to the bar, dress rehearsal time. G-string on, Lana Del Rey blasting, and thrusting in front of the mirror, fueled by my partner’s encouraging words and subtle performance pointers. Then, a pre-departure bathroom break. And there it was. A noticeable stain on the blue thong. The world seemed to pause. Panic began to set in. Should I just cancel this whole go-go dancer experiment?
