Besides an ill-fated immersive play I starred in at my liberal arts college, I don’t have much experience on stage. At queer bars, I’ve always considered myself more of a rhythm-challenged spectator; someone who politely tucks a five dollar bill into a dancer’s jockstrap, then retreats into my own world of exchanging low-stakes gossip between gin and tonics and borrowed cigarettes. And while I open up in personal Google Docs, a loud hum of self-consciousness prevents me from sharing my erotic side publicly. That’s why, when I received an offer to audition as a go-go dancer at a dimly lit kink bar in the San Fernando Valley a few months ago, I was shocked to find myself accepting. Writers need to be open to experience, I told myself. And, besides…what if I was good at it?
After inviting me to try out, the party promoter—a very kind, middle-aged man sporting combat boots, a yellow jockstrap, piercings, and a mohawk—instructed me that I had only about 30 minutes to make an impression. He divulged some cautionary tales of other inexperienced applicants who, though they seemed to have the right stuff (sculpted abs, pecs, a bubble ass) just ended up moving like timid robots. Heeding that warning, I was dead set on pushing myself to my limit.
I had a month to plan for my big debut. First things first, even before signing up for Barry’s Bootcamp to increase my stamina: I needed the right outfit. Go-go dancing, from what I had gathered, was a refined art of teasing. The goal was to reveal just enough; to dangle a fantasy and, in the process, accrue as many sweaty dollar bills as possible. Brent, my partner, sifted through racks of lace and leather at a West Hollywood underwear shop before finally settling on a fluorescent blue micro-mesh G-string. Later that day, at my apartment, I tried it on and stared at my reflection. I looked like a cross between a slab of meat and a Jolly Rancher.
Mission accomplished, in other words. Or, so I thought.
An hour before going to the bar, I did a dress rehearsal for an audience of one. I donned the G-string and blared Lana Del Rey and thrusted in front of the mirror as my partner offered encouragement and some subtle constructive criticism. Then, as I was about to go out, I went to the bathroom and noticed an unsightly stain on my blue thong. The world halted, and I began to spiral. Should…I just cancel?
