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?
As a tween, I’d briefly aspired to be a Disney star, attending a half-dozen acting workshops at a shiny office building on the Sunset Strip. My one takeaway from those classes was to be fearless when auditioning. If you’re shy or embarrassed, just lean into it and improvise. Years later, with still no IMDb credits to my name, I finally applied that wisdom.
I ran to my closet and grabbed a red jockstrap from the drawer instead.
Mr. Mohawk greeted me with two drink tickets and some instructions: I was to go on stage at 10 p.m. and have fun. I was to do my best, but not take it all too seriously.
After chugging an emergency gin and tonic, I took off my jeans and white T-shirt and then jumped on the platform. There, I humped into the abyss, backed by a soundtrack of ’80s rock and pop hits and cheered on by friends who had stopped by for reassurance. There were other, vastly more talented go-go dancers also performing, and I anxiously observed them from my station, noticing the subtle ways they shot smirks and locked eyes to catch customers. Once my 30 minutes were up, Mr. Mohawk told me to keep on going. It was time to actually give it my all.
Within an hour, as I learned how to follow a wink with an inviting smile, I began to collect a steady stream of dollar bills. Later, when I moved from the outdoor patio inside, I found somewhat less success dancing on the red neon bar against the mirrored walls. I just kept swaying side to side, doing my best to lure patrons into making a flirty pitstop after grabbing a cheap cocktail.
I tried not to gaze at my own red-tinted reflection, focusing instead on strangers’ facial expressions. Were they aroused? Bored? Worried? I felt thrilled when random men graced my jockstrap with ten dollar bills after I bit my lip or ran my hand down my thighs. And the longer I stayed up there, the more comfortable I became with the vulnerability of total exposure.
“Go-go dancing can be the easiest or hardest job in the world,” Mr. Mohawk later mused to me over a fireside cigarette on the patio, the hazy sky dotted with planes en route to the Burbank Airport. I ended the night with $103 in cash that I wouldn’t have earned without indulging in some light delusion. I have yet to get a text inviting me back, but perhaps some things are meant to be ephemeral.
Auditioning to be a go-go dancer threw me into a context in which the metrics of success and failure were refreshingly straightforward: you either made a quick buck, or you didn’t. I wasn’t a total flop, nor did I blow the crowd away with some innovative ass-shaking technique. Instead, I just survived and enjoyed myself—and sometimes, that’s more than enough. I’m a high-strung person whom many would describe as unchill, but on that stage, with barely anything on, there were fleeting moments when I stopped overthinking. I’m not sure that I’ll ever do such a thing again.…but what I do now know is that in micro-doses, shamelessness is my ultimate kink.