CHAPTER 1

Southern Exposure

On a layover as a flight attendant, I went out on thetown with a colleague. It was one of the few timeswhen I wasn't the youngest, although that seems to behappening more frequently now. I like to socialize with olderpeople, not to retain my status as the youngest, but because Ifeel more compatible with them, enjoy their maturity, and gleanvaluable lessons from their wisdom and experience. I hope that Ikeep us spontaneous, curious, and unjaded by life. I like to believethat we have somewhat of a symbiotic relationship, althoughI'll always feel indebted to their contributions to my personaldevelopment.

So I was telling my younger cohort how I seldom get cardedat bars and confidently stated that turning thirty wasn't going tochange that, but it was I, not him, who was carded. He had thebiggest smirk of satisfaction. I reminded him that time stands stillfor no one, so he should enjoy boyish good looks while they lasted.It happened to be amateur strip night, and all the college boys wereback in town. I observed all the attention focused on their youth:wrinkle-free faces, ripped bodies, smooth, flawless skin—andoh, their energy! All this was reminiscent of my former dancingdays—flashbacks of the adoration, money, propositions ...

I had just returned from Germany and didn't want my buddingself-discovery to be oppressed back in Idaho. So I opted to movein with Peter and his boyfriend in Memphis. I quickly settled inwith a restaurant job and applied to transfer colleges. My twenty-secondbirthday was not too long after I relocated, and I felt likegoing out. Peter and his boyfriend stayed home, so I went to thegay bar alone and luckily arrived (unbeknownst to me) before thestrip show started. I watched and lusted after the two sexy men,both muscular and toned, with bulging packages. My mind wasracing with hard-core fantasies of all the possibilities. After all,though I was still inexperienced, I was an always curious and aptpupil. At the end of their routines and working the crowd for tips,they approached me. I was surprised and confused. One of themintroduced himself as the manager, and asked to speak with meback in their changing room. I was intrigued, but nervous. I hadno clue what we were going to talk about, but I was hoping to betaken advantage of—just as I had played out in my mind.

Walking into their changing room, the manager complimentedmy looks and asked if I'd like to join them—as a dancer. That wasquite a loaded question for me, having never even thought of sucha thing. I had a serious body-image complex. I didn't believe thatI had a body worth flaunting; I didn't feel that I ever had that"it" factor. Such a concept eluded me. I was so self-critical and-conscious. It was hard to think about anything but saying yes,though, as they both were stark naked by that point, changing.That night, after the thrill of the proposition subsided, the fearand anxiety set in. My obsessive-compulsive tendencies in regardto my body were amplified. I panicked and called the manager,trying to rescind my agreement to join. Let's face it—I lackedexperience, but most critically, I lacked self-confidence. Howcould I possibly strut my stuff with such paralyzing insecurities?

Trying not to talk myself out of it, I held onto the manager'sreassuring pep talks. He invited me over to coach me a little.We watched scenes from Coyote Ugly, and I was taking as manymental notes as my mind could absorb. He actually prepped mepretty well, which eased my anxiety. I practiced various movesand was thinking about which music to use, etc. My confidencewas building when I thought of it like a performance. I was usedto being in front of crowds; now it just demanded less costume.I don't remember the details, but my closing lesson found usfucking each other on his couch.

He recruited a good-looking boy my age who was prettymuscular. We both were novice and nervous about our debut.The drive from Memphis to Nashville was long as I lay across thebackseat of the car, my stomach knotted in anxiety. The preppingin our changing room above the bar was surreal: the adrenaline,the dick needles and pumps, the fluffing. The music from belowwas thumping through the floor, the vibrations accentuating thechurning of my insides. My nerves were intense. The other kidwent out first. I heard his music cue, and as the crowd cheeredhim on, I started to dread my upcoming performance. He cameback upstairs with a beaming smile, his face radiating the crowd'sadoration and cash bulging out of his socks and thong, bothserving as evidence of his triumph. The pressure was on. I hadto deliver. I knew then that I had to rely on a unique niche, as Ihad neither the bulky muscles nor the bravado and swagger thatexuded, "Look at me, I'm so sexy!" So I decided to incorporate mytumbling abilities—floor gymnastics—into my act. The first songwas my performance song, "Sexual" by Amber. I intermittentlystripped my random-themed costume as I flipped across the floor.The crowd loved it! Their cheers, claps, and whistles evaporated anyremaining angst I was feeling. I had created my edge. The secondsong, "I Do Both Jay and Jane" by La Rissa, was my collection songas I graciously accepting their greenbacks in all denominations.They felt entitled to touch me, even places my mama told me notto, but I didn't resist nor rebuke. My craving made me a gluttonfor attention, and it was stronger than any discomfort of beingobjectified. I was being fed validation, albeit sexual and coupledwith money, plus I felt wanted. The combination was a powerfuldrug, and I couldn't resist. I was desperate not only for money, butalso for a sense of belonging ... somewhere.

The three of us shared a hotel room that night. I woke up tothe sight and sound of the manager fucking the (straight) kid. Itwas a bitter taste of jealousy. I quickly compartmentalized mymixed emotions.

I used to believe that if I didn't look like the smooth models inmagazines, then I wasn't going to be wanted. So you can imaginemy devastation when my body hair started growing. God, I hatedthe obsession to dehair myself. It nearly drove me crazy: shaving,Nair, clippers and trimmers, electrolysis—I tried everything toameliorate the anxiety of my internalized imperfection. I believedthat others with body hair (including myself) got a raw deal. Ididn't understand the workings behind the scenes of photo shoots.I actually like body hair on other men, but I didn't think aboutothers liking it on me. I could have saved myself a lot of griefby accepting my body hair and realizing its attractiveness. Peterwould help me "manscape" before my strip shows, trimming mybody hair with clippers (unbeknownst to his boyfriend). That wassuch a huge favor to me—I trusted him to relieve me from mystress over the pursuit of meticulous perfection. Plus, I enjoyedthe pleasure of being touched all over, without expectation of anysexual reciprocity. Afterward, I would soak in a hot bath, listeningto Enigma and drifting to sleep, entranced, until awakened by thetepid water becoming cold.

Late one night, after returning from my show at the bar, Peterand I began to masturbate (separately), watching porn in theliving room. Although it was platonic, like buddies, his boyfriendwoke up and walked in on us. Needless to say, he flew off thehandle. In my immature mind, I hadn't done anything egregious,and it wasn't intimate from my point of view, but nevertheless, Icould understand his rage. This situation manifested his fears andinsecurities, which exposed his seething jealousy of my friendshipand closeness with Peter.

The money came too easily, but I was mostly excited tosee more of the country, booked for a three-city gig across theMidwest. I waited for the manager to pick me up—waited until Iknew I was waiting in vain. I called him repeatedly, getting onlyhis voice mail. I finally reached him and received the explanationthat his boyfriend was jealous of me and didn't want him to bearound me. I didn't even know he had a boyfriend, so how was Ian issue? What about the other kid? Unless ... the other kid wasthe (new) boyfriend? Either that or I upstaged their shows, andthey didn't want me around, stealing their thunder? Maybe bothscenarios? I had to figure out my next move and fast, because Ihad already quit my restaurant job. It didn't take long to decidewhat I was going to do. I was learning rapidly that if I was goingto be taken care of, I'd have to do it myself. My faith in otherskept diminishing with each disappointment and letdown—andabandonment.

With my bag already packed, and the weekend wide-openwith no pending obligations, I decided to hit the road. I neededto anesthetize my looming panic about what would come nextand how I'd survive, so I reverted to road-tripping as escapism.Driving alone, I felt free, adventurous, and excited—receptiveto serendipitous gifts from the universe. I had to find my owngig. Brainstorming the geography within a reasonable radius ofMemphis, the most viable attraction was New Orleans. I had neverbeen there before, and its reputation gave me hope of employmentfor my newly discovered job skills. The seven-hour drive wasexhilarating as I imagined all the possibilities and opportunities.Adventure was the antidote to my angst, and curiosity fueled myimpulsive wanderlust. Interstate 55 was walled in by lush, greentrees on either side. I have a propensity for speed, and as I wasspeeding, I laughed at myself, thinking about what I'd tell the copwhy I was in such a hurry.

Somehow, my instincts brought me to the French Quarter.I changed my clothes to "apply" for a dancing job. As I walked,I soon found out that I was near the gay end of Bourbon Street.I had nothing to lose, so I boldly asked to speak with the hiringmanagers of each gay bar I passed. It wasn't long before I cameupon a corner bar that drew me in immediately with its openaccess to the streets. I was excited and nervous but mostly in awe:the patrons, the wooden bars acting as catwalks for the practicallynaked dancers who commanded attention, the music, the dancefloor, the energy ... Awe quickly became angst as I rememberedmy objective for being there. Did I really believe that I could beone of those dancers? They put my novice experience to shame,raising the bar much higher than I'd expected. I stood againstthe back wall, staring at their perfect bodies and observing theirmodi operandi. I was disappointed by their standoffish attitude.In my opinion, dancers are supposed to dance, not just expectcash deposits into their boots, as if sexiness deserved it on its ownmerit. I happened to be standing next to a handsome, fit, silverfox (typically my type). His name was Mike, and I told him mypurpose for being there. He seemed amused and said he knewthe manager. He told me to wait and left. I was curious ... wasthis my lucky break? He returned with the manager, who led methrough the staff area and up to his office. Without any sexualpreconditions, I was hired on the spot to join those who I thoughtwere out of my league up on the bar tops the following weekend.

CHAPTER 2

Dancer for Money

Mike invited me to move in with him. Everything Iowned fit neatly into Tupperware containers withsnap-on lids and locking latches. I stacked them flushinto the black Dodge Neon Sport that Peter bought me (anotherreason his boyfriend hated me). Mike's place was nice, in a peaceful,newly developed community on the West Bank outside of NewOrleans—Marrero, to be exact. My brief two-month stay wouldconsist of push-ups and running along the rural road throughthe adjacent hinterland during the week and dancing on BourbonStreet over the weekend. Despite the sticky heat and humidity, theremote solitude was a welcomed reprieve from the demands of mylivelihood. Mike was falling for me, but I didn't have the balls totell him that it wasn't reciprocal. I felt bad for leading him on, andI'm not proud to admit that I was self-absorbed, trying to figureout my next chapter.

As I walked toward the bar each night, I was drawn to thethumping crescendo of the music. Nearing the bar, my heartraced and my stomach churned with anxiety, knowing what wasdemanded of me ... my expected exposure and vulnerability. Mymost memorable experience occurred not long after I entered thescene. I was writhing to the music, dancing euphorically, drippingsweat, entranced. Momentarily, I thought of how not long before, Iwas a Mormon missionary, proselytizing in Germany ... and nowI was gyrating around the bar in my skivvies, my socks stuffedwith lust money. I had come far (in which direction is subjective).Ironically, I was more sincere and spiritually inclined at this stagethan I was as a missionary. Tears welled as I looked up to keepthem from draining down my face. What I felt was the samefeeling that I was taught in the Mormon church to be the HolyGhost (the Spirit). It was like God's stamp of approval that I wasokay and didn't have to hate myself anymore. I had felt that beforeas a missionary, which was pivotal in my reconciliation betweenspirituality and self-integrity.

I had to change outfits as they became drenched in sweat.I was a dancer, and I actually danced, instead of just standingthere like the other lame dancers who expected tips just forgracing the patrons with their presence and good looks. Thatattitude disgusted me—totally unsexy in my book. Besidesnot having the body confidence or personality to do so, I keptto what I felt was natural and most entertaining—dancing tohave fun and crouching down to converse face-to-face with myaudience. The locals told me I was their preferred dancer andadmired my personality. That was worth more to me than themoney. I knew that the other dancers had "other activities" forancillary revenue, but I never thought that I'd be propositionedfor such. I knew that I didn't want to do porn or prostitution. Ihad used my body before for easy money. Three separate times,a car had pulled up to me on the side of the road, each of themen offering me money in exchange for my company: one manwanted me to jerk off while he watched; another man wantedme to jerk him off; and in my most lucrative transaction, theman asked me to let him suck me off in exchange for paying mycredit card bill.

The thrill of the moment was fun—the flattery, the lust, therisk, plus the fact that I needed the money. However, selling myselfdidn't leave me feeling proud. If I wanted to play, it was going tobe on my own terms and of my own volition like at the bathhouseafter work, but not out of desperation for money. The only timethat I was hired to strip outside of the bar was at a private, coedparty, and socializing with them actually turned out to be funfor me.

The weekends became crazier and the job less fun as I hadto deal with the unbecoming behavior of inebriated and hornymen. Some of them I labeled "losers"—those who drain yourenergy without replenishing it with anything edifying, who offerno substantial goodness and just use you to gratify their twistedagendas. Their aura and attitude emanated negative vibes. At leastI learned from them what I don't want in my life. I was still toonaïve, though, and oblivious to the dangers to which I subjectedmyself, such as walking alone to my car with a duffle bag full ofcash. I'm lucky that nothing bad ever happened to me. Beforeleaving, the (former) club owner would offer me cocaine andinvite me up into the attic to join the raunchy goings-on. Alwayscurious, I was a voyeuristic witness upon occasion, but I wouldn'tdabble in "party-and-play" until later in life.

I have an affinity for adventure (and risk), even if I sometimeshave to force myself against my timid nature. I like to portrayboldness until I feel bold. What a flash it was—that brief yetprofound whirlwind that was my stint as a strip dancer. I'm gladthat I kept a copy of Eclipse: The Guide to Gay Nitelife in theDeep South (now out of print). Ironically, my novice counterpartfrom Memphis and I are featured on the same page, representingopposing bars in New Orleans (6, no. 20 [2001]: 22). Initially, Ihoarded copies to distribute and show off, but now I keep only onecopy for myself, for the sake of reference, as proof. I don't knowif I could go back and do it all again. Actually, no, I do know thatI could not—no more preventing rolled bills from being insertedinto my ass, no more lying on the bar with only a bouquet ofballoons covering my package while the bartender sucked shotsout of my naval, no more covering my full monty with just a bartowel as I paraded back and forth on the bar. However, I fondlyreminisce just dancing (with underwear) and conversing—notdebasing my character.

The immersion into exposing my body was the catalyst thatchanged my negative body image and enabled me to accept myself.One might think that one dances out of ego just for money,but ultimately, I needed to dance to develop self-appreciation,-confidence, and -approval. The adoration I received, even fromlecherous trolls, I soaked up like a sponge. I didn't see myselfdesirable. The sexual attention was a paradox of hedonism andself-help. I was hungry to forge my own story, to escape frommy life that I considered blasé. I wanted to create and naturalizecopious experiences as a world citizen. It all strengthened myhumanity and empathy. It was a fun and exciting personal growthspurt with mixed emotions.