Gulliver Takes Five (15 page)

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re going on in five, Goose. Better wipe that green off your lip.”

I’ve been given zero prep time, but I’ve sung enough today to be in a good place. Five minutes pass like they’re seconds, and
then Leon is onstage introducing me as a brand-new shining star about to take Broadway by storm. The fact that this message is delivered by the casting director of the most successful show on Broadway and on tour around the world cannot be downplayed. Leon also tips off the actors and press that they just might catch me next month in
Wicked
in Boston.

My God.

I could scream. I could dance where I’m standing. I could hug Leon like he’s the father I never had. But that’s not what I’m here to do.

I’m here to perform.

I approach the microphone to hundreds and hundreds of clapping hands. My heroes, my idols, my crushes, all applauding me, and I haven’t even opened my mouth. I want to point them out one by one and tell them each and every song of theirs I have memorized. How every single one of them is the reason I worked day and night to get here. Their successes have fueled me to break through the past two months of failure, the years of challenges and setbacks. I want to scream,
I love you!
to Sutton. Thank her brother for the song I am about to sing. But spoken words would never do my appreciation justice. In my stomach, nerves and anxiety step into the wings, replaced by an ecstatic sensation of confidence. Not just about what I’m preparing to do, but also the certainty that I’m on the verge of something really, really big.

There’s so much I want to think, so much I want to feel. Remorse, maybe, for what I said to Chase. Guilt, for my part in obliterating
Grant Majors’s career. Grief, for the relationship I now know I will never have with Gulliver, since the Gulliver I loved doesn’t exist.

Also, confusion. Complete and total confusion at the surreal way this all lined up tonight.

And joy, of course.

Satisfaction that years of devotion to singing are finally, here and now, paying off. When I awoke today, I was just a cow in the herd. I worshipped Grant Majors and, deep down, secretly hoped Gulliver would come back and prove he was
the one
. Or maybe that Chase would turn out to be that one. Now I’m going on tour and leaving these boys behind me. I know now, that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.

But these are not thoughts I can think now; they are thoughts I’ll think later. Because when I sing, I don’t think or feel. All earthly matters melt away. I know they’ll return when I’m done. But for now? I escape.

There’s only one place to go from here. I snap my fingers to give the pianist the rhythm, throw a quick wink at Stanford, and toss Leon a warm smile. The first notes of my song begin, and I ride each one up, up, up as I exit my body one more time.

Enter black and yellow and red and blue. Accompanied by bursts of stinging light and chilling dark. The bass is so hard it tickles my eardrums, my nipples, the balls of my feet, and my actual balls. Synth horns sound almost royal as they climb sky-high, scales that no actual horn could muster. I am drenched in sweat, throwing my arms here and there, moisture flying in all directions. My biceps are wrapped in fluffy armbands stuffed with dripping dollar bills—wilting flowers of dead green men. My headband has grown too wet to be of use, so I pitch it into the sea of heads beneath me.

I’ve never heard this remix of Ke$ha’s “Cannibal.” Leave it to DJ Mikey Makeout to pull something new out of his magic bag of sonic tricks.

Behind me are near-naked bartenders bursting with more muscles than every guy I’ve slept with in my life combined, pouring vodka-everythings for the gay men gathered at my feet. I shake my ass and tug my pair of 2(x)ist neon briefs up into my crack. I spin around, bend over a bit, showing the newly exposed flesh to the dance floor, straddling perfectly so drink orders can be pushed between my legs.

Now, as happens every once in a while, a drink-chilled hand takes firm hold of my ankle. I shiver from both temperature and possibility. A potential tip? I follow my standard operating procedure:
I peek over my shoulder, one eyebrow cocked playfully, to find Sir Grabs-a-lot grinning or leering or grimacing from nerves—or, this time, sweetly smiling. A tip, for sure, and a good one. I pop my butt out, emphasizing the dimples on either cheek, and pivot to face him. A slow squat brings my bulge right to his face, and I hold steady like this for just a second before bending forward to bring my mouth to his ear.

“Well, hey there!” I shout.

The man currently down south is named Bruce. He’s a buyer for Calvin Klein and a total sweetheart. Many of my fellow go-gos wouldn’t know this, of course. They call him Palpatine (or Darth Shade-ius) after the wrinkled antagonist of the
Star Wars
movies. And sure, Bruce isn’t much of a looker—but so what? He’s one of the more respectful guys who come out on Friday. He is always happy to share his wealth without trying to sneak his middle finger up my butt or his wedding-banded hand around my junk; he just smiles, neatly folds large bills into my waistband, and after we chat, quietly retreats to the blazing darkness of the dance floor.

“Your new underwear is so cute!” Bruce says as he adorns it with a handful of five-dollar bills. “How are you?”

“I’m all right!” I shout over the transition into a mix of Katy Perry’s “Firework.” “Summer classes are ending soon, and I’m trying to graduate early. So I loaded up on hip-hop and modern workshops!”

“And yet you still make it out here? You are an inspiration, Chase. You’re chasing your dreams. Hey, how’s that for a nickname? Dream Chaser!”

“Very cute,” I say, throwing him a wink. “And how are you, Bruce?”

Do I have to be this chatty? Not really. But every go-go knows that the age of bitchy dancers who ignore you while you lavish them with singles is gone. Maybe in a better economy—but no more. Now you need to be cordial to the potential tipper, be they as nice as Bruce or less lovely, like so many other patrons. You must engage in conversation, smile, and laugh to make them comfortable, even if what you WANT to do is demand that they stop massaging your taint through your jockstrap.

Hardly anyone tips go-go boys anymore, anyway. Certainly no one under thirty. There are just too many stigmas attached—it’s creepy, it’s dirty, it’s pitiful. Nowadays, tippers are mostly drunk and giggly girls dragged to the club by their gay besties, generous tourists who don’t know a word of English aside from what their guidebooks tell them, and men like Bruce here (not to mention promoters trying to set an example and keep their dancers happy). Sucks for those of us who depend on this cash to cover the costs of our college tuition, rent, utilities, health insurance, and textbooks.

But I’m not just nice for the money. I’m nice because I’m nice. The very day I was hired here a year ago, I earned the nickname “Friendly Spice” (we go-go boys each have our own Spice Girls moniker). I guess it makes sense. While most of the dancers will say hey, give a hug and cheek-kiss to a potential tipper, and then return to dancing, every time I pop a squat, I end up down there for five minutes. It’s not just a pleasantry exchange, either—we’re talking full-blown discussions on topics ranging from literature to politics to the weather.

Outside, when I take a rare smoke break, I’m often flocked to by party boys for even more conversation. Everyone wants to gather around Friendly Spice. What can I say? They love me.

And I love them. I find people in general endlessly fascinating—what makes them tick, the things they do and say and dream of. Someday, I’ll take all the stories I’ve collected on the bar and go-go box or out on smoke breaks and put it in a novel or something. I definitely have enough material to write a series. The next
Sex and the City
, maybe. Wouldn’t that be a trip?

Bruce reaches into his wallet, rooting through the wad of cash.

“Thank you, as always, for helping me pay my tuition,” I say.

“You work hard for it, Dream Chaser. You keep working, and I’ll keep helping. By the way, I think your watch is broken.”

Bruce makes this joke every week. It’s funny because it’s so corny, and yet every week he repeats it with such enthusiasm. The watch he’s referring to is my tattoo: an old pocket watch on a golden chain. The circular timepiece rests just above my crotch, the chain looping up and around my navel. People always ask what it means, but I never tell them. It’s far more interesting to ask what THEY think it means.

I’ve heard a lot of interesting theories. None close to the truth. That’s a tale nobody wants to hear when I’m nearly naked, shoving my ass in their face.

The actual watch my tat is drawn from belonged to my grandfather, who died the day before my high school graduation. All
through my childhood, he always had it on him; he’d wind it and hold it up to my face to teach me how to tell time the old-fashioned way. When he passed, I wanted to keep it—but that didn’t happen. My mom claimed it rightfully belonged to her, even though I was the one who went to the hospital to see Gramps every day and wind it for him. Last thing I heard from my sister was that Mom hawked it to pay for crack.

Yeah. Seriously. Let’s just say I come from an interesting family.

Crackhead drug-dealer mom. My dad, probably dead—but no one knows for sure. My stepdad, one abusive motherfucker.

And me, the gay go-go boy with a full ride to NYU, thanks to his dancing talents. My sister and Gramps were the only two who would speak to me after I legally emancipated myself when I turned sixteen. I lost my grandfather soon afterward. Well, not lost. He’s still a part of me. I see his watch every day in the mirror. No matter what else changes in this little life of mine—and plenty has, trust me—for the two of us, time stands still.

Bruce pinches my torso and mimes an attempt to wind the watch. “I think you need to take it into the shop, Dream Chaser!”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” I laugh. “Now I should probably get back to dancing. I don’t want to have to depend on YOU to bankroll my entire night’s earnings!”

“Wait,” Bruce says, holding me in a squat by my shoulders. “Take this. It should help you get the watch fixed. I expect to see the right time next weekend!”

He’s handing me a hundred-dollar bill.

“Whoa, now, Bruce. That’s a lot. I don’t want you refinancing your home just for this broken-down old watch.”

“You’d take it from a complete stranger, wouldn’t you?” he says, smiling widely beneath his bristly push broom mustache. “Happy Saturday, Chase.”

With that, he smiles, doffs an invisible hat, and disappears back into the fey fray of the main dance floor’s strobe explosion.

Wow. It usually takes me a full night to earn the cash Bruce just deposited in my skivvies. Another go-go boy might jump down from the bar and spend the rest of his shift smoking and screwing around with the others. Not me. No longer speaking to my family may mean freedom from their tyranny and terror, but it also means I’m a slave to debt and bills, sinking so deep in the red I can’t even remember what black looks like. And so I dance. Gotta make that bacon, baby. Gots to pay dem bills, chile!

Unfortunately for me, Bruce is far more an exception than the rule. Over the next hour, every man that approaches my spot at the back bar is there to cop a feel, and do so for free if he can swing it. I understand that I’m an attractive guy gyrating in close to nothing on a bar...But no one seems to understand that this is a JOB. You don’t eat the food a waiter serves and then screw him on the tip. You don’t accept a couch the delivery guys lug up to your apartment, then bid them adieu with nothing more than an ass slap. Alas, that’s the modus operandi of tonight’s crowd. I subject myself to a plethora of scrotal squeezes, rectal exams, and
one guy who has the audacity to stick his mouth on the crotch area of my underwear, while giving me nothing more than his phone number. If it weren’t for the few guys like Bruce, I wouldn’t even make enough to pay for breakfast when I finally get out of here. Well, not until I cashed the check the club pays me, at least.

The truth? I’d rather not be here tonight. I’ve done four nights in a row at other parties in the city. My legs are sore and I had to use a pound of concealer to hide the dark circles around my raccoon eyes. But when you need to pay bills, it doesn’t matter how much you hurt. The box calls and you answer with your feet. Besides, Friday is the night I make the most tips, sometimes more than all the other nights combined.

To pass the time, I run through old episodes of
Will & Grace
in my head, reciting Karen’s best lines. Or I think about an upcoming performance I’ve been rehearsing for, sneaking in a ballet move here or there just to make sure I maintain my flexibility and grace. Robotically, without thinking, I march, march, march, bump, bump, bump, thrust, thrust, thrust. Shimmy, shake, pop that booty, shake the head back and forth, pound fists in the air, rub one hand here up my abs, along my chest, slowly past my nipples, the other hand firmly on the back of my head, elbow up. Lift the face, emphasize the jawline, clench the ass cheeks, let the dimples out to play. Join another go-go boy and do it together. Grind up on him. Kiss (if the tips are encouraging enough).