Well, it's not exactly morning
anymore -- more like dusk -- but it still feels like morning to me. I woke up at 12:30, took brunch in a nearby cafe, dropped 70 bucks at the pharmacy on food and cleaning agents, and spent three hours cleaning. I've had the urge to clean recently, to make everything spotless and fresh-smelling and tidy. I put particular emphasis on trying new arrangements of furniture, knickknacks and candles, as well as on throwing things away. I now have a big bag of clothes that never really fit but that I wore religiously in college, ready to go to Goodwill. Everything in the apartment smells like something, mostly citrus, but also bleach. I don't use a lot of bleach, but today I went crazy with it. Bleach, bleach, bleach.
All that's left to do is take a bath. Light some candles, play Dido, make myself a cup of herbal tea, apply a spa scrub, sit in lukewarm water scented with lavender essential oil, fill the loofah with grapefruit cleanser, then splash on mint lotion, followed by body butter. It's not something I do particularly often, but today, I want to feel clean. I want my exterior, everything, to match the way I feel inside.
Last night was my last dancing gig. I won't say it was the last ever, because I sort of like the idea of getting up there once in a while in the distant future, when I'm hard up for a pile of crumpled singles. But I'm not go-go dancing again in the forseeable future. If you wanted to come see me but never did, then I'm sorry. My body is closed.
Overall, it was a good night, with enough novelty to keep me interested. The event was jungle-themed, so I painted myself with a few green and black stripes, and arrived in green cargo pants and my big black tanker boots
(yes, they still hurt to walk in). And yes, to match the theme, I was going commando. Trouble was, my cargo pants were a little large for my body (which shrinks steadily, through no fault of my own; a few more years and I just might disappear), and the waist of the pants hung precariously around my pelvis, revealing a little more than I had intended.
That, however, gave me an idea. For my first set, I kept the pants on and took them VERY slowly off. I had a real costume for the first time.
The party was held in a large photo studio, decorated sparely except for one end, which featured a big fiberglass rock and a backdrop of something jungly. Here's a photo of the rock, the jungle and something suspicious going on:
When I started my first set, I hopped onto the rock, which didn't make for a terribly wide range of motion. One false move and I'd fall. Dipping down to collect dollar bills required perfect concentration, what with my pants around my knees.
The jungle theme was most markedly evidenced in the temperature of the room. It made this week's heat wave look like a spring morning. I, who rarely sweat, was drenched, though much of that probably came from the other dancers. My body paint was crumbling off, leaving long, pale streaks of color. I wanted to pull off a layer of clothing, but alas, I was already naked. Even a jockstrap seemed like winter dress in that sticky heat. The patrons couldn't stand it and went into the other room, where it was cooler but there were no dancing platforms. The culprit was a set of spotlights; when Daniel unplugged them, the room cooled off considerably.
I was determined to be good, even on my last night of dancing, so I remained steadfast in my refusal to abide leeches, and I didn't make out with any of the dancers. I did do one thing my boyfriend wouldn't totally approve of, which is let Michael, a big-dicked dancer, mock-fuck me between my legs. He had to crouch, and I had to stand on tiptoes, but the act worked quite well. At the end of the night, he came from in between my legs. I felt that it wasn't such a horrible breach, because I was just doing it for the show. Not to say that Michael isn't hot.
I had a tube of Kiehl's Intensive Treatment and Moisturizer, which I used only to moisturize my erection. It was the only thing I could find before I left the house, but it solved the age-old question of how to keep lubricated at these strokefests. Cheap lube gets too sticky, good lube is impossible to wash off, and lotion doesn't really work. The Kiehl's lotion, however, lasted a long time, never got gummy and could be wiped off relatively easily. The stuff did get everywhere, but it was for the best: When I returned home that night, my entire body was soft as a virgin's breast.
As a symbolic gesture, I gave the tube of Kiehl's to Michael when the party was over. I would never need it again.
And this is the point when my tight, snappy prose begins to devolve. This is the last posting of my go-go days, and it's hard to figure out how to say goodbye, especially because I'm not really saying goodbye: I'll be writing about the challenges of real monogamy for someone who has difficulty saying no. And if that becomes a snoozefest, then I'll call it quits.
I guess it's time to list the people I'll miss. First of all, I'll miss Daniel Nardicio, the patron saint of dirty parties. He's only been good to me, and to the cum-starved gays of New York. I simply don't know how he remains in good spirits, despite how difficult the nightlife world is.
I'll miss some of the dancers. I never had any real heart-to-hearts with them, but they were fun nevertheless. I'll miss some of the patrons. I'm hesitant to list anyone here, because I don't want to start and omit someone important. I will list Arleen, however, because she kicks ass, and she makes bisexuality fun.
I'll miss the chance to meet exciting people. It's fun to meet other journalists, but even more fun when it's in the context of a gay bar. Last night I met two professors (well, one professor and one who's on the verge), and it's always fun when the overeducated mingle with the horny crowd. It's also fun when the overeducated try out go-go dancing. It does short work to the go-go stereotype. (Or does the exception prove the rule? Curses! Foiled by my favorite saying!)
I'll miss being touched by strangers, but in truth, I think I'm ready to wean myself off of that. I'm tired of strange touch. I want boyfriend touch. Yesterday I went to the City Clerk's office to pick up a form for domestic partnership, not remembering that it would be my last night dancing. See? A symbolic gesture, completely unintended.
There are things I won't miss: Freezing showers, fingers up the asshole, callused hands rubbing the joystick, nipple biting, theft, other people's cum, snarky comments, giving massages, agressive drunks, late nights, tanker boots...
It's nice to be done.