How to disappear completely

My brother commented yesterday that I look smaller than I used to. I think living in New York can do that to a person; as soon as I moved here, I lost ten pounds, completely by accident. If it weren't for H&M and the shrinking effect of the dryer, none of my clothes would fit.

I realize that this is not the problem that most people face.

I feel a little smaller than when I was go-go dancing; ending this blog makes me feel a little smaller, too. It's suffocating, living in New York, where the crush of people in a tiny space has a way of squeezing at the psyche. Living in America, land of SUVs and stretch limos and Hummers, land of Big Macs and their kin, I tend toward feeling invisible. There's so much pressure in this world, the natural tendency is to implode. I have to fight to take up space.

But I'm glad to be finishing the blog. It's nice to finish something, to say, "This is complete," and to move on to bigger things.

I started go-go dancing at an underwear party, hosted by the inimitable Daniel Nardicio. I didn't know that "underwear party" meant that people might take off their underwear. When I figured it out, I took off mine. I'm ending this blog after a bathhouse party, not hosted by Daniel, though he was present. I knew that it would involve more than just bathing. I was surprised that the vibe was so relaxed, that sex was not the reason everyone was there. I was certain that if you put a bunch of gay men in a room, their natural inclination would be to have sex. It's the law of gravity: bodies are naturally pulled toward each other. But I was wrong.

Sometimes invisibility has its advantages. It can be nice to go to a party and not be touched by strangers. Last night at Bana (too lazy to insert the tilda) was my first full night out since go-go dancing, and it was nice to be present without being at the center of everything. I was just the right size.

I think I might've lost everyone by now, but that's OK, because this is the end of my blog.

The final frontier

All blogs have their day in the sun, and this one is, frankly, getting a little long in the tooth. I've had more than my share of sexual misadventures, and now I'm just working on settling down. It's not all that fun to spectate at this point, I fear.

On top of that, I really need to stop diddling with this website and get a new damn job. I can't say the blog (and the dancing) haven't helped a little with the job search, but at this point, they've done all they can do.

So this blog, which might be my one chance at fame (other than the numerous nude photos of me circulating on the Internet) is nearing its end. I'm sad about the end of my power trip, but frankly, given the effluvium of mean-spirited comments of late, it'll be nice to stop wondering what anonymous porn surfers think of me. Now I can be one of those porn surfers, inflicting my judgment on optimistic striplings.

But nothing in New York ever happens without a party, and I've found a place to celebrate -- with my crazy naked swimsuit! It's called Baña, and it's a sexy monthly pool party happening next on Oct. 21.



I don't know where it's held, and I do know that you have to send in a photo to ensure that everyone is two standard deviations skinnier and more muscly than normal. I believe people start to hook up toward the end, but that's OK, I'll just leave when the libido quotient gets above 100.

Also it costs $40. Which means that if you have ever felt like donating to me, please do so now! My promise to find sexy clothes was a big lie, because I'm too busy to go underwear hunting.

For more info, go to:
http://www.myspace.com/hotsteammachine

Or e-mail hotsteammachine@yahoo.com

Wet suit

My AussieBum bathing suit showed up today! It weighs about one ounce, which translates to roughly $500 per pound, the price of gold. I'm happy to report that it's worth its weight (period).

My loving boyfriend who loves me lovingly took these, and other, photos of me in the suit. That's about what it looks like! It really is the hottest thing I've ever worn, in my opinion.

But maybe I can find something hotter! Donate to my fund, and we'll see.

A work in progress

While I'm waiting for my new swimsuit to arrive, I thought this would be a good time to formally open up the discussion: Am I a better boyfriend than I was when I was still dancing? Has anything changed?

For those too incurious to read the comments, here is a selection of naysayings from my last post:

"Is he not still selling his flesh? The only difference is the removal of proximity. Buying him skimpy clothing so he'll take & send pics is hardly different from tipping a go-go dancer. I feel inceasingly disappointed for this young man for having to stifle an obviously compulsive and important aspect of his personality and desires...our boy go-go is screaming for ways to continue to express himself in ways he's promised not to. It just simply doesn't seem healthy for himself or the relationship. But I keep reading to be proven otherwise... "

"Repressing one's sexuality in one way or the other (not being able to be "out", regardless of what your closet is) is a source of repression that results in so much pain down the road...I can't help but thing the only way this will work is for the bf to re-evaluate his side of the story."

"if the bf knows of the new strategy, then no one has any right to judge. but if this is being done without the bf's knowledge then the same game is played. so if the challenge to ex go-go dancer is to conquer his sexual compulsion (addiction?), no progress has been made."

***

If I'm a compulsive exhibitionist, then isn't it better for me to be doing it in the privacy of my home, than between the salivary glands of lascivious gawkers? My boyfriend certainly thinks so. After all, when I get the swimsuit, he's taking the pictures.

I'm not so compulsive, either. Let's look at the fact. In the two months since I've given up go-go dancing, I haven't been inappropriate with a single guy, though guys have definitely been inappropriate with me. (Guys, showing me the boner through the pants has no effect on me anymore; give it up!)

My boyfriend wasn't against me dancing; he was conflicted about it. He was definitely against me sleeping around, doing porn, cumming in bars, getting felt up in stores, getting my ass licked, etc. And my problem isn't that I'm a sexual compulsive; it's that I'm an exhibitionist and I have a hard time saying no to people older than me. There are other ways to get an exhibitionist buzz than dancing and sleeping around. Which I am working on finding. Posing in a swimsuit seems like a good compromise.

I think it's funny that all these people are so avidly pushing sleeping around. In the couples I've met, it's the ones that are monogamous that stay together. And it's interesting that people are so adamant that a lasting and happy relationship should be based on great sex. That's certainly not how most straight people pick the person they're going to marry. They find someone they like being around, and if the sex is great, all the better. Yes, I am still a horny bastard. But that doesn't mean I feel shut off from the world because I can't tap my penis on every face in New York City. We're all horny, and we deal with it.

By the way, don't feel compelled to stop donating just because I got my nudie swimsuit. I've spent a lot of hours entertaining you, and I gladly accept any remuneration for it. Plus, I've got to sell my flesh somehow, before my ass starts getting wrinkles.

Buy my clothes

OK, so I still cannot deal with how hot that guy in the Aussiebum swimsuit is (two posts down). I have come to the conclusion that I must have that suit. After some research, I found out it's called a "Noosa," which might mean something to an Australian.

Here is a photo of it, and the description:

Dare to be bare. NOOSA is sheer when wet and a jaw-dropper when dry. No rubber in waistband - cord only.

OK, I'm dying here.

But where would I wear this gorgeous swimsuit? Not to the community pool. Not on my family reunion. Not even in the ocean on Fire Island, for reasons of shrinkage. The only use I can think of is in a hot tub in a gay hotel. But seeing as my boyfriend isn't fond of gay hotels -- and I totally sympathize -- I might have crocodile skin before I ever find a way to wear this thing in public. Somehow I don't think it's worth $27.28, if all it's going to be used for is drawer liner.

That's where you come in. I've installed a donation button above (NOTE: The button doesn't show on www.dlist.com; you have to go to http://go-go-boy.blogspot.com). I know you want to give me money to buy this suit. Chip in by clicking above. Let's set the minimum at $2, because I think PayPal charges some sort of transaction fee. If I get enough money, I'll buy it, get it wet and post the pictures online. If there's money left over, I'll buy something else sexy for posting purposes. Remember those white linen pants that I wanted to go commando in? Done. Got a favorite kind of underwear? Send me an e-mail after you donate, and I'll buy 'em.

If you give me a LOT of money, I won't sleep with you, but I'll send you as many pix as you want.

Now isn't my body worth anything to you?

A higher power

I've been having dreams about that Aussiebum swimsuit that's translucent when wet. I want to buy it, except I can't think of a single instance when it would be at all appropriate to wear it.

But I'm so horny, I'd do anything. My boyfriend is having a high-stress week and is not open to sex right now. At this point I think only God is keeping me perfectly monogamous.

I went to the Time Warner Center today to drop a Count Dooku. In the second-floor bathroom, all three stalls were filled. The one closest to me had, as far as I could tell, a guy who had hung up two jackets and some other clothes. No one finished, even as the minutes ticked by. And from the stall with two jackets, the guy was moaning with pleasure...

I went to the third-floor bathroom. As I was charging into the stall, this really cute guy at one of the stalls turned toward me, revealing some cock. I'm no longer attracted to the thrill of peeing in the Port Authority Bathroom, but this was something else entirely: a private moment with a hot guy's penis. I pooped as fast as I could, but by that time I emerged, ANOTHER HOT GUY was standing next to him, stroking happily.

Could I stand next to both of them and join the fun?

I washed my hands, while the second guy kept turning around to look at me through the mirror. He followed me out -- though I knew that I would be safest if I didn't turn around. I walked without stopping all the way to the Bouchon Bakery counter (and then stopped to admire the pastry). By that time, he was gone.

Note to readers: Third floor, Time Warner Center. Hotties abound. Just don't go in if you actually have some business to do.

Fall, on your knees

If the jacket weather and the impending autumnal equinox hasn't signaled fall's arrival, then certainly the changing fashions along Eighth Avenue has. I walked down there this afternoon, hoping to find some white linen pants or sexy swimsuits to try on in a makeshift dressing room, but alas, the only summer clothes left on the rack are size XL -- and they're priced to move. I'm afraid going commando in jeans isn't quite so hot for me.

So no opportunities to take off my clothes in clothing boutiques, and have I been horny! I came across the Speedo Sundays blog yesterday (believe me, there's a speedo there for every taste) and found this photo, which has been dancing through my thoughts ever since. Yes, it was ripped off from another website, but let this be an advertisement for AllAmericanGuys.com:



It's the guy on the left I'm talking about, and specifically, that little hint of cock through his speedo. Now where can I get a swimsuit like that? Seriously, if you know, tell me! I mean, the guy is really hot, and has sort of an unbelievable GI Joe muscle, but I can't look at anything but that gorgeous weiner.

And then I come across this charmer of a photo in Next magazine. Since when are they allowed to show that much dick? I nearly splooged in the subway.



My saving grace is that my boyfriend is in the other room, and hopefully horny enough for some serious action tonight.

Digging up repressed memories, part two!

Today was the first day I tried to stop looking at packages, a habit I picked up from my boyfriend. I was doing a bang-up job for about 10 minutes, and then some straight guy on the train was wearing khakis that perfectly profiled his cock, and I was a crotch-addict again. What is it about cocks? You just gotta stare at 'em.

All in all, though, my promiscuous life has calmed down. I haven't done anything my boyfriend wouldn't do since I stopped go-go dancing, which is a pretty big win. So I'll take this opportunity to write up another incident that happened during that insane few weeks before the fall.

I had received an e-mail from an older massage therapist who had met me at one of Daniel's erection parties. I can't remember the pretense, but he was offering me a free massage just because he thought I was a good guy, great spirit, all that. I don't take that type of offer lightly. I accepted.

I did say it had to be a straightforward massage, because I had one therapist once who gave me a hand job at the end, which I felt dirty about. He agreed. It would be on the level. Aboveboard.

When I came over to his apartment, we chatted a bit about our lives. He had photos of a few of his friends around the apartment, all of whom were about forty years younger than he was.

He showed me the massage table, which didn't have the usual ample sheet on it, just a towel. Had I been smart, I would've gotten under the towel. Instead, I shed my clothes and hopped on top of the towel, my sparkling bottom out for all to see.

He began the massage, but something told me this was not the massage he generally gave. For example, I didn't remember massages having so much focus on the buttcrack. All his strokes seemed to start or end there -- and sometimes both. My balls got a hefty rubdown, too.

After a while, I turned over. I don't think anyone needs to know whether my cock was flaccid or erect at this point. He started to massage my abdomen, carefully going around my penis with his strokes. I remember thinking that I didn't want him to compromise the massage by having to avoid my cock, so I said, "You can touch it if you want." This was not quite what I meant.

Now the strokes started and ended on my penis. I willed myself not to cum. I couldn't think of what to say to get him to stop. I tried, "You can play with me after the massage." That wasn't it.

The massage degenerated into one big cock rub, and a minute later, it ended. I sat up and he poured oil into his palm and stroked my cock some more. He kept asking if it was OK; I kept saying it was. I couldn't tell him to stop. I didn't want to. I said, "I should be charging for this," hoping, I think, that he would pay me. I wanted to be a prostitute. It would be such easy money! I would never have to say no.

Erection in tow (I hadn't cum), I took a shower to try to wash the oil off; after all, if my boyfriend found out, he'd be miserable. I wanted the guy to sweep open the shower curtain and suck me off; at the same time, I wanted to put my clothes on and go home. The oil didn't come off, and now I smelled like perfumed soap.

On my way home, I was figuring out how much money I could make as a prostitute. Who needed to waste time dancing when the real money was in sex? How would I hide it from my boyfriend, though? It wasn't until I came that night that I came to my senses. And still I thought I was being a good boyfriend.

I wanna be in porn

I was hanging out with Shaun the photographer not long ago, and he was telling me that he does a little work for this website. I thought, why am I not on that site?

If I weren't attached, I'd most definitely do a lot of porn. Maybe not fucky-video porn, just get-your-pictures-taken-with-a-boner porn. Even that I think would be a bad idea -- I mean, doesn't that stuff haunt you for the rest of your life? But when I see shots of guys, I don't generally think, "that's hot"; rather, "I'm hotter." Yes, I'm detestable.

One episode that I never blogged about happened right before I gave up go-go dancing. It was before the Marriott sexpisode, I think. I couldn't control myself and when a certain photographer offered to shoot me, I readily agreed. (I'm not sure if I should name the photographer here -- but if you want him to take your picture, just send me an e-mail and I'll give you his contact info.)

It was a simple setup, in his apartment. He shot me as I took off my clothes. He shot me in my underwear. He shot me naked. It was all very hot for me.

As I was sitting there naked and hard, he said, "I'd love to play with you," or something similar. I was pretty good about saying no.

I left, glad that I could control myself. Then I realized I didn't have my cell phone. I went back and asked him to call it; it had fallen into my bag.

Now, this part is a little complicated. A few days before, when I mentioned the photographer to a friend of mine I met on DList, he said he and the photographer had been exchanging flirtatious e-mails. My friend joked that I should check how big the photographer's penis was, so that he would know whether to hook up with him.

So, as I was leaving the second time, I stopped and asked, "Do you have a big penis?"

He was taken aback. "Uh, yeah."

I explained the situation. "He asked me to vet you, I guess."

"So you want me to show you?"

I nodded.

He took down his pants, revealing a fat dick, cut but without a dorsal ridge (a term I have shamelessly coined), kind of like a submarine. "It's bigger when it's harder," he said.

"Then you should make it harder."

"Will you help me?"

I knew I shouldn't have, but I thought, this is all in the name of making sure my friend has a good sex partner. I walked over and gave it a few strokes. Indeed, it passed muster, and then some. He was sort of a little guy, which made his cock even more out of proportion.

He asked if he could eat my ass. I agreed, though I really didn't want him to. As a go-go boy, your body isn't always your own, even if the other person is completely respectful.

He gave me a good cleaning for a minute. The whole time, I was wondering how I had gotten into that situation. That's when I started to back off. I apologized and left.

He sent an e-mail later that said the images looked really hot. A few days later, I got this in the mail (I cropped it, duh):



He said he'd send a CD but hasn't yet.

The jockstrap at work

When I went to dress this morning, I had only the following in my underwear basket:

1) A pair of detestable boxers that I should've gotten rid of years ago

2) A horribly torn pair of Fruit of the Loom, a pair that has been in my family since the late '80s (I tore them up for trucker night at the Slide)

3) Three pairs of underwear made for six-year-olds

4) A hideous thong, that I wore once, when trying to win the Boysroom go-go boy contest, long before all this insanity

5) Four jockstraps


Option 2 was out of the question; the underwear would have fallen apart, had I attempted to put them on. Option 3 would not have been a smart choice for wearing all day, if I valued the integrity of my testicles. Option 4 seemed uncomfortable as well, and as my buttcrack is not known for cleanliness, it seemed kinda gross. Option 1 would've been smart, but I was horny and daring, so I chose to wear a jockstrap.

At first it seemed like a good idea. I've been trying to figure out ways of expressing my exhibitionist tendencies without flashing my poor coworkers; after all, I've been going to H&M weekly to try on linen pants and workout pants without underwear, just to admire the dorsal ridge of my penis.

The problem was, jockstraps have a little bump of fabric at the bottom, where all the straps come together. I was sure that bump was sticking out, making it look as though I'd taken a minor dump in my pants. All day, I kept reaching back to touch that bump; an innocent observer would've thought I was picking a wedgie. In the bathroom, I turned my butt to the mirror and tried to figure out if it looked funny. I couldn't be sure.

I do want to make use of my jocks! Wearing them with tight pants certainly ain't the answer.

The Next Awards

I’ve been thinking more about wanting vs. being wanted, and I realized why I was so popular as a dancer: it was because I gave the impression that I desired anyone who looked at me. So before people could decide whether I was hot, I mixed the thrill of being wanted into the pot. Sometimes it backfired, and the guy would try to take me home without tipping, but in general, it worked.

Also, I am somewhat convinced that when I was in my sexually formative years – ages 12 to 20 maybe – it wasn’t that I wanted men’s bodies necessarily, rather that I wanted to be wanted by men as opposed to women. I think, had I been open to women wanting me, I would’ve become attracted to their bodies instead.

An older friend of mine who isn’t gay (but probably is anyway) said that he always craved the feeling of being held, and that he didn’t care whether it was man or woman doing the holding. He said he sees that in my boyfriend, that my boyfriend needs to be held. But I think I need to be held, too. Is there a service out there where hot men hold guys but don’t make any moves on them? Is that the definition of a bottom, someone who wants to be held?

***

I wouldn’t have gone to the Next Awards tonight, except my old compadre Zak asked me nicely. So much for learning to say no. I showed up fashionably late and stood around, feeling unremarkable. After having gone to clubs and been one of the main attractions, it seems kinda pointless to go to clubs at all. Most of all, I was glad I wasn't dancing. I was glad to be dressed. I’m happy I went, though, because I saw a bunch of guys who I’d known in my go-go life: Johnny McGovern, Aaron Tanner, a heavily glittered Chase the go-go boy and my dear Daniel Nardicio.

When I looked at the faces in the crowd, I thought, if any of these guys asked to take me home, I could easily say no, not because they’re not hot but because I’m in a place where I feel comfortable saying no. Maybe I’ve taken a step toward maturity, but maturity doesn’t seem to me a set of stairs; it’s more like a conveyor belt that’s running in both directions at once, and it’s never really clear which way is the right way. I bet if it were a different night, I would’ve been on their cocks like, well, like a slut on cocks.

The thrill of being wanted

I cruised a homeless guy the other day.

From 20 yards away, he looked kinda cute. Older. As he approached, I realized he lacked a number of important teeth. The lining of his jacket was frayed. And his eyes were sallow.

He asked me for money in all the usual ways: Need subway fare, from out of town and can't get home, was robbed, blah, blah. (I'm heartless.)

Is it possible that I've been just a little hornier than usual?

I also repeated my newfound habit of trying on clothes in the nude. I went to H&M to get clothes (btw, does anyone know any designers that make clothes for really skinny people?), and I tried on some pants without underwear just to see how my penis looked in them. It looked great, and I bought them. Then I went to Rainbows & Triangles -- that's the bookstore, right? -- and tried on a swimsuit in the back. They have my favorite kind of changing room, the curtain in the back of the store. And despite how great I felt in that swimsuit, in the back of that store, with the curtain open just a crack, I restrained myself from buying it.

At some point in all this, I realized something profound. I'm attracted to people being attracted to me. It's bizarre (and probably completely obvious to everyone reading this). Yes, hot bodies turn me on, but just as commonly, guys wanting me turns me on with just the same intensity.

That's why I've slept with so many unattractive guys, and it's why I have such a hard time saying no. It's why I love to cruise, and why I had such an easy time getting hard when dancing. I like being wanted.

I decided to try to separate the feelings, wanting and being wanted, to see if I can stop acting -- forever -- on being wanted. It's never good unless I want it too, because the high from being wanted lasts only a few minutes.

This isn't as easy at I make it sound. Usually, I want the guy a little bit and am wanted a whole lot, and it all feels like something I want. But there is a difference, and I'm determined to learn to dectect it.

Life in pants

As of this morning, my superfluous-cash jar is empty (and therefore truly superfluous). It's been empty before, but its emptiness has never meant anything until now. Oh no, wait, there's one more dollar, crumpled at the bottom. OK, now it's empty. There are a couple of business cards and a condom in there, but gone are the thick rolls of bills, unfurling at the top.

What does this mean? That I'll no longer be ashamed of buying my Propecia with 56 wrinkled singles. That I won't be buying any more TVs with cash. I don't have to start pinching pennies -- I just got a raise at work, and have been given a $3,000 writing project -- but it was nice not to feel guilty about spending two dollars on a soda.

That's how it's been with all the changes between go-go life and regular-Joe life. Subtle.

For example, my underwear basket used to have three classes of underwear: Underwear that can't be worn with tight pants (because it does nothing to mask the shape of my penis), underwear that can be worn with tight pants and $20 underwear that needs to be saved for go-go dancing. I've suddenly got all this fantastic underwear to wear any day of the week, and I wonder, should I get rid of the underwear that doesn't make me feel sexy? What's the point in not feeling sexy, when it's so easy to do?

I've also got a few jockstraps; not sure what to do with those. When do normal people wear jockstraps? I mean, these ones aren't designed for baseball players. Do people wear jockstraps to work? I sort of feel like I should give them away, but on the other hand, I don't want to part with them. I sat on a lot of faces in those jockstraps, you know.

There's more. Every time I didn't have anything to write in my blog, I considered writing a piece on trimming. I'm not a hairy guy, but I'm also not eleven. I used to lie on the bed like a dining Roman, hold a mirror behind my butt and snip the hairs down there. I also clipped a few hairs off my balls, off the base of my shaft and out from under my arms. Every time I almost wrote about hair care, I did it to see if other people trim as I do. But then I thought, this is a ridiculous topic, and kind of gross. Now, not only does it not seem like a ridiculous topic, but I've stopped trimming in the first place. I guess this means I can stop worrying about cutting the skin off my balls.

One nice change is that I can cum whenever I want now. Before, I had to be careful not to cum within 24 hours (or preferably, 48) of my performance. If I did, I might not be horny for my big show. Now, I cum when I feel like it, though in truth, I haven't been doing it any more than before. Maybe twice a week. Even when I'm not out at all hours, I'm just too tired to cum more often.

What else? I no longer walk around with a stack of Confessions business cards. I knew this would happen when I ordered 1,000 of them. I have 900 left that probably will never be used. Maybe I'll have a ritual burning on my sidewalk. Maybe I'll just drop them one at a time on the street, like a renegade realtor (don't make me explain).

I took all my "private pictures" off DList.com, too. I just figured, why should I be spreading my legs all over the Internet if I'm not using it to get more adoring fans? It's a big time-saver: I used to get 20 friend requests a day; now that I have no private pictures, I get about three.

And that's it. The transformation is complete. I'm a civilian.

Or at least I will be once I spend this last dollar.

Little bundle of joy

Since there's nothing to write about, that's what I'll write about: nothing.

I'm totally cut off from sexual situations. I don't work out, so there's no cockspotting in the locker room. I don't go-go dance, so there's no random penis-touching. I don't live in Chelsea, so there are no quickies. And I don't enjoy Internet porn or cybersex, so that's not an option, either.

I see this as a good thing, a cooling-down period, an experiment. I'm settling comfortably into the life of a husband. I'm seeing if monogamy suits me. I think it does. It's far more relaxing not to be constantly glancing around to see who's in to me on the subway, or whose cock is outlined through his pants. OK, so I've looked at a few crotches, but not hungrily.

I've taken all that desire for stranger-touch, wrapped it up in a tight package and stored it in the corner of my brain. Most days, I don't even come across it. Sometimes, though, I brush up against it and tear the packaging, and all that desire flows back in, every which way. It's usually an easy matter to clean it up and wrap it back up again. When I can, I try to siphon some of it off into sex with my boyfriend. I wonder, though, if that won't be enough. If I don't give it an outlet, will it overwhelm me?

On Saturday I tried on a pair of linen pants at H&M, without my underwear on. They hung down past the edge of my pubic hair. You would've known I was naked if you looked very closely. I imagined myself walking down the boardwalks of Fire Island Pines in them, letting myself get hard and showing off to all the guys. I didn't buy the pants; they were $30. And when would I wear them?

Confessions of an (ex-) go-go dancer

And so I begin.

Not much in the sexual realm has happened to me this week, so I thought I'd start by backtracking to the point I decided to give up dancing and giving a status update on my quest for pure-hearted monogamy. I'm past being hurt by people who forecast the demise of my relationship, because it's simply not going to happen. But you're still welcome to make predictions.

Scene one: Hanging out with "Casey," a soon-to-be go-go boy. He found me on dlist and suggested we grab coffee. I thought, why not? So we chatted over coffee, and then I took him on an errand. My next errand was to buy something wonderfully comforting for myself, as suggested by a book I'm reading. So I thought, why not Universal Gear? They have some fun stuff; maybe I'll want some underwear or something.

We went to Universal Gear and I thought it might be fun to try on swimsuits. This was my unconscious mind telling me I wanted to see my penis in a variety of sexy coverings. We picked out a bunch of suits, and I suggested we try them on in the same locker room. I wanted us to be the level of friends who could try on bathingsuits together and just have it be frolicky.

So we did, and it was a lot of fun. Casey got hard right away, but I stayed pretty soft, given my new effort not to hook up with anyone. I didn't even touch him. In the future, I probably shouldn't go into dressing rooms with other boys, but I proved to myself that I could keep my hands off.

Scene two: At the end of Daniel's Jungle Juice party. I had to pee, which happens after drinking water all night, so I went into one of the bathrooms and did just that. Another fellow, drunk off his gourd, stood next to me in front of the toilet and started stroking his cock.

I said, "I'm not interested, thanks." He kept stroking. I looked him in the eye and said, as firmly as I ever have, "No. I don't want that." He apologized and pulled up his underwear.

Somehow this kind of story isn't quite as hot when I'm not the slutty go-go boy.

Scene three: I go into a bathroom at a restaurant, and there are two urinals, positioned for perfect penis viewing. To my surprise, I am not excited by this. I pee and leave.

Scene four: I'm at work, and I look at some pictures of one of the Cirque du Soleil shows. There's one shot of a bald guy balancing on the head of another bald guy (can you name the show?). I'm suddenly hot for these guys. And I think, that's OK, right? I can be attracted to men without swallowing every baguette that's thrust in my face, no?

Maybe next week's entry will be more, uh, stimulating.

The morning after

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.

Of the last verses in the book

I think it was Daniel that once commented that the shelf life of a go-go boy is about a year. After that year of pleasure, they get sick of acting the monkey or of staying up so late, or they simply find a guy and settle down. A few tough (and age-defying) souls stay on into their thirties and forties, graduating to Splash and the Roxy when their tenure as a boy has ended. I don't know how they do it.

I was probably ready to throw in the towel (that is, the postage-stamp towel covering my genitals) a few months ago. The thing is, I'm simply not good at closure. It's just not my style. I can't say goodbye till I've been blown by every last homo in the room.

So I guess I have that Marriott guest to thank for the end of my dancing life. I also want to thank the haters who, after I blogged about the incident, posted things like, "Your relationship is doomed," because it hurt me enough to tell my boyfriend. He read my blog for the first time since the very beginning, and he found out a lot of things about my dancing that he wasn't expecting.

On Saturday, we were in Williams Sonoma, the Restoration Hardware of the gay gourmand set, when he said, "We never really talked about what I read in your blog."

"Oh?" No one plays dumb like me.

"Well, first of all, it's really well written. You're amazing at it. The writing feels so natural, and then each entry wraps up with a nice tight fffprt(!)." With my boyfriend, the harshest criticisms are preceded by praise. He continued: "But there's something else. You said that you only had a few slip-ups since you started dancing, but I read just two weeks worth of entries, and what are there...? A dozen?"

I thought he had read just the last few posts. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry for all those things."

He turned toward me. "Are you? Really? Because I don't think you are."

Pause. "Well, I'm sorry that I did anything to hurt you."

"We agreed that you wouldn't do those things. Masturbating on camera? Lap dances? Look at me when I'm talking to you."

I had indeed agreed to those things, but I never actually believed in any of them. "I'm sorry about all that, I really am. Can't we just start over? I promise, I'll be better."

"I think if you really wanted to start over, you'd stop go-go dancing."

At first his pronouncement hurt. How could I give up getting paid to be naked? And then it hit me. I wanted to stop. I was sick of late nights, sick of sharing my body with anyone who wanted it, sick of all the drama, the diplomacy, the endless parade of erections. And I had proven that I couldn't control myself in charged situations. I just wanted out.

The "Your relationship is doomed" comments also made me think that, though my relationship is not doomed, maybe it could be stronger. It wasn't good to promise monogamy and to go-go around doing inappropriate things. Because in real life, when someone who's not your boyfriend wants to see your penis, you don't show it to them. Or you might show it to them but you don't let them touch it. When someone wants to videotape you sitting on a chair and shooting a load, you say no.

So here's my new modus operandi. I'm going to stop spending my sexual energy on strangers. That means no dancing, no watching pornography, no being in pornography, no letting sales clerks fondle me in the store. No lap dances, no accidental cumming in bars, no erotic massage, no fifty dollar blow jobs. No steam room. No cruising. (Well, as little cruising as I can manage. I could cruise in my sleep.) The slope is already slippery; it's even more slippery when there's cum all over it.

Instead of all these sexual outlets that I've been wasting my erections on, for the next year, I'm going to direct all my horniness toward my boyfriend. For one year, he gets every drop of my semen, every square inch of my tanless skin. When I masturbate, I'm going to think only of him. If someone asks me for sex, I'm going to say no, first politely, then vehemently.

This won't be easy. If you know why I went into that hotel room at the Marriott, you know more about me than most other readers of this blog. Even if you don't know why I went into that hotel room, you know why this won't be easy.

But I plan to try. And I plan to blog about it. If I succeed completely, my prose will be boring. One can only hope that my readership plummets.

For those of you who had planned to see me dance but never got around to it, you have one more chance, this Friday, at Daniel's D-List party. I still will dance that night, but that will be my official retirement party. Come by to say goodbye. Or to touch my penis and see if you can get your finger into my rectum up to the third knuckle.

After that, no more dancing. I mean, I can't promise there won't be a farewell tour or an open-ended run in Vegas, but come on, I'm only human.

From my boyfriend

My sweet sweetie posted this as a comment but asked that it be posted on the blog proper. So here it is. (And for the record, I don't mind people making observations that may be critical, but I think there's a line of disrespect that a lot of people crossed.) OK, here it is:

"To the non-believers, I, the boyfriend, am posting. It's true that I don't read this blog, although apparently some of you find this impossible to believe. I understand that dancing is something my partner, who commits himself to my health and happiness in almost every corner of his life, needs. Because I'm the one who pushes for monogamy, and because he gives it to me, I give him the dubious privilege of being fawned over by warehouses full of shirtless men who want him, and having to turn all of them down, blue-balled, for me.

"Although his dancing and this blog are something our relationship allows, it's not something I'm always comfortable with. I, unlike everyone reading this, am not aroused by the stories he can tell; I mostly get sad when I hear them. So no, I don't read this blog.

"I did read it tonight when my boyfriend seemed near tears over the responses that started coming in from his last post. I don't think it's anyone's responsibility to keep criticism to himself; I don't think a blog really counts as a blog unless it brings in some borderline abusive comments. But I do want at least to step in and back my boyfriend up.

"Anyone who's posted that we should break up is wrong. When your beloved go-go reporter told me about this incident, I listened as well as I could, past the decisions I couldn't understand (e.g., going up to the guy's hotel room, getting on the guy's bed) and through to my partner's weird feelings of violation that even he couldn't quite rationalize. I'm not sure I consider this man an intended rapist, but I don't have to in order to understand that something strange and difficult happened for my partner that night -- more strange and difficult than a lukewarm fuck with a mediocre guy. Whether it was because of someone else's agression or my boyfriend's internal paralysis, this was not a source of arousal for him. not erotic fiction and not erotic fact. just sad. Thanks to the few of you understood this. (If it had been arousing to him, by the way, we would still not be breaking up. This would qualify as one of those slip-ups we've already discussed. No elaborate rape narratives required to justify these moments.)

"We're both taking this as an opportunity to learn how my partner can better assert his own desires in the future. I'm also taking this opportunity to remind my partner -- someone truly exceptional in his eagerness to learn from life, to be good to his loved ones, and, apparently, to please almost everyone else -- that I love him. Although I honestly haven't sussed out exactly how I'd summarize this whole incident in a quick paragraph (by the way, I do apologize for how crazy high school longwinded this is; I can't seem to organize all this any other way!), I just wanted to confirm that my partner has a partner who knows just as much as his readers do and loves him very much -- far more because of all this knowledge than despite it."

To all my perfect readers

"how is this 'not totally your fault'...like someone else said, you weren't forced into going up to that hotel room with the total stranger. serious, if i was your boyfriend, and he knew that you were in a hotel room jerking some guy off, i mean, i would fucking dump you. i don't know if you have a 'open relationship' or whatever, but within the normal confines of a relationship, doing what you did just doesn't seem right. i really feel bad for your boyfriend.you lead a sad life my friend..."

OK, so this is just lovely. I guess any blogger opens himself up to death by flame, but I must say, it doesn't feel good.

1) If you want to believe the last post was fiction, that's fine. But it's not. This happened, almost verbatim, as did everything else in this blog. If you want to think it's hot, that's fine too. But it kind of sucked for me. I kind of feel molested. These things are hot and not hot at the same time, the way real sexual experience can be sometimes.

2) I think it's a little insensitive to suggest that I shouldn't be with my boyfriend. We've been together 2.5 years, we consider each other "partner" (as much as I despise that bloodless term), and we're perfect for each other. He knows that I have certain weaknesses, and I'm open about what happens. We're in a monogamous relationship, but a few slipups is OK with him, as it is with me. We both have things to work on. Mine is saying no to sexual encounters.

Usually I'm good at it. When I'm in the power position as a go-go boy, it's easy for me to say no. But even when I've got my clothes on, I get into a situation that could get messy about once a week. Part of it is my own doing, my own issues, and part of it is that I'm a skinny young gay man in Manhattan. I'm cool in most of those situations, but sometimes it gets difficult. When you've got a good-looking guy standing in front of you with a grand tumescence in his undies, asking you for fifteen minutes straight to come upstairs, it can be hard to say no, especially when he won't take no for an answer. I didn't want to have sex with him -- and I didn't -- but I was ambivalent. It got me into trouble.

I don't want a lot of pity, but a little understanding would be nice. I write this blog to let you guys live a tiny piece of my life. I'm honest in what I write; I just wish you would keep your criticisms to yourself.

No means no

I was waiting for a friend tonight in the lobby of the Marriott Marquis. It was 9:30; he was supposed to arrive at 9. I was reading a book.

A meaty guy, about 40 years old, with thin blond hair and wearing most of a suit, was talking on his phone when he stopped next to me. When he finished his conversation, he said, "You're not from around here, are you?"

That startled me. "No, I live here. Why do you say that?"

"You just look like you're from out of town."

"Don't I look pretty chic?" I was wearing a white short-sleeve Calvin Klein shirt, tight blue corduroys and black Kenneth Cole shoes. Pretty New Yorkie to me.

"You look pretty hot," he said, then turned to me. "Want to see my fat cock? It's getting hard. Come on up to my room and I'll show it to you."

I didn't know what to say. I started giggling. I wasn't going up to this guy's room. Indeed, though, his cock was pressing against the inside of his trousers.

"I'll bet you have a big cock too," he said.

"No, not really."

"Come on up to my room. We'll have some fun."

"Sorry, I have a boyfriend. I can't." I smiled at him.

"You're so hot. Come up to my room. It's on the fifteenth floor."

"I'm waiting for a friend."

"Come on up. I'll give you a massage while you wait."

Here I have to condense the conversation a bit, but ten minutes elapsed. I thought maybe the way to get him to leave me alone was to give him my Confessions business card and tell him to come by when I'd be dancing. In retrospect, that wasn't a good idea. He only pulled harder.

Then I thought, maybe my friend sent him down here to lure me up there, to play a trick on me. When I arrived, he'd be there waiting with a beer in hand. I mean, how likely is it that a strange man so persistently wants me to be in his bed? I could always go upstairs, see if he was there, and come back downstairs if he wasn't.

"What time was he supposed to get here?" asked the man.

"Nine o'clock."

He showed me his watch. It was 9:45.

"OK, I'm just going up to see if he's there."

"Whatever," he said, and headed for the elevators. I wondered if I really wanted him to be there. Maybe a massage would be sort of nice, I thought to myself. Then I banished the thought. I wanted to see my friend, not get naked with some stranger when I'm really supposed to be monogamous.

The room was empty. I couldn't believe it.

He started taking off his clothes, then my clothes, then his clothes. "You are so fucking hot."

"Stop," I said. "I don't want to do this."

He kissed me; I dodged and a wet tongue landed on my cheek. His breath smelled of beer, sour and humid.

He pulled out his cock, and the massive thing stared at me with one gaping eye. "Touch it," he said.

I thought, maybe if I touch it, that'll be enough. I touched it. He stripped off more clothes; I helped. I didn't want this, but I didn't mind it, and I didn't know how to get out of there. "No, stop, please, stop," I said.

"Come on," he said. "Kiss me."

My boyfriend called. I wanted to pick it up but was afraid he'd find out this was happening. I didn't pick it up.

I thought, maybe if I lie on his bed, he'll lie next to me and be civil. Or he'll give me that massage he mentioned. I like massage.

He hopped next to me lay on top of me, then kept planting wet kisses all over my face, and pushing his cock against my butt. Was I going to be raped? Was this already rape?

I pushed him off. "I have a boyfriend. I don't want to do this. Please."

"Just one lick," he said, sticking it in my face. I didn't lick it. He rolled onto his back and pulled me with him. "You're so fucking hot, I can't believe it."

"You're hot too," I said, meekly, "but I don't want to have sex with you."

I stood up and started to put my clothes back on. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

He stood up too. "Just hold on to it. There, now stroke it. I like it rough."

I stroked it a bit, then started putting on my shoes. One shoe, stroking it. The second shoe, more stroking. Then I was ready to go. I picked up my briefcase.

He was about to cum. "Touch my ass. Squeeze my ass! Yeah!" He came in paroxysms all over the chenille cummerbund. That cum is going to be there for the next guest, I realized.

As he was cooling down, I said goodbye and left. I tried not to cry.

My friend never came.