Confessions of an (Ex-)Go-Go Dancer

How to disappear completely

2006-10-22T21:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-11T00:02:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-04T23:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-03T21:02:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-27T21:17:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-26T22:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-20T21:48:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-09-12T21:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-08T21:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-31T19:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-28T23:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-24T10:17:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-20T19:36:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-15T18:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-10T22:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-05T17:54:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-30T19:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-29T00:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-28T21:14:00.000-04:00

"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

2006-07-25T23:19:00.000-04:00

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.

Once on this island

2006-07-23T12:55:00.000-04:00

I spent Friday night through Saturday afternoon on Fire Island -- though if any of you came to find me dance, I regret to say that I was wrong about where I was! I thought I was dancing at the Pavilion; instead I was at a little island bar called Sunset's in Cherry Grove. If you did come all the way to Fire Island partially in hopes of touching my ho-ho, then e-mail me and I'll make it up to you. If I didn't have such a perfect boyfriend, I'd come over to your house and cum all over you (or let you cum all over me; whichever seems hot to you). Instead, I'll just give you a free lap dance at the next party we're mutually at (but not a child's birthday party).

For those of you who haven't been, Fire Island is essentially summer camp for gays. There's an activity schedule (low tea, high tea, late night dances), and a general atmosphere of community. Walking down the boardwalks yesterday, I said hi to just about everyone I passed. Anyone I saw more than twice, I started up a conversation with. Also like summer camp, there's plenty of skinny dipping and a section of woods (the Meat Rack) where you can go off to make out with your honey -- or participate in a six-man orgy, never having seen any of them in the light.

Cruising at Fire Island works differently than in, say, Chelsea. In Chelsea you stare someone down as you pass, then stop and turn around to see if they did the same. On Fire Island, guys would stare at me as they approached, then stop in front of me, raise their eyebrows suggestively and say hi. I guess people are just that much friendlier out there.

I had planned on sitting/walking on the beach and writing/observing, but the weather was too tropically depressing. Instead I found a few friends, old and new, to hang out with before my go-go call. Turned out Tim was going to be the other dancer, which was a pleasant surprise. Of the dancers, he's probably the most intellectual... though there are a bunch of smart guys in the field.

I had planned to nap extensively before dancing, but I never got a round tuit, so I was yawning even before we started. (The night was trailer-trash themed, so I was Cleatus and Tim was something like Bobby Ray.) Normally, I would've gotten revved up by the patrons, but there were only like 20 people there, half women, and the tipping was sparse.

Tim had a boner going, but I need external stimulation. I sat in one guy's lap for a few seconds and got a hard-on, but it was clear he wasn't planning on tipping, so I didn't return. At one point I saw a bunch of guys go into a boat to have an orgy. They were below deck, but every so often one of them would emerge, naked, to get something, and that turned me on. But for the most part, it was a super-caszh night.

The night was redeemed because I got to watch Porsche the drag queen. She is so fantastic! She's the only drag queen I've ever seen that actually sounds like a woman, and a funny, sophisticated woman at that! Her singing voice is spectacular, as well -- you haven't lived till you've seen a drag queen doing Janis Joplin. If anyone has a link to her website or some photos, let me know!

The people who worked for the bar, including me, were staying in "the compound," a house with a sort of trailer-park motif: pressed-wood walls, 13-inch TV with bad reception, magazines everywhere. But the accommodations were far better than last year, when I slept on a saggy wicker couch in a room with six other guys. I slept on a couch this time, but at least I had sheets -- and it wasn't saggy.

I went to bed just before 4 and fell asleep immediately, and slept dreamlessly until 10:30. When I woke, there were two guys talking on the couch, Joey and Michael. Michael deejayed Saturday nights at the bar, and Joey was a bartender. Somehow the conversation turned sexual, and in the spirit of good go-go boy karma, I took off my shorts to let them touch my penis. Joey seemed skittish about the whole thing, but pleased nonetheless. Michael gave me a fantastic foot rub and may have wanted to sleep with me, but baring penis is one thing and hooking up totally another.

And in case you were wondering, I did wear my new swimsuit, but only for about 10 minutes on the beach that morning, and the whole time, it was raining. I'll have to go back just so I can wear the damn thing!

Adult swim

2006-07-20T20:11:00.000-04:00

I sort of felt like buying things today. I haven't bought clothes in any substantial way since December, and it seemed like the perfect way to spend a late afternoon.

First I went to It, a new (I think) boutique in Chelsea. I didn't plan on buying anything there, since Chelsea clothes are out of my price range, but I felt like browsing. You know, late afternoon. Shopper's spirit.

The salesman's body welcomed me as soon as I stepped in the door. His pecs were rock hard and bulging out of his shirt. His package was chock full.

In truth, I was sort of looking for a swimsuit for my Fire Island excursion tomorrow, so I started flipping through suits. The $40 to $60 price range seemed a bit steep for something I like to pay $10 to $20 for, but today was a good day.

The sales guy asked if I wanted to try any on. He showed me a Tulio suit, from Brazil; it was light blue with a stripe that curved intriguingly around the butt. I liked the color. I asked him if I had to leave my underwear on; he said no. (Here's the suit.)

Just thinking about the changing rooms revs my adrenaline. They're two curtained-off spaces in the store. The curtains didn't close all the way, either. He was watching me change. By the time I dropped my drawers, I was already hard.

I put the bathingsuit on and forced my stiff cock downward, then stepped out and looked in the mirror. You could see the veins through the suit. He was mostly impressed with my butt, however, a part of me I often overlook, given that it's not staring up at me. "Are you a dancer?" he asked. Yes, I told him. But only part time.

He handed me a red pair and a green pair, and I tried those on, too. By this time, my cock was so hard, I couldn't push it down. I just pushed it to the side. Had an old lady wandered into the store right then, I think my dick would've killed her.

He rubbed my ass a little and asked if I wanted to try on a bikini brief. This time I didn't bother closing the curtain. He watched me change.

"I usually push my dick down," he said. I told him that I couldn't; it was too hard. I tried, and it just poked straight out. I went to take off the suit, and he came into the dressing "room" and stroked my penis and butt a little. Had he gone down on me there, I wouldn't have been able to stop him.

But he wasn't going to risk his job. When I went to check out, he showed me a picture of himself on his phone. He's all dick. Nine? Ten? Eleven inches? Uncut. The whole thing looked like a bone-in ham, swinging in the breeze.

I'll snap a photo of me in the suit when my boyfriend gets home with the camera. It's like nudity, but light blue.

***

OK, here are the photos:

I never said I wasn't a whore

2006-07-18T19:59:00.000-04:00

The idea has come to me to make a little cash from this blog. Originally I intended it to be ad-free, but then the DList people came a-knockin', and I love them, so I had to say yes.

And then I had the idea of making money... As long as there's a banner on my site, might as well have two, right?

Here's the deal. If you love me, click on the right-hand banner and sign up. I get money. If you love me but want that ad off the site, don't click on the banner. As far as I understand, if I make less than $50 from it, I make nothing.

My rate card

2006-07-16T13:44:00.000-04:00

I've always refused to do any prostitution, but recently I've given it some thought. But not prostitution of the illegal kind. I'm a pretty terrible lay, and since I haven't been fucked in years, you'd be lucky to fit your finger in there. I'd be someone's wedding date, though.

I'm pretty much your dream boyfriend: cute, smooth-skinned and full of smiles and charm. I even went to Harvard. Sure, I'd charge a lot ($200/hour, and $100/hour after the first five hours), but really, isn't it worth ten times that much to make all your friends jealous? I'll even kiss you in public. And if you want your mother to catch us fucking in the parlor, we can stage something.

Sunday edition

2006-07-16T13:27:00.000-04:00

One thing you should know is that I'm definitely dancing Friday night on Fire Island. I think at the Pavilion at Fire Island Pines. If you have any desire to go to Fire Island, you might as well go next weekend and hang out with yours truly (xoxo).

The second thing is that I think I'm going to get my pictures taken in a non-rated-X manner. I've found a photog who wants to and seems to do pretty classy stuff. It's like all the things I love all rolled in to one: Posing in various states of undress, having someone tell me I'm hot and getting something for free!

I'm almost up to 500 hits a day on this site (here if you're reading this from DList), which is pretty phenomenal. Pretty soon I'll be able to stop clicking "refresh" 495 times a day just to boost my hit count.

BTW, someone asked me a few days ago where the best dance parties were in NYC now, and I really had no idea. I mean, I've heard of a bunch and I've been to a few, but all this staying up late has turned me into a total homebody. No one likes going to bed at 11 as much as I do. As you can guess, I'm killer in bed.

Settling the score

2006-07-11T21:57:00.000-04:00

Many of you wondered what had happened to all those videos of me whacking off. Well, I don't think either one is going into wide release. I just don't want my face splattered all over the gay porn circuit -- just in case I find myself employed by someone who knows. I felt bad about the first one, though, because I got a hundred smackers for it. So I offered to do a reshoot. Today was the reshoot.

This time, I was on the bed, and the camera was six inches from my penis. I had to relearn the basics of porn (most importantly, keep your hands out of the way of the shot), but otherwise, the stroking was pretty enjoyable.

The my videographer got involved. He grabbed my balls, tugged a bit on my wang, and even took his out and masturbated. The already gray line began to blur. But it was fine; this was just a matter of business, of paying back my debt. In a moment, I came in gushy gobs. One last shot of the dying animal and we cleaned up.

If you're intrepid, you might just find that video in the next few days.

Job posting

2006-07-11T21:40:00.000-04:00

I know a lot of men read this blog, but how about sizzling young boys (18+, of course)?

I've been asked for help finding hotties for a little porn gig. I actually don't know how hardcore it is, but you can always find out. Here's his query:

"i need some help finding models to film for a website i scout for. just please keep your eyes and ears open for me. i need guys that look like you. the boy next door. but cutier. ya know?"

If you're cute, interested and on dlist, just send a message to "nudemales". If you're just cute and interested, send me one at gogoboy1@gmail.com, with a picture of yourself.

Last night at the whorehouse

2006-07-03T14:42:00.000-04:00

Does anybody else write naked? My most mellifluous prose comes when I'm wearing nothing but glasses. Once, my boyfriend complained that I was always naked, and he got me to put underwear on sometimes, which obviously hampered my flow. I'm accepting applications for new boyfriends; tolerance for nudity and willingness to let me be fondled by strangers are musts; extreme wealth is a plus.

Anyway, I just woke up recently after spending a few hours batting around my erection at China One (as I'm told it's called), a restaurant that I would not eat at if you paid me. The cum in that carpet could fill a swimming pool. Maybe I'd do takeout.

I made a cherry rhubarb cobbler just now, but it doesn't taste as good as strawberry rhubarb. I always thought cherries tasted good when cooked. And these were fine cherries, from the farmer's market! I welcome any tips.

I'm afraid to say that that's the most interesting thing that's happened since 11 pm yesterday. I'll list the rest, but dancing has become for me like a job I enjoy. It's fun, and I usually like going, but there's nothing to write home about.

Let's see... Instead of the usual red, there was a blue light trained on the dancer's block by the deejay booth. I can't remember the physics of it, but it made my body appear bright white and my dick bright red. This can't be hot, I thought, and yet the tips flowed steadily in.

The highlight of the soiree was watching Joel whack off. I can't tell if he's acting or if he's feeling preorgasmic all night, but his facial expressions deserve a Tony. When are they going to extend the scope of the Tonys to the East Village, the incubator of great realist theater? At the end of the night, a bunch of cuties huddled around him and gave him what looked like the hand job of his life. I wasn't sure which body part would explode first.

An educated fellow named Ty took a liking to me, and handed me a ten with his number written on it. I'm sorry to say that I don't call numbers given to me when I'm dancing, though you can always e-mail me. And isn't there a law against writing on currency?

I have a five-dollar bill framed on my desk from a childhood friend of mine (well, I was a child and he was in his 70s). He gave it to me for my Bar Mitzvah, which might seem like a stingy gift, except on the back, written in pencil in his handwriting, is a diary of sorts. A very short diary: "Left U.S. March 10th 44. Arrived Cardiff Wales March 26th 44."

I gave just one lap dance last night but somehow ended up with two twenties. Folks, if you're giving me anything larger than a single, you have to make some effort to show it to me. Else I don't realize what I'm getting. That, and I will do almost anything for twenty dollars.

I won't say which dancer, but one who I think is incontrovertibly hot said I could stick my dick in his asshole. The thought of it turns me on even now, but is it just me or can you get HIV doing that? I considered putting a condom on, but then I didn't think it would fly with my sweet babboo if I started fucking someone on stage.

"Looking for Love" in the Middle East

2006-07-03T14:27:00.000-04:00

I got an e-mail from one "Muscled Texan" a few days ago. I hope it's OK that I'm sharing our conversation. (If it's not, Mr. Texan, let me know and I'll remove it.)

Him: I'm vacationing for 2 weeks in Sept in Europe or Asia. Interested in coming along?

Me: Hi! Very generous of you to offer, but I think my boyfriend might be a little hesitant to send me. ;)

Him: Dam. All the good ones are taken. ;)
Know of any other hot muscular athletic dudes who might wanna go?

Me: Wouldn't most people be wary of going on vacation with a complete stranger? I mean, what if you hate the guy? It'd be like the first few weeks of a divorce.
Maybe you'd have more success just going to the Roxy and fishing. Three years ago, I would've gone to Asia with a stranger.

Him: I'll come clean. I'm working in the middle east in a location I'm not allowed to talk about. I work everyday, all day. My internet is filtered to the max. I'm 40, younger looking than I really am with 42"C, 31"W, 7.5D cut. Bald by choice, not as muscular as I used to be before coming over almost 2 years ago, but still not fat (notice waist size). Never really spent the whole night with a guy in my adult life. Not real interested in topping or bottoming, but might top. Frot sounds cool, oral of course. I'm not out, believe it or not, and am Drug & Disease Free & would want the same. I have a profile on outpersonals muscledtexan92. I'm a Type B, very easy to get along with. Doing some really cool humanitarian stuff here on my off hours...getting some press now.

[Note: I had to look up the word "frot." I learned something today.]

Me: Hm, very interesting. I'll pass your message along, though do understand if you don't get any takers.
I hope things work out for you; sounds like a tough life.

Him: I understand perfectly. I'm surrounded by other contractors who don't work out, eat like pigs and frankly look like pigs too. Lots of soldiers say I very much have a military look, and carry myself like a soldier. I don't look like the typical contractor, so I get a lot of stares of soldiers trying to figure out who I am...special forces, hired gun or contractor...
It's really cool to be here with all these warrior types - literally. So much testosterone flowing, so much competition, guys muscling up, coming into the chow hall all buffed and pumped from working out. Wearing skimpy running shorts and tight T-shirts, showing literally EVERY bulging muscle. There's enough beefcake here to load up 400 calendars with 12 beefs for every page. But I dare not make sport of them, because one wrong move, I've just lost my high - income job. Frustrating, but reality.
Thanks for yor help...

***

Now, I can't say with certainty that he's not a serial killer, because everything I know about him is printed above (except his name). But for someone out there, this sounds like that bit of synchronicity that you've waited your whole life for. And even if you deem it unwise to go on vacation with him, maybe you could get him to put a hidden camera in the showers.

For those of you who skimmed (and yes, I'm a skimmer too), his outpersonals profile is muscledtexan92.

May it lead to many steamy nights of frot.

More dancing

2006-07-01T14:42:00.000-04:00

Just a quick note to say that I'll be dancing tomorrow (Sunday, July 2nd) night at Daniel's #1 Chinese party. So come on down for a lap dance!

Life ends at 40

2006-06-29T21:52:00.000-04:00

I got an e-mail yesterday with the subject as the name of my first boyfriend. At first I was excited. I hadn't heard from him since he stopped talking to me more than two years ago, not long after we broke up. I had been wondering if he would ever speak to me again.

But something was odd about the e-mail. It was from an anonymous address, and all it said was, "I was not sure if you had heard and thought you would want to know." There was a link. I clicked on the link.

It was his obituary. He died at 40 years old.

The funny thing was, I wasn't crushed. Yes, he was the first guy I ever loved, but he wasn't a part of my life anymore. None of the fancy restaurants we ate in still reminded me of him. The only sliver of his life that remained inside of me was his apartment building; every time I walked by, I looked in and sort of hoped he'd be looking out. I was still fond of him, partly because we didn't have a messy breakup. We realized we weren't right for each other and broke up after a few days. We were close friends for months afterward, talking on the phone sometimes two and three times a day, and then he got so mad at me over a silly matter of courtesy that he decided never to talk to me again. If his mother taught him anything, it was punctiliousness.

I ran in to him once, a few months after we broke up, on the street. I was with my current boyfriend and wearing a very cute outfit, and I could see he was still angry. But that was it.

I woke up this morning just fine, and went to work just fine. But I was curious about what happened to him. The obit said he died suddenly; I was certain it was drug-related. Here is a roundabout explanation of my certainty.

We met at the Roxy. It was 4 a.m., and guys were starting to look for that night's sexual partner. At 5, guys would line up by the exit and poach those leaving, and at 6 there was a sidewalk sale of los lonely boys who couldn't find anyone in time. This was why it was vital to start looking at 4.

I circled the dance floor and stood next to a hottie. I smiled at him and asked if he wanted to dance. He apologized; he had a boyfriend. After a bit more wandering, I leaned against a wall and watched.

A well muscled fellow walked right up to me and kissed me, before I could even determine whether I was attracted to him. Immediately, my mouth filled with a vile, bitter taste. "It's cocaine," he said. Worried that the cops would catch him with the stuff, he had swallowed the rest of his bag.

I told him to wash out his mouth, and he got an OJ. We sat down in the back of the club. Naturally, I took out my penis, which embarrassed him. "We're in public!" he exclaimed. That's when he took me to his new Chelsea apartment. In the cab he said, "I already know that we'll be friends for the rest of our lives." I spent the night with him. His cock was so fat that when he fucked me, I bled a little. It was the best orgasm I ever had. I came twice in a row, first powerfully and then less so, a sort of echo.

I didn't get a good look at him until the next time I saw him, two weeks later, as he only spent two weekends a month in New York. He looked quite distinguished, but his eyes were perfectly boyish. He was 38, had a steroid-sculpted body and somehow still looked like a child. He was beautiful but ragged and sad, sad, sad.

He always smelled of liquor and hair ointment, and sometimes of body odor, and the combination was always comforting. He was as versed in Sauternes as with a cranberry vodka. He took drugs fearlessly. Cocaine was his drug of the moment; by the time he ended our friendship, he had traded down to marijuana. I knew, though, that the respite wouldn't last. He suffered terribly. When he was drugged, he felt at peace, but sobriety brought back all the pain. He moaned and whined; his plaintive call was sweet and heartbreaking.

"Be careful when setting goals," he said. "You don't want to set them too low." He had achieved all his dreams, had become an incredible success, and he realized there was nowhere to go but down. He taught me that it's better not to have enough money than to have too much, because when you have unlimited money, you habituate and it brings no pleasure.

For all these reasons, I knew he was going to die. I pretended to myself that he'd be fine, but I knew.

So what was it? Overdose? Suicide? Natural causes, from a life of narcotic depredation? I tried to remember what his best friend's name was. I would call his office to get the number of his best friend, and he would tell me.

I didn't reach the friend, but I got another number and talked to someone else, who told me it was a heart attack. Further questioning led to "If you knew him, you'd know what happened." And then, "It was a tragic accident."

Translation: drug overdose, but not suicide. And that was all I'd get.

I started crying. At first I had no idea why: I still wasn't particularly sad about his death. Yet I felt so hungry to talk about it, and just as shut out of his death as I did his life. In isolation, even the tiniest speck of grief multiplies.

Crying felt restorative, and my emotions kept bouncing back and forth between the registers of ecstatically happy and deeply miserable. And still, I was alone.

Fame, infame

2006-06-28T23:47:00.000-04:00

At the Pride parade, an attractive fellow approached me and asked how he knew me. It seems obvious now, doesn't it, but then, I really wracked my brain. Was he a friend of a friend? Had we met at a recent birthday party? Did we work together? Did we pass on the street a few times?

At the time, I thought he might be trying to pick me up (rule number one of the go-go boy: Everyone wants you), so I introduced him to my boyfriend and asked whether they knew each other. Then I gave my boyfriend a kiss, and the guy, not having figured out how we knew each other, walked off.

I immediately realized that he must've seen me dancing somewhere, but I couldn't have known that I'd see him that very night, at #1 Chinese!

I'm much easier to place when I'm stark naked.

***

A quick update on my potential for infamy: I think Mr. G has forgiven me. I think he's a good guy and wouldn't want to screw anyone over, but I also think he was privately angry. But if you guys see errant photos of me on incriminating websites, please send me the link! I probably won't care, but you never know.

In which the rich men return and the go-go boy becomes a porn star and casual whore

2006-06-26T18:59:00.000-04:00

Not long ago, I wondered aloud where all the rich men went. They certainly hadn't been in my underpants for a few months. Maybe it was inevitable, the way roaches come out in the dark, that the rich men would return on Gay Pride.

The rich men, you see, are the best part of dancing. Rich men are almost always relatively attractive, and they often tip in increments of twenty dollars. By day, they buy and sell the world; by night, they buy the affection of this go-go dancer.

Not only did the wealthy return last night, the hotties came back, too. I have never seen so many hot guys in one room as in the basement of #1 Chinese last night. There was one in particular who was maybe 40, judging from the grayness of his hair, who had the kind of body you could marry. I would put a pic of him here, but he didn't allow pictures -- maybe he was some kind of clergyman or politician? (Oh yeah, and I didn't bring my camera.)

One creative fellow asked if I gave lap dances. Of course I do, I said. I give anything that doesn't involve head. So I gave him a lap dance, and he gave me twenty dollars.

Now, I think lap dancing takes similar skills to pole dancing -- just with a smaller pole. I was terrible at it. He pulled down his pants and sat down like he was taking a poo, and I kept changing positions like an insomniac: I sort of rubbed my cock against his shirt front, then turned around and sat on him, then turned around again and kneeled over his lap. Awkwardness notwithstanding, it wasn't too shabby.

Word spread quickly, and I had another client immediately after. I won seven twenties last night, so I think I gave five lap dances. One guy gave me a twenty just 'cuz I'm cute, and another guy, looking to create some innovation, bent me over his knee and spanked me. I haven't been spanked since I was a grousy little punk, and I think this hurt more. My ass is tenderer than KFC. It's tenderer than the night.

Arleen, the first lady of gay sex parties and just maybe my very favorite patron, nabbed a front-row seat and even let me feel her boobs. I highly recommend it. I won't go in to any more details, but let's just say the two straight go-go dancers that night were happy that she was there.

I think the sheer number of blog readers who approach me nowadays also improves the experience (as does the large amount of cash, my third-largest take ever). Thanks go to Daniel and Todd, who have multiplied my hits by three times. If by chance you're the person who didn't come from either of those sites, then by all means, visit them now. Pictures of hot guys are way better than verbose descriptions of them.

But every silver lining has its cloud, and last night was no exception.

As you may have read, I've been the subject of two three-minute masturbation documentaries. And maybe I'm going to regret the second one I did, with the fabulous Mr. G. See, last night at 2, I was supposed to participate in a sex show. I didn't have to actually have sex with anyone, but I was supposed to cum on this one guy.

Thing was, the time came and I was so tired, I couldn't imagine doing it! And the guys fucking weren't my type, and Daniel said I didn't have to, and my boyfriend would just die if he found out, soooo.....

I told Mr. G at the eleventh (err... second) hour that I didn't want to do it. I couldn't really tell what he was trying to tell me -- whether it was OK or whether he wanted me to burn -- but I realized immediately afterward that I shouldn't flake like that. I returned and said I would do it.

At this point I had officially pissed him off, so I returned to my couch and licked my wounds, and the show went on.

At the time, I was like, "He takes himself too seriously," but now I realize that he had an image of what was going to happen, complete with cum from my penis, and I had ruined that image with just seconds to go. So I deserved the lambasting.

But when I apologized afterward, he said something about having the rights to that jackoff video, and how he could do whatever he wanted with it. I knew that was true, but now I worry that he's going to post it all over the Internet and send a copy to my boyfriend, my mother and my employer. I mean, I trust him, but one can worry, especially when it's late at night and one is attempting to go to sleep but one has had too much caffeine and one stays up for an additional hour, tossing and turning with all the precision of an amateur lap dance.

I almost forgot

2006-06-22T21:53:00.000-04:00

So I have one reader who just got a book published about the club nightlife. He was telling me about it a few weeks ago, naively trusting my Alzheimer's-quality after-midnight memory.

Anyway, it's called And He Chose Them, and I haven't the foggiest if it's good or not, though he definitely seems like a writerly type. You can buy it here.

When I read it, I'll present my book report to the class.

Spunk'd no more

2006-06-22T21:11:00.000-04:00

Yet another cock entry into my hall of fame. And I must say, it's rull purty. I've got the erect shot too, but I like this one better. Like a sleeping python, it looks so cute and innocent.

I went by Splash today to get another check to replace the one that was stolen, and learned that Spunk'd ended its run a week or so ago. I think the nudity ban killed it, but maybe it just went the way of all great parties. I wasn't making so much money there anymore, which apparently meant something.

I'll still be dancing at XXX-Men on Sunday, which promises to be one of the craziest parties I'll ever see. Get ready...

Another cock

2006-06-21T19:28:00.000-04:00

Here's another cock pic for all to enjoy!

Someone just sent it to me.

Quite beautiful, no?

What's in a name?

2006-06-16T00:07:00.000-04:00

After work today, I jetted down to lovely Staten Island for a quick photo shoot. See, Daniel is planning something spectacular for his XXX-Men party, and it involves a little preparation.

Mr. G, the founder of HeliosMen, met me at the ferry terminal as he was sending off his previous appointment, a muscly porn star whose name escapes me. When I shook the man's hand, my fingers came away slimy from lube, and I thought, this is going to be fun.

"It's porn day today," said the affable Mr. G., as we walked to his apartment. Upon arrival, I met his excitable chihuahua, then stripped to my underwear for the shoot. He pulled out a digital Elph, which is almost too small to take seriously. But mark my words, these photos came out beautifully.

As longtime fans will recall, I have no idea how to pose. I sort of stood there biting my lip, which is not sexy. I also used my open-mouthed deer-in-the-headlights face, which is remarkably similar to my cruisey look (when hot men look into my eyes, they see absolutely nothing, and it drives them wild with desire). He taught me how to lift my penis without masking it, and how to do a butt shot without looking super gay. The lessons learned in that hour I can teach to my children, and my children's children.

Then he used the camera to videotape me wanking, a clip which will probably end up nowhere, but I also probably shouldn't have agreed to. I really shouldn't be rubbing one out on camera. Oh well, if that's the worst thing I do as a boyfriend, I think everything will be all right.

Lastly, I signed the waiver while the chihuahua tried to lick up the cum (Mr. G is being careful to train his dog not to develop a taste for cum). The waiver asked for my stage name, which I don't have. He strongly suggested I invent one. He handed me four sheets of paper full of sample first names, to get my imagination going. I told him I'd try to come up with one later.

On the ferry, I thought long and hard. Do I go for something silly like Giggles McDoodle? Or something all-American, like Hank Astor? Do I want it to be common enough so that someone who unwittingly types in the name won't find my pictures, or do I want it to be so uncommon that no one finds it unless they're looking for it?

I wrote a few first names down on the left-hand side of a page: Hank, Jayson, Simon, Sascha. And a few last names on the right side: McAllister, Baum, Astor, Black. I did a little matching and picked my favorite, to leverage my paleness and my Russian heritage.

Sascha Black. May it never be used.

Where have all the rich men gone?

2006-06-15T23:51:00.000-04:00

OK, so it's 11:49 pm the night after dancing, which means that I'm exhausted beyond belief, because I just got home after a completely full day, and five hours of sleep isn't quite enough for me. Not to mention that I was already pretty darn pooped while dancing last night -- I kept almost falling asleep while walking up and down the bar. Had I fallen off the bar, I would've broken both teeth and my reputation, forever. Though I kept thinking that if I did fall, it would give me something great to write about. I am officially a writer.

For the first time since sliced bread, another dancer made more money than I did. I don't want to seem petty, but I thought I was supposed to rake in the most money every night. I can explain:

1) I was relegated to downstairs for most of the night. When downstairs meant naked penis, I made big dough. Now that it means upstairs minus the light show, all I get are a handful of watchers.

2) I had no chance to be slutty. Exposing hard dick is what makes me money; now that even jockstraps are banned (and that's like banning the American flag on Memorial Day), I have no advantage over the other hot guys who aren't so whorish.

3) The rich men left when Splash closed, and they have not returned.

Rich men is what made the place so great. You'd just be standing there staring at the bartenders, and someone would slip you fifty bucks just for having a nice smile. Now you can dance an entire tango and still get nothing but someone's phone number.

So this is my plea: Wherever you all went, investment bankers, Broadway directors and celebrity architects, come back! My skin is just as creamy soft as you remember! My wang is just as quick to harden when it's behind a curtain of underwear! I could still use your twenties and your suave compliments that warm the heart like a Nicholas Sparks novella! Without you, I can't justify dancing on a Wednesday night and spending the rest of the week in a narcoleptic stupor!

Cum and get it

2006-06-11T22:56:00.000-04:00

I can feel the boundaries blurring. I promised my boyfriend that I wouldn't cum while dancing, even though I don't totally see what's wrong with it. But Todd, who works with Daniel Nardicio, asked if I'd let him videotape me jerking off, for $100. A Franklin for a half hour's work is a pretty game paycheck, so I agreed. Do porn stars make this much? And why aren't we all porn stars?

I wasn't supposed to cum the night before, so that I'd be fresh for the day. I behaved but couldn't sleep half the night, thinking about being on camera.

His apartment was beautiful, the kind that gay men are supposed to have, the way I'd imagine architect's waiting rooms to be. He pushed a side table against the wall and I danced on it naked for the camera.

"How fast can you cum?" he asked.

"A few seconds," I replied, "but I can take as long as you'd like."

So I sat on a couch more expensive than my whole life, I'm sure, and stroked my genius, while he gave me direction. "Use only your right hand." "Slide towards me." "Push your cock down, like you're showing it off."

After a few minutes of him pointing that camera at my number one, he said I could cum whenever I was ready. I did, strafing my whole body with the stuff, certain that I got some on his couch.

And, cut. I cleaned myself up and dressed. Then he took a photo of me holding my passport, for legal reasons. The couch, by the way, was spotless.

But there's more. First off, a gentlemanly fellow offered to give me a free massage, something I simply could not turn down. I know if my boyfriend found out, he would be sad -- but the guy promised he would be totally kosher with me. No happy endings, no surprise guests. Why can't I accept a free massage, especially when I need one?

And just now I learned that XXX-Men is going to be a little porn-based. I won't give out the details, but I'm being shot this week for some porn that's going to be playing at the event. Mercifully I don't have to engage in sex with anyone, but I will be shooting a load. C'est la vie.

A gig that never happened

2006-06-08T21:39:00.000-04:00

So this evening, I was going to do a pro-bono (haha) gig at one of the piers. Half a dozen boys were going to strip completely nekkid and hang out with a fellow having his birthday. I was actually pretty psyched for some evening nudity.

Problem was, it's freezing out there and a bit wet. So no dice. Especially because I'm getting over a cold.

BTW, when I have a cold or, say, conjunctivitis, should I not dance? I don't think I've ever turned down a gig just because I was sick, but does that mean I've unwittingly given a horde of men pink eye? Do you hate me now?

A penis is worth a thousand words

2006-06-07T22:23:00.000-04:00

Here's a fun photo that one of Daniel's cronies took during the #1 Chinese party over Memorial Day weekend. (Caveat emptor: you'll see some serious testicles). If you look closely, you can see my Confessions business cards sticking out of my shoe! Now that's product placement!

I'm dancing at a similar party, XXX-Men, on Gay Pride day, so don't forget to get tix in advance!
I'm also dancing at Splash next Wednesday, for those who were unsettled by seeing my balls.

And by the way, that is not a picture of me fucking him. That's a picture of us pretending to fuck. We pretended to make out and pretended to suck cock. We did nothing of the sort.

The latest entry

2006-06-05T19:10:00.000-04:00

Well, luck be a lady (with a big fat cock), because just when I thought the entries had stopped dribbling in, there arrived another fantabulous penis in my inbox (heh, heh).

As for "voting," well, you're all winners in my book.

Sort of a trickle

2006-06-01T11:45:00.000-04:00

Splash is hands down the best place to dance. The place is clean, has showers and lots of toilets, and is the only bar I've danced at with lockers. When the timing is right, the money can gush as though from an open faucet. When it's not, you're stuck with a few droplets.

I don't know if it's because the rich gays were all tuckered out from their Mem Day festivities, but the place was a tumbleweed factory last night. I had to beg for dollars from the few youngins who showed their mugs.

Generally, when it's slow, I'll take off the undies and do a little show-and-tell with my dick under a towel. As soon as I dropped my drawers, though, the manager rushed out and yelled at me.

"I told Cazwell, dicks and assholes covered up!"

I hadn't gotten the memo. Splash got busted for drugs and maybe nudity, so they're being extra careful about their go-goers, at least for now. In other words, if you want to bring your mom to a bar with no penis, go to Splash. I'll try not to expose myself.

From then on, every time I revealed my butt, I wondered, "Is my asshole showing?" Every time I pulled my undies past my pubes, I found myself contemplating the definition of exposed penis. Is it covered up if the head is hidden? Or does a little shaft constitute full frontal? These thoughts do not an erection make.

I considered taking a shower-and-shave downstairs (with my swimsuit on), but I forgot to bring my shower gel and razor, and there were no clean towels. So I sort of hung around and talked with the patrons and the other go-go boys (who had a record hotness quotient -- and half of whom were Jewish -- who knew?), and sat on the bar in my underwear and touched myself absent-mindedly.

Even though I was unshaven, three people still asked me if I was 19. I'm beginning to think that's a come-on, to ask how old the go-go boy is. "You don't look a day over 20. Will you come home with me?" I think that only works on middle-aged women. Or maybe they're asking to find out if I'm legal. No use bringing home a twink if his dad's going to call the cops.

For the shower show, we all wore tightie-whities, which was hot from up close, because you could see the outline of semierections, but from far away it must've looked sorta snoozeworthy. As usual, the water was the temperature of an ice floe, thanks either to a water heater the strength of a disposable ski glove warmer or to the most complicated shower knob ever invented.

So what can I say? Have I become the old drag queen who slumps on the piano with her martini at a precarious angle, who can never leave but wants to want to? I still like dancing, I guess. I still like dick and money, at least.

As I was leaving, I spotted a scattering of Boys Gone Wild flyers on the sidewalk. They had a montage of photos of the namesake Boys. And there I was in the middle, making out with Jay at a photo shoot for the cover of Next nine months ago.

When I started all this, I dreamed about being on the Boys Gone Wild flyer. It's sort of nice.

Emendation

2006-05-30T22:59:00.000-04:00

I thought about the race issue (see below) a little more, and realized that though the black man threatened me, it was the white one who stole my wallet. So I'll try to be a little bit more fair in the future.

But weirdly -- did I say this? -- I don't miss my wallet at all. It's sort of freeing that it's gone. Maybe this will change when I go to get my license again.

I'm dancing Wednesday at Splash, so come say hi!

Where do I begin?

2006-05-29T14:52:00.000-04:00

I'm still reeling from last night.

I was at dinner with friends until almost 10; when I called Daniel, he wanted me there at 11, which meant that I had to run home on an exorbitantly full stomach, shave, pack all the go-go paraphernalia and get onto the subway by 10:15. That didn't happen, though I made it onto the platform at 10:20.

As I was leaving, I considered leaving my wallet at home, but then I was worried that I'd forget something that I needed. What the heck, my wallet had never been stolen before. People in my experience have been honest enough. I'm not the kind to worry about things like that.

In the midst of my mad dash to the subway station, a fellow with half a dozen teeth and a case of beer reached out and hit me. Or more accurately, bumped into me, but just with his arm. Then he threw the case of beer onto the ground. I didn't stop running, though I heard glass break and beer spill onto the sidewalk. I'd seen that trick before, done with eyeglasses but done the same. A fellow bumps into you on purpose, pretends to break something valuable and asks for money to cover it.

I took six steps at a time down the subway stairs, praying that he wouldn't follow me, or that I'd just catch a train. Well, duh, he came into the subway and started harassing me. I held my hands up and said, "I've seen this scam a hundred times, and I'm not falling for it."

"You are insulting me," he said. "I am 46 years old, and I am not stupid. Don't treat me like that." The logic wasn't airtight, to say the least, but he certainly knew how to keep talking.

Two guys walked by and asked me what was going on. I explained what happened. "Oh, the beer trick? That's old news," one of them said.

Then the man started to get angry. He pushed me and threatened to hit me. He also told me he'd be waiting for me when I came back home. I walked over to the subway attendant, a tired-looking, heavyset man, and said, "This man is harassing me. Would you do something about it?'' The subway attendant lazily picked up the phone and spoke to someone for a few seconds before hanging up. He didn't say anything else to us. He didn't get out of his cage. Wisely, perhaps, but I still felt stranded by authority.

One of the two guys went outside to call the police. The 46-year-old man followed him. There was a noise and a shout. The other guy ran out to help him. A third man also went. I wanted to see if I could help, too -- since it was really my problem -- but a) I was the one that six-toothed man was going to hurt, and b) I couldn't afford to miss the train, as I was already late.

The train came, and I got on.

I was fuming. I wanted to throw that man in front of the train, or bash his head against a girder until it cracked like an egg. It's enough that he's living off the system; why does he have to be a danger to the people in the neighborhood? I was disappointed, too, in the way the race politics played out. I try so hard not to be racist, but the truth is, I don't have to tell you who was white and who was black.

When I arrived at the bar, the sight of horny men and stripling strippers ready to strip calmed me. I popped the blue pill (ahem, those erections are all-natural!) on a full stomach, which meant that it wouldn't kick in for another hour or two, and took off my clothes. I stashed my bag into the corner behind the deejay booth and danced away.

The night was fabulous. So many of my friends and fans showed up, including Rob from Australia, Tre Xavier, this lawyer from MTV and of course, Arleen. Everyone I saw was a new surprise, and I spent most of that first hour chatting.

On my second time back there to empty my shoes of cash, I remembered to turn off the ringer on my phone. I keep it on vibrate, but if someone leaves a message when I'm away from the phone, it wears down the battery.

My pants weren't in my bag.

Did I leave them on the floor when I changed? I figured I must have. Chris, Daniel's newest (and cutest) elf, found them for me. My phone was in there, but not my wallet.

The sequence was one of mounting dread. I looked in my bag, I looked on the floor, I dug my hand around under the seats. Of course, I was totally naked and semierect this whole time. Chris felt terrible, since he was watching all the go-go boys' stuff, and together we scoured the little "backstage" area.

Strangely enough, I wasn't so perturbed about it. I did everything you're supposed to do when you lose your wallet, and then I went back downstairs and got back up (haha). But I was disappointed, again, in humanity. What sort of soul must one have to steal wallets? Is it so hard to make a living honestly? Am I naive to think that everyone can be happy with his means? Is my life so sheltered?

By about 2:30, the Viagra was working too well, and my penis was swelling painfully. I could barely touch it. My balls were blue as ripe plums, and the whole package hurt almost as much as my still turgid stomach. And this was the point in the night when all the patrons want to start jacking off with the go-go boys for free; coincidentally, it was the same point when I don't want to see another penis for the rest of my life.

I waited till 3 and jacked off into the toilet, for my boyfriend's sake, thus relieving most of my netherworld pain. I took a cab home in case that man really was waiting for me.

Come morning, I didn't count my money for the first time since I started dancing, more than a year ago. And for the first time in my life, I called 911.

Marginalia

2006-05-27T23:13:00.000-04:00

A few things worth noting here.

First, I have a new submission for penis of the year. Here it is:

If anyone wants to vote on their favorite penis so far (here and in your life) and why, your opinion will be heard.

Speaking of erect penises, I'll be "dancing" tomorrow night at Daniel's dirty party; if you haven't bought tickets yet, you'd better, because you can't buy them at the door. Anyone who recognizes me gets a free commemorative business card.

Lastly, I thought I'd share something weird that happened earlier this evening. I was waiting for my boyfriend in the Village, reading an HX (sorry Next, but the bin was all out of those), and this short fellow waved at me. I figured he was from my go-go life, and racked my brain to try to remember who he was. He walked past me, stopped, turned around, took out his earbuds and approached me.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I told him. "Yours?"

He told me.

"Am I supposed to know you?" I asked.

"No, why?"

"I don't know."

"How old are you?"

"26."

"I'm 26 too," he said. "What are you up to?"

"Just waiting for my boyfriend," I said.

He smiled and said, "I've been married for six years." He produced a wide silver band from his pocket and slipped it on his finger. He left and a few seconds later, my boyfriend appeared. The same guy had sat next to him on the bench a few minutes before.

So did this guy think I was a prostitute? I guess guys don't generally stand around reading HX. Or did he just want someone to have sex with? Or is my mind in the gutter? Maybe he was just feeling friendly. But then why was his wedding ring in his pocket? Was he married to a woman or a man?

Anyone who can solve this mystery gets a -- yep, you guessed it -- free Confessions business card. In fact, I'll throw in two if you figure it out in the next 24 hours.

The BUTT interview

2006-05-24T21:00:00.000-04:00

OK, here's my interview with my ladyfriend who goes to all the gay sex parties.

Here's the photo. I'm hyperlinking it because there's penis. Can you guess which one I am and which one she is?

Also, we ended up talking about Rick G. a lot -- but we both love him so much that I can't imagine I'll run into trouble with the go-go police.

[drum roll]

Kickass Lady Makes Pledge to Suck Dick at Gay Sex Parties

I moonlight as a go-go boy, often at parties where I get to be naked. At these parties, a lot of cocks get sucked. One of the most aggressive (and charming) cocksuckers is a very friendly woman. By day, she works in an office. By night (when she has the chance), she goes to raunchy gay parties put on by “it” promoter Daniel Nardicio. Often, she is the only woman among hundreds of men.
She is eager to be interviewed; almost everything she says is brimming with enthusiasm. I try to interview her at one of the naked parties, since it seems appropriate for me to be naked, but it’s too loud for the recorder to work. We settle for the locker room at Splash, another New York bar where I often dance, in underwear.
When we speak, it’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m very tired. I had planned on taking off my underwear to preserve the gist of my intentions, but it’s so bright back there, and so many dancers and bartenders are walking by, that I start to feel self-conscious, and the underwear stays on. No one seems fazed that there’s a woman in the locker room.

How often do you go to gay bars?
Only for Daniel’s parties. I don’t frequent them.
Usually the naked ones?
Oh, yes!
When did you start going?
The beginning of 2004. I went to this New Year’s party at Opaline and it had all naked dancers, and I thought that was the most beautiful thing, and these guys there, they were like, if you like this you should go to Triple XXX, and I went there, and I never stopped.
Do the guys look at you funny when you’re the only woman there?
Yeah, I mean it’s a given, it’s supposed to be for men, but Daniel is so open about letting women in, especially if they participate. That’s another difference between me and other women. Other women mostly just come as friends or fag hags or something and they kind of sit in the corner, and they don’t do anything. I was like, holy shit, I’m going to fucking go for it.
Um, what do you mean by participate?
Whatever the guys are doing, forget it, I do it. The New Year’s party was advertised as, “interactive go-go dancers.” You can touch, taste, feel, do whatever you want. When I saw that I was like, holy shit, I totally want to do that. So when they told me go to Triple XXX, I was there early. I was thinking, “Are they going to turn me away at the door?” Obviously what they’re doing, I’m like this is probably all men and I don’t know how they’d react to a woman going in there. If it were a major lesbian party and guys tried to go it probably wouldn’t work, but men would be more open to it.
Do you taste?
Oh yeah, that’s how I learned to deep throat, on [fantastic porn star/go-go dancer] Rick Gonzales. I’d been super overweight for the longest time, and then I lost like 80 pounds and started to look the way I look. If you’d seen a picture of me before, I couldn’t have walked in here; people would throw me out. “No fat girls, get out!” And I had been celibate for seven or eight years. Then I lost all the weight and started feeling more and more sexual. A friend and I went to the Rainbow Station and I bought this huge dildo and a strap-on. I was in love with this dildo. It was so realistic, and it was eight and a half… no, I think it was nine inches. probably about nine by six, I think. And I went to this New Year’s party, and Rick Gonzales was dancing, and when I saw his dick, it was exactly like this dildo. A couple other people went for it and I said fuck it, I’m going to start this new year off right. I started putting it down my throat and I said, “That’s it, this is what I’m going to do for the rest of the year.” But the legend about me was born at the “Passion of the Christ” party at Magnum, when I blew a guy who was playing Jesus and hanging on a cross. After that I went to another Triple XXX and the guys were buying me drinks, telling me how much they loved seeing me blow Jesus.
I never suck any dicks because I’m always worried about catching something. Are you worried about that?
Uh, not anymore, really. You know you’re gonna get something without even thinking about it. I could get herpes by kissing a girl or something. I could get AIDS by a bad blood transplant. So I was thinking, if I was to get something having fun, as long as you’re doing something really wild, then who cares?
Tell that to my boyfriend.
[Laughter.]
Well, the good thing about these parties – you would know – do they test you guys? Do they ask for tests?
Nope, nothing.
Like, do they even ask? Do they at least ask you do you have anything?
No.
Nothing, wow. You know this is the Outlaw Party for the new millennium.
Have you seen what goes on in the back room?
Oh, yeah, I’ve been pulled back there three or four times.
[Laughter.]
What do you think of these guys pulling you back? Are they closeted straight men?
Some of them are. I was like, this is it, this is what I’ve seen on the news, the back room, the circle jerk…
Yeah, so what did you do?
Like ten people grabbed my tits. I was like, God, am I really in a room with gay men? I’m getting more action than I do at a straight club. Usually the straight boys don’t want to talk to me.
What’s the nastiest thing you’ve done at one of these parties?
Oh my God. It depends. Nasty, bad and dirty and I don’t want to do it again? Or nasty, good, and hot and erotic?
Nasty, hot.
Ok, nasty, good, hot and erotic: There was a straight dancer who had this real bad attitude. Anyway, I met up with him down in the back room at Magnum, and I took off my shirt. He barely wanted to take his dick out of his pants, but I got him hard naturally, which was good, and I deep-throated him.
What’s the secret to deep-throating?
You just gotta relax. You know, relax your throat muscles. And you really got to enjoy what you’re doing as well. That’s the thing with guys, they push me down on my knees. If I’m not into it I’ll start choking. But somebody like Rick Gonzales, I love that. That’s a beautiful cock. I know he’s gay, but he’s really an equal opportunity person. I know if he’s working, I’m always going to be able to have a nice big fat cock. He’s always very sweet. He always lets me, and he remembers me, so I can always do whatever the hell I want.
Yeah, he’s good like that.
It’s beautiful, too. Oh my God.
I love him.
He doesn’t get on your case and say if you want to suck it it’s ten dollars. Some guys do, and they ain’t shit.
I just say no. Or I push the chin away.
Yeah, a lot of guys are like that.
What’s your preference? Little? Big?
Big. Oh yeah, big.
Uncut? Cut?
I like uncut now. I never really thought uncut was attractive, but then you know I was forgetting that there’s something beautiful underneath it. Like Rick Gonzales. He’s perfect.
And when it’s erect you can’t tell the difference.
Yeah, the skin kind of disappears. I thought it would just sit there and get in the way.
No, it’s really a work of wonder.
It’s just gone, I was like, licking that thing and I didn’t feel any foreskin, and then I pulled, and there it was, and I stretched it and stuff.
You know the secret to our erections, right?
Viagra.
Of course. If I had Viagra here I’d use it right now.
I’ve noticed that. when I go up and a guy lets me go down on him, when they start getting turned on, that feels so good, because that’s an ego booster. I was able to turn this person on. And usually you can taste the cum fluids.
The pre-cum.
The pre-cum fluids.
Which scares me. I’m always afraid of getting AIDS.
Really? Oh, I kind of get turned on by that. They’re getting turned on and it’s so natural. But with the Viagra it’s like, boom, they’re hard. So you start going down on them and you don’t taste that. It’s kind of artificial, you know?
When was the last time you had sex?
Oh God, probably in August. Some weird Italian guy who had really bad teeth.
They always do.
He was cute, though. I met him a gay bar. I don’t know if people were trying to get rid of me and they put us together and we had sex on the beach. It was hot.
That is hot.
It was very, very hot. Big muscle boy. I had a couple drinks, and he was really sweet, and he said, “Meet me on the beach.”
Did you get sand all up in there?
No, surprisingly not. It was really beautiful.
That’s amazing.
It was almost sunset. I wish I’d taken pictures.
Was it like Chris Isaak in “Wicked Game”?
Not as sandy. But we had our own little beach cove and that was like a fantasy come true. There were people watching. It was in Ibiza, there were families, and they all stood there and watched. The wives took the kids away, and the husbands stood there and watched.
Do you like being watched?
I don’t mind it. It’s exciting.
So let’s get this straight. You get lots of action from straight men at gay bars. Do you find dates on gay websites?
I don’t really date. I don’t really have relationships. For what I like to do, I think it would be unfair to somebody. If I was in a relationship I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t waste my time having a relationship unless someone could excite me as much as me going out and doing what I do.
When was the last time you had a relationship?
Uh, there was a really weird one.
Who?
I have a weird relationship with a girl in my gym. She’s straight and getting wild because she was about to be married, but she never told me that. I knew from the way we were interacting, I had to get as much out of this as I could.
Yeah, I used to go to a gym where there were a lot of straight guys and they certainly wanted action. Gay action.
I certainly wanted it, and whatever. We took to talking on the phone a long time. We took to making out in the showers. It could’ve gotten us kicked out. So I was really happy I was able to do that. The men were having all this fun, and I got to have a little fun, and nobody caught on.
[Hot Eastern European bartender Alex walks in and starts changing. I ask if I can take his picture. He poses with a towel covering his cock. I ask if he’ll let me take one without the towel. He lets me.]
I feel like I’m so invading in here. I feel like I should get out of here.
They don’t seem to mind.
[I watch Alex dressing for a moment longer. Then his pants go on, and I snap out of it.]
Sorry about that, but I sometimes get turned on by the bartenders. The truth is, I’m a faithful boyfriend.
I couldn’t be faithful if I were you.
Tell me more about your personal life.
They call me a confused lesbian, you know, because I come in here. I do like women, but with women you have to invest more time in a relationship in order to get them in bed. I approach it very much like a man who comes to a gay bar. Just, bang! I’m so jealous of you guys. When I was in Europe I would bang people like that. It was so much easier. When I was in Ibiza, I was hugging and kissing totally naked with two beautiful girls who worked at the top of the nightclub, and that would never happen in a lesbian bar. It was their job to walk around in skimpy little panties but they were topless. They had little pasties but they’d get so hot and they’d come off. It was the sexiest thing. They saw I was having a good time, and they jumped in right the water with me. You think if I went to [straight strip club] Scores that would happen? Or a lesbian bar with all the pretty girls? It’s not beautiful here, you know? Over there it’s beautiful.
So you’re pretty much equally attracted to men and women?
Oh, yes. You know, bi. I like both.
You’re not a big fan of classification.
Exactly.
Personally, I’m 100 percent penis, penis, penis.
OK, that’s how you feel inside. I just know how I feel when I see a certain kind of woman, and I know how I feel when I see 90 percent of the men who work here. This is the only place you can see anything big and anything muscular. The straight ladies’ nights, forget it. The vibe just isn’t there.
What’s wrong with the straight places?
I think a lot of the guys that strip there, their girlfriends come, and right there it destroys the sexy vibe. Frankly, there aren’t any cute guys at any straight club I’ve been to lately. And straight male stripers are never hard and barely let you touch them. And since they’re straight a lot of them are homophobic. So if you walk in, you don’t fit the mold and you don’t look superfeminine, you kind of get looked at like you’re weird. Like, what are you doing here?
Do straight people think you’re a lesbian?
Oh, yeah. Of course. That’s the way I carry myself.
Does that bother you?
Nah, not really. I don’t like to look like real manly or dykey. I’m just wearing my hair short because I’m more comfortable with it. Sometimes I do look like a guy but I hate that. I’d rather look feminine but a mixture.
To me you look sort of boyish but also sort of feminine. It’s hot.
That’s the way I like it. Yeah, definitely the way I like it.
[Someone comes in to ask when I’m going back on. I tell him I’ll be a few minutes.]
Have you ever thought about dancing yourself? Or stripping yourself?
I would love to, but it depends on the party. If they had a women’s version of Daniel’s party where the people have the same attitude – which I think would be impossible – I would not be scared. Now that I work out, it’s better. I could still use a lot of work, though.
You’re pretty hot. You have a good body.
I dress so I don’t look really fat, but if I was sitting here in shorts…
[I’m asked to spell my last name so they can write it on my paycheck.]
What does Daniel Nardicio think of you?
He loves me! He is so sweet.
Yeah?
I met him after I had been to Triple XXX twice. No, after [famed gay sex party] Magnum. They had this one dancer hanging out with a big hard on. So I went up and he was kind of getting limp and I got him up. He didn’t know it was a woman going down on him, and then people were like, he’s straight. I was kind of self-conscious about that. I was like, whatever, I’m not trying to change anybody. And Daniel remembered that. A lot of people said they remember me because I gave him a blow job and I did get him up. A lot of people were saying, “Oh, he’s straight.” Other people were saying it was a fabulous blow job, and it doesn’t matter who gave it, man, woman or child.
Everyone always thinks that the go-go boys are straight. And only like a fraction are.
My gaydar is pretty good, though sometimes it’s bad and I think the straight ones are gay.
Well, they always ask me, and I tell them the truth and they never believe me, so…
I look at you and I think it, automatically.
You’d better.
[Someone asks if I’m going to start dancing again.]
OK, well we’ve got to wrap this up I think, but uh…
OK.
[She touches my stomach, not sexually.]
You don’t have a belly button, do you?
I had surgery. They took out some intestine.
Awww…
I think it looks like a belly button, doesn’t it?
A little bit, but it’s not like a regular one, not as deep.
Well, I don’t have a lot of fat around here.
Yeah, it’s solid. Whoa.

Long time no chat

2006-05-24T20:47:00.000-04:00

To answer your question, I'm still alive. Just not dancing very much, and working too hard. I'll be at Daniel's party on Sunday. You have to sign up in advance, so go to www.dlist.com and buy a ticket. Considering the going rate for a blow job these days, it's a bargain.

Since Daniel has been so good to me, I plan to post on my profile at dlist.com -- probably duplicates, but if that's too much hassle, I might just stop posting here and direct people over there. I don't know. Technology is like a woman. Sometimes I flirt with it, but in the end I really don't know anything about it.

Right now I can't remember my login, and it's not e-mailing it to me, so I'm sort of screwed.

I just remembered that I have an interview that I pitched to Butt magazine (www.buttmagazine.com), but that they didn't want because I didn't want to show my head. So I'll post that next.

More on Mr. Zak

2006-05-16T21:39:00.000-04:00

I have no idea why this darn photo won't show up on my computer, but the little red X that you probably see is a shot of Zak in party mode.

Zak

As you can plainly see, he is cute and deserving of recognition when he pokes his head into a bar.

I am now feeling remorse that I didn't offer him a massage last Friday. Now I will never get the chance. I officially resigned from giving massages at Area 10018. It was a shitty gig, and that's the whole of it.

What's next on my list? Memorial Day weekend at Chinese #1. We'll play a game. I'll publish a blown-up photo of my erect penis, and you'll have to match it to the real one when you get there. The first 945 people to correctly match the penis win a free business card.

Free Massage (Tips Welcome)

2006-05-13T13:48:00.000-04:00

I'm sure it would be fun to dance as a customer at Opaline, but working there is really the dullest thing around. (I guess it's not called Opaline anymore, but does it have a name now? Area 10018?) Everyone thinks they're so hot, they'll gladly accept a 10-minute massage and walk off without leaving a tip.

One guy, drunk out of his gourd and with breath like a landfill, asked for a massage; when I told him to take off as much clothing as he felt comfortable with, he started doing a striptease. I couldn't look, both because it was grotesque and because I might burst out laughing. After the massage, as he was leaving, I explained that if he could tip me if he wanted. But he was too drunk to understand.

Another nontipper lay down on the table just as "It's Not Right But It's Okay" came on. The entire time, he was singing along. I couldn't deal.

Very few people wanted their free massage last night, and I wasn't going to go around begging -- because that method is sure to unearth some high-on-himself tightwad. So I just sat there and did some stretching exercises, always revealing in a jockstrap.

Then someone came along and said hi, very friendly, but somehow I just couldn't place him. I asked (thinking he was Gregory T. Angelo), "Wait, you're Gregory, right?" He was like, "No, I'm Zak." In the nicest possible way, he walked away, at the very moment when I desperately wanted someone to talk to.

So here is my apologia:

O Zak! How can I atone for not having recognized you! We have shared a cab, and much else besides! My excuse is feeble: It was past my bedtime. I was so very tired, and regardless of time, it's difficult to recognize everyone who shows up. In any given night, my third-grade Latin teacher and the guy I porked three years back might both approach and say hello. How can I be held accountable in such circumstances? Especially because I am such a dunce, and a donkey's brother besides?

After the departure of Zak, I decided to give my two remaining drink tickets to the next two nice people I enountered. It didn't promise to be easy, what with that room full of snarky queens and gym dandies just exiting the prime of their youth. One guy was standing at the head of the massage table, and it looked like a guy and a girl were giving him head. I asked him if he was getting a blow job.

"I don't know, maybe!" he said. "I hope so!"

In truth, he was providing a shelter for his friends to snort some coke or somesuch substance. Which seemed nice enough. I gave him a drink ticket.

The next guy was a shoo-in; he gave me a tip without a massage! Suddenly the halcyon memories of go-go dancing without having to give those dreadful massages flooded back. Those days when I didn't have to carry the massage tables through a crowd of cocks just to make my pittance. When I didn't have to launder sheets and towels in between gigs. When the tips flowed as freely as the vodka, and my socks were stuffed with wrinkled bills.

Oh, how I miss them!

Ugh

2006-05-11T20:47:00.000-04:00

Craig Spencer called; he has a themed night planned for Saturday and that theme is not twinks r us. So I won't be dancing at Splash Saturday. Not a huge crisis, except I have a check from them that they gave me without signing, and I wanted to get it signed before I forgot. I might be dancing at Mr. Black instead for Boys Gone Wild.

I'm a total zombie right now, having just been chewed up in the maws of a job interview. I was all prepared to be charming: I bought black and gray argyle socks, to match my shoes and my suit; I got a very short haircut; I prepared speeches to the obvious questions; I wore my boyfriend's favorite tie; I agonized over my resume, references and clips, and compiled them into a gorgeous folder; I fabricated an alibi for why I would show up to work in a suit; I made the all-important decision of whether to go with boxers, and have the impression of my penis running down my pant leg, or whether to go with briefs (I chose boxers for confidence's sake); and of course, I daydreamed about leaving my current job in the dust.

The first part, with the perky HR lady, went dreamily, and I was all prepared to coast through the second part, with the editor. His hair had the look of someone who runs his fingers through it every few seconds, and half the buttons on his shirt were undone. I can only assume that by the time he goes home for the night, his shirt is lying in a wad in the corner. He said "fuck" a lot, and I couldn't figure out whether to say it with him or remain demure. We got off to a good start, but he started hammering questions at me that I couldn't answer, and then halfway through my feeble response, he'd interrupt me and ask another. In my quest to answer every question, I sounded as wishy-washy as they come. Had he said at the end, "Do you want this job?" I would've paused, said "uhhh..." and shrugged.

More cock!

2006-05-07T17:24:00.000-04:00

Just when you thought you wouldn't see another cock on this site, another popped into my inbox!

Here it is, by a redheaded reader (assuming the carpet matches the drapes).

Yet another!

By the way, I won't be dancing at Splash on Wednesday... I have a job interview on Thursday. Woohoo!

More from the penis farm

2006-05-04T18:26:00.000-04:00

I hope all these dicks aren't grossing out my more tenderhearted, virginal readers. I can assure you, I won't be doing this too commonly.

This one is award-winning, I'm told. And he deserves every accolade!

If you want to see your schlong in print, send me a pic! gogoboy1@gmail.com

Another!

Operators are standing by

2006-05-03T21:46:00.000-04:00

Here it is... the first penis pic I've been sent!

It probably isn't feasible to post everyone's photo like this, but I'm so happy that one brave soul sent this, I thought I'd share. Anyway, it kills time in between gigs. Next week, you're going to see a lot more of my exploits!

My first submission!

Accidental leave of absence

2006-05-02T21:12:00.000-04:00

So sorry I haven't been here for you, but I haven't been dancing -- I've been away. I wish there was something to write, but all I can think of is the following:

"I was so horny all weekend. There was this flight attendant who looked like a pilot, but maybe gay, and probably too hot to deal with ten years ago. He kept reaching up to fit my roller bag in the overhead compartment, and I kept salivating at his underarm hair and thinking, 'I never get hot over underarm hair.'"

See? I'll be away this weekend, too, with my dear sweet boyfriend. But next Wednesday, I'll be at Splash, next Friday, I'll be at Opaline, and next Saturday, I'll be at Splash again. There'll be plenty to write about.

Also, a reader sent me a picture of his penis, which I want to post, but I want to get his explicit approval first. So maybe send me pictures of your penises and I'll be inspired to say something!

My Slavic fantasy

2006-04-26T21:55:00.000-04:00

The part-owner and constant bartender at Eastern Bloc is Benjamin, pictured here.

Benjamin

He also has a mightyfine bod, with enormous pecs that some gays would kill to grow. I think he's pretty modest, because you can sort of tell that he only takes his shirt off when he thinks it's going to improve the tips. He also has a boyfriend/partner, I'm told. As do I, but it doesn't stop me from fantasizing.

The problem with fantasizing as an already-paired go-go guy is that just as often as not, the guy you want to lick from head to toe also is keen on doing the same to you. Fantasies are nice, but they turn into reality so often that you're cheating as soon as the thought occurs. It's the difference between Jewish and Christian sin -- the Jew only sins when he acts, but the Christian sins at first glance. Being a Jew, it's difficult to cope in a Christian situation.

I'm not saying that Benjamin wants to do me -- and I'm also not saying it's out of the question -- but the point is, being a dancer doesn't permit me the fantasy. I came by with my boyfriend and some new acquantanfriends to watch Quiz-o-Rama last night (because I love it so), and before I left, Benjamin asked if I wanted to dance again sometime. You bet I wanted to dance -- all over his body! -- though in truth, the gig isn't so great.

All morning at work today, my mind was sliding up and down the valley between Benjamin's pecs. I couldn't get anything done, so I did the unthinkable and, mini-bottle of lotion in my pocket, slipped into a bathroom stall and cut down my libido with a few quick strokes.

I kind of hope the urge remains a passing fantasy, one easily slayed with a private flaying, one that will surely go away, as all crushes do. I kind of hope that.

New adventures in hi-tech

2006-04-24T18:23:00.000-04:00

I just returned from New Orleans last night (and I would encourage everyone to go now, before the crowds realize it's just as fantastic as it used to be), without having done much in the way of debauchery. Next time I go, I'll try out some of the bars, but this weekend, I couldn't stay up late enough to do anything fun!

On the plane home last night, I came up with an idea for a new venture, since the go-go thing can't last forever, and since there are too many go-go bloggers as it is. I plan to start a travel blog, of sorts. Yes, there are WAY too many of those, but as far as I know, none like the one I have in mind.

This will be for sexually adventurous gay men. Men who, by nature of their singlehood or their lax marital status, are free to roam the globe, looking for things to do with their penises. I'd like people to post short (50 to 200 word) entries about their favorite (or least favorite) places to get sexy. The places could be (but are not limited to):

Gay cruise ships
Gay hotels/B&Bs
Gay destinations
Nude beaches
Public restrooms
Pickup spots
Scandalous bars/clubs
Steam rooms
Sex clubs

Some more thoughts about this:

1) It's not meant to be only about getting laid. If you go to Fire Island and know of a really beautiful stretch of beach, write about that.

2) It can be graphic, but it doesn't have to be. I'm more interested in hearing about the place than what you specifically did. This isn't supposed to be a bunch of sex stories (though a few couldn't hurt!).

3) If possible, snap a lo-res photo -- at least of the exterior of the building, if taking a picture inside would be questionable. If there's a naked person in the photo, ask if it's OK to post it on a website. Or let me know and I'll blur out the face.

4) I'll also post relevant news: If there's a Times story about gays hooking up, I'll link to it.

5) I'm sure it will be New York-centric to start, and that's OK.

6) I can't pay anyone, since I'm not getting any money for this. This is purely meant to be as a travel aid for sex-hungry homosexuals. I can, however, link to your website. The 25 most frequent contributors will be listed in order in the links section.

If something like this does exist, let me know before I sink a lot of time into it. I'll put up the site when I get 10 or so entries, and I'll keep it up until I get a cease and desist order.

Send entries to me at gogoboy1@gmail.com

Let's see if this works!!!

Quick note

2006-04-19T20:08:00.000-04:00

I thought I would be dancing in New Orleans, but alas, the party was postponed. If you were looking forward to meeting me in the Big Easy, I can only say, oops! And that I'm really not that interesting a person, anyway.

The birthday party

2006-04-19T19:42:00.000-04:00

I should eat my words.

I woke up yesterday, still pretty sure I'd take a few weeks off from flesh exposure. But then, on the bus home from work, I got a call from Zak, who wanted me to be the cake for his friend Al's birthday party. Al is the co-host of Quiz-a-Rama, Tuesday nights at Eastern Bloc. Which, by the way, is the funniest gay act I have ever seen, probably because it's not very gay at all.

Zak wanted to slather icing all over me and present me to Al at the end of the show, as a surprise. As soon as he suggested it, I felt that singular buzz, just as I did in the old days of the Slide.

I was back. Well, at least enough to want to get naked again.

When I got there, the place was absolutely dead. There were half a dozen guys at the bar, drinking and not looking at each other. Everyone everyone had invited decided not to show.

They postponed the show for an hour, and then people began to appear. When the bar had reached a critical mass, they began. Again, it was fun-nee.

After two questions, Zak ushered me into the basement, where I immediately stripped down.

Zak said, "We're probably going to have to hurry...oh, you're already naked." He wasn't sure whether to look or to look away. I of course always prefer when people look.

We decided to put brown around by butt and penis, like underwear, and white above the waist. Which was pretty foolish, since it's not sexy to have brown coming out of your ass. But we were in too much of a rush to care. I rubbed my stomach with white frosting while Zak worked on the brown. Again, sort of a funny choice, given that he was nervous about touching me at all.

A few sprinkles and finishing touches, and we finished.

Zak and I scurried outside (the basement only opens to the street) and into the front door, where we stood hidden in the entryway, I trying not to get any frosting on the decor. But Al and his sister decided to take a break between the show and the cake, to tally the quizzes. I zipped back to the basement and waited, keeping my penis firm by stroking it with excess chocolate frosting -- an excellent lube, by the way.

Then we returned upstairs. Zak lit my candle, then went to the stage and asked that the cake be brought in. I appeared, in my birthday suit. To only mild shock, I realized disappointedly. I thought there'd be hootin' and hollerin', but it seemed the audience was expecting this.

Al was not. Reluctantly he blew out the candle. His face was redder than my red-frosted nipples.

I wandered the floor and danced around a bit after that, but nobody seemed willing to suck the brown frosting out of my buttcrack (or maybe they just weren't willing to do it in front of everyone), so Al, Zak and I went downstairs to wipe it off with baby wipes and paper towels. Ineffectually, I'm afraid. I had a washcloth, though, so I returned upstairs to wash off in the bathroom.

Happy Birthday, Al!

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear

2006-04-17T19:18:00.000-04:00

I don't know what triggered this -- a lack of sleep, frustration over not finding a new job or getting called a prostitute (see below) -- but I've been miserable all day. I keep thinking I'm crying, but I'm not; my eyes are just watering. Which makes me worry I'm getting pink eye.

A friend of mine came into town this weekend and suggested we get massages. There is nothing I love more than a firm massage, but every time I think about someone unfamiliar touching my body, I feel nauseated. I have a few gigs scheduled, and I'm sure I'll be over this in a day or two, but I can't think of anything I'd like to do less.

I used to fantasize about go-go dancing. I'd dream entire days away, remembering, basking, looking forward, wanting. I don't do that anymore. But I wonder, now that I've gotten used to unlimited cash, if I'll be able to cut back. Can I give it up if I want to?

And this blog--. I was reading over old posts this weekend and was disgusted. This person who wrote all those things, who did all those things, has been wretched. I've said so many nasty things and pretended it was in good fun, it's appalling. I know I'm not this person, but I also know a part of me is this person.

I want to take a break from him for a while. I want some time alone.

I jump the shark

2006-04-15T12:44:00.000-04:00

Massaging at Opaline last night was quite the downer. First of all, I got there an hour early, thinking for some reason that I needed to be there at 11. So after checking in, I had nothing to do. I wandered the club, which is remarkably big, then sat up on the roof and tried to think of someone to call. No one picked up.

I was wearing the lamest clubbing outfit (a wool sweater, unsexy jeans and puffy white running shoes), so I just wanted to disappear. This was the me of four years ago, before I came out, when I wandered bars aimlessly and in secret. I was still getting cruised, though, which just goes to show that even clothes look better in the dark. But I didn't want to approach anyone even to talk, because when you have a boyfriend, no one wants to talk to you.

After I was sure an hour had passed, I looked at my watch. 11:23. I wished I could do something productive, like read, do yoga or take a nap. I didn't even have a pen to jot down notes about how bored I was.

Then I thought, maybe if I sit somewhere accessible, someone will sit next to me. After twoish minutes, a cute fellow sat down next to me. We had a nice chat, and then I asked him to dance. "I should tell you that I have a boyfriend," I said. "Is that OK?"

"We're just dancing," he replied.

So we danced, I in my Alanis Morissette sweater that itched every time I moved. And I felt better.

The next half hour passed infinitely faster than the first twenty minutes, and before I knew it, it was time to give the massages. I took off my clothes and grabbed the various accoutrements of touch: sheet, big towel, lotion. I had purchased little bar towels that day, so the cum would be more manageable. I had also read a website on giving massages, to learn some new techniques. Before I left for Opaline, I had typed up a sign that said "FREE MASSAGE (TIPS ARE WELCOME)." I held that up to avoid having to ravage my vocal cords.

My first client was a nice-looking black guy who I may or may not have met the week before. He stripped to his boxer briefs, and I began the massage. At one point, he took off his underwear, which meant to me that he wanted some serious lovin'. I used all my massage tricks, including lying on top of him and squirming all around. Then I took out his penis and stroked. He didn't cum after a minute or two, so I put it back, squeezed a few other muscles for the pretense and told him we were done.

"Whoa," he said, shaken, and unsure whether to be happy or not. "I can't believe it. Is that really OK?"

"They haven't stopped me yet," I said. "Do you wish I hadn't done that?"

Again, confusion. "I don't know. I liked it, I guess."

As he dressed, a phantom gay swished in to say to me, "How many years of school does it take to become a prostitute?"

Which hurt. Not because he called me a prostitute, because on an intellectual level, I know that there's nothing wrong with male prostitution, but because I was only putting on dick shows to please the crowd, and he had proven that not everyone was pleased. When I held up the Free Massage sign, nobody wanted to partake. Duh.

At that point, I wanted to go home and never massage again. Instead I decided not to stroke anyone's penis, hard or not. I owed it to my boyfriend, at least.

That's what I did. I still sat on top of people while I massaged them, and I still payed particular attention to the problem areas around the groin and lower abdomen, but though I brushed each member a few times "by accident," I never went in for the kill, even on one guy, who was writhing with pleasure and stroking my wang (covered) while I squeezed his shoulders.

I like giving massages, even when I'm not giving hand jobs. I feel better about being chaste. I massaged people constantly until Owen came up to me and told me to get paid, because it was already 3:30. I also received a fantastic massage from a professional, and got my picture taken by the inimitable Justin Ocean, who writes for Next. Maybe I'll be in the magazine next week. And we're not talking the escort pages, at least for now.

Nice package

2006-04-11T21:45:00.000-04:00

I got my Freshpair fix in the mail today. Two very nice pieces of 2xist, one of them baby blue and to be appearing in a bar near you (half off).

But because my mailbox at home is tiny, I always have my underwear shipments sent to me at work. Today I realized, if my boss found out that I was using up mailroom resources to have underwear delivered (and I've gotten at least 10 pair sent to the office), I'd be in rub-a-dub trouble.

Gymnausea

2006-04-10T20:01:00.000-04:00

When we last left our intrepid gym bunny, he was trying to find a new, high-qual gym in New York that wasn't cruisey. He gave up before he began.

Then he thought he would try joining a yoga studio, but all those were either too expensive, too inconvenient or too agonizing.

Then he thought he would do a little yoga at home. So far, he's done some nude stretching on a few occasions that ended after five minutes in a jackoff session.

At this point, he hasn't been to the gym for about two months, and unlike what some trainer told him last year, his entire musculature hasn't gone down the tubes. His gut hasn't ballooned. He isn't sure that there's any difference at all.

I say we should stand up against the gym. There must be better places to spend 5 to 10 hours a week. Does anyone actually get any bigger there, or do we just go because we're supposed to (and in the off-chance that there's someone hot in the steam room)?

Mormons + gays = high art

2006-04-09T17:37:00.000-04:00

My dear, sweet boyfriend being out of town, I thought it might be a good opportunity to watch Latter Days, the three-year-old gay flick starring one of my innumerable post-adolescent crushes, Steve Sandvoss (whom, by the way, I am totally over, 100 percent).

Someone at the time of our acquaintance told me Steve was bisexual, which was the clincher for me; had he been most definitely straight, I would've been on to the next guy in a minute. Instead I wettened a number of dreams with his biceps in my thoughts. BTW, the official record states that he's straight, lest I be accused of libel (but I hear Tobey Maguire's a total fag).

The movie was a lot better than I expected, though I'd have to see another Sandvoss vehicle (preferably one with full frontal nudity) for me to rate his acting abilities. There were dozens of fantastic one-liners, the best ones tossed off in a split-second, and the worst used to cue sappy music and end scenes. My favorite (paraphrased, of course):

Steve: I could be excommunicated for what we did.

Christian (What irony!, the slutty gay is named Christian, when it's really the other one who's...): For a kiss? We didn't even use tongue.

There were even glimpses of penis, which I wasn't expecting. Steve's was visible in shadow twice, and it looked pretty big, but even after replaying both shots on slow motion six or seven times, wiping the dust motes off the screen to clear my view, drawing the shades and maxing out the brightness level on the TV, I still couldn't be sure. Damn you, digital video! Film would've illuminated that cock like Brigitte Bardot!

None of the deleted scenes, nor interviews with the cast, nor stills of the film featured Steve's penis, either.

However, all was not lost. As it turned out, the furniture in the Mormon missionaries' apartment was almost exactly the same as the furniture in my college dorm(!). The couch was very similar, and the rug was exactly the same. You don't see this rug every day, do you?

Which can only mean one thing.

Steve is so in to me.

Bodywork

2006-04-08T13:43:00.000-04:00

The first note of relevance is that I wore the new tanker boots to give massages at Opaline last night, and as soon as Adam saw them, he said, "Did you bring sneakers? Those boots are great, but you might hurt someone."

I wished I did have sneakers, and not just for the obvious reason. The boots were chafing at my legs quite painfully. I'm not sure why the US military ever issued those things, except as a hazing ritual. Not only are they painful to wear, they're not particularly supportive, they take about an hour to put on or remove, and running in them is only slightly less awkward than running in wooden shoes. No wonder so many people died in World War I. ("Billy! The Germans are heading straight for us!" "Hold on a second. I just have to wrap this long leather strap around my leg a few times, guide it through the buckle, tighten it and make sure the pin lines up with a hole in the leather...")

The massaging itself was enjoyable but thankless. Massage therapists get about 75 bucks an hour to give massages, and though I'm not licensed or anything, I was making a lot less than that, for even more difficult work. When was the last time your massage therapist lay facedown on top of you and slithered around? Not to mention that I bought the sheets, towels and lotion. And the boots.

My first victim wanted only to take off his shirt, so I let him. I wasn't going to enforce a code of nudity. The second guy, however, was really excited to take off all his clothes (including his underwear). As I was concluding the massage, I furtively checked to see if he had a boner. He didn't.

After that, I've forgotten the order. As I was massaging one guy, I asked him how he liked it. "Firmer, please," he said.

One tall guy only wanted to take off his shirt; however, when I asked him to roll onto his back, halfway through the massage, he undid his pants and pushed them down to his knees (revealing an embarrassing pair of boxers).

His dick was hard (and enormous), so I put some lotion on my hand and gave it a few good strokes. Well, more than a few, because before I knew it, he had cum.

I changed the sheet and towel, but it wouldn't stay clean for long, as the next guy who wanted a massage also wanted to cum. This guy was trying to get me to simulate sex acts with him (and succeeding). When I started stroking his dick, he stroked mine. I thought, This is not cool with my boyfriend. Then he came, and I put my dick back into my jockstrap, feeling a little sheepish.

A few guys after that was a pale guy with a bushy head of hair who took off all his clothes, which made me think that he wanted the same routine. But he wasn't getting into it, so I backed off after a few strokes. When he got up, he dressed hurriedly and without looking at me. I had molested him. I felt terrible. From then on, I decided I'd ask before reaching for the goods.

But all was righted again with the next guy, a beefy fellow in the best kind of way. When the gyrating part of the massage came, I asked him how he was liking it.

"Oh yeah, keep going!"

So I took the towel off and stroked his gorgeous manhood for all to see. He came in a fireworks display, then lay there naked for a few more minutes.

I went home then, feeling victorious but also wholly skanky. And today I get to launder the cum out of the sheets and towels.

Boots, again (sigh)

2006-04-07T21:52:00.000-04:00

I started to think that the boots looked a little funny, and the last thing I need is to pay $130 for funny-looking boots, despite my inflated salary. I mean, I like them, but you kinda have to be a bear -- or at least wearing leather pants -- to pull them off.

So I went to Weiss & Mahoney to find some army boots. The only thing I found that looked good to me were tanker boots, which are shown here:

I don't have a picture of them on my feet, because I lent my boyfriend the digital camera for his trip this weekend. But that's pretty much exactly what they look like. I'm not totally fond of the strap (they're almost like Manolos in that way, no?), and there are no metal studs or grommets or rings, but I think the gist is close enough. And I could see myself wearing these puppies even when I'm not dancing.

Or massaging, as the case may be: Yes, folks, tonight I am going to be giving massages at Opaline. I will use every technique I've learned from getting massages, plus a few that I learned elsewhere (e.g. stroking the body with my penis). And I will be wearing the tanker boots. The others I will be returning.

Splash is closed

2006-04-06T20:58:00.000-04:00

But just temporarily. I guess they had to close a certain number of days (of their choice, it seems) in penance for whatever sins were committed. This Saturday is one of those days.

So no raking in of cash by me will occur on Saturday. No flesh will be bared and no penis will be touched.

Mourning may begin.

Boots

2006-04-04T20:25:00.000-04:00

I caved.

Going on the theory that you only live once -- and because my coworker thought I could make more money with some serious footwear, as opposed to this -- I decided to splurge and buy the boots. Not the Harley boots, because when I looked at them again, they looked a bit too Disney for my purposes. Instead, I bought the (more expensive) Wicked boots. Here they are, in all their glory.

Boots

Note the metal ring attached to the leather straps. Note the three velcro tabs on the inside calf. Note the heavy duty zipper running down the side. Note the strange horizontal pattern on the front. These here are faggots' boots. And I, goddamnit, am a faggot.

Here are the boots with me in them. (Sorry if it's a less-than-perfect shot; it's a bit hard to take a self-portrait of my lower half, and I certainly can't ask my boyfriend to take the photos. He will look at these boots and feel sad.)

And here is the money shot, me with my tough-guy jock and my tough-guy boots. Not pictured are my tough-guy armband and my tough-guy grimace. I kinda see why people say they like my legs. They're awfully shapely. (That weird undulation in my left hamstring is actually muscle, I think.)

I'll be wearing these boots on Friday at Opaline, so come find me. I dare you to look at these boots and resist tipping me.

More shopping

2006-04-03T19:35:00.000-04:00

Adam from Opaline called today, while I was in the bathroom at work. I looked under the dividers to see if anyone else was in there and answered the phone.

He wanted me to add to the supplies I was going to bring for Friday's massagefest. The new list is:

Jockstrap
Lotion
Towels
Sheets

You'd think it was a packing list for a weekend at a Fire Island share.

I had been curious about the lotion for a while at that point, so I asked: "Are we asking these people to take off their clothes?"

"Yeah -- I mean, at first, there won't be a lot of takers. But when they get drunk, they'll do it." Someone entered the bathroom. I couldn't decide whether to flush and get out of there, and shock Adam, or whether to wait in there and shock my new bathroom friend. I waited, and tried to make sure I didn't say anything embarrassing.

"Their underwear, too?" I said, quietly.

"If you want. You can cover them with a towel. We've had some pretty crazy stuff. Guys being jacked off. You can do whatever you want, up to a certain limit."

I had a hard-on just thinking about it.

After work, I went to Kmart to buy the cheapest sheets and towels I could find. On the way, I remembered that I've been wanting some nice tough-guy boots. I ducked into a shoe store near 34th Street and found what I was looking for: black Harley-Davidson boots with zippers on both sides of the calf. They were $100, down from $170.

I almost bought them; I really did. But when can I legitimately wear Harley-Davidson boots outside of the go-go world?

Eastern Bloc

2006-04-02T13:46:00.000-04:00

I enjoy dancing at places for the first time; it brings back some of the original thrills of my days at The Slide and at Boysroom. So it was a joy for me to dance at Eastern Bloc, the East Village bar that used to be Wonder Bar, not that I had ever set foot in there before.

In terms of commuting distance from my apartment, I don't think there's a bar in Manhattan that's further, unless there are bars in Yorkville, that outpost of subway reach, the Far Rockaway of Manhattan.

And isolation came in another breed, as for the first time, I was the only dancer there. Which wasn't terrible, since it meant no forced grinding with another dancer, and no issues of scheduling to worry about.

When I arrived, I introduced myself to Benjamin, who has the nicest body you can imagine, with abs you could hike on. He suggested I start on the bar, so I took off my clothes and climbed on. I stood up and hit my head on a metal prop, hanging from the ceiling. I moved to the side and hit my head on the ceiling. For the first time I wished I was only 5' 2". Or 4' 6", because my head and shoulders were blocked from view by a giant black pipe, running along the ceiling. To see anyone, I had to crouch down and reach up to steady myself on the pipe. It was like a yoga class made up entirely of awkward chair.

My legs are pretty strong, though, and the only problem I was having with all the crouching was it is impossible to dance when in a crouch, except for bouncing lightly up and down. If people had been tipping, it would've looked fine. But lo and behold, they weren't, so I just sat there, bouncing. Occasionally someone would stick a cocktail straw into my crack. Which, in truth, was kind of nice.

Because of daylight savings time, I didn't leave the bar until almost four. Then, thanks to late-night subway schedules ("We're being held in the station indefinitely to maintain a half-hour spacing between trains"), and to the diametrical remoteness of Eastern Bloc and my apartment, it took an hour and a half to get home. By the time I reached my doorstep, the crepuscular birds had already started their bickering; by the time I fell asleep, dawn had already broken.

One good thing about arriving that late, though: I saw my first hooker in our neighborhood. Either that, or the lady was locked out of her apartment wearing next to nothing. It's amazing; I can be a card-carrying member of the sex industry, and still be surprised when I see a prostitute.

My new favorite job

2006-03-31T21:52:00.000-05:00

I never understood why people say oral sex is the best kind. I prefer a nice firm hand over the weak watery suction of a mouth, and though I'm not terribly fond of going up the garbage chute (the smell gets to me), I can imagine how much better than a mouth a tight, slithery vagina must be.

So why is the blow job the piece de resistance for men? I finally discovered the reason last night.

The point of the BJ is not the sensation -- which, don't get me wrong, is pleasant, but very few guys have made me cum by mouth alone. The point, as was revealed to me last night during an exemplary dick licking by my boyfriend, is that a blow job is an ego trip, and is extremely autoerotic.

See, I was trying to get hot on the fact that my boyfriend's mouth felt nice around my weiner. But last night, I realized that watching the act is even better than feeling it. There he was, cute as a button, and going up and down on my cock, like a sewing machine, or like a very devout congregant in a very intense prayer. He was worshipping my penis.

And it's like free porn. The receiver of the blow job gets to sit there and watch a porno enacted three feet from his face; better yet, instead of having to reach for his penis to masturbate, it's already done for him.

Finally!

2006-03-30T22:44:00.000-05:00

If you don't know which one I am, I'm not going to tell you. For anonymity's sake, I'll probably delete this in a few weeks. But it's me! In Next magazine!!!

Go-go in training

2006-03-29T22:39:00.000-05:00

I had dinner tonight with Joel Derfner, who just started his go-go career. He's a renaissance man, a man for all seasons, a man of many hats, but he was intrigued by my blog (well, I can't take all the credit) and decided to try dirty dancing.

I didn't see his inaugural whirlabout at Splash, but it sounds like it went pretty well. Even better was his reaction to it: (I'm paraphrasing here) "When I was down on the floor, no one was looking at me, but when I was up on the bar, everyone was looking at me. I used to be a nobody, and suddenly people were paying to touch my penis."

Kinda like my experience, too. Try it, folks! It's fantastic!

Booked up tight

2006-03-28T22:42:00.000-05:00

I've been taking it easy these past few weeks, enjoying my eight hours of sleep per night. But that will soon change.

I got a phone message from Adam last night, the DJ/promoter who organizes Friday nights at Opaline. As I've mentioned before, I'm going to do it next Friday to test the waters, and to see whether it's advisable for me to swim on Friday nights, when I'm at my most tired.

Now, I happened to call him back after 90 minutes of hot yoga (not the nude kind, though I've done that as well), when my muscles were the same consistency as my mind. For some reason, after intense yoga in intense heat, I can't say no. (I also can't deal with reality. I dropped a gyro on my pants and started to cry.)

Adam asked if I wanted to massage at Opaline on April 14. I said yes. May 5, yes. May 12, yes. May 26, yes. I just hope I don't hate it after April 7.

Another new gig I might be taking on is at Eastern Bloc. I don't know when, but when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Beach bum

2006-03-25T16:36:00.000-05:00

For the record, I did have fun last night. But not thanks to my luck.

The party was at Mr. Black, in the East Village, and it promised to be great. Hosted by Daniel Nardicio, the day before the Black Party, and the first time I've danced in three weeks. I was well rested, horny and raring to go.

It was a beach-themed party, so I had prepared an elaborate costume. Two different swimsuits, one Speedo-like and one down to the knees, a rainbow towel which used to be my parents' (out of cluelessness, not liberalism) and which I have since reclaimed, a bottle of sunscreen, flip-flops, a hat and sunglasses.

For my first set, I went out in the little bathing suit, the towel, the bottle of sunscreen and the flip-flops. I stood on a platform and rubbed sunscreen on my body and my penis. I saw the usual shocked but pleased stares, and I pulled down my suit to reveal just enough.

They didn't bite. The room was packed with nontippers and women, who made any potential tippers feel too self-conscious to approach. I took off my suit and just played with my towel, stroking my penis with a sunscreen-lubed hand. Naked boy + hard cock = loads of cash, in most situations. Here it equaled nada.

I made three dollars in that half hour. I changed into my longer swim trunks, hat, sunglasses and a bottle of lube instead of sunscreen, and came back out. I kept the trunks low and made sure to show plenty of weiner. Still very little.

What with the sunscreen and the lube, my penis was getting awfully sticky. I washed it off and returned to the floor, but it turned out that the lube was the culprit. I had bought Wet, thinking it would live up to its name, but it gummed up almost immediately. (ID is my favorite so far, though there's one in a black bottle that would be even better, if it weren't impossible to wash off.)

Then a magician performed. While she was doing her thing, one of the waiters (in water polo gear) stood in front of me and started stroking my goods. I was half paying attention to the magician, when I noticed that I was about to cum. "If you keep it up, I'm going to cum all over you," I said, and pulled away. He took that as a reason to keep stroking it. I promised my boyfriend I wouldn't cum in bars, but it all happened so quickly; before I knew it, my load had shot all over the place. For the most part, no one noticed.

I, however, was ready for my proverbial cigarette. No way I was getting it up again that night. (I did, by the way, for a few minutes.)

Then my penis started hurting. I don't know whether it was because of the sunscreen or the constant touching. Between that and the broken glass on the floor (I was still wearing flip-flops and was certain that I would cut my foot), I was ready to go home.

The night was not a complete wash, though. I met a few nice guys, and I had my picture taken for three publications, HX, Next and some sort of e-mail newsletter that will be distributed to who knows how many horny queers. And the Next photographer turned out to be really nice; he bought me pizza and gave me a ride home.

Do I know you from somewhere?

2006-03-19T19:32:00.000-05:00

It's finally happened. Someone has recognized me, completely out of context. Once someone recognized me when I was about two blocks from Boysroom, but this is different. I was at a dinner party.

The guy was the hanger-on of one of the guests, and he didn't know anyone there. When he arrived, he pointed to me. "Are you a lawyer?"

I told him I wasn't.

"Then where do I know you from?"

I grinned. "Do you ever go to Splash?"

"Sure, all the time. We live right near there."

At this point all of the guests were laughing. I explained that I danced there, and the dinner party continued, I feeling quite famous.

Speaking of fame, my most devoted reader, "phag," sent me to www.mostbeautifulman.com to look at this fine specimen. Did I know this guy? he asked.

Steve Sandvoss

The answer is a shocking yes. We were in the same writing class my senior year (his sophomore or junior year, I think). He came to class every week in a tight t-shirt, and he just sat there flexing. We sat at a big rectangular table, and I somehow ended up sitting across from him every week. I wasn't even out to myself at the time, but I knew I wanted him.

And now he's famous. Join the club, Steve!

Photographers

2006-03-18T15:22:00.000-05:00

My naivete can be appalling. For example, I went to my first underwear party thinking it was about leaving your underwear on. Sort of like a pajama party for gays. Alas, there were no pillow fights.

My most recent idio(syncra)cy involves the people who approach me every other month or so, explaining that they're a photographer and telling me how much they'd love to shoot me sometime.

The first time that happened, I came home and told my boyfriend. "I met this photographer," I said. "He wants to photograph me nude."

He rolled his eyes. "They just want to sleep with you."

I believed him, and from then on, I kindly refused all photographic services.

Then came the delightful Hans Fahrmeyer, who may have wanted to sleep with me, but didn't. He took pictures and sent them to me, which was a genuinely kind thing to do. (Here's some more.)

A week ago, another photographer asked if he could take some photos of me. I looked at his work online, thought it was extremely hot, and sent him an e-mail, explaining that I'd love to. At the end, just in case, I added that I was in a monogamous relationship and had to remain faithful. But that didn't seem a problem; in a bio on his website, it seemed he wasn't interested in casual sex, only long-term relationships.

But naivete does strike twice in the same place, for my photographer had suddenly become quite busy. If we weren't going to fool around, he said, as politely as possible, he had no reason to bend his schedule.

In the future, I'll have to be more clear up front about my marital status. I can see, though, telling someone, "Sorry, I can't sleep with you," and he being offended that I'd even suggest it. If anyone does want to shoot me without any sexual side effect, I'd be overjoyed.

Abercrombie & Fitch (off-topic)

2006-03-15T22:29:00.000-05:00

On a trip up Fifth Avenue this afternoon, I was lured into the new Abercrombie & Fitch flagship by a huge photo of a hot guy throwing a football. What I found inside was hysterical -- and frightening.

1) The store itself is like the Museum of Natural History. There is a moose head on one wall. There are little scenes with mannequins in the jungle, behind glass. There are clothes in those glass observation cases where you might expect to see flowers and butterfly wings. All the clothes are the same. There are four levels of store, and there are only two styles: boys' and girls'.

There also are epic murals, of men being manly and not totally clothed. And there are the museum guards (see #2).

2) Just as you had read in every news outlet on earth circa 1998, they do indeed hire guys and girls just to stand around and be themselves (or rather, act like how college students are supposed to act). There were probably 25 of these people throughout the store. Some were dancing goofily to the excessively loud music, some were chatting with each other and some were staring off into space at a carefully executed angle. All were cute. None were folding clothes.

Two guys smiled and said hi to me, which was such a turn-on, I wanted to buy the store out of its $49.50 polo shirts.

3) Though the employees are attractive, none compare with the people in the photos. Those people are so hot, I'd do any of them, even the women, in a heartbeat. I realized what the Abercrombie execs are going for: They want straight men to look at the male models and to want to suck them off. Then, not willing to admit the desire to suck them off, those straight men will just want to be like them. The easiest way to be like them is to buy their clothes.

4) Between the paintings of men, the photos of men and the real men, my libido was popping out of my pants. I noticed two things. First, I was intensely self-conscious. I have been known to stare into car windows, but I have never judged my looks in a store's mirror three times in a row, just because I wanted to see if I was as hot as the Aberzombies. Second, I kinda wanted to buy some of that clothing. I mean, I've never bought anything from Abercrombie. I've never even considered it. But my clothes seemed so uptight, so not what the situation called for. I wanted to fit in.

My gut feeling is that it's bad to buy and wear Abercrombie if you're gay. It seems like you're selling out to a company that taunts you with hot guys and then shoves it in your face how important it is to be straight. I mean, most clothing companies do that, but none so plainfacedly as Abercrombie. But as nice as it felt those few times I fit in in high school, that's how it felt to think about owning those clothes, when I was in that store.

But when I left the store, all those feelings went away.

Whipping it out

2006-03-14T22:41:00.000-05:00

Before I got naked professionally, I had my share of hijinks. Most notably, I found myself in Barracuda with my jeans at my ankles and four guys taking turns stroking me (and themselves) until I came, right in the middle of the bar.

I know that nudity is frowned upon even in gay bars, but I think sometimes the management looks the other way so that the patrons can have a little fun.

As I've written before, I like it when guys take out their penises -- it makes me think I'm doing something right. And it seems to happen a lot more than one would think. At least once a night, a guy sitting at the bar will unleash a hard on and start stroking. I often want to ask them to cum, but I'm sure they're all saving it for the stud they're expecting to land at the end of the night.

What are the factors that predict whether a guy will whip it out? Foremost, it's a size thing. If he's got a big dick, he's going to use any excuse to show it off. Maybe that excuse is that he wants to compare sizes with me. Maybe it's that his erection is making it uncomfortable to leave the thing in his pants. Maybe he just needs to make sure it's still there. Regardless, I've seen a lot of big penises this way.

The second predictor is the drunkenness of the man. The really drunk ones will quite often unzip and start masturbating at random. The third predictor is how dark and secluded is. The fourth is how hot the stuff going on on top of the bar is. If I'm gettin' sassy with another dancer, we might get two or three people to unsheath.

So far, no one has cummed (is that the perfect tense of to cum?) in a regular bar setting, but I'll work on it. Maybe I'll even get an action shot for a future posting.

Rebellion

2006-03-12T17:43:00.000-05:00

Not long ago, an older fellow (well, older than me) said something to the tune of, "I get it; everyone has to find their way of rebelling, and this is yours."

I was taken aback (not too far back, mind you, or I would've fallen off the bar) by that comment. When I'm up there, I don't feel that I'm rebelling, and I'd venture to say that most people who have go-go danced more than once feel the same.

I mean, sure, I don't want my parents to know that I'm doing it, but that's different than saying that taking off my clothes in public is an act of rebellion. Dancing feels wholesome to me. It feels good and right to excite people. My skin is too sensitive for me to strip down at the beach, so I might as well get the chance to do it somewhere.

If anything, my behavior up there is the opposite. I'm constantly nervous that I'm breaking a rule, that I've shown too much, or I haven't shown enough. I worry that I'm not in the right place, or that I'm blocking someone else from getting on stage. I worry that I'm offending someone's sensibilities, especially when I see a woman cowering at one end of the bar.

If I think someone is unhappy with me, either go-go boy or promoter, I dive into a funk. My erection is ruined for days.

On the other hand, when someone I respect tells me I'm hot, or that I did something well, I beam. No different from opening my report card a dozen years ago and admiring a perfect line of As.

Maybe if I were better at rebelling, I'd give up dancing.

I heart Daniel Cartier

2006-03-09T11:02:00.000-05:00

Daniel Cartier and I shared the bar last night. Man, is he hot! And what a cock! It's so big, it's like my cock's father. And there was a little family reunion on the bar last night, if you know what I mean.

A man of many hats

2006-03-09T09:50:00.000-05:00

Who knew that a mere go-go dancer would have to be a jack of all trades? Here are just a few of the services I provided last night -- besides providing pleasure to the throngs.

Cashier: One sweet fellow had tipped me a few dollars and wanted to tip again, but all he had were fives and larger. At first I said, why not give me the five? He asked if I'd give him change. I pulled a handful of dollars out of my jockstrap and he handed me the five. "Three dollars back, please," he said.

Beauty consultant: Between one and two, I spotted three attractive women sitting at the bar. "Are you guys trannies?" I joked. The first one, who was the prettiest of them all, took mild offense, but maybe that was just the belligerence of drunkenness. At this point I was completely nude except for shoes and a torn bar towel, so I crouched down and stuffed the towel on my goods for modesty. She asked me what body lotion I used to make my skin so smooth; I said the secret wasn't lotion but rather not getting any sun. Her well tanned friend agreed that sun was a damaging force. My original interlocutor gave me a few tips for great lotions, but other than some restoring lotion from the pharmacy, I can't remember what she said.

Social worker: One guy was sitting on the end of the bar pretty much all night, downing who knows what. After 2, I approached him and sat down on the bar. "You've really been diligent about drinking tonight," I said. "Long day at work?" The answer was yes, but that everything was fine. This was his chance to stay out late and get drunk, since he didn't have to wake up early on Thursday. "It's hard to stay up this late, isn't it," I said.

Album promoter: Anyone who gives me more than a certain polite level of compliment gets a free Confessions calling card. I only have about 950 left of the original 1,000, so it's quite a valuable gift. Last night, a guy gave me five dollars because another guy grabbed without tipping. I thought that was quite valiant, and after chatting with him for a bit, I handed him a card. "It's my blog," I said. "It's sort of a fun read." He put the card on his cocktail napkin, instead of pocketing it. "Don't you want it?" I asked. "I work at Warner Bros. records," he replied. "I don't need it." "What are you talking about?" I said. "I know Madonna; I don't need this." "This has nothing to do with Madonna," I said, realizing that her most recent opus sounds quite similar to Confessions of a Go-Go Dancer. He picked up the card and read each word as he pointed. "Confessions. On. A. Go-go dancefloor." He put the card back down. I picked it up and put it back in my sock. The jerk.

Anecdotes

2006-03-05T21:25:00.000-05:00

1) The first person I shared eye contact with when I got up on the platform at Splash last night was a woman who looked like Felicity Huffman, I think (I don't really know what anyone looks like, is the truth). She held my gaze so fiercely that I had to look away. At first I thought she was a tranny; after all, I didn't think straight women tried to pick up go-go boys at gay clubs. (And yes, I can't really distinguish trannies from real women.) But after a few minutes of catching glances and trying to avoid her seductive stare, I was sure she was a she, through and through.

At the very end of the night, after I had inflated my penis for the last time, she approached me. "I've been taking a poll of all the go-go dancers," she lied. "Do you kiss boys or girls?"

I was a little confused by her euphemism.

"Or both," she added.

"Boys," I said.

"Oh, OK. Thanks. You're great at what you do," she said, slipped two bucks into my underwear and walked away.

2) Aaron Tanner has left Aaron Tanner's Men's Night, or more accurately, handed it off to Craig Spencer, who is equally likeable. Apparently Aaron is opening a new club/bar.

Craig really came through for me last night. My leather supply is not exactly plethoric, but I brought a strap that wraps a few times around the wrist and a wristband that I tried to use as an armband. The damn armband kept falling off my arm, but it was all right, because I had enough leather, thanks to Craig: He loaned me a leather vest at the beginning of the night. His leather vest. And a red jockstrap (Yes, I wore a communal jock). As for leather boots and a harness, I'm just going to have to splurge.

3) There were two pretty new dancers last night. The first that I met was an acrobat from Hungary, whose gig on Brighton Beach was canceled because someone died. He didn't know any more details, but I can guess.

The other was a guy who used to be fat and lost a lot of weight, a trend, I think, in go-go dancers. I just lose a pound or two a year by accident, but I've met a lot of guys who lost weight and then wanted to show off. Makes sense to me.

Anyway, his dick was notoriously big. He had it curled up in a leather pouch for much of the night, but by the end, when the manager had retreated to the office to write checks, he had it out, hanging like a plantain. That was my cue to whip mine out too. Don't tell management.

Speaking of which, I don't know how they really feel about seeing penis. I get reprimanded every time for indecent exposure, but it's not "I don't want to see that," it's "I don't want to see so much of that." I think they want people to see penis, but they want it to come out only by accident, so the cops can't bust them. So can I accidentally leave my underwear in the locker room?

4) I brought my dancing accoutrements in an H&M bag instead of the usual black satchel. When I left to go home, I realized that the white bag was not perfectly opaque. Anyone who took a close look at the bag would realize it was full of bills. I put the bag in the paunch of my coat (the paunch-o, haha) and skittered along, hoping no one would wonder why I had to hold up my stomach.

Opaline

2006-03-04T13:37:00.000-05:00

After a few months of the go-go loop, I swore never to dance Friday nights. The workweek renders me into an amoeba by Friday night.

But one can't be too strict about rules. That's why we're human, to break rules sensibly.

I "tried out" at Opaline last night. Back when the club was located in the East Village, I liked going because my friend and sometime dancer Lucky usually was there. When it moved to midtown, I thought the proximity would convince me to go more often. Instead, I didn't go even once.

But I was offered the opportunity to try out, and pulled my journalist's curiosity, I did so.

When I arrived at midnight, one of my fave dancers was giving a massage to another of my faves. I learned then that I wasn't being hired to dance but to give massages on a massage bed randomly sitting out on the dance floor. Well, I thought, massage therapist is a noble profession, and I've certainly gotten enough to know how to do it.

I stripped down to my new yellow child's size 6-8 Batman underwear and hopped on the bed. It was bitterly cold out last night, and I was still shivering when I stretched out. I never quite stopped shaking until I put my clothes back on an hour later. One of the dancers, who I always thought looked like the guy in the Calvin Klein underwear ad (the shaved-head damp-looking one), gave me a massage first. I would've preferred a firmer one, with a little more focus on the knots in my upper back, but I didn't say anything.

I rolled onto my back and he squirted lotion onto his chest, then lay on top of me and rubbed it in. This was something my boyfriend certainly would not approve of, but I was enjoying myself. I began to take off my underwear, as is my habit, but he stopped me. They got in trouble for it recently, he said. A disappointment, because I had a raging hard-on worth showing off.

Next it was my turn. I used all the techniques I had picked up from my massage therapist and some of the new ones (e.g.: humping) that I learned from my go-go friend. Fun was had by all, including a few curious onlookers.

Here's a photo from one of them, as found by a reader on www.lastnightsparty.com.

When were were done, the promoter told me that he'd love to hire me in a few weeks. Then, because I was still quite tired and had no monetary incentive to stay, I went right home.

A new gym

2006-03-04T13:30:00.000-05:00

I've decided to let my New Jersey gym membership expire and try a new one, in New York City. No, I didn't get booted out for getting blown in the steam room, or for package-inspecting in the weight room. I just don't like the management. When I joined, dues were about $42 a month, but since then, because I don't want to sign a year contract, they've gone up to $69 a month, which isn't so much less than I'd pay in a New York gym. And the locker room is kinda gnarly, funguswise; I want to try something a little bit nicer.

So, I ask you, gentle readers, for suggestions. Here are my criteria:

1) Less than $100 per month.
2) As few cruisey gays as possible (else I'll become one of them). No whorehouse in the steam room.
3) Facilities that are nice enough to excite me about using them.
4) Located somewhere on the West Side, from 14th Street to 125th Street.

Am I totally delusional in my search?

The underwarehouse

2006-03-01T22:44:00.000-05:00

I had some time to kill yesterday, so I went on a little spending spree, to the tune of $19.97, at Gay Nirvana, H&M. Not only is it second only to Williams Sonoma for picking up guys, and not only is it the perfect blend of rock-bottom prices, au courant style and body-squeezing sizes, but it's a go-go's dream.

One of the first dancers I met told me that first night that he buys almost all his dancing underwear at H&M. I, starved for great undies, visited maybe four of them, looking for something hot. All I found was some multicolored striped lycra boxer briefs, which I thought might look good. My boyfriend told me they made my penis look invisible.

I returned them and bought a bright red pair, again, of boxer briefs. I tried them on. He said (again perceptively) that they were not for dancing. Who wears boxer briefs to dance? I tried rolling up the legs; he just laughed.

I didn't return those. However, I figured out what my fellow dancer was talking about a few weeks later, when I did find an ab fab pair of black-and-white undies, again Lycra (do Europeans wear anything else?), which I promptly wore dancing.

But back to yesterday. H&M really pulled through. They had the leather armband I had been looking for, for like three bucks, so I bought two, a band for my upper arm and a strap for my wrist. Best of all, though, as I was leaving, I stopped in the children's section.

At most stores, like the Gap, the children's section has the only clothes that fit me. Yes, I wear clothes from the adult section, but people who go to the Gap go because they don't want anyone to know what's underneath the shirt.

But at H&M, the small and extra small clothes from the adult section are quite small enough. What would happen, I wondered, if I wore some underwear from the children's section?

The largest they had was for six to eight year olds; given that I sometimes wear a tanktop for four year olds, six to eight didn't sound so small. A three-pack of underwear with Batman on the butt for just seven bucks. I splurged. "It's for my cousin," I prepared to say if anyone asked.

When I got home, I pulled one up. It was, uh, a bit small. I got it past my pubic hair, but it wasn't what one would call a comfortable fit.

"I'm fat," I said to my boyfriend, who marveled that I could put it on at all. "I've never tried on a pair of underwear that didn't fit."

I might just wear one of them dancing. I could tear it off mid-set and only lose about two bucks. Good ol' H&M.

Participants

2006-02-28T22:35:00.000-05:00

I like to dance solo. Yeah, if another go-go boy is next to me, I'll rub up against him, but it's not all that hot for me, even if I'm hot for the boy. I don't know why.

But sometimes, I enjoy it when a guy from the audience gets into it. I get to see fresh penis, and it's just illicit enough to turn me on.

My favorite is when a guy pulls out his cock in secret. I'll shake hands with it, feel its heft and if I've got a camera on me, snap a photo. Scroll down and you might see a photo or two of the secret penis exposure. When the guy gets up and dances with me, it's amusing for about two seconds, but then it's like, OK, you've had your fifteen minutes.

My first major participant was this guy at Boysroom (RIP) who used to check his Penguin shirt at coat check. It was the middle of summer, and Gus the sweethearted coat check guy had nothing to do, and then this guy comes along and checks his shirt. It was the only thing on the rack.

Admittedly, the guy has a Fire Island body. Nice muscles, all the fat of a slice of skinless turkey and perhaps a tad bit too tan. If he spends $30 a day on Zone Diet meals, he deserves to show it off.

Then, while I'm up on stage waggling my wagglestick, he approaches me and asks if he can join in. All excited, I say sure, and I help him up onto the stage. He starts dancing like my brother (like a bobblehead just before it stops moving entirely) and I undo his belt and pants and slide them down. He's wearing Banana Republic boxer briefs, which are horribly unflattering (thinks I, the newly minted underwear snob), so I yank those down.

His cock is very long, pretty thick and not beautiful at all. The hairs are trimmed to perfection. I squeeze it a little; he wags it a little. It's cold.

But I'm having fun. He gets tipped and gives it to me, as he promised. I try to get someone to grab his dick. No one does. His underwear and jeans are bunched around his ankles, and I try to get him to take them off, secretly wanting to hide them. I can be cruel; I don't know why.

He came back week after week and asked to come up. Each time, it was less fun for me, and for him, too, judging by the waning vigor of his erection. Finally I explained that he could dance but that I didn't want to be involved. Then I stopped dancing at Boysroom. Shomer Shabbes, you know.

No one has participated with quite the fervor of that guy. There is one more guy worth mentioning, though. A few weeks ago, a very drunk fellow was dancing next to me at Splash. I tried to push him off gently, but he wouldn't go. He sat down on the platform and lay down in a stupor. I thought it might be fun to strip him naked, so I did so, at least to the point of exposing his penis. But it wasn't particularly big or pretty, nor was it small, nor ugly, so I pulled his underwear back on and rolled him onto the ground.

That, too, was cruel. Just because someone's drunk beyond the ability to walk doesn't mean I have the right to take off their clothes.

So maybe I'll have to start denying volunteers, lest my evil streak rear its head. But to stop will be difficult, because there's always a chance that I come across a terribly beautiful specimen, a cock that demands to be seen. One can't blame me for pursuing beauty, even if the spasm of delight lasts only two seconds.

Hot Nude Yoga

2006-02-27T23:25:00.000-05:00

There comes a time in every boy's life when he joins a room of a dozen sweating, grunting, naked men bending over and taking orders. Then there comes a time when he decides to write about it.

Yes, I did Hot Nude Yoga for three sessions in the middle of last year (Get it? "Hot" is a pun!), and it really was fantastic. If I hadn't found a way to get naked without having to pay, I would've continued to do it.

Well, maybe not. But only because of my partner's terrible breath that third time. They should've called it Hot Nude Gag Reflex.

Anyway, here's how it goes, for the curious-but-not-that-curious. Everyone enters, strips naked and positions their mat as near as possible to the most attractive person in the room. If there's no one superattractive, you position your mat away from everyone in the vain hope that the next person to walk in will be hot. Usually, though, everyone is pretty good looking and/or has a sinfully large penis.

The fabulous instructor Aaron Star turns on the heaters and starts the session, which has a lot of "omm" in the best kind of way. There's an hour of greatgreatgreat individual yoga, in which he really works with the delinquents (viz: me). But although this is sure to be untrue, I'm certain that he only worked so intensively with me because he enjoyed watching me get boner after boner. "Don't worry," he said, full of zen, to me upon spying my first hard-on, as he helped me further into my Warrior II and accidentally dragged his cock across my butt. "It happens to everyone."

After the hour of individual yoga, everyone partners up and does it a half hour more. The partnering is a curious mating ritual, because everyone except me knows exactly who they want to share a mat with before it begins, and if you're me, some guy who might have godawful breath has picked you and begins to sidle in your direction. And there is nothing you can do about it, because you cannot say no when everyone else has partnered up already. And you might not have known just how bad his breath was until he got close, after which it is definitely too late.

This is the part I am positive is only about sex without fluids. Yes, you're not allowed to touch anyone's penis with your hand. But anyone who didn't get a raging boner in the first part is sure to have a turgid Timmy after pressing his body against another man, penises together. And then there's a choice move where one guy's dick dangles about two inches from the other guy's face, which is either really hot or really smelly, depending on just how hard guy number one has worked out.

But even if the other guy smells like dogshit, you still get a massive hard-on, because after about two seconds of standing penis to penis, you feel the other guy's member crawling up your leg like a drawbridge and believe me, there is no way to resist being turned on by that.

At the end of all this, a lot of guys sit there touching each other, and a lot of guys go home with each other. But I, who am totally sexually spent just by being naked in a room of men for 90 minutes, simply went home.

For me, go-go dancing has a very similar sexual element. Lots of erections, lots of touching and finishing up without a horny bone in the body. The difference, other than the cost, is that after go-go dancing, my lower back is in pain from all the thrusting. After Hot Nude Yoga those three times, I went home feeling like jelly. The best kind of jelly.

Size DOES matter

2006-02-26T11:36:00.000-05:00

(The title here is a reference to the awkward Godzilla tagline from a few years back, when "Size matters" would have done just fine.)

They say that guys think their father's penis is much bigger than their own because they only see their father's schlong at an early age, when it does look a lot bigger than the wee willy they've got. But I still think my dad's got a bigger member than mine. Not that I ever willingly picture his goods.

Yep, my dick never really was very big (maybe two inches when cold and a nip shy of six at full salute), and that bothered me in my late adolescence. Couldn't it grow just a little more, just so it would hang past my balls in the gym, instead of perching above them and making it look as though I had a two-inch hard-on (that is, when I didn't have an actual hard-on just by nature of being naked in public)?

In college, I read websites about enlarging your penis. The best method for increasing length, they said, was to tie a weight to the head and leave it that way all day. I experimented tying a rubber band around it, attached to coffee cups, milk jugs, dumbbells, etc. The more it hurt, the better I felt. But it didn't seem to grow.

To improve girth, sites explained the art of jelqing, which meant getting into a semierect state and squeezing while stroking. The trick was not getting completely hard and not cumming, but duh, I came within five minutes, every time. The jelqing did add a tiny lump on the bottom of my shaft, which made the damn thing stick out even more in the gym.

The third technique was to get hard and then swing my dick back and forth, slapping alternately against each side of my pelvis, to loosen the ligaments that held it in so close. I think that one of the surgical methods of increasing length when flaccid is to cut those ligaments. But I don't think any of that swinging did anything, no matter how assiduously I practiced.

When I started sleeping with guys at 21 years old, I felt more comfortable about the size, but I began to wonder if my "average" size was actually around the 15th percentile. Somehow, almost every guy I bedded (among the 30 or so in those first two years) hid a monster in his underwear. I went home with eight- and nine-inchers, so thick that I feared they'd tear me open if they tried to enter me.

These horse-hung men were all in their 30s; maybe, I wondered, it grows as you get older?

My boyfriend explains it this way: Most guys in their thirties who are confident enough to take a 22-year-old home probably do have an anaconda in their pants. The silent majority does not. I agree, but I also think it does get a little bigger over time, just from all the stretching over the course of a day. When it's warm, mine now hangs down enough to be presentable.

My biggest fear when starting my go-go career was that my cock wouldn't be big enough, and to some extent, it was true. My second or third time out, a British guy measured me with his fingers and said, "Where I come from, the dancers are better endowed." Then he proceeded to unzip and show me his masterpiece. (A number of guys have produced impressive schlongs over the past year, in an effort to take me home. This technique would have worked every time before the boyfriend years.)

But in general, people don't care that it's just normal-sized. Daniel Nardicio thinks it's "small but adorable." And some of the other go-go dancers, who are a little more penis-shy (then again, who isn't?), seem to be about my size. A small penis doesn't preclude an adventurous boy from dancing au naturel. By now, if anyone scoffs, I just explain that the size fluctuates depending on how hot the patron is. Rub it a little, I say, and maybe it will grow.

Never been scene

2006-02-17T23:38:00.000-05:00

Now, I can't claim to have "read" every single issue of both Next and HX for the past nine months, so I can't be positive about this, but I'm pretty sure I can say this with a relative amount of certainty. (I mean, wouldn't somebody have told me if they'd seen me?)

I have never been pictured in the back pages of those two magazines.

I've definitely been photographed for those pages. I can think of four or five times when an HX or Next photographer told me to pose, then wrote down my name. I ran to the plastic newsboxes in Chelsea each week after those moments, and... nothing. Photos of my fellow dancers, photos of muscly, dark bar patrons, photos of friendly twinks, but alas, no photos of gorgeous, gorgeous moi.

Before I vainly assumed that each shot was too racy, and indeed, most of them were. Those magazines don't like to show penis, even if it's mostly covered by a hand. But I also recall a few shots of me when I was wearing underwear, and still nothing! What have I been doing wrong?

Am I supposed to tip the photographer? Should I slap him around a few times with my johnson?

When I worried about it (was I not hot enough for the back pages?), the other dancers would say, "Believe me, you'll be in those pages so often it won't matter. Just give it time." I have given it time, and I am still a back page virgin! What am I doing wrong, goddamnit?!

I've been on the cover of Next twice, and on the inside of HX once. I've been in a few ads, even. But never on the back, the only part that everyone who touches those magazines is certain to read, just as a Playboy reader is certain to start by unfurling the centerfold.

Listen up, photojournalists of the scene: Here's your last chance! If I'm not shot in the dark in the next few weeks, my ego will be irreparably damaged. So get snapping. I'll even put on a towel.

***

Just a note: I'll be away from civilization for an entire week, so alas, no entries till at least the 26th.

Touch

2006-02-16T22:14:00.000-05:00

I got a haircut the other day, at the usual barber shop, which I wouldn't think was a Jewish establishment except for the Moshiach card above the cash register. They charge $12 per haircut, $2 more than when I signed on but still the cheapest good haircut I've found. For a while I refused to pay more than $10 for a haircut, but now the only $10 one I can find is $5.95 at the haircutting school, and that's not a risk I'm ready to take.

Anyway, there were about three years in my adolescence when I absolutely loved getting my hair cut, only because I loved to be touched. I especially liked having a young male barber, but even women's touch made me tremendously happy. I wasn't touched much at all as a child, and when I realized that the haircutters (barbers? stylists?) were touching my head, it began to feel really nice.

Then I discovered massage, which has all the touch of a haircut, but all over your body. There's a Canadian movie I was just discussing with an avid reader called The Five Senses, and one of the main characters in it is a massage therapist. This one guy comes to her and she starts to give him a massage, and he begins to cry, simply because he was so starved for touch. I felt that way, on a lesser scale, during my first few massages.

For a while I got massaged by an Israeli fellow and then had sex with him afterward, but then I decided I wanted the massage without the sex, something he wasn't able to offer. He gave me a lower abdominal massage, which led to a penis massage... After that, I hired a new massage therapist. I can't say I didn't fantasize about it for a few months, though.

After go-go dancing for a few months, I noticed that I didn't like massages quite as much. And I didn't like haircuts at all anymore. All that dreadful silence, the threat of hairs lodging in my eyes and then the question of whether you have to tip more just because they started charging more made me really hate the ordeal.

I suppose I get enough stimulation now, which is why I'm sort of blase about being touched professionally. I don't know if it was my boyfriend or the go-go dancing that did it. Not going in for monthly massages certainly saves money, though.

The end of an era?

2006-02-14T00:12:00.000-05:00

Is Boysroom really closed? So far two people have told me that.

All I can say is, thank God it wasn't my fault!

But if it is gone, it's a loss to the world. It is/was one of the best clubs in the city for normal guys. Great music, great fun.

Extended vacation

2006-02-11T23:08:00.000-05:00

Thanks to the weather tonight, I was sidelined for my Go-Go Idol premiere. It's probably best that way; rich people don't go to clubs in inclement weather. They can do something that doesn't involve going outside... like hiring a hooker for a few hours. And if rich people don't come, I'm sure not to break $100 in tips.

Since I'm not dancing tonight, I might not be dancing for a while. Three weeks, I think. I noticed that Daniel has a Mardi Gras party next Friday, which I might dance at, just because I like Daniel. But Fridays are tough for me. I'm always horribly tired after the work week, and there's nothing I like more than reading in bed all evening, then drifting off to sleep. Last night, my boyfriend wanted to go dancing at 1984, and I agreed, despite my prohibition.

Paying the $8 cover felt wrong, since I haven't paid a cover charge in months, but I ponied up. Inside, it was nice just to be a patron. I collected a modest number of stares, and because my boyfriend was right next to me, did my best not to stare back. I danced without worrying that I looked stupid, mostly because I wasn't being paid and partly because it's pitch dark in the dancing area of Pyramid.

After about an hour of genuine fun, I was sideswiped by fatigue so strong it made me feel nauseous (nausea is my forte). I went to the bathroom to relieve myself (sometimes that relieves my nausea, too), but the seat was dripping with urine, so I settled for peeing. The bathrooms at Pyramid are my very favorite: It's hard not to see someone's wang dang dong if you tilt your head just so. But nobody was in there, and I would have felt sleazy if I'd waited for someone to show (something I used to do -- don't tell anyone).

My boyfriend found me as I exited the bathroom and wouldn't let me go home alone (and let him enjoy the night with our friends), so we called it a night at 12:30. Leaving that early (when I'm usually chained to my post till 3) was an absolute thrill. Try it some time.

Stinky day two

2006-02-09T22:53:00.000-05:00

It's been a bad week for the ol' factories.

First there was the farting/pooping incident of last Saturday. Yesterday, I went to the gym beforehand and didn't have time to shower. I figured I'd shower at Splash. But when I arrived, I was feeling so clean that I figured it didn't matter. Boy, was I wrong.

I noticed an odd smell every time I kneeled down to collect a tip, but I just figured Splash had attracted a particularly smelly crowd. (You know those Bridge 'n Tunnel folks.) I tried to test myself by reaching a hand down into my goods and soaking up the goodness, but no smell at all.

After an hour, I was sure of it, though. I was the culprit. I needed to shower, but I was on the bar and wasn't supposed to get down for another half hour.

I tried to keep my distance from gropers while waiting for the boss to return so I could ask for a break (Some places are lenient about breaks; others aren't). It was a particularly difficult night to maintain personal space, what with a record number of Long Lost Fathers -- men who are so captivated they just want to hug, and hug, and tickle my anus, and kiss my thighs.

Finally, I made it off and took a shower (with a few onlookers, as usual). But all was not solved. Before I arrived, I had Mexican food with my boyfriend. Something I ate had garlic, and my trusty breath mints were useless against the smell. I made sure to talk with people at an angle. It was my comeuppance, I suppose, for complaining about shitbreath boy (though he doesn't hold a candle to a gomer I was talking to the other day at work, who had wet dog breath that turned into digested-sandwich breath when he burped).

I don't sleep

2006-02-09T22:26:00.000-05:00

My toilette when I'm dancing on a Wednesday:

1) I wear glasses both Wednesday and Thursday (so I can wear contacts all night).

2) I shave after work on Wednesday and then not again till Friday morning (usually I only shave every other day anyway).

3) Thursday, I come in to work after 10 am, a little groggy but not exactly destroyed by the lack of sleep. Friday, I come in completely flattened. For some reason, the sleep deprivation doesn't hit me until the second day after.

Initially, when I heard about the possibility of Wednesday nights at Splash, I was pretty sure I'd try it once and decide that it was too much to dance midweek. But when I went, I made so much money I couldn't not dance on Wednesdays after that.

The lack of sleep, though, is really wrenching. I don't drink a lot of coffee because it makes me nauseous, but I find myself drinking it all day, the Friday after a Wednesday performance. When I dance twice a week, I feel a mild dysphoria for the entire week. Three times in one week and I feel dizzy and nauseous. If go-go dancers worked in the early evenings, I'd do it every night of the year.

As painful as it is to wake up on the day after dancing (the wake-up is harder the first day after, but the day is harder the second), the evening nap almost makes up for it. Everyone must know the force of a nap after a night of poor sleep: When I close my eyes, I feel myself cracking the edge of a deep sleep and then falling suddenly and turbulently into a dream. The nap is tempestuous, epic; I wake up swooning and flushed, thoughts and saliva swirling about madly. My breathing is heavy but slowed, as though I just took a deep drink of alcohol. I am swimming in joy.

Bits 'n pieces

2006-02-05T19:24:00.000-05:00

I don't feel like trying to connect the following anecdotes from my Saturday Splash debut into a coherent story, so here they are, islands in the blog. Before I begin, I should say that despite the following, I had a fantastic time and made a buttload (pun intended) of cash. It's just that, as usual, the good experiences aren't funny or interesting enough to mention.

1) When I arrived, my fave dancer Rick confronted me. "I didn't like what you wrote about me on your blog," he said. (Worry not, I took the offending material off.) Although I had been fearing this encounter for weeks, it turned out to be not too bad. I set forth on a lengthy explanation, paused, and then said I was sorry. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said. And I think he actually forgave me, because as he was leaving, he waved goodbye.

2) For the first time since I've begun the Dance, I was incredibly gassy. And not for the first time, a little nauseous. I realized last night that it's a little hard to be sexy when you feel bloated. I did have one thing in my favor, though: When your butt is a foot higher than everyone else's head, it makes it a little easier to fart in public without anyone noticing.

I also found myself dropping multiple number twos, not an easy thing to do anywhere, much less a bar where of the three stalls, the only one that has a seat also doesn't have a lock on the door. I found myself holding the door closed with my hand while relieving myself. Even though patrons find it hot when the near naked go-go dancer uses the common restroom, I don't think it's quite as hot when they hear the torrents of feces splash down. As for why I didn't use the employee bathroom, I couldn't bear the guilt of having permanently stunk up the locker room. Yes, there are places in this world that still stink of my shit.

2a) I smelled the most accurate replica of shitstink on someone's breath last night. I'm considering carrying Breath Savers in my sock from now on. If anyone has tips on how to break it to these halitosic tippers, please share. Do I have to "spontaneously" take one for myself, then offer it to the other guy? "Hold on a second," I'll say, as he's fumbling with my penis, "I think I need a breath mint. Care for one?"

3) One guy was so into dancing that when he tipped me, he didn't stop dancing. The experience was a little like getting a private lapdance, and a little like watching a stripper, except he was doing neither, just sliding bills coyly down my chest and into my underwear.

4) I ended up not buying any leather, after posting an unsuccessful ad on Craigslist to see if anyone had some spare assless leather underwear (etc.) they wanted to get rid of. It turned out to be fine, though. Aaron set me up in a football uniform, complete with football, hand towel and small bottle of lube. Yes, it was a great costume, but thank God I didn't have to juggle the helmet, too. I can't imagine what I must've looked like, holding all that stuff while trying to manipulate my dong. I hit some guy with the football and I kept spilling lube on the ground. I really wish I could just go out there naked every time and just masturbate for four hours. Even underwear is a nuisance. If only I worked in Amsterdam...

5) One fellow approached me and asked if I wanted to go home with him. I said no, as nicely as I knew how. He said he'd be very generous with me if I did. Again, I said no, I'm in a monogamous relationship and I don't sleep with anyone. "It's just business," he said, a touch vehemently. "No one will know." Again I refused. "I'll be gentle," he said, expecting, I must suppose, a response like, "Oh, in that case, I guess it is OK!" Instead I started to walk away. "Tell me your number," he said. "I have a photographic memory; I'll remember it." And so on.

The well runneth dry

2006-02-05T18:46:00.000-05:00

I was pretty geared up for my big debut at Men's Room last night. Yesterday I slept an extra hour to make up for what I thought would be a 6 am finish (but which turned out to be closer to 3:30), and in the evening, I went to the gym. I had a pass to the gym at Chelsea Piers, and since my gym is New Jersey, I opted for the piers.

I went partly to inflate my muscles: Even light lifting makes them look a little bigger for a few hours at least. I also went to see if the locker room was as cruisey as it is at New York Sex Clubs. When I return to a New York gym, I want it to be one where I can take a steam without my penis ending up in someone's mouth.

One thing's for certain: the locker room is a lot nicer at Chelsea Piers. As for its cruise-factor, I definitely interrupted something in the steam room, but it wasn't as insane as the sex factory that is NYSC. Here I should probably say something like "in my experience," since most people's experience of NYSC is completely sex-free, and I wouldn't want to be knocked for libel.

The interesting thing was, even though all three men who hastily covered their privates upon my entrance were attractive to some degree, no part of me was turned on. A big change from my pre-go-go days.

I wonder, then, if my uncontrollable horniness is actually limited. I spend it like water when I'm dancing, finishing each night exhausted (last night as I was leaving, when someone asked if I wanted to frolic in the dark, my excuse was, "Even God himself wouldn't be able to get me up right now"), but I assume the unyielding want will return within a few days. Recently, it has taken longer and longer to return, and the urge is never as strong as it was in my days at the Slide.

Another example: In the locker room yesterday, just as I was getting started, I ran into my favorite bartender at Splash, as he was going home for the night. He wanted to hook up with me (and of course I wanted it too), but my fidelity prevailed.

"I have a boyfriend," I said.

"I have one too," he replied. "They're not going to know."

"But I'm trying to be monogamous."

"Let me just lick your pussy then."

I won't go into what else he said about my pussy, but suffice it to say, as feminist as I purport myself to be, having my anus called a pussy was not a turn-on. If he wants to stick Apollo's arrow into Cupid's quiver, he can find himself a real live woman.

Not that I can really complain. When I started sleeping with my boyfriend, I would say, "I want to fuck you till it bleeds!" Again, not a turn-on.

A biology lesson

2006-02-05T14:54:00.000-05:00

Just a note for the academics out there who failed to observe my glaring error in the post below. When I said that I had all the body hair of a fetus, I forgot that actually, fetuses are quite hairy. The hair falls off before birth; in this way, ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.

To set the record straight: I am far less hairy than a fetus. I am about as hairy as a naked mole rat.

Hand me my leather

2006-02-03T21:02:00.000-05:00

My brief vacation from go-go dancing is going to end Saturday, when I dance at the inimitable (or perhaps too easily imitable) Splash. It'll be my first Saturday there, dancing at Aaron Tanner's Men's Room, and boy, am I jacked.

Craig Spencer, who receives equal billing on the website (It's now called "Aaron Tanner & Craig Spencer's Men's Room"), is the guy who seems to do most of the work, at least as far as hiring the dancers. He called me this week to book me and to fill me in on what's expected.

It's going to be different, to say the least. First of all, the hours are 11:30 to 6 (we're talking sunrise here), a tad more draining than the 3 am finishes on Wednesdays. Do they supply cocaine to keep the boys -- sorry, MEN -- awake? I'm going to be downing caffeinated beverages like an addict.

Second of all, Craig said I should wear whatever's comfortable, which might include sexy underwear (check), a jockstrap (check) and some leather. The only leather paraphernalia I own are a wallet and a pair of leather pants that I bought from the Gap for $100 when I was in college and subliminally trying to be gay. I know this because my best friend, when he saw them, said, "Are you trying to be gay?"

But he said leather, so I figured I'd buy something to fit in. I went to the West Village, and just as you'd think, the one time I'm actually looking for a leather store, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally I found Mr. Leather, or the Leather Man or something like that, and I went in, figuring I could drop ten bucks on an armband and hightail it out.

The first thing you need to know about leather is that there are a lot of different things you can wear made of the stuff. In fact, I scoured the store and found everything but armbands, all in leather: short shorts, miniskirts, vests, chaps, thongs, cock straps, etc. When the proprietor was done explaining to some guy the difference between the clear and black nipple clamps, he pointed out the armbands, which I had thought for some reason were leashes.

The cheapest one was more than $20, which isn't horrible, but keep these things in mind:

1) I usually pay $15 for my belts, and a belt has a hell of a lot more leather than an armband. In terms of price per foot, I'm thinking that strip of cow should cost about $2.50.

2) The last thing I had to buy for dancing was underwear, a product that only costs more than $20 if you're buying Versace or the bizarrely exorbitant Ginch Gonch. And underwear is something you can wear even when you're not dancing. Somehow I can't picture myself wearing a leather armband to work, or even to the beach. I can't totally picture myself wearing it dancing, but come to think of it, it might make a good place for people to stick their money, instead of up my anus, which everyone seems to want to do.

I left undecided. Do I drop $20 on a silly looking armband, or do I pay $40 for one with a little grit to it? Or do I go whole hog (pun intended) and buy the leather underwear?

Or do I accept that a guy with the face of a nineteen-year-old, the body hair of a fetus and the complexion of clotted cream probably can't pull off the bondage look?

On business

2006-01-31T21:45:00.000-05:00

It may or may not be obvious, but I've been wholly unsettled by recent comment(s) about my blog being exploitative and so forth. I don't know whether there's just one hater or a number of them, and I don't know to what extent this is going to affect my opportunities to dance. Even Daniel Nardicio sent me an e-mail saying he had heard from an angry dancer about my blog.

Thursday morning, the day I left on my business trip, I woke up with an epiphany. I suddenly knew who one of the haters was. I tapped out a hasty e-mail that morning to this person and apologized profusely, begging forgiveness and promising reformation. All day I worried about whether this person would forgive me.

That evening, that person replied, saying he had never had any beef with me. Immediately, I felt lighter. I wondered if maybe there were no stray haters.

As avid readers also know, I haven't been one bit horny in weeks. I've danced a few times, but my heart hasn't been in it. When I got this e-mail of absolution, I hit upon a surge of horniness that hasn't yet subsided. In my hotel room, I even took a trip back to adolescence and had some fun with self-portraits before splooging all over the place. Twice.

Then I did something I regretted. I had a hot stone massage by a cute therapist who was more likely than not gay. Toward the end, he put a stone on my sacrum and folded back the entire sheet so that it resembled a tail. Meaning, I was totally naked except for a rope of sheet covering my crack. He rubbed me up and down the length of my body and I had to adjust myself.

As I turned over, he asked how it had been. I said it was great, and that I liked "the whole naked thing." He said, "It's hard to know if people will be cold when I do that." Half punning and half flirting, I replied, "No, it was really hot." Which most definitely crossed the line. If he wasn't into me (and that's a distinct possibility), he would've been repulsed by that. Regret and shame set in.

After that, the horniness began to subside.

***

By the way, the hotel room deserves some mention. When I checked in, the front desk gal was confused by something, and had to ask the manager to come by. He handed me a set of keys and said, "Your room is 1851 and 1852. It's the, uh... penthouse suite."

He mumbled it so thoroughly that the fact didn't hit me until a few seconds later. The hotel had upgraded me to the best suite in the house! It wasn't the Bridge Suite at Atlantis, but it was more space than I needed (enough that it took me five minutes to find a light switch), with more vista than I could enjoy. For some inexplicable reason, there were two showers in one bathroom, and nothing but a toilet and sink in the other.

My favorite part was this iron, the caliber of which I hadn't seen since I lived with a fashion designer.

The iron

It had a special button that ejected a burst of steam, which I used over and over; when I finished ironing my shirts and pants, I ironed a pair of underwear and a sock.