HOOK: E-zine By, For, and About Men in the Sex Industry

9:30 P.M., I walk through the chipped piss-yellow painted door of the Asian dance club where I strip down for the green. The stairway down to the viewing floor, which looks out on the dance floor and the go-go stage, is mirrored. I glance at my eyes, which are dry from the cold wind against my contact lenses.

The stairs themselves are brown tiled and matted with dirt from the soles of patrons who think they might have a shot at my ancient Chinese secret. Turning the corner at the bottom of the stairwell and toward the bar, Lester, the white manager, is stretching his hefty pink pachyderm leg on the bar. Fortunately, he still has his shoes on. Smile, kiss, kiss on the cheek.

“Hello!” Lester says, looking straight into my face. “You have such gorgeous eyes!” he says for the umpteenth time, followed by, “Have I told you that before?”

“And you have a fabulous smile!” he continues, grinning.

Smile, kiss, kiss on each cheek of Frank, the sweet middle-aged bartender who is also white, and Edgar, the habitually unshaven and adorably short Latino assistant manager, gets a peck on the lips and a hug.

“You’re the first one here, you’re the first to dance,” Lester informs me. Thank goodness—the earlier I dance, the earlier I get out, but for now I must schmooze and charm for dollars.
Most of the regulars are already sitting at the bar. Most of them are fat, old, white men with glasses, receding hairlines, and waists two and a half times the size of mine. They are immediately in spirit when the go-go dancers arrive. One particular fan of mine is a skinny, not-too-old white guy who greets me with an early evening semi-drunken smile and “Hi!”

Unlike the other patrons, this one is actually interested in what I have to say. So I tell him about my “genteel poverty” status, hoping he’d get the hint that I need more paper. He nods as if his tipsy head were attached to the rest of his body with a chain link. No matter, at least he wants to listen, even if the conversations are consistently filled with my financial loathings. Most of the time, the random and mostly white patrons whom I chat with cut me off mid-sentence and stare at my lips. Fuckin’ exoticizer, I think to myself. Or, like most “dialogues” begun by these men, they ask through their coffee-stained teeth, “So where are you from?” What happened to “What’s your name?”

“Manhattan,” I say evasively, anticipating the next question, “No, that’s not what I mean…where are you from from…?”

“Somewhere between French Indochina and the Dutch East Indies…”

A look of confusion.

“I’m Chinese.”

More confusion. How I enjoy it. Fuckin’ fetishizer.

In some idiotic attempt to save face, they begin telling me of all their travels to Asia and their admiration for Asian cultures. I give them one of my “sure-I’m-paying-attention-to-whatever-you-are-saying” nods which they interpret as being impressed; meanwhile, I imagine them in Bangkok, buying sexual favors in the red light district from a boy named “Antonio.” I should get paid extra to listen to this shit. Do I care that you paid only 1,000 baht to plow some kid you only consider a tight sphincter with slanty eyes? No!

“You know, you Chinese are so smart. You invented gunpowder, kites, printing…” No kiddin’—and the historians give all the credit to some European thousands of years later. Oh yeah, we invented water torture too, did you forget? “…so intelligent, so beautiful!”

And then the ultimate compliment: “You have such good English!”

“Well, I’ve lived in the States most of my….”

“You’re really cute.” He cuts me off. Great! Thanks for listening, dick-neck.

Tonight though, the gods of good taste are with me, and no one has started one of these exchanges with me. Usually, to escape such an encounter, when a substantially long pause (5 seconds) surfaces, I excuse myself and walk into the staff room behind the black “curtain” on the opposite side of the bar. I plop down on a stained Chinese restaurant chair and open my book bag, which contains queer theory texts, for a respite.

Lucky me, the citizens of the gay white geriatric ward don’t have the gonads to approach me on this chilly night, and in this nipple-erecting cold room. I flee untouched.

———

Rory, a tall, muscular, pale skim milk-skinned ballerina, treads in for his after-hours dancing. I don’t understand why he ever dances here because he doesn’t get tipped well because a) he’s white, b) he dates the ugly stick, and c) he’s a bad go-go dancer. Now, I’m sure he’s a graceful prima ballerina in the morning and afternoon, but on the go-go stage, the boy has no moves. Rory throws his backpack on the table, announcing his presence, but I keep my face in my book. He sits down in the chair directly in front of me and asks mid-paragraph, “What are you reading about this time?” while gazing at the half-naked man lying on the cover.

I lift my eyes and say, “public sex,” deadpan à la Christina Ricci as Wednesday from The Addams Family.

A deformed smile seeps through his face. “Really? What about it?”

“Well…about how public sex and public spaces have been important historically in the formation of queer….” I’ve lost him. What he really wanted to hear was “cream in my G-string” stories about public sex. Oh well, I said queer theory, not gay porn.

Rory walks out of the staff room to get a drink and just before the black dividing curtain settles, Edgar peeps his head through and half-asks, half-announces, “Five minutes, OK?”

“Aiight,” I say, coupled with a yawn. It’s time to change outfits.

———

For the first set of dancing, I usually wear red go-go shorts, a tight white tank top, black velcro-side pants, and a midnight blue G-string underneath it all. Understand that it’s all about the strip tease. You shouldn’t just come out to the stage already down to your skivvies, otherwise you leave no room to make ’em want it. Make ’em want to touch, for to touch is to tip. My rule is the entire first song with clothes on and occasional lifting of the shirt to expose the abs. Midway through the second song, the shirt is off and I’m running my hands all over my sweaty pecs and torso. The key is seduction and gyration. Every time I close my eyes, run my hands through my hair, and part my lips with the slow drag of my finger means another dollar.

The regulars are in their normal positions. Fred, a “big-boned” fellow, jiggles his way down from the viewing floor, his small table next to the stage. My skinny number one fan, fittingly named Marvin, turns around on the upstairs barstool and leans over the balcony to see me land on stage and slowly begin my strip tease. Every week, without failure, Marvin descends down the stairs toward the stage and stuffs two dollars down the front of my shorts within the first two minutes of my dancing. Oh reliable Marvin!

Most of the new white patrons oscillate between watching me and chatting with their friends, except for two surprisingly young white fellows who cascade down the stairs closest to the stage to sit on some bar stools in the corner. The sandy blond-headed one who wears construction worker gear immediately begins sipping his Budweiser and whispering to his bland-looking, dirty blond friend. Eyeing the dollar bills “Sandy” folds into his right jean pocket, I dance toward the corner of the stage closest to them and swivel my hips in ways that would scandalize even Ricky Martin fans. I capture “Sandy’s” stare, and he watches me like a TV addict. Hoping a little more exposure will inspire him to give me a Lincoln, I collect my articles of procreation with my left hand, pull down my go-go shorts to my knees with my right, and gyrate a little more. Instead of his pockets, he reaches down to his crotch with his right hand and begins stroking his erection down the side of his denim leg, while his friend sits semi-attentively across the high table. I’ve gone too far to gain the appropriate and desired monetary reward, but I have to admit that being the masturbatory fantasy of a semi-attractive man is a bit exciting. Noticing myself getting hard, I turn around and dance so everyone can view my ass and I can hide my wood. Antidote: if I had to see one of the old horrible others jerk the chicken while I danced, I think I’d wretch. My dick settles down.

It’s strange to be worshiped as a masturbatory aide. One snow-haired grandpa (Father Time) says to me every week between sets, “I want to take you home for a private dance. Do you do private dancing? You’re heaven…you know that, right?”

Smile. OK…why!?! I wonder if he would have said these same words a few years ago when I was 35 points heavier, hardly the lean, smooth body he desires. Even so, reverence is better than this greasy-rat-eyed-bespectacled-blue polyester pant-wearin’ dinosaur with a moustache who waddled up to me once, stuffed two dollars in my shorts, shoved his finger in my left armpit, scratched me, lubed his finger with my sweat and then said, “Thank you,” as he licked his finger, turned around, and walked away. Was that homage or what? OK, certainly the weirdest thing to happen to me while dancing, but if he enjoys it, forks over the bills, and respects my limits, then it’s fine by me.
It truly must be my lucky night because for the second time ever, I was tipped by an Asian man. And not just any kind of Asian man, but a young Asian man. I generally don’t like dancing in front of the younger Asians. They watch with a critical eye—so snide, so bitchy. As if they could do better! Most nights, however, the Asian viewers watch and enjoy, but never tip. Cheap bitches. I hate it when someone watches and drools but doesn’t dish out the dough. These men don’t seem to understand that there is an economic exchange that is supposed to occur. As one visually consumes my body, he must pay. If one isn’t going to participate in the economic exchange, don’t watch. If I am going to expose up to 97% of this body to help get granddaddies’ rocks off, then there better be a bunch of Georgies in my panties. The logic and math are plain and simple, and you don’t even need an abacus to figure it out.

It’s even weirder when the other dancers watch me. I can never tell if their own slanty eyes watch with criticism, jealously, or desire. But then there are the white roses twisted out of drink napkins, which one particular dancer throws on stage while I dance. A sweetie, truly. Too bad he doesn’t realize that white symbolizes death to the Chinese. “You want me to die!” my Grandma once shouted at me in her “extra-caustic-with-battery-acid-on-top” Cantonese, when I lit a white candle in her presence. I smile at the memory. White roses…I don’t think he wants me to die. Smile. He smiles from the top balcony. I wink at him. Smile. He smiles. The horrible others smile, and with that, money in the bank, or rather, to the credit card company.

My first set is done and I scramble back barefoot (I always dance barefoot) into the dusty staff room. 1, 2, 3, 4…10…Ooo! a Lincoln…15, 16, 17, 18…20…another Lincoln…28…35 dollars. 35 dollars in tips alone. Not too bad. In fact, it’s pretty good. I straighten out the sweaty bills and stuff them in my wallet. I change into a white cotton-lycra 2Xist jockstrap, a pair of red lace-front football shorts, fleece sweat pants and black tank top. I walk out of the staff room and head to the bar for a bottle of water. I then lean over the edge of the viewing balcony and watch Rory show off his non-moves. The third dancer, the white rose maker, chats with a customer I’ve never seen before…he too is older than The Big Bang, but he wears his money in his Armani suit. I glance over, but old man is far too focused on dancer three. No room for me to schmooze. Resigned, I return to the dust den and open my book. Chapter 8, “Self Size and Observable Sex” by Stephen O. Murray.

———

The third dancer, Pedro, hurriedly breezes in and says in a fake, helium-inhaled, ultra-femme voice, “Shit! I have two minutes before I’m on!” Quickly, he rummages through his bag and pulls out a bright blue thong. Turning his back to me, he unbuttons his Levi’s and pulls them down to his knees where he stops to kick off his black boots. “Argh!” he moans, his asscheeks clenching together in frustration. Pedro finally gets his thong on and wraps around his waist a sarong. Another angry gasp and he begins putting on his boots.

“Thank you Rory…next on the stage is Pedro!” Edgar announces on the microphone. And with that, Pedro runs out with one boot tied as I say, “Good luck!”

Rory trudges in and drops his four dollars on the table. “Ack! Tough crowd tonight,” he whines. I feel sorry for him, but at least he’ll get the sad base salary that barely makes the night worthwhile.

“Yeah, tough night…” I say.

“Thank you Pedro…and returning to the stage, we have Oscar!” Edgar chimes.

The music is almost the same as in the first set I danced to. In what is supposed to be continuous go-go sounds, Edgar always forgets to play the next CD or replays the discs. Often, during the middle of a set, the music ends and the regulars shout, “Edgar! The music!” while I break out in mock ballet with a smile and a laugh. No interruptions tonight, but I do get another round of Cher, Amber, Pet Shop Boys and Enrique Iglesias remixes. Of course, the patrons don’t mind, they just wanna see the go-go boys dance, so I dance, a bit annoyed by the repetitive beats.

Soon my petty annoyances give way to yet another old man—a newcomer—this time in a beige trenchcoat. He sits where “Sandy” and his Budweiser were and grins meekly. Detecting his timidity, I flash a smile at him and wink. I press the right button; he reaches into his trenchcoat pocket and pulls out some bills that he folds in quarters. Shyly, he walks over to me and extremely cautiously pulls the waist of my undies, making sure not to touch me, and hesitantly drops in a twenty with another unidentifiable president folded inside. “Thank you,” I whisper. He blushes and turns back to his original perch.

This rest of the set goes on unnoticed as I ponder who is beneath the trenchcoat guy’s Andrew Jackson. It’s my biggest tip yet and discovering its full value is like opening up leihsih during Chinese New Year. When Rory comes back on, I rush offstage to count my tips.

Thirty dollars. Trenchcoat guy tipped me thirty dollars. And with the other tips, I made $62! Excited, I change my clothes for my final set, cram $55 in my wallet, go to the bar and order from Frank a gin and tonic with lime juice, breaking my rule of no alcohol while working. Noticing my energy, Frank asks, “What’s with you?”

I lean over the bar and whisper, “Some guy downstairs tipped me $30!”

“Nice!” Frank affirms and pats my hand. He’s so sweet, I tip him even though the drink’s free. I decide to watch Rory and see if he’s making anything. Pity gets the best of me so I march downstairs toward the stage while rolling three dollars into a skinny roll.

Gliding to the stage, I cock my neck out to Rory, and, taking the cue, he gets on his knees in front of me to bob for the money with his mouth. After dodging his first three attempts at the green cigarette, Rory grabs my head between his hands and successfully snatches the money. I laugh as he gets up and shoves his ass in my ass, giving me the opportunity to spank him in front of everyone. As I walk back up the stairs to the staff room, Rory dances with a red hand imprint on his ass.

Once I sit back down on the nasty Chinese restaurant chair, I open my book back up, only to close it again, for I can no longer concentrate. Instead, I leaf through the latest Next and HX magazines, spotting a couple of familiar faces in the local “paparazzi” photo spreads. Again, Pedro sails in and changes frantically for his next set.

Amidst his disrobing, I ask, “How’s the night been for you?”

“I don’t know if he’s still there, but there’s a guy in a beige trenchcoat downstairs who tipped me 30. If you work it for him, maybe he’ll drop some coins your way too.”

That’s right! You gotta help your Asian bruthas and sistas out!

“Thanks!” says Rory, entering the room as Pedro runs out.

Set three begins with different music. Yay! The crowd is pretty thin but trenchcoat guy, Fred, and a sprinkle of other regulars stick around. Old tricks for old customers, and the tips trickle in. $2, $1, $1, $2, $2…and this time around, $10 from trenchcoat guy. I make $28—a fair share considering it’s 1:30A.M. on a weeknight. I think I’ve milked the horrible others as much as I can within the limits of the law and the club. With the prospect of heading home, I count my earnings in record time. $125 in tips alone! Pretty good for only one hour and a half of actual dancing. Sloppily put on my jeans, wrap my red scarf around my neck, and don my black pea coat.

“See ya Pedro…are you working next week?” I say between long squinty blinks. My contact lenses are dry and have tinted my eyes pink from irritation.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll see ya later!” Kiss, kiss.

At the bar, I say to Frank, “Pay me baby!” and he opens the register to distribute my base salary of $50. “Thank you, Frank baby!” Kiss, kiss.

Napping with his head down on the bar, I come up behind Edgar and tweak his nipples to wake him.

“Bye Edgar!” Kiss, kiss.

From the top, I blow a kiss to Rory and wink. He waves back and continues his “dancing.”
Now finally ascending the exit staircase, I think about the $175 in my wallet. Maybe, with the right price, the horrible others aren’t so horrible.