Original illustration by Brendan Haley (@haleydoodledo)
My guncle didn’t like that I was a go-go dancer in Provincetown that summer. He didn’t like the idea of his sixtysomething-year-old friends ogling his twentysomething-year-old nephew, but it was entirely his fault.
If I was to stay with him for the summer, I needed to get a job in town. He demanded such despite my reiterating that I have a job as a full-time freelancer.
“That doesn’t count,” he said. “Besides, working in town will help you meet other locals.”
I was 24 and in the best shape of my life; I wasn’t worried about making friends, but since I was staying at his P-Town home for the summer, I needed to follow his rules.
I tried to get a bartending gig, but no chance. These are deeply coveted roles in P-Town, and most bartenders return year after year. I tried to work in an art gallery. No avail. But I managed to get a job go-go dancing at Purgatory, the basement club of the Gifford Inn, best known for their underwear parties.
Suddenly, my guncle thought freelance writing was a very valid job, and I could just do that. “No, no, no!” I replied. “You demanded I get a job in town, and so I did. I’ve already accepted the job, and I’m not backing out.”
So, I spent two to three nights a week at Purgatory. Wearing skimpy lingerie, a thong, or jockstrap, I danced on the little podium. I was too tall for the space and would have to bend down when I danced. My neck hurt, and I wasn’t making much cash. Their big money-making night is the underwear night, but they don’t need go-go dancers on those nights because, well, everyone is in their undies.
One night at work, a gaggle of gays started shoving money down my jock strap.
“God, you’re so hot,” one of the men said. I replied with a thanks and a wink. Then I took his hand and placed it over my chest. I slowly moved it down so he could feel my abs. I’d linger as his fingertips reached my waistband. Then, with my free hand, I pinched my band and moved it forward, implicitly permitting him to squeeze my dick. When he realized he could, I saw his eyes widen. After a grab, his eyes widened further.
“Do you work bachelor parties?” he asked. “We need a stripper.”
“Depends,” I said cautiously. “What would you like me to do?
“We’re in town for our friend’s bachelor party, and we want to get him a stripper for a brunch we’re planning. We could pay three hundred dollars up front and guarantee two hundred dollars in tips. It would probably be for an hour total.”
“Yes,” I said without missing a beat. That was more than I would make the entire month go-go dancing.
That Sunday, I biked over, wearing a sparkly red thong underneath my Magic Mike tear-aways. I locked my bike outside their rental and took a few deep breaths.
My nerves began to hit. I can’t do this, I thought to myself. I am not a dancer.
That was true. I could move suggestively, but that was it. I took another breath. Zach, you did not get booked because you are the best dancer. You got booked because you are hot, friendly, and fun—and you KNOW how to be all of that.
I texted my contact. “Outside, let me know when you’re ready for me!”
“We’re ready,” he replied. “Turning on the music now.”
I took another deep breath and sauntered into the home. “I heard someone is getting married?!” I shouted.
I was not met with hooting and hollering. I didn’t receive any response. These boys were so hungover, they were eyeing their mimosas with disdain.
How could I not predict this? Of course, they would feel like shit. It was noon on a Sunday in Provincetown, and they were here, specifically, for a bachelor party. Obviously, they were going to rage on Saturday night.
Shit, I thought.
“All right, you guys are clearly hungover,” I said. “Time for some hair of the dog. Each of you needs to chug that mimosa in your hand.”
They begrudgingly obliged.
(Zach in Provincetown.)
“Who’s the lucky man?” They all pointed to one man sandwiched between his buddies on the couch.
“Just one?” I shouted. I thought that both he and his fiance would be there together. They were gay men, after all, but one celebrated with his friends in Fire Island, whereas my lucky man had his own bachelor party in P-Town.
I told him to switch places with the guy sitting in the solo chair. I needed to straddle this man.
I wrapped my legs around the chair and slowly unbuttoned my shirt, my hairy chest now inches from his face. Despite being in his early thirties, the bachelor boy seemed innocent. It didn’t help that he looked like he was going to lead a Zoom conference on how to save money on your mortgage. What type of gay man wears Khakis and a checkered button-down shirt to his own bachelor party?
He looked up at me and smiled meekly. I grinded our crotches together, sustaining eye contact. I could feel his anxiety. Clearly, he had never been with a stripper before and wasn’t sure of standard protocol.
But I could also sense an element of lust. I could tell he wanted me. I could see it in his eyes. He just didn’t know how to act on that yearning.
“It’s okay. You can touch,” I said, grabbing his hands and putting them on my chest. “Anywhere you like.” I smiled, and he smiled back—a genuine smile.
He cupped my pecs softly. “Really grab ’em,” I said. With my permission, he began to really touch me. He fondled my chest with both hands and then worked his way down. He stopped right before my crotch, but I gave him a subtle nod, and he massaged my dick through my pants.
The dance was just beginning, and I couldn’t give away all the goods at once. So I turned around and began to give lap dances to multiple men in the circle. Finally, they were starting to come alive. I like to think my dancing reinvigorated them, but it was undoubtedly the mimosa I forced them to chug.
“Where the dollar bills at?” I asked.
“Oh, shit! We forgot!” and as if on cue, “It’s Raining Men” began playing over the speakers. In the center of the room, I slowly touched myself as the Weather Girls sang, “Humidity is rising…” I kept eye contact with the groom, slowly moving towards him as I rubbed my chest and moved my hand down my pants.
Then the chorus hit. “It’s raining men!” On that downbeat after “men,” I transformed into Channing Tatum. I tore off my pants and flung them over the bachelor boy, and dollar bills flew through the air. My package looked big and heavy in my red thong, and with every pelvic thrust, it bounced. All eyes were on it. Hands behind my head, I pelvic thrusted in the groom’s face. I loved seeing his tunnel vision on my junk. I felt desired being respectfully objectified.
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