Free All I Could Bare: My Life in the Strip Clubs of Gay Washington, by Craig Seymour

bar. Dancing on a bar terrified me. I lacked the grace of the boys who seemed to glide past a land mine of bottles, glasses, and threatening wet spots, and I knew I wouldn't be able to work the bar into my performance like this guy I once saw who stirred a drink with his cock. I just knew I'd end up either falling on my ass or getting someone's crotch wet, not because of my sensual moves but due to a foot-launched cocktail. Secrets offered a variety of different dancing areas in addition to the bar. There was a stage and about three sturdy raised platforms throughout the club. Dancers rotated among the various areas. I knew I'd have to log some bar time, but at least it would be limited.
    The first weekend after school ended, I started at Secrets. I didn't even need to audition because a bunch of my Follies regulars put in a good word for me. I have no idea what the customers said; all I know is that the manager told me I could start anytime because I'd been "highly recommended."
    I worked four nights a week, Thursday to Sunday: nine to two on Thursdays and Sundays, nine to three on Fridays and Saturdays. I danced in twenty-minute shifts and got paid $50 a night plus whatever I made in tips. If I walked out with at least $100 in my pocket, I was happy.
    Working so regularly changed everything for me. The block, which could sometimes feel threatening with its pushy panhandlers and frequent car alarm squalls, now seemed homey. There was one older, needle-thin black man, Bobby, who would meet me at my car each time I arrived at work. I'd give him a couple of bucks to watch my car and I never had a problem.
    One night I was running late and there was almost no place to park, so I had to pull my car into the middle of a deep mud puddle. In order to get to dry pavement, I squeezed out of the passenger door and climbed over the car. I was crawling on top of my hood when someone jumped out of the shadows and rushed toward me. I quickly slid down the back of my car and got to my feet ready for a fight. But then I saw it was Bobby.
    "Oh, hey," I said. "You scared the shit out of me."
    "My fault," he said. "I thought someone was fuckin' with my man's car."
    "No problem," I said, handing him some bills. I was stunned that he took his role as a car protector so seriously. I always figured he just took my bucks and ran.
    "Stay safe tonight," I told him.
    "You, too, my brother," he said, walking back beyond the streetlights. "You, too."
    This exchange with Bobby was an example of how I was seeing many things about stripping and the whole scene in a new way.
    I spent much of those first few weeks at Secrets trying to find my comfort zone. It was about figuring out what kind of stripper I was going to be. Would I be one of those flash-dancing pole spinners, or would I follow in the paths of those showboys who had a trademark shtick, picking up a dollar with their ass cheeks or placing a quarter on their hard dick and then flicking it out into the crowd? Each of these options held its appeal, but then again, I knew they would never work for me. Spinning around the pole seemed too much like a sport, and since I was always the kid who couldn't pull off even the most elementary magic trick in grade school, I figured any type of razzle-dazzle stunts were out of the question. Basically, I opted to be the guy who comes onstage, quickly takes off all his clothes as if taking part in some emergency preparedness drill, gets a hard-on, and then wanders around absently playing with his dick until someone walks up with a tip. I did so little dancing or any other type of movement that a lot of customers thought I was straight—which was not necessarily a bad thing when it came to tips. Most gay guys have nursed a straight-boy fantasy at some point in their lives.
    Although I was a little nervous about my performance at first, I also learned that there was almost no way to make a mistake as long as I adhered to the general guidelines of the club, which at