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 It was a dark and stormy night in San Francisco. I had spent the day at my dull neighbors' apartment loading up a CD with songs to strip to. Judas Priest's "Hell Bent for Leather" mixed into industrial. Perfect. Right. The DJ at the Pendulum probably hadn't heard of it, let alone know it. The Pendulum is a gay strip bar in the Castro district of San Francisco —the gay Mecca of the gay capitol of the United States. I know they practically invented camp, but how did the culture that made tacky hip fun become so square?  The idiot DJ wouldn't play any of my music, although I thought I had covered all the bases: disco, Prince, and isn't Marvin Gaye? But what I thought would be hip turned out to be gay tacky, cookie cutter culture. Just showing how straight I really am.At the time I had a girlfriend and she would come watch me. We would kind of pretend not to know each other, but people would catch on, and they were cool with me being straight. But as far as I knew, I was the only straight guy stripping in this gay bar, or as far as I knew, in any gay bar in San Francisco. Every other time that I stripped I was paid. I'm on disability and mentally ill and have no money. I had just lost a job as an electrician's assistant after having a big manic episode. I had been talking with the person who had contracted the job and had started cracking inappropriate jokes, speaking in rhyme and such. It was one of those times that I thought I was going over well. One of those times that I thought someone was laughing with me, not at me, or not at all, instead just nervously laughing in fear. But this time the club set the rules. I couldn't afford to play the diva. This was a "con" test in every sense of the word. Before my set I campaigned through throngs of thongs lobbying my ass off. I had a platform of world peace. I told people my plan to get Jesus and Mohammed together, cover them in $40 grade oil and have them wrestle about it, and this was before 9/11 (but after George W. had been elected).  Back in the dressing room, right before my set, I had a moment. There was one man I had become friends with, a beautiful, older black man, who was, like me, in it for the money. I felt like we were two gladiators. We were doing push-ups, all oiled up, like two boxers ready to go out in the ring. We were both trained athletes, and for one second, I remembered that all over again.But the fix was in. And I had truly spent most of the day practicing. The thing that really disappointed me was that I really tried. I danced my heart out and actually gave a performance. The winner was a bored black queen who couldn't be bothered to keep time with the music but blew half the audience in the john. So I walked all the way home. Broke. Tears were falling down my face. I felt like I had hoed myself out and begged for votes, but had gotten nothing. No one crossed the line and made me uncomfortable; no one groped my Johnson, but I got some ass pinches. But even that was it. Nothing else.
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