what it feels like

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I knew I was going to lose, and not to the hot Latino with the “Jennifer Lopez” wide ass in his grandma underwear, but to Edgar, the lovable and lesser intelligent black Forest Gump with one arm. His song of choice, “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. The crowd cheered as the drunk Edgar started unbuttoning his jeans with his one arm, then in a very bold move he revealed that he wasn’t wearing underwear, in which of course the crowd immediately jeered, yelling for Edgar to keep his clothes on rather than take them off. He had already revealed too much, the head of what seem like a very large penis. Nobody wanted to see that. The striptease was quickly becoming a freak show, and not just because the should be “hit one more time” Britney Spears dressed up Drag Queen threatened to tongue kiss Edgar channeling a “80s Madonna.” It was when Edgar decided to take his dirty dancing one step forward and got down on all threes and started rolling around on the floor and dry humping the air. The crowd ate it up. They quickly forgot about me and my naughty performance to Tina Turner’s “Rolling on the River.” They had forgotten how I shook my ass and did that Tina Turner dip and spin. I was going to lose.

The last Wednesday of every month the Omega Bar has its strip contest worth $50. It's right after the shirtless men drink free from 10-11 p.m. It’s not like I needed the money. Actually the drag queen begged me to participate. Well, she didn’t beg, just mentioned it in passing. I tried to play coy and shy, but after seeing the inebriated rejects who obviously needed attention fail miserably, I convinced myself I could win. After all, I was young, cute, flat stomach, nice smile and had rhythm. I figured it would be as easy as getting a free cocktail from the overweight low self-esteem guy at the bar who’s just happy you recognized his existence.

Immediately, there was regret after I gave the DJ my name and picked out a song to take my clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk enough. The shirtless men drink free hour went by too quickly and I needed more liquid courage. I sprinted to the bar. I figured vodka always made me do stupid things, so I ordered vodka and cranberry and then another one, and then another, and another one. My heart began to pound. I told myself I should have done those fifty sit-ups. I looked around the bar, at the strangers who would judge me , and they looked ravenous. On my fourth vodka and cranberry in less than 15 minutes, I heard my name. The drag queen had yelled my name like Grandma calling me in from the streets to eat dinner and get ready for bed. I wanted to back out, run the opposite direction. She called my name again. I lowered my head. And just when I decided to avoid a very awkward situation, the drag queen noticed me, pointed the light towards me, and commanded me to come to the stage. I felt trapped. I screamed in my head, “What the fuck did I agree to?”

On stage with the lights shining directly in my face, on my body, I froze. I looked out in the crowd for a friendly face, but nothing but one-night stands, disses and misses, no friends. Nobody cheered me. I felt utterly alone and naked and I hadn’t started stripping. They started the song I handpicked. I closed my eyes. I tried to find a beat. I tugged at my shirt. I tried to remember scenes in movies and television, something I knew I could mimic, grab, hold on for dear life. I remembered “Footloose” where Kevin Bacon taught that idiot how to dance. I quickly realized that I was the idiot and was making a fool of myself. I knew I needed another movie, and thought about “Dirty Dancing” but I couldn’t figure if I wanted to play Patrick Swazee or Jennifer Grey. Next, I remembered Demi Moore in "Striptease" but I wasn’t so ambitious. Lastly, I remembered the tacky “Showgirls” with that “Save by the Bell” hooker Elizabeth Berkeley and knew I found my muse. I just needed to be as tacky and offensive as possible. So I took it off and folded it neatly. I shook my ass to Tina Turner “Rolling on the River.” Did I mention it was a gay bar? On stage, drowning in the bright light with no lifesaver was beginning to feel like a a lifetime. The crowd just looked at me like they were all on painkillers and I was a freak in a cage at an insane asylum throwing himself against the walls. I kept dancing. I tried to smile, so that the medicated crowd figured me friendly and could be petted, tipped. I shook my ass, trying to get at least a smile or sign of life. I felt as panicked as a paramedic pumping on the chest of a geriatric yelling at him to live. LIVE DAMNIT!! I was dying quickly. Two minutes into the song, I just wanted the nightmare to end. When I was just about to quit, storm off stage, I got my first fan. He shoved a dollar down my underwear, maybe out of pity. The winter finally started to thaw but I felt tired going into the second minute of the song, clinging to my breath. I shook my ass. I bent over. I tugged at my underwear. I winked. I licked my nipples. I did a split. I tugged playfully at my underwear. I pulled down my underwear and showed off my naked ass. I begged in my eyes for the indifferent crowd to love me. To please love me! And all I got was four damn dollars. The hardest four dollars I ever worked for in my life. Then it was over. The drag queen told the DJ to stop the music. She had had enough. She instructed me to pick up my clothes and exit the stage. I felt used. I felt like I just had sex with an entire group of men and didn’t get off. But yet as I put on my clothes in a dark corner, like I’ve done so many times in my life, I had no regrets. My hands shook as I button up my shirt because gallons of adrenaline were pumping through veins. I felt exhilarating. Most importantly, I felt I was in a good place in my life. Years ago, I could have never done such a thing because I hadn’t accepted myself or body. But that night in front of strangers, my self esteem came out because I knew no matter what happened, be it utter shame or impossible joy, I was going to be okay. If Elizabeth Berkeley can still work after the impossible tacky “Striptease,” I knew I could lose a strip contest and live.

To my surprise, Edgar the black one armed Forrest Gump didn’t win, but the sexy Latino in his grandma underwear. I got third place and sympathy from the crowd as I walked off the stage. When I awoke the next morning with the hangover, then memory, I just screamed in embarrassment. As always with my hangovers, I think "what would Paris Hilton do", the queen of drunken rampages and showing her tities and ass. I knew she would just say something innocuous like “That’s hot” and be done with it. I decided to forget it all together. That’s what it feels like to enter and lose a strip contest.