This article is part of San Francisco Confesses, a feature series dedicated to anonymous stories from locals they’d never share with their names attached.
“So is this a money thing or a you-feeling-good-about-your-body thing,” my friend asked, handing me a joint. He wasn’t judging; he was just curious. I took a drag and passed it back, thinking it over.
People would think I was stupid. People would think I was easy. People would think.
I wasn’t making money anywhere else then, so it wasn’t-not a money thing. I needed money. But there are many other ways to make money that aren’t so … vivid. And it was kind of a body thing too — I was really happy with my body then. It was fun to show it off and watch other people be happy with it too. But, I realized, more than the scant money and fat attention — it’s just a life experience thing. I wanted to have been a gogo boy just as much as I wanted to be one.
Gogo dancers stand on a bar or platform at a club and dance. While some are certainly excellent movers, their “dancing” is more about being alluring than filling an eight count. You tip them by putting money in their minimal clothing. They flirt with you the whole time.
I’d been fascinated by gogos since I knew they existed. They were so bawdy! so confident! When I fantasized about dancing in my underwear on a bar-top my next thoughts were a frenzy of consequences.
A guy I would one day want to date would appear and be disgusted — no — disappointed in my choice. People would think I was stupid. People would think I was easy. People would think. So, instead of being on a platform and paid, I would dance shirtless on the normal dance floor, for free with my staunch morality.
I showed them!
Years passed and I have done a lot of things that once scared me or I thought would lead to moral degradation. With each passing drug, sexual act, risque choice, etc. I was shocked at how I was the same person in the morning. I am not a fearless person. But enough living has really sanded down fear’s sharper points.
When I walked into the bar to have my gogo audition, I was chopping gum and replaying Megan Thee Stallion in my head. I had made this decision a week ago and refused to revisit it and get nervous now. The club was respectably packed for a Thursday. I was told to let the owner know I was here, then just get on a box and start dancing. The coat check graciously took all my clothes. I found a platform and made it mine.
People’s most common first question for me is about creeps.
“I heard you’re becoming a stripper”, a stranger said in my ear. He was ecstatic. He’d been talking to a different stranger, who I’d just told I was auditioning to gogo. He was wrong, of course, as I didn’t have anything to strip off and this wasn’t a stripper club. But I didn’t like that I wanted to delineate. I was on a platform in a jockstrap in the middle of a sweaty club and my staunchness snapped back that easily. Absolutely not. So, I gently grabbed his jaw and said, “and how am I doing baby?”
Twenty minutes later the owner said I had the gig. He’d call me and I could go home or dance for the rest of the night if I wanted to. I finished out the shift, soaking my costume with sweat, and practicing my one-liners. I was dancing again the next week.
As I selected costumes (you do multiple sets, dancing for a total of at least two hours straight) and put on eyeliner, I could feel a character beginning to emerge. Any acquaintance would immediately know who I was. But that night I started introducing myself with a different name when people asked.
I hated him for getting pictures. I hated him for ruining my fantasy. I hated myself for obeying.
Even if I’d used my real name, there was no danger in anyone remembering, but a separate name allowed the dancing to be something I left in the bar. Strangely, it made me move better and more boldly. I flirted better. I didn’t have all the tools yet — but my persona did.
People’s most common first question for me is about creeps. How much am I being grabbed? Where? Just how bad is it? It’s definitely a factor of the job but I do hate that people associate me being naked with me being violated so freely.
It took me three shifts for my first real creep to show up. Pablo (not changing the name because fuck that guy) locked eyes with me just as the gentlemen on either side of him had moments before. Catching eyes is kind of the job. But he made a big show of coming over.
I knew then that one: He’d be handy. And two: He’d tip would below my undergarment. I was right.
He ran his hands over my ass like he was applying sunscreen to it and started grabbing my crotch while lavishing three whole dollars into my waistband. I pulled away from his grip with a light shimmy and continued to dance. Then he began tapping me. I looked, and he was taking pictures of me. I was so surprised that I smiled dumbly, then he gestured for me to turn around so he could “get the back.” Caught and compliant, I did turn and let him snap a few before coming to my senses and telling him to stop. He retreated a few feet and alternated between filming me or staring intensely. I looked everywhere else but at him and continued dancing but, fun-wise my night ended then.
I hated him for getting pictures. I hated him for ruining my fantasy. I hated myself for obeying.
My set finished and it was my turn to take a break. I slipped off the bar and worked my way through the crowd. Pablo followed me until a slipped behind the bar and into a staff area.
This is my life, so I’ll live it.
What I did not know, or was too thrown off to consider, was that I could have alerted the bouncer as soon as he started taking pictures of me without consent. All the rest would’ve been gotten him kicked out or, at least, spoken to and corrected.
All the other folks who’ve grabbed too freely or lingered too long responded immediately to their hand being removed. I’m surprised that, aside from Pablo, all of these men have immediately apologized. They knew they were crossing a line… and yet still did it.
But for every linger-er, there are two people who bashfully tip then wander off giggling. I’ve realized that’s my favorite part of gogo-ing. You get to be party captain. With a wink, smile, or passing compliment of someone’s outfit you can generate a lot of cheerful clubbers. It’s fun to be fun. It’s fun to help people have their own fun.
Now, I have another source of income, and I don’t need the money as much and the thrill of the attention has worn off a bit. But I’ll keep gogo dancing.
I like clubs but I love seeing the behind-the-scenes. I like seeing the weird liquor closets or crawl spaces the gogos “get ready” in. I like bartenders and happy bar patrons. I truly can’t believe I get to monetize flirting — something I do naturally and probably too much as it is. I’ve got three new costumes in the mail and each one will surely strengthen my persona and fantasy around the job.
But the best part remains experimenting with my own fear. Last weekend, an ex came in and saw me dancing in my underwear. When we dated, I’d wanted his respect so deeply but he didn’t even really give it to me then. He did a double-take, and I waved. The same night, a crush came in. Another night, an old coworker.
The steady march of exactly the people I was worried about seeing me do this thing that’s fun and frivolous, sexy and simple. With each one, I feel a little lighter. With each one, I feel that soft, familiar shock: it just doesn’t matter. This is my life, so I’ll live it.
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