Go-Go Boy

Jay Ruben Dayrit Go-Go Boy They tip so they can touch me. Old men with apple-doll skin and sour breath that lingers up my body like cigarette smoke. I slide my palms over my chest, rock my hips side to side, hypnotize them with my ass. Eyes half closed, lips slightly parted, sweat running in beads down the small of my back. This is what I look like when I get fucked. Or so they hope as the ache of desire does back flips in the pit of their bellies. They call me down with hooked fingers and shout over the music, "What are you, Filipino orChinese?" "I'd like to spend the night between your legs." Or "I've got a fifty for a piece of your ass in the bathroom." I tuck their ones and fives—sometimes tens on a good night—into my G-string and smile a little boy's smile like a I really do want to fuck them, but I just can't. "Sorry, I don't hustle." It pays to be nice, let them hope they can win me over with twenties wrapped around their business cards. "Smooth as Chinese silk," one says and runs his doughty hand up my thigh. Rice queens. They like hairless skin, a clean-shaven crotch and almond eyes, right down to the color, light brown in the sunshine. They long to put their hands on my pecs, pinch my nipples, feel the heat of my perfect tan. Tight abs. Tight asshole. They imagine me in their arms, believe I'm submissive and faithful with a sweet-tooth craving for their Sugar Daddy love. Miss Saigon in a Bruce Lee body. Backstage, I count my tips. I flatten out the sweaty bills so Washington and Lincoln face the same direction, unlace my army boot and stuff the money inside. Sean plucks his eye brows in the mirror. Sean, Billy, Vince, whatever. Generic American substitutes for names too taxing on their white boyfriends' tongues. He offers some advice, "You should push your dick down in yourG-string. It makes itlook bigger." Shady bitch. "Do you think I should get green contacts or blue. Tm tired of lavender." I feel like telling him he should throw those damn things away. They look like purple cataracts, and stop telling everyone you're half French because no one believes that shit anyway. But it's two in the morning, and I'm too tired to read him. I pull on my cut-offs and head down to the dance floor. Saul, a narrow-shouldered banker, waits at the bottom of the stairs. He tips generously but gropes more than his money's worth. As usual, he asks me to dinner. "Just dinner," he says under thatcheesy mustached smile. "I give great massages." He squeezes the back of my neck. I lie to him, saying "You know I have a boyfriend, Saul." "So do I," he says. He's lying too. But still I kiss him lightly on the cheek and apologize, ex- Dayrit13 plaining that my big jealous boyfriend would kick my ass if he ever found out. "You're always so nice to me, not like the other dancers. They push me away," he says. "Saul, sweetheart, it takes no effort at all." Another lie. They're mostly like Saul, lonely men in their forties, pot-bellied, balding and ignored by the beautiful Asian boys posing on the dance floor. So they fold dollar bills by their belt loops and stand below the go-go box, buying small kisses and a fake smile. After my last set, I wait by the bar to get paid, watching the bartenders stack empty glasses. The DJ plays Filipino love songs, melodramatic ballads about broken hearts and the other woman. People start shuffling out. Some men leave in couples, leading each other through the thinning crowd, their fingers interlaced with the ease and familiarity of lovers, though they've only just met. Tonight they will kiss tenderly, hugclosely, warmed in the sweetnessofeachother's arms. By morning, hung-over and groggy, one of them will no longer feel like holding hands. And they'll...