I arrived fashionably late, paid the cover, scampered over to the dance floor, and started dancing. There were Go-Go Guys on the stage with the DJ. With a faux cage to one side of the stage. Apparently, they are a package deal. After attending several dance events in this venue, I’m fairly certain the Go-Go Guys there are more on the “strippers who dance” end of the “strippers who dance” / “dancers who strip” spectrum.
Upon reflection, I think I would have found the Go-Go Guys sexier if I had come to the event to ogle raunchy Go-Go Guys instead of coming to the event to dance to sped-up pop music. I would suppose that I am still allowed to appreciate their dancing.
The music was mostly something you could dance to: there was a lot of Lady Gaga—although it might be more accurate to say that the music I recognized the most was from of her latest album. Very occasionally, the music would turn into “Your lizard brain called, they’d like their sequencer back” music. There was one song with mean/angry lyrics that drove me off of the floor for a water break.
Every now and then at these events I remember that music by Madonna, Juno Reactor, Utah Saints, Darude, and Aqua is pushing thirty years old. And then I put my hands over my ears and tell myself, “La la la! I can’t hear you!”
The crowd of dancers ebbed and flowed in front of the stage. There was the obligatory young man and woman who stood in the middle of everything reviewing photos on their mobile. There were also The Young Women Who Go “Whooooo!” — granted, this is a step up from the Young Women Who Shout, “Oh my God! I am sooooo drunk!” I am trying and failing to imagine Dykes of a Certain Age going “Whoooo!” — instead of, say, “An army of lovers / can never be defeated!” — and I think “Whooooo!” is a generational ululation.
Although it was a full moon night, it was difficult to dance down the moon. I stared up at the disco lights as I danced and imagined that I was dancing on beams of red and blue and green. I also watched beach balls tossed around by the crowd. These would occasionally strike the lights. I made sure not to dance under any hardware.
I’m not sure what discourses are in play when the Go-Go Guys are... er, dancing(?)... with a giant, inflatable phallus. Is it an expression of male eroticism? Is it confronting the audience with a spectacle that forces them to evaluate their own relationships with male sexuality? Is it camp? I’m pretty sure it’s not a critique of the commodification of sexuality.
At one point in the evening, I’d found a place on the dance floor to dance that was close to a wall so I wouldn’t back up into anyone. As I was dancing on a variation of a Bulgarian washer woman’s steps, something arced down toward me out of the corner of my vision. I side-stepped just in time to avoid being struck by the giant, inflatable phallus as it poked out of the Go-Go Guys’ faux cage and kept on dancing to the music.
It’s just occurred to me that possibly this was flirtation. It’s also just occurred to me that maybe I should have screamed “Whooooo!” and splashed my (hypothetical) drink around while “dancing,” wide legged, with the inflatable phallus.
The Go-Go Guy with the LED poi is limited by the lower ceiling allowance of the stage area. Should he dance in front of the stage, which would give him more room for large, overhead orbits? Or should he explore more moves that have the poi grazing his body? What exactly is the dance vocabulary of poi, anyway?
Likewise, is the well-endowed, naked male blow-up doll representative of a shadow self? When a Go-Go Guy grasps the blow-up doll by the penis and whirls the doll around, is this a statement about the power of dance to sublimate or move sexual energy that is inanimate and only in potential? Technically, the male doll on the stage is a proxy Go-Go Guy—I’m pretty sure this is a critique of the commodification of sexuality.
I mean, folks were placing tips in skimpy booty shorts and Speedos, so I guess it’s supposed to be sexy.
I danced and danced and danced. A woman grabbed my hand and we improvised a kind of swing-dance around her canned drink. I would have tried some Lindy moves, but we didn’t have enough shared dance vocabulary for any social dance moves. At the end, I was grateful that she hadn’t backed into my back, somehow interlocked our arms, and, while we were still back-to-back, bent forward at her hips and hoisted me off of my feet as if I were some sort of backpack. Which stranger women have done to me in other venues. Twice.
I did wish Mark had come with me, but he isn’t a fan of dancing. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I wish Mark enjoyed dancing as much as I do—it’s more fun to dance with someone, especially if you both understand the steps and each others’ bodies.
I danced and danced and then the music shifted and I knew it was time to go home and to bed. I got a lot of steps in, and my fitness tracker awarded me with several badges.
As I headed home, I had to reflect: Beach balls thrown and kicked into the crowd + folks with drinks on the dance floor = getting smacked by alcohol-drenched balls. Just sayin’.
