All I Could Bare: My Life in the Strip Clubs of Gay Washington, (24 page)

Yet even while I understand this intellectually, I still suspect that when the time comes for me to check into a gay old folks home, I'll be looking around to see if any guy cricks his arthritic neck my way. I just hope this perpetual need doesn't stand in the way of me finding some kind of happiness.

A couple of years back, I met a guy who made me want to exchange vows. He was a Midwesterner who blushed when he cursed and melted into my body when I held him. We were walking through downtown Atlanta on our way to lunch one day when he told me that despite his feelings, he didn't think we had a future.

"Do you think I'll get bored or something?" I asked. "Or do you think that one guy's attention will never be enough for me?"

He was silent for a while and then mumbled, "I think it's the last one."

I've come to accept that it's just one of my issues— everybody has them—and I'll have to find some way of living with it. But what I know for certain is that stripping is not really an effective way to work out your personal stuff. You can take off your clothes, but your issues cling to you like skin.

• • • "So, what did you learn from stripping?" he asks. I'm back on my date at the bar in Providence, talking to the guy who made me take this excursion through my past. (You know, the guy at the beginning of the book.)

"I don't know," I say, taking a sip of Absolut Vanilla with Diet Coke. "That question is always so hard to answer. I certainly learned a lot about sexuality, and how complex some people's lives are because of it. But I also learned that even in places that you think are all about sex and lust, there are still a lot of people looking for love."

I take another sip. "And as for me, I learned how important it is to take risks, and to go for something no matter what people might think. I mean, those are all clichés I'd heard a million times before, but stripping allowed me to learn it for myself. If I had never been a stripper, I doubt that I'd ever have had the nerve to become a writer or to move around from place to place—D.C. to New York to Buffalo to Atlanta and now to Providence. In many ways, stripping gave me my life."

"So you'd recommend it?"

"Hell no," I say, laughing and almost spraying him with my drink. "I don't think there's anything wrong with stripping, but it's not like my preferred path of enlightenment or anything. Things worked out for me, but they also could've gone badly. I think the point is just to constantly take risks and try to see yourself in new ways. But you don't necessarily have to take your clothes off to do it."

I watch as he processes all of this. I wonder what he's thinking. I'd started the night wanting a kiss more than anything else but I couldn't tell if I was any closer to that goal.

Finally, he looks me in the eye, smiles, and asks if I want another drink.

"Sure," I say.

He gets up and walks to the bar, and I can see from the reflection in the mirror behind the bar that he's still smiling. I might just get that kiss.

Acknowledgments

This being a memoir, there's a temptation to thank anyone who's ever helped me in life. However, in order to save trees, I will limit my list to those who directly impacted the writing of this particular project. I am deliberately not thanking many people whose stories are included in the book in order to preserve their anonymity. But I do want to acknowledge my friend Lou Chibbaro, whose keen and thorough reporting on gay life in D.C. proved invaluable in researching this book, and "Ella Fitzgerald," who was kind enough to share some memories with me.

Next, I'd like to thank those in the publishing industry who helped bring this book to life: Clarence Haynes, for the conversation that started me on the road to writing this book; Sarah Lazin, for never wavering in your belief in this project; and Malaika Adero, for taking a chance on my story and trusting that I knew how to tell it. Additional thanks go to current and former members of the team at Sarah Lazin Books: Shawn Mitchell and Danielle McClure, as well as the staff at Atria Books, particularly Isolde Sauer and Charles Antony, for taking such care of my "life," Christine Saunders, for getting the word out about the book, and Krishan Trotman, for helping me navigate the publishing process and making sure I had everything I needed.

Thirdly, I'd like to thank some friends and supporters: Valerie Boyd, for caring enough to go through this with me once again; Suzanne Van Atten, for always making me feel understood; Sheri Parks, for so many things over so many years—I'm in awe of the force you are becoming; Shari Evans, for being by my side and supporting me throughout this project and my transition to academia; Biff Warren, for believing in my vision; and Keota Fields, for being a great "hanging buddy." Additional thanks go to a few fantastic writers who I also consider to be friends: David Browne, Josh Kilmer-Purcell, and Josh Wolk, and to my students and colleagues at the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, especially Catherine Houser, the most supportive chair I could imagine.

Now, I'd like to thank my immediate and extended family for whom much of this book will come as a surprise. Although you might not understand my journey, please trust that it is one I had to take. Thanks to Lucinda Moore, for being someone I can trust—I will always be there when you need me; my brother, Eric—I want to say "don't make the same mistakes I have," but instead I'll just remind you that I'll have your back no matter what choices you make; my dad, for nurturing every dream I've ever had; and my mom—the most loving person I know—for giving me the toughness I needed to live life on my own terms.

Lastly, I want to thank three very special guys whose support I counted on through the rough times of writing this book: "Bryce" in Atlanta, "Luke" in Providence, and, most of all, Justin Sirois, for inspiring me and trusting me to be your friend.