Last night I tried out (as a go-go boy) for the guy who runs the parties at Splash on Saturdays. It seemed to be Big ‘n’ Beefy night, so I felt somewhat out of place, but I was still having a good time.
Then somebody walked by me and indicated that he wanted to speak to me. I leaned down and he shouted in my ear (the music was pretty loud), “How’s your dick?”
I heard him fairly clearly but I wanted to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood, so I shouted back, “What?”
He shouted, “How’s your cock?”
I gave the only possible reply, which was, “Fabulous!”
“Is it hard?” I gave him what I hope passed for a lascivious look. “If you get it hard I’ll give you a dollar.”
And I almost spit in his face.
A dollar? Excuse me. I should get a dollar for letting you stand next to me. Men have been sticking dollar bills in my underwear all evening with the understanding that if they want any kind of display they have to pony up.
I said, “Make it ten and I’ll think about it,” but I spoke softly, because though I was insulted I also didn’t want to anger him.
He hadn’t heard me; he looked up quizzically and shouted, “What?”
I gave him a mysterious smile, declined to repeat myself, and started dancing again, ignoring him until he walked away.