TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A SHOTBOY by Daniel Renfrow
Alice and I are plummeting down the rabbit hole. Jaeger-Bombs, Blue-Hawaiians, Buttery-Nipples, Kamikazes, Washington-Apples, and Red-Headed-Sluts, still in their shot tubes, careen past us into the abyss below. Glitter… glitter is everywhere. I fall asleep before we reach the bottom.
It usually takes me two hours to prepare for work. I start my preparations by going tanning, followed by a not so rigorous work out session at the gym. I quickly head home to shower, shave my face, shave my legs, shave my legs again, again, and again (Why have I not mastered this yet?). After showering I begin applying my makeup. I start with foundation, than apply some concealer below my eyes. I attempt to apply some eyeliner, and poke myself in my eye several times (Now that my eyes are tearing I must reapply the eyeliner). With the eyeliner haphazardly applied, I put on my uniform: underwear and body glitter (If I am going for a more formal look I might put on a bowtie and vest). I check out my ass several times in the mirror before donning my civilian clothing. I look at myself again in the mirror and pretend that I am holding a tray of shots. “Do you gentlemen want some shots,” I ask in as sexy of a voice I can come up with. I say it again, changing my tone a little, and raising one eyebrow. My cats are staring at me. Now I am embarrassed. I pick up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from off of my desk, and I am out the door. The trip to Austin usually takes me thirty minutes. I go below the speed limit because I am afraid of getting pulled over and having to explain all of the glitter on my face to a police officer (This has happened to me before, and it is not an experience I would like to repeat). I finally reach Austin, park, and head over to Halcyon for a cup of coffee and an hour of reading before walking to the club to begin my shift as a shotboy at “Sodom” (Not the actual name of the club).
Sodom is a “Gay Mecca,” with patrons circling the dance floor instead of the Ka’bah, consuming copious (Verging on obscene) amounts of alcohol instead of fasting, and donning as little clothing as possible. To continue the analogy: I suppose the patrons end their nights by reciting the lyrics of Lady Gaga songs as they lie prostrate with their bodies aligned to the Castro District of San Francisco (I know I do). “Po-po-po-po-po-po-po-po-pokerface… Amen.”
As I navigate the staircases and narrow passages of the club I pretend I am Margaret Mead, examining the sexual relationships of the natives of Samoa. “Hmmm… How interesting.” (Scribbles frantically in moleskin, and simultaneously swats fly from shoulder—aka, hand reaching for my groin). “The older males tend to favor younger boys, more specifically boys who have consumed several units of alcohol….” (Stares puzzled at moleskin, then at older man grinding on younger boy, then back at moleskin) “Perhaps the union of a younger male with an older male promotes social solidarity. Is the younger male in a liminal stage? Is that why he consumes so much alcohol? Is it a rite of passage?”
As I squeeze through the narrow passage between the dance floor and the wall, I raise my tray of shots as high as my sinuous arms can reach. However, this does not prevent the shots from being jostled in their trays, and creates a perfect opportunity for a stray hand to grab my ass. “Fuck… He didn’t even tip me,” I think as I make my way to the outdoor patio.
A gust of frigid air collides with my nearly naked body as I step onto the patio. It sends a shiver up my body that begins in my toes, travels up my thighs, my chest, my arms, and exits my body through the tips of my fingers, causing me to once again jostle my tray of shots. “It’s so FUCKING cold!” I mutter to Oona, my favorite Drag Queen, who is standing by the bar taking sensuous drags from her cigarette. “Come here baby,” she coos at me. As she wraps her slightly muscular arm around my shoulders I am surprised by the doughiness of her skin, but I am thankful for the warmth.
After selling several shots on the lower patio I head upstairs and do the same on the upper one before quickly making my way back inside the club. The temperature inside the club usually starts out rather cold, but it is eventually warmed by the body heat of the patrons. I am seriously considering recruiting some gay men to grind, half-naked by my bed as I sleep. I would save so much money on heating!
I make my way past the go-go dancers, who are dancing away in their cages in all of their glittery Greek-god glory. “One day…” I think to myself.
“I want to fuck him,” I hear someone say as I pass the bathrooms. This only fuels my budding narcissism, a narcissism that is beginning to seriously alarm me. I first became aware of it after trying to find pictures of myself on the Internet. I began by googling “shot boy at Sodom,” no images. I then searched for “sexy shotboy at Sodom,” again, nothing. I googled, “hot gay shotboy at Sodom,” nothing. I tried “skinny shotboy at Sodom,” then “anorexic shotboy at Sodom.” There were no results for any of my searches.
I approach a group of Lesbians taking a respite on a couch tucked away in a dark corner of the club. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I sway my hips to the music (I am trying to appear outgoing, and play up the gay stereotype a little in the process). They don’t want any, so I tell them to enjoy the rest of their night and sashay over to a group of Drag Queens dancing on a balcony overlooking the dance floor. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I wink at the tallest one (well over six feet tall- sans heels). “Whoa, baby! You’re so skinny,” she yells at me, “You need to eat a BigMac.” How many times have I been told this tonight? Add one more to the tally. I am now at four, and I still have an hour left before I get off. Why not tell me to eat a Twinkie, a banana split, an entire tub of ice cream (I already do this regularly), the entire country of Lichtenstein (Not so regularly)? I try not to let it get to me, but after I get off of work I will make a late night run to McDonalds, order a BigMac, feel my ribs, order another, and add two apple pies to my order. “Fuck you metabolism! Why are you so fucking fast,” I ask myself as I finish my last bite. My stomach gurgles, as if it is trying to answer. “What’s that,” I ask it. No response.
That is the same response I get when I ask the scary man with the painted on eyebrows if he wants a shot. I am thankful for his silence and quickly escape from him, heading back downstairs. As I circle the dance floor I am swallowed up by the energy of the club. My body sways, and my heart pounds to the music of ATB. For the first time in several years I feel alive. I am exactly where I want to be at that very moment, swept away in the pulsating music as I watch the sweat glisten off the bodies of the men on the dance floor.
I finally understand what Wonderland must have looked like through the eyes of Alice. Sodom is my wonderland. However, my Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are dancing in cages above a dance floor, and my Mockturtle is shedding his salty tears in the stall of a unisex bathroom. There are no beheadings for my more amiable Queen of Hearts, who is reigning over the dance floor, shouting the lyrics of Britney’s new single instead of, “Off with their heads!” My Caterpillar is taking all of this in as he lays inebriated on a couch taking thoughtful puffs from his cigar. All the while I am chasing my white rabbit around and around the club, never quite catching up to him.
//ww
It usually takes me two hours to prepare for work. I start my preparations by going tanning, followed by a not so rigorous work out session at the gym. I quickly head home to shower, shave my face, shave my legs, shave my legs again, again, and again (Why have I not mastered this yet?). After showering I begin applying my makeup. I start with foundation, than apply some concealer below my eyes. I attempt to apply some eyeliner, and poke myself in my eye several times (Now that my eyes are tearing I must reapply the eyeliner). With the eyeliner haphazardly applied, I put on my uniform: underwear and body glitter (If I am going for a more formal look I might put on a bowtie and vest). I check out my ass several times in the mirror before donning my civilian clothing. I look at myself again in the mirror and pretend that I am holding a tray of shots. “Do you gentlemen want some shots,” I ask in as sexy of a voice I can come up with. I say it again, changing my tone a little, and raising one eyebrow. My cats are staring at me. Now I am embarrassed. I pick up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from off of my desk, and I am out the door. The trip to Austin usually takes me thirty minutes. I go below the speed limit because I am afraid of getting pulled over and having to explain all of the glitter on my face to a police officer (This has happened to me before, and it is not an experience I would like to repeat). I finally reach Austin, park, and head over to Halcyon for a cup of coffee and an hour of reading before walking to the club to begin my shift as a shotboy at “Sodom” (Not the actual name of the club).
Sodom is a “Gay Mecca,” with patrons circling the dance floor instead of the Ka’bah, consuming copious (Verging on obscene) amounts of alcohol instead of fasting, and donning as little clothing as possible. To continue the analogy: I suppose the patrons end their nights by reciting the lyrics of Lady Gaga songs as they lie prostrate with their bodies aligned to the Castro District of San Francisco (I know I do). “Po-po-po-po-po-po-po-po-pokerface… Amen.”
As I navigate the staircases and narrow passages of the club I pretend I am Margaret Mead, examining the sexual relationships of the natives of Samoa. “Hmmm… How interesting.” (Scribbles frantically in moleskin, and simultaneously swats fly from shoulder—aka, hand reaching for my groin). “The older males tend to favor younger boys, more specifically boys who have consumed several units of alcohol….” (Stares puzzled at moleskin, then at older man grinding on younger boy, then back at moleskin) “Perhaps the union of a younger male with an older male promotes social solidarity. Is the younger male in a liminal stage? Is that why he consumes so much alcohol? Is it a rite of passage?”
As I squeeze through the narrow passage between the dance floor and the wall, I raise my tray of shots as high as my sinuous arms can reach. However, this does not prevent the shots from being jostled in their trays, and creates a perfect opportunity for a stray hand to grab my ass. “Fuck… He didn’t even tip me,” I think as I make my way to the outdoor patio.
A gust of frigid air collides with my nearly naked body as I step onto the patio. It sends a shiver up my body that begins in my toes, travels up my thighs, my chest, my arms, and exits my body through the tips of my fingers, causing me to once again jostle my tray of shots. “It’s so FUCKING cold!” I mutter to Oona, my favorite Drag Queen, who is standing by the bar taking sensuous drags from her cigarette. “Come here baby,” she coos at me. As she wraps her slightly muscular arm around my shoulders I am surprised by the doughiness of her skin, but I am thankful for the warmth.
After selling several shots on the lower patio I head upstairs and do the same on the upper one before quickly making my way back inside the club. The temperature inside the club usually starts out rather cold, but it is eventually warmed by the body heat of the patrons. I am seriously considering recruiting some gay men to grind, half-naked by my bed as I sleep. I would save so much money on heating!
I make my way past the go-go dancers, who are dancing away in their cages in all of their glittery Greek-god glory. “One day…” I think to myself.
“I want to fuck him,” I hear someone say as I pass the bathrooms. This only fuels my budding narcissism, a narcissism that is beginning to seriously alarm me. I first became aware of it after trying to find pictures of myself on the Internet. I began by googling “shot boy at Sodom,” no images. I then searched for “sexy shotboy at Sodom,” again, nothing. I googled, “hot gay shotboy at Sodom,” nothing. I tried “skinny shotboy at Sodom,” then “anorexic shotboy at Sodom.” There were no results for any of my searches.
I approach a group of Lesbians taking a respite on a couch tucked away in a dark corner of the club. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I sway my hips to the music (I am trying to appear outgoing, and play up the gay stereotype a little in the process). They don’t want any, so I tell them to enjoy the rest of their night and sashay over to a group of Drag Queens dancing on a balcony overlooking the dance floor. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I wink at the tallest one (well over six feet tall- sans heels). “Whoa, baby! You’re so skinny,” she yells at me, “You need to eat a BigMac.” How many times have I been told this tonight? Add one more to the tally. I am now at four, and I still have an hour left before I get off. Why not tell me to eat a Twinkie, a banana split, an entire tub of ice cream (I already do this regularly), the entire country of Lichtenstein (Not so regularly)? I try not to let it get to me, but after I get off of work I will make a late night run to McDonalds, order a BigMac, feel my ribs, order another, and add two apple pies to my order. “Fuck you metabolism! Why are you so fucking fast,” I ask myself as I finish my last bite. My stomach gurgles, as if it is trying to answer. “What’s that,” I ask it. No response.
That is the same response I get when I ask the scary man with the painted on eyebrows if he wants a shot. I am thankful for his silence and quickly escape from him, heading back downstairs. As I circle the dance floor I am swallowed up by the energy of the club. My body sways, and my heart pounds to the music of ATB. For the first time in several years I feel alive. I am exactly where I want to be at that very moment, swept away in the pulsating music as I watch the sweat glisten off the bodies of the men on the dance floor.
I finally understand what Wonderland must have looked like through the eyes of Alice. Sodom is my wonderland. However, my Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are dancing in cages above a dance floor, and my Mockturtle is shedding his salty tears in the stall of a unisex bathroom. There are no beheadings for my more amiable Queen of Hearts, who is reigning over the dance floor, shouting the lyrics of Britney’s new single instead of, “Off with their heads!” My Caterpillar is taking all of this in as he lays inebriated on a couch taking thoughtful puffs from his cigar. All the while I am chasing my white rabbit around and around the club, never quite catching up to him.
//ww