table. I feel as if I am doing something wrong. Is talking to the other customers something not done here? Is this one of those places where we are all supposed to be invisible to one another?

I plunge ahead anyway. "Have you been here before?" I ask He smiles warmly. This, apparently, is a safe topic. He has sensed I am not coming on to him.

"Oh, yes," he says. "I come here all the time. This is one of my favorite places in the whole world. They change the guys all the time, you know." I don't know.

"I mean they have different guys every time. Not all of them. Some of them stay. They're really the popular ones, I guess. Like Robbie. I like them anyway."

"Do you like this place better than the bars?" I ask.

This is the wrong topic. I have stepped outside the delicate line. He smiles again, waves vaguely at someone, excuses himself.

One of the fat men is staring at me. "Why don't you take off your clothes?" he asks. "That would be so nice."

"

"I don't think so,' I say. "There's still time. If you take them off now, they'll give you your money back."

I look puzzled. So he explains. "See, if you take off your clothes at the door, they let you in free. But if you wait until the show begins you only get a free pass for next week. Nice idea, huh?"

"Why don't you take off your clothes?"

"Me? The way I look? Listen, they let me in free if I promise to keep my clothes on." He bursts into laughter. "No, no, no, only kidding, only kidd-

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ing. I don't like to take my clothes off. It's because of the way I'm built. Although there are people who like all this." He grasps a huge roll of fat on his stomach and shakes it at me. "How about you?"

"Hun uh," I say.

"Listen, no offense, I understand. You like the bartender?" I nod.

"You can have him. During. Or after. He's not expensive. You want me to arrange it?"

At that moment, the lights begin to blink on and off.

"Oh, shit," the fat man says. "The show's going to start. It's too late for you to take off your clothes now. We better go in." We start to move toward the next room. "Hey, wait a minute," he says to me. "You want to meet me after the show?"

I shake my head no.

"Not for free, not for free. What kind of guy do you think I am? How about thirty-five dollars? I don't mean all night, I'm not cheap, just one time?"

"No, thanks," I say. "Come on, it'll be easy. I'll do all the work. I have poppers."

We are being swept on with the crowd now.

"I'll see you later," he cries. "I'll get the bartender, too." We are in the theater now. It's a large loft room with a circular, very small stage. The seats, three rows of them, are arranged in a U around the stage, leaving about ten feet in front of the stage clear.

As soon as we are seated, the lights blink off. There are nervous giggles, a collective catching of breath. Rustling. It reminds me of the Kiddie Matinees | used to go to.

A spotlight appears, and the master of ceremonies bounds out of one of the

three arches behind the stage.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he shouts. "Let me tell you about the fire regulations first. We don't want any roasted fairies, do we?" There is a comfortable giggle at the word "fairies." We are all happy, it seems, to be identified. It makes us feel closer, grouped. He tells us about the fire escapes and the fire doors and urges us to keep our heads.

"Now," he says, "now for the show. You've never seen anything like this before. Unless you've been here before. Let me tell you, it's spectacular, it's..." "Get on with it, Zelda," someone shouts. I recognize the fat man's voice, "Shut your hole, Ethel," the MC says."We'll get on with it in due course, First, let me tell you that anyone who takes his clothes off right now gets a free pass to next week's show. How about it? Who's going to take his clothes off? Who's going to show it all, every bit of it?".