All I Could Bare: My Life in the Strip Clubs of Gay Washington, (21 page)

"Yeah, it's bad," I said, now filled with so much nervous energy that I probably could've propelled the car on my jitters alone. I decided that the only way to ease my nerves was to just start talking. I abandoned my questions and launched into the one topic that made me most comfortable: sex.

"So, you're, like, totally single now," I said. I knew it had been about a year since her divorce from husband Rene Elizondo had been finalized. "About how many dates does it take before you'll have sex with someone?"

Janet looked over at me with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"Um," she paused. "Well, I really need to get to know a person before anything is going to happen."

"So it's a real-life 'Let's Wait Awhile' situation?"

"You could say that," she answered, giggling.

"What happened the last time you went on a date?"

"Let me try to remember," she said, her eyes scanning the road. "We went to dinner, then we went back to my place. We talked..."

"And .. . ?" I asked, feeling much more relaxed now.

"And that was it," she said.

"Really?" I prodded.

"Yes," she exclaimed, laughing.

"OK, OK," I said. Then I decided to tell her a little bit about me and Seth. "So, like, a couple of years ago, I broke up with this guy who I'd been with for a long time, and at first it was weird when I was with other people. Has sex changed for you now that you're single?"

"It's definitely different," she said, alternately glancing at me and looking at the road. "It's never the same as when you're with someone for the first time. That's the part I absolutely love, when there's that newness. There's a little bit of awkwardness that I think is very sexy. But at some

point you want someone to call your own." She paused. "But," she continued, "I'm not to that point yet."

"Yeah, after I started dating and, you know, sleeping around and stuff, I started thinking about AIDS a lot more. Do you worry about that?"

"Of course," she said, as we pulled into one of the parking spaces outside the very nondescript Flyte Tyme studios. "But if I let that control my life, I'd probably be celibate, and I don't think I could ever do that. I just enjoy sex too much. But I'm very careful. I try to be as safe as possible and, obviously, not be with every Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"Speaking of 'dick,'" I said, laughing nervously as she turned off the car, "are you a size queen?"

"Honestly, I am." She laughed. "I can't lie. My friends sometimes say, 'You know, Janet, it's not always about the size, but the magic in the wand.' And I'm like, 'But there's nothing wrong with a big magic wand.'"

We continued laughing as we walked to the door of the studio, which—despite being the working home of Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, Janet's longtime collaborators and two of the most consistently successful producers in the industry—was located in an out-of-the-way industrial park more suited to an amateur porn operation. We went inside and settled into the studio's lounge. The decor was pretty bare bones, but on one wall was a signed picture of Mariah Carey, who had recently worked with the producers on her new album.

"Oh, my God, Mariah was in
your
studio!" I exclaimed. I'd heard how territorial pop divas could be.

"A lot of people have been in this studio," Janet said with a smirk.

We settled in and sat across from each other at a small table. I clicked on my tape recorder, but left my notebook full of questions in my bag. Our conversation lasted for hours, with topics ranging from growing up Jackson ("No, I've never seen my parents kiss") to her much-discussed weight, which was known for dramatic ups and downs.

"Why do you think people are so obsessed with whether or not you're fat?" I asked.

"Well, my weight
has
fluctuated," she said. "I'm human. But I think the obsession has more to do with them than

me."

"Do you think you're sexy?" I figured this was a no-brainer. After all, Janet spent many of her videos dancing around with her often teenager-tight stomach exposed.

"Honestly, I don't," she said without hesitation. "I do not think I'm sexy."

"I don't believe that. .."

"That's no bullshit," she said. "With God as my witness, I do not think I'm sexy."

"What about when you look at your videos? Do you think the woman on the screen is sexy?"

"No," she answered, her voice getting higher. "I swear to God, no. I don't think she's sexy. She doesn't have it."

"You like sex too much to not think you're sexy."

"I can
feel
sexy. There are times when I'm intimate with someone that I
feel
sexy. But I don't think I
am
sexy. I've never seen myself as sexy. I swear, Craig, I am not lying to you."

"OK, well, everybody masturbates, right?" I asked, trying another angle.

"Right."

"Well, what about when you masturbate? You've got to be thinking you're sexy then ..."

"Why can't you just be fulfilling a need and getting your rocks off?"

"I guess so. But what in your opinion makes a woman sexy?"

"There's a certain way they move. There's a certain look in the eye. There's a certain something. But it really comes from the inside. It has to be something that the person exudes as opposed to them trying to act sexy. It might be as simple as a smile or the way they walk, the way they carry themselves, how confident they are."

"Are you confident?"

"I don't think I have enough confidence, no," she said, her voice softening. "But it's better than it was. A lot better."

Listening to Janet, I could hardly believe that this international pop icon and sex symbol didn't feel confident or sexy. In a way, I could relate because, growing up as a gay boy, I constantly felt at odds with my sexuality. That's why I'd always admired people like Janet or, say, Madonna, because they appeared sexually powerful. I thought they had the confidence I lacked. But the more I heard Janet talk, the more I began to suspect that almost no one feels fully comfortable with his or her sexuality no matter how they might come across. It seemed like life was just a constant struggle to feel comfortable in your own skin.

With that realization, I eased up on the sexiness stuff and returned to talking about her life as a newly single woman.

"Now that you're dating again, are you ever scared that some guy is gonna be like, 'I just
had
Janet Jackson'?"

"I've been very fortunate so far," she answered. "That's all I can say. I've had guys actually page me and say, 'No one has to know.' Because they understand that that could possibly be a fear and that's what's getting in the way. And maybe that
is
what's getting in the way."

"It must be hard to trust people."

"It's very hard. It's really tough. And everyone needs friends. Everyone needs someone to talk to, to call and say, 'Are you busy? I just need to vent for a moment.' Everybody needs that person in their lives." She paused. "So the question is, 'Who do you do that with?' Or do you hold it inside? And if you hold it inside, how's it going to manifest itself? Who can you cry to without seeing it in the paper the following week?"

As she was saying this, I was thinking about how lucky I was to still have Seth in my life. Despite our differences, I knew that he was someone I could lean on, that I could trust.

"Like I was telling you earlier," I said, "I went through a bad breakup not too long ago, so I know how hard it can be to move on. I was just wondering how you are dealing with it."

"There are times," she said, "when it feels like it just happened yesterday, and there's still a bit of a sting. But I
have
to move on. I have to keep going. I can't let it stress me out, stop me from reaching my goals. I'm just glad that I'm in the state of mind I'm in, because it didn't have to be this way. I could've been one messed-up child. But for some reason, God has put me in a different space. And I'm so appreciative of that. I have to honestly say, 'It's in God's hands.'"

On that note, we finished up because Janet was needed in the recording booth. I was about to put away my tape recorder when I remembered the one question that I was supposed to ask.

"Oh, by the way, do you have a kid?"

She looked at me like I had just farted.

"You know," I continued, "that rumor that you have a kid."

"Oh," she said, understanding where I was coming from, "that rumor keeps resurfacing. They say the kid's in Europe or that one of my brothers or sisters is raising it. But, no, I've never had a child."

I smiled, shook her hand, and thanked her. Mission accomplished.

When I turned in the story, my editor was thrilled with all the talk about big dicks and masturbation. I had succeeded at my first cover story. I knew that I owed much of the success to Janet's willingness to go there with me when I started asking about sex, but I also knew that had it not been for my years at the strip clubs, I probably wouldn't have had the nerve to ask the questions in the first place.

22

Once I’d moved away from D.C., I made it to the strip clubs only a couple of times a year -say, when I was in town visiting family or Seth, who had comfortably settled into being one of my best friends. Every time I returned to the clubs, I was struck both by how different things were—with the no-touching rule still in effect and the influxes of new dancers—and by how much things were exactly as they had been, with many of the same customers sitting in the same places drinking the same drinks, waiting to see that special dancer who they could turn into the boy of their dreams.

One time, just after New Year's in 2000, I was at Wet sipping on a vodka-cranberry. I smiled to myself thinking that I'd worked for years as a stripper before I ever hit the sauce, but now that I was a journalist, I was regularly boozing it up. I was slowly nursing my drink and watching a tan ex-marine strut around the bar, his body like supple granite, when I spotted Dave coming in. I hadn't seen him in more than a year.

"Hey, stranger," I said, motioning for him to take the stool next to me. "Happy Millennium."

"Hey there," he said, walking over. For a moment, we had one of those awkward to-hug-or-not-to-hug moments. Both his arms were slightly outstretched, but since we'd never hugged in the past, it seemed odd to start now. Instead, we transitioned out of this awkwardness with some skillfully deployed back pats, and Dave took his seat.

He asked what brought me to town, and I told him I was visiting friends.

"What about you? What brings you out?" I asked. "The last time I talked to you, it seemed like you were over the whole scene."

"Yeah, well, it comes and goes."

"Seen Peter lately?"

"Not recently," he said with a grin.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Well, you and I haven't talked in awhile."

"Did something happen?"

Dave's grin widened dramatically and he told me what had gone down since he and Peter reconnected at the Follies' twenty-fifth anniversary. Not long afterward, Peter started working at La Cage again, and the two of them were back to their regular ritual, sneaking off into corners, Dave working Peter over until he shot his load into a wad of cocktail napkins and breathily sighed over and over, "Oh shit... oh shit... oh shit."

One night, Dave told Peter that he was about to go on one of his regular trips to New York, to take in the sights and catch a Broadway show, the same thing he'd been doing since the days when he was married.

"Have you ever been to New York?" Dave asked Peter.

"No, I've always wanted to," Peter said, shrugging his shoulders, "but..."

"Well, you know, I'd love to have the company if you ever want to go. You just have to let me know."

"That sounds like a good idea, but I'm not sure when I could do it."

"Well, the offer stands and no strings attached. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can get separate rooms and everything if that's what you want. I mean, of course, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to, you know, do 'oh shit.' But you don't have to. The offer stands, so just think about it."

Dave left things there that night, but they kept returning to the topic week after week. Still, Dave told me he didn't really believe it would happen. He deeply hoped it would, but the possibility seemed so remote.

But one night, Peter surprised Dave by saying, "You know that New York trip we've been talking about? I think I would like to do that."

"Now, are you serious about this, because if you are, I'll plan a trip. But you have to be serious about it, because I have to take off from work and make hotel reservations and buy Broadway tickets and it will cost a lot of money. You have to be serious."

Peter convinced Dave that he really wanted to go, and Dave started making plans. Each step of the way, Dave had his doubts. Even as they stood in D.C.'s Union Station about to board the train to New York, he still had trouble believing it was actually happening.

Once they were in New York, everything went as Dave had planned it. They ate at a nice restaurant, took in a show, and Dave even schooled Peter in a bit of gay history by walking him through the West Village, the site of the Stonewall riots, which sparked the modern gay rights movement.

Back at the hotel, they shared the same bed and even did "oh shit." Later that night, Dave fell asleep with his arm around Peter. Dave had finally gotten the intimacy he'd wanted.

"So, are you guys like boyfriends now?" I asked, both a little jealous and titillated.

"No," he sighed, "not really."

Shortly after the New York trip, Peter had to rush back to his parents' house in Rehoboth because his father got sick. But he and Dave would keep in touch by phone a couple of times a month. Dave updated Peter on what was going on in D.C., and Peter told Dave what was going on with his father's health.

"His father got worse with every phone call," Dave told me.

Then one day, Peter called to tell Dave that his father had died. He followed this up with a request that Dave never saw coming.