Naked Fox
Three years ago today, I found myself naked on stage at a gay bar. Allow me to explain.
It was a Monday evening in May 2019, when I sat down on my balcony with a bottle of rosé and cause for celebration.
“To Papa Fox,” I raised my glass in the air and took a sip.
Following a Stage IV cancer diagnosis, against all odds, my dad survived. The news arrived earlier that afternoon, “a complete state of remission.”
In gratitude and disbelief, a smile stretched cautiously across my lips. Then, as if the weight of concern released its grip entirely, my eyebrows sprung up with the buoyancy of my cheeks. Above, the seagulls soared weightlessly across the sky, while the pigeons did the Charleston on the concrete below.
“I want to dance,” was the next thought that lit up the marquis of my mind.
Before I knew it, I was back inside changing outfits. Piecing together a classic Vancouver look, I paired jean shorts with a button-up short sleeve shirt featuring sailboats. Applying argan oil to my hair, I dabbed my red beard with gold glitter and sprayed deodorant under each armpit. On my sock less feet, I laced up a pair of bright white kicks. Taking another sip of wine, I was ready to go.
Walking to Davie Street, I debated which night club establishment I could really cut a rug at. With dusk on the horizon, it was still much too early in GMT (Gay Male Time) to find a dance floor that was bumping. Although I was too euphoric to fear judgment about dancing on my own, I still required dim lighting and a bouncy soundtrack. And so it was that I arrived at The Junction.
“I remember losing myself in the music, and the crowd roaring each time I undid a button. I recall my body moving like it never had before.”
Located in the heart of the village, across the street from Shoppers Drug Mart, The Cross Swords is a pub during the day and a dance club at night. Serving up cheeseburgers, french fries, and cheap drinks at Happy Hour; as soon as the daytime drunks stumble into bed, the lights drop, the music turns up, and the drag queens take over the microphone.
It was just after 9:00pm when I stepped in the front door of the bar to find it in transition. Not quite a pub, and not yet a club. Ordering a bottle of Kokanee from the bartender, I took a seat at a high-top and looked out at my neighbours. To my left sat two older gentlemen staring into the bottom of a beer pitcher. In a nearby booth, a group of twentysomethings shot back every colour under the sun. Any other night, I would have finished my beer and tipped my fellow patrons goodnight. However, this time I was on a mission.
With the blue label bottle in my hand, I walked directly into the middle of the empty dance floor. Then, shaking my hips and flapping my arms, I proceeded to bust a move like ten people were watching. One hour and two gin and sodas later, the bar started to fill up. Covered in sweat, I had tapped into an energy that was not even close to running out. After dragging my feet for months, it felt glorious to slide them back and forth.
Soon thereafter, I had lost every care and inhibition in the world. You will understand then, given these circumstances, why I answered “yes” so quickly when a strange man asked if I would like to enter a competition. “$300 is the prize!” he said. “Sign me up!” I replied. Taking down my name on a piece of paper, he asked for my song choice. Assuming this was some sort of dance-off, I replied, “Creep by TLC.” Quite proud of my selection, there was not a doubt in my mind I would lose.
Before I knew it, I was being hustled behind a curtained area with four other men and no idea what was going on. Peering out a tiny hole on the dance floor, which had now turned into a stage, I watched a spotlight cast a glow upon a gigantic drag queen. As the crowd began to cheer, I felt my adrenaline begin to waver. What have I got myself into? I paced back and forth. Then, I nearly fainted when I heard the words come out of the speaker.
“Welcome to the Monday night Amateur Stripping Competition!”
“STRIPPING COMPETITION!” I screamed.
Fumbling to escape, I searched for an exit, but could only find more curtain. Then, just as I found an opening, a hairy hand with acrylic nails clutched hold. Stepping slowly back, I watched as the fabric revealed a man standing 6’5” in a black sequined dress and disco ball heels. With an Elvira wig and a beard that stretched down to his fake cleavage, I knew I was no match for this mythical creature. When he began to speak, I expected a roar; but instead, there was a gentle purr.
“Okay kitty cats! As always here are the rules,” he said, readjusting his right shoulder strap before massaging his left calf. “Now first and foremost, this is a body positive competition! Which means we welcome, respect, and adore every beautiful body to compete! While you are out there, you can take off as little or as many clothes as you’d like. The only judgment here will be from me; because I am the judge honey!” I missed the first two finger snaps following this line, but I did manage to catch the third one. “If you want to get buck naked, just go right ahead!”
“Now, let’s get this show on the road!” he reached for the edge of the curtain. Placing one shiny heel out, a burst of noise released from the audience. Making one final turn, he said, “remember, the second you are finished simply turn around and give me a signal. I will take it from there! Have fun bitches!”
The second he left, I braced myself against a wall. Latching on to the five syllables in “body positive,” I began repeating them over and over again. “I am body positive, I am body positive,” I asserted to myself. Looking around at my competition, I couldn’t decide whether I was in a scene from Gladiator or Dazed and Confused.
Fortunately, my name was not called first, second, or third, which gave me plenty of time to build more confidence. While the acts before me demonstrated basic stripping choreography, they lacked seductive prowess. As far as the “taking clothes off” part of the competition was concerned, the moment each competitor got down to their skivvies the lights were cut. “Ugh!” I lamented, “Vancouver can be so lame.” Then I heard my name.
“Next up, we have Rugggggggggggged Fox!”
Ripping the curtain open – I have always known how to make an entrance - I held my chest high and took centre stage. Looking out at the faces in the crowd, I was relieved when the spotlight took out my vision. “In the name of Left-Eye, rest in peace, T-Boz, and Chilli,” I vogued, “I am grateful for each day I have left on this planet.” Then, with the sound of the first trumpet blow, I was off.
I cannot tell you exactly what happened in the three minutes and thirty-five seconds that proceeded. I remember losing myself in the music and the crowd roaring each time I undid a button. I recall my body moving like it never had before. I have glimpses of clothes spinning around my head before flying in the air. And then, I can picture the exact moment I came back. Looking down, I realized there were no more clothes to take off. I was a naked fox. Looking up, I turned around and signaled the drag queen to cut it. The music stopped, the lights turned off, and I ran off the stage cupping myself.
Behind the curtains, I was met with congratulations, applause and a “how did you do that?”
In a state of shock, “my clothes,” were the only words that came out of my mouth.
Then, less then a minute later, they appeared, neatly folded by a kind volunteer.
So, what happened next? Well as it turned out, wouldn’t you know it, I tied for first place! The other winner was a man whose massive aubergine had yet to lose a single competition until now. “Not bad for a baby carrot,” I shook his hand.
The next morning, I woke up and thought I had dreamt the entire evening. That was until my jean shorts delivered final confirmation. In my left pocket, I found the $150 prize money. Scrunched into my right, were nine $5 bills.
Did I tell Papa Fox about my celebratory win in his honour? Of course not! If the cancer didn’t get him this story just might.
