Giving it his best shot at Spiral

Editor's note: A few weeks ago, Geoph Espen spent a memorable Saturday evening selling shots at Spiral Dance Bar in Old Town. This is what he experienced.  

I haven’t opened the envelope yet. I haven’t done thecalculations. Thinking about its contents, it's almost sexual. I was ashot boy tonight at Spiral, Lansing's local gay club. That envelope isfilled with a lot of cash.

I was told to arrive between 10:30 and 11 p.m. I got lostwalking there. My plan was totally calculated: I was gonna strut aroundand own that place. Then I got a plastic tray, a handful of vials and$10 in a cup thrust into my hands.

"Don't take your eyes off this money and get your vials back" would be my only directions for the night.

But I took it all in stride and was escorted by a verybusy bartender into a well-stocked freezer of fruity shots I’d laterintroduce to my audience as “liquid dynamite.”

Turns out I was not only going to just be selling shots, I'd be pouring them myself, too. I filled those vials to the top — large amounts somehow ended up on me — and strutted out of that freezer like the best of them.

My first trip out to the floor left me staring arounddoe-eyed. Then I realized I still had my shirt on. Going back behindthe bar, no shots sold, I tore my white dress shirt off and left mychest bare of everything except my black satin tie (the hair havingbeen painstakingly removed earlier in the day).

Strutting with a new glamour ,I turned the corner and —what do you know? Customers! Girls and guys. Spiral just filled up withbeautiful people: Thus is the effect of carrying a tray of alcoholwhile displaying a well-toned body.

Money starts flowing and my heart starts racing.

Spiral has a fireplace patio, and I’m outside in the night air, hooking up three girls with three shots.

What's in them? "Pixie dust! ... I don't know — they're frickin’ shots!"

As the trays escalated in frequency, the pile of cashsticking out of my pants started growing. I asked my manager, Liz, whatto do with all this money, and she says, “Come here.” Throws a manilaenvelope in my hand and shows me a secret hiding place.

Around 1 a.m. I knew it was time to raise the bar, and Ihad quite the surprise in store for the beautiful Spiralites inattendance. In that cold alcohol freezer I stripped down to myunderwear. I had spent the morning gluing little sequence stars on it,and the real magic was the battery-operated Christmas tree lightswrapped around my waist, something I later would tell people “fell fromthe moon.”

I was Geoph, and I was in my element.

The night began to wind down and the true personalitiesof my friends emerged. Yes, a wonderfully gay man put his hands down myunderwear, but he was having the time of his life, offering me a lot oftips, and buying shots for everyone.

I danced away with the most modelesque, gorgeous Europeangirl, her accent made thicker by her drunkenness, and it was sexy. Iget tingles writing about it. It was her birthday and she was smashed.She wanted to buy shots with kisses. There were those who called meover: “Hey, shot boy!” They didn’t buy any shots but they bought myheart by being such fun, kindhearted people.

Before the night ended I couldn’t help exchanging somecontact info. Not all the staff felt the same about numbers. I’ddiscover this while overhearing the conversations of Spiral’sbartenders, a collection of gorgeous males in varying amounts ofclothing.

Time flew, and It was last call for alcohol. I wanted to give everyone at Spiral that night a giant hug.

My third order was, “Put your clothes on and situate yourmoney." I did this in a white-tiled bathroom in the back. Cash wasspilling onto the floor when I dumped out that manila envelope. Icounted denominations, quantities and amounts.

After I stashed all my money, nearly in a stupor, I wastold to “go collect all the glasses from the table, then take this ragand wipe down the counters — there’s a squirt bottle in the back.”

With the fire of cash and an amazing club experience atmy back I wiped down those tables like a madman. Making those stainlesssteel tables shine hearkened back to my days in Marine Corps boot camp.

A giant orgy of club cleaning ensued, and it’s now 4 a.m. and I’m writing.

We moved chairs, swept floors, searched parking lots forbottles, mopped and escorted lushes outside. Not ready to end theirnight, patrons partied outside the doors, cigarettes in hand and dramain tongue. I opened the doors and shouted, “You are all so beautiful!”

The refuse of Spiral’s Saturday night included everythingfrom broken glass to an abandoned sock. My pink-glittered fingertipsnever looked more glamorous than when they were gripping a broom handle.

I had an amazing night and that was so worth it. Ihavent opened the manila envelope yet. But I hope to hell I get towork a Saturday Night Shot Boy shift again.