While I appreciate the eye candy, my affection for the ’Shoe stems largely from people’s shame-based resistance to the place: I claim it as “my bar” precisely because no one else seems willing to. As much as I can get turned on, I feel equally protective of them. One dancer took me into the bathroom to try and get it on, though I’ve never actually hooked up with any of them. Several dancers have shown me their wieners, a few have given me their phone number or hit me up later on Grindr. Rumor has it one dancer met an older gentlemen within a couple hours of his very first shift, grabbed his gear, and left with him, never to be heard from again. I’ve also learned that a dancer once punched a customer in the face and was banned for life. I found out from one dancer, for example, that the metal box perched above the top-shelf liquor in the back bar contains one of the founder’s ashes. When I do end up in a conversation with a performer, I’m always happy to give him upwards of $10 to $20 for his time-but always in singles so that I can artfully decorate every inch of his undies while we talk. What I enjoy more is getting to know the dancers and hearing their stories. I’ve been gifted with a few lap dances over the years, but I find the attention embarrassing. He’s often wearing backless briefs, and when he’s more modestly clothed my disappointment is evident. But lately I’ve turned my attention toward Tyler, a chiropractor by day who belongs to my gym and has the body of a Greek god with an ass to match. There was a time I couldn’t take my eyes off of Sebastian, a young Puerto Rican who was a backup dancer in a Jennifer Hudson video. Madonna Otter, an art student with a large gap-toothed grin, has an obsession with lace-up jockstraps, which accentuate his plump and furry tush. Frank the Tank, a Latino dancer who always wears combat boots, is in his 50s, I’m told. The ensemble members come in all shapes and sizes, ages, and ethnicities as well. At times, these boys are so captivated by their own performances they barely register when someone slips a fiver into the waistband of their jock. The gay ones tend to be transfixed by their reflection in the mirror and how perfectly their moves mimic those of their dearest diva. The hetero ones are rigid, with their shoulders slightly hunched forward-and they beam from (ahem) cheek to cheek when a blur advancing toward the stage turns out to be a woman. There are straight dancers and gay dancers, and you can decode their orientation based on their moves. The ’Shoe’s troupe is a diverse lot, certainly more so than the staff of most other Boystown bars. My ritual is always the same: scoop up an empty stool and scan the room to figure out which comely lad in a jockstrap shall be the recipient of the wad of singles the bartender has handed me. Known to regulars as “the ’Shoe,” the Boystown joint at the corner of Halsted and Belmont is the city’s only bar featuring a daily lineup of male dancers. When it comes to gay nightlife in Chicago, the Lucky Horseshoe occupies a category all its own.
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