There I was above the fold, crouched in a low squat that covered the bits you couldn’t show in a newspaper, along with an article that included a quote from an administrator who felt I should be arrested for public indecency, because my proposal included a section where I planned to penetrate myself with a vibrator, to demonstrate how my rectum is a suitable substitute for a vagina.

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The Crimson article was the start of Dancing Deviant becoming a campus sensation when it ran the last two weekends of spring semester senior year, my Harvard swan song. The Lampoon even put out a fake issue of the Crimson that featured me on the front page, which to many was an even brighter mark of fame than the real article. As a result, the underground theater at Adams, where the performance took place, nothing more than a basement room painted black that normally seated thirty people, found itself needing to accommodate more than twice that number, as I added more shows to keep up with demand.

Audiences lapped at my feet, some sitting on the floor so close to me they could reach out and touch my knees. The show was so popular that it became a badge of honor to have gone, even for people who weren’t queer, especially when rumors started floating around that the climax of the show was me doing a backflip and impaling myself onto a Barbie doll.