I drop my feet off the stool I’ve propped them up on and stand to move toward my locker. Even with the changes in routines and various costumes over the years, I could get ready in my sleep. Whether it be my solo cowboy routine, the tuxedo trio I perform with Dallas and Mike, or the group closing number with trench coats and umbrellas, Rainin’ Men. It’s the signature performance that our revue is known for. Five years ago, our choreographer, Rita, introduced the element of rain on stage. She had watched Flashdance a few too many times, and wanted to emulate the infamous water bucket scene, except with rain constantly pouring down on us for nearly three minutes of the routine.

That first week we learned the routine, we had guys falling left and right. Romeo, who’s now retired, shattered his tailbone, and Dax hurt his shoulder when he wiped out on the wet floor. It was made clear that if you couldn’t dance the routine with the water safely, then this job wasn’t cut out for you. While some of the guys dance because they like the attention, most of us are on the revue because we need the money, so I quickly worked to engineer a slip proof sole that gives better traction that could fit onto our dance shoes and outfitted all the guy’s shoes with it.

“Griffin doesn’t have to primp like you clowns. He’s naturally good looking.” Mike raises his chin to give me a kissy face and a wink.

All I can do is grin and shake my head at him. “Thanks, man. I always appreciate the compliments.”

“Naturally good looking and straight, Mike.” Dallas teases.

“I don’t know.” Mike grabs his trench coat from his locker and slides his muscular arms into it. “I haven’t seen him take any girls home like the rest of you fools, so I’m still thinking there’s a chance.”

Before I can respond, Dallas stands up from the mirror. “That’s because Griffin doesn’t fuck the fan girls.”

He’s right. Aside from Mike, who is gay, but gets his fair share of hookups from men that frequent our shows, I’m the only one of our crew that hasn’t taken home a woman from a show. It’s a rule of mine. A rule I put in place when I started dancing with the Rainin’ Men male revue seven years ago. At that time, there was a girl in my life that took precedence over any biological urge I had, my sister, Sophie.

I place the envelope in my hand at the top of my locker and reach for my vest and bowtie. I pull off my t-shirt, ignore Mike’s whistle and start the act of getting dressed for the group’s opening number. Tear away pants, an easy open vest, Velcro bowtie and shirt cuffs.