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Become a Tendency patron today! Eight months after my boyfriend of three years dumped me for no longer being twenty-two, I shaved off all my hair, became a vegetarian, and took the advice of the guys in my dressing when they said the only way to win that boyfriend back was to get myself ready. By readythey meant I should be Boys bare on bed to sleep with anyone in possession of a gym membership.

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They meant I should be willing to sacrifice a meal so that if my clothes came off at two a. They meant that I should give up all other ambitions—like preparing for auditions or maintaining friendships—in order to get serious about becoming snatched. So I started going to the gym seven days a week, eating nothing but bananas and raw almonds, and taking blood-red Hydroxycut diet pills three times a day.

I had been looking at pictures and videos of almost-naked dancers participating in Bares since my days as a freshman Musical Theater major in football-and-frat-centric Ann Arbor. But when I moved to Boys bare on bed York, I could never quite bring myself to sign up for the fundraiser.

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I had even avoided going to see the show year after year, feeling sure that my childhood rabbi would be standing at the theater entrance, shaking his head and muttering, get back to eating your kugel, boychik as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pounding his chest and rolling his eyes toward God.

But that summer, my fifth in New York, I decided there was no better way to incite a furious jealousy, and subsequent longing, Boys bare on bed my ex than by stripping for thousands of people in the very show that he and I had always classified as just so not us.

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So I signed up. It was for a good cause, after all.

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As my friends performing with me in the fundraiser began actually raising funds, I contributed to Boys bare on bed effort by upping my dosage of Hydroxycut from nine to twelve pills a day. May turned to June, my muscles weakened, I could Boys bare on bed longer lift the women I was contracted to lift in Chicagoand the manufacturers of Hydroxycut pulled their pills from the market because about half a dozen people had died from its side effects.

But, still in possession of a two month supply myself, I soldiered on in the name of charity and of winning back a man who I was sure would see the error of his ways once my body fat count had dropped below two-percent. The day of the Bares performances, I leapt out of bed at the sound of my 7 a.

I sat on the floor for twenty minutes, chanting the mantra my meditation teacher had given me, then popped four Hydroxycut pills into my mouth.

I got in the shower and, without turning on the water, shaved all my body hair off using an electric clipper whose metal razor got so hot I scarred a patch of skin on my right forearm. I dressed and sat down for a breakfast of one banana and five almonds.

I stuffed sweatpants, jazz shoes, and a dance belt into my backpack, my fingers visibly shaking from the Hydroxycut-enhanced adrenaline rush.

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Before heading out the door, I lifted my T-shirt to assess the reflection of my torso in the bathroom mirror. Tears burned my eyes: I arrived at Roseland Ballroom at nine, ready for the tech rehearsal and looking like a hairless, malnourished Pekingese puppy.

I was performing in the finale of the show, so while I waited for my turn to rehearse, I got to sit and watch the other performers.

But instead of watching the rehearsal and enjoying the fact that I was in Boys bare on bed company of performers my husky ten-year-old self would have given his entire Jem and the Holograms doll collection to be near, I was busy watching the performers who were not on stage.

Congregated in clumps around the seat-less, concrete-floored venue, dancers were laughing and chatting, their fingers suspiciously un-shaky as they bit into egg sandwiches and the cream cheese-slathered bagels provided by the Bares producers.

The focus of the number was not the choreography, anyway. It was all about the costumes, which made the eight dancers—four boys, four girls—into crossbreeds of various types of flora, fauna, and disco balls. We were instructed to parade around the stage, moving our limbs however our given characters might organically express themselves. My character was moss. I did my best to look fuzzy and slow moving. Chicago was scheduled to perform two shows that Sunday, so after going through the light cues for the Bares finale, I arrived at the Ambassador Theater on 49th Street at one-thirty p.

The first Bares performance was to begin at 9: I could hear from the monitors piping music throughout the backstage area that the show had already begun. I peeked my head into the makeup room and a group of five people dressed all in black stepped toward me, each holding a tub in one hand and a large paintbrush in the other.

I threw my T-shirt, shorts, and boxer briefs into a corner and cupped my hands over my Boys bare on bed shorn nether region. As the five makeup artists began slathering green paint onto every area of me, my mind groped for justifications.


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