Nudity For Fun and Profit Chapter Seventeen: Mr. Antisocial & Mr. Revolting

Although I’ve finally liberated myself from working in an office, at least for the time being, one thing remains constant. I still dread going to work on a Monday.

I’ve gotten lucky a few times, but as a general rule, Monday nights are the slowest nights of the week. A few girls have regular customers who will visit them on Mondays. The rest of us try not to watch the clock.

I’m standing next to the bar and sneaking a peek out the window to see if there are any guys strolling down the road. Richard, the DJ, comes out of the booth and yawns. “Nadia, I’m gonna put you onstage after Daisy,” he says to me.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I say. “Hey, listen – is it just my imagination or are our sets lasting longer tonight?”

“We’re on five song sets,” Richard confirms. “I’m sorry about that, hon. I don’t have a lot of girls on the schedule. I’m doing what I can.”

Nancy, the punk rock girl, is slouched over a drink on the barstool next to me. She glances over and gives Richard a dirty look.

“Nancy, you’re up after Nadia,” Richard tells her.

“Of course I am,” she mutters. Then she says something else under her breath that sounds a lot like “asshole.” Richard shrugs.

“Richard, last Monday my feet hurt so much when I got home that I had to soak them,” I confide. “What do I have to do to skip one or two sets?”

“Tip him extra,” Nancy blurts out. “He likes bribes. The bigger, the better.” She gets up and walks away.

“I can switch you with Nancy,” Richard grins.

I don’t have any problems with Nancy, though I have noticed that she rubs a lot of people the wrong way. She always looks pissed off, like she thinks the whole world is out to get her. Personally, I feel kind of sorry for the girl. Although you do have to wonder a little bit about the emotional stability of anyone who would name herself after Nancy Spungeon.

“That’s okay,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll go up next. I’m just curious to know if there’s a way to keep from doing fifteen sets tonight. It does seem like some girls get onstage a lot more than others do.”

Richard yawns again. “Stay busy and I can take you out of rotation. If a girl’s with a customer, she’s making money for the club and I have to skip her. Try to get into the VIP room,” he suggests. He leans against the bar. “Katie, could you give me some grape juice?”

“Purple Passion,” she corrects him. “Coming right up.”

“You know, I’ve never understood the point of pretending we serve alcohol,” I comment to no one in particular. “The customers know the beer’s fake. I doubt they come in here for the beer anyway. Why can’t we just say ‘grape juice’ when we’re ordering?”

“Ruins the mystique,” Katie says cheerfully. “They don’t want to hear that they’re paying twenty bucks to buy you a cup of grape juice.”

“A totally dry bar,” I say.

“Not totally,” Katie whispers, leaning in my direction. “I’ve got vodka back here.”

“Really? Can I have some?”

“You have to ask Tim for permission.” She pauses, thinking. “Or get a customer into the champagne room,” she adds. “When you’re in there, Tina will bring you enough vodka to drown in if you want.”

“Next song we’ll be welcoming naughty Nadia to the stage,” Richard’s voice booms from the speakers. “That’ll be Nadia, next song. So be generous when you give Nadia your tips, gentlemen, ‘cause she’s gonna get naked for you!”

I brush back my hair and take Daisy’s hand as I climb onstage, sneaking a glance at her garter to see how much money she’s made. It’s empty.

From up here, Angels looks like a ghost town. All of the chairs that surround the stage are still pushed in neatly.

There’s only one customer in the room, if he can even be called a customer. A husky guy in a bomber jacket is sitting in the corner, hunched over his fake beer and studiously ignoring me while I dance. His jeans are old and worn. His bangs are falling into his eyes. He could use a haircut. I watch as Daisy approaches him. The guy starts shaking his head emphatically before she even gets near him, and Daisy does an about-face, looking disgusted.

At least I’m not the only one. It doesn’t look like Mr. Antisocial is spending money on anyone else, either.

I practice some new moves, mainly to stay warm in the empty club. When the beat of the music changes, Tim sits up on his barstool and scowls at me over his clipboard.

“Your dress needs to go bye-bye now, Nadia,” he calls. “Everything off by song number two. You know the rules.”

I look around. Normally when the club’s dead, he doesn’t make a fuss about this. “How come?” I ask.

Tim points to the corner where Mr. Antisocial is examining his fingernails.

“Tim, that guy’s not spending any money. He’s been ignoring everyone since he got here.”

Tim arches his bushy, white eyebrows. “He’s definitely not gonna spend nothing if you don’t show him your hoo-ha. So let’s go, sweetheart. Drop them drawers.”

Reluctantly, I step out of my costume and peel off my g-string. Mr. Antisocial doesn’t even look up.

It’s freezing in here without the usual crush of sweaty bodies gathered around the stage. I’ve got goose pimples all over my arms.

As I flip over backwards, I hear somebody laughing next to me. It isn’t kind laughter, and something about it makes me feel very exposed. Hurriedly I come back upright.

There’s a middle aged man in a suit sitting at the stage now, directly in front of the pole. His top button is undone, and his necktie is askew. The hairs on his chest peek out from under his shirt. He’s quite drunk, it’s obvious – his nose is red and he also reeks. I can smell the alcohol from here.

Mr. Revolting leans toward me. I move back automatically. He looks between my legs and gasps. “That’s so nice, honey. The girl at the last place wouldn’t show me her snatch, can you believe that?” He clucks his tongue. “You gonna let me look at that pretty little pussy of yours?”

“That depends,” I answer sharply. “Are you going to tip me?”

He howls that nasty laugh again. “Baby, I’ll give you a tip, all right. Spread ‘em wide for me an’ I’ll show you how to find your g-spot.”

“I don’t have to let you see anything if you don’t tip,” I say. “Maybe you should go home, sir.” I walk to the other end of the stage so that I can get as far away from him as possible, scanning the room for allies.

Tim is no longer sitting at the bar, though I don’t recall seeing him get up. And where are all the bouncers?

A chair scrapes along the floor, so loudly that I can hear it over the music. Mr. Revolting lumbers over to my side of the stage.

“Come on, doll face,” he wheedles. “I paid my fifteen bucks at the door. Now let’s see your yeast mill.”

He pitches forward and grabs my legs with both hands. I scream and try to shake him off, but he’s surprisingly strong.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME, ASSHOLE! JOSE, WHERE THE HELL IS RONNIE?” I yell.

Suddenly, Mr. Revolting’s hands slacken and he’s lifted backwards. Mr. Antisocial has got him in a chokehold. I break away and run to the side of the stage, where I climb back into my clothes, shuddering.

The front door opens. Ronnie runs into the room with Tim and Jose hot on his heels. He grabs Mr. Antisocial by the shoulders. Mr. Revolting staggers free.

“NO!” I bellow. “NOT HIM! THE OTHER ONE!”

“It was the other one,” Jose confirms.

Ronnie takes his hands off Mr. Antisocial and quickly throws his arm around Mr. Revolting. “This way, buddy,” he says, leading an impressively subdued Mr. Revolting towards the door.

Tim is apologizing profusely to Mr. Antisocial. “You done a good thing, there,” he says. “What’s your name, sir?”

“William,” says Mr. Antisocial, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He and Tim shake hands.

“Well, William, you come back here any time. You want a drink? On the house. Katie!” he shouts. “Get this man a drink. Give him anything he wants.” He slaps William on the back and waddles back over to the bar.

“Thank you,” I mouth at William, who approaches the stage.

“Look at that, I get a free drink,” he says, smiling. “’Cause Lord knows I come here for the O’Doul’s.” He digs in his pants pocket and hands me a fifty dollar bill. “I think you’ve earned it.”

I watch, dumbfounded, as he walks down the aisle and out of the club.

“Wait, sir! Your O’Doul’s!” Katie calls after him.

The door slams.

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