SIXTEEN

Sherry the costume lady sits on a chair in the dressing room, her girth spreading over the seat on both sides. The floor is littered with plastic bags filled with dresses, bikinis and accessories.

“It’s busy at The Catwalk,” she confides to anyone who may be paying attention to her, flashing a huge smile. “The girls over there are buying from me like it’s nothing. Some of them are buying two or three outfits a night.”

Sherry is a very large blonde woman with too much makeup and an air of self-importance. “I’m a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild,” she likes to remind us, as if we care. The general consensus among the girls is that she’s a big phony, her dresses wear out too fast, and her stuff is too expensive. Whether you like her or not, though, she’s the only game in town. The other costume vendors won’t touch this club for some reason. Maybe Sherry has scared them away.

My other option for costumes is to go to the fetish boutiques down in the West Village on a day off. That’s what I do if I need stilettos or anything leather, but those stores sell dresses that are even flimsier than Sherry’s, and more expensive, too. I’d rather buy costumes during a shift. I don’t want to have to think about anything that happens in the club on my day off, and that includes what costumes I might wear.

The high-rolling girls like Sloane and Brittany buy something from Sherry nearly every time she shows up. They do it to show the rest of us that they’re making money. It’s easy to believe that your costume would make a difference when you hit a losing streak, but I also know girls who strip out of one dress, all the time, on every shift. And they make bank.

My work wardrobe could use a boost. I’ve lost more weight, and I’m not filling any of my dresses out properly. I contemplate Sherry’s selection. Unless I make something soon, it’s not worth trying the dresses on. I can’t decide.

“Hold this for me for an hour?” I ask Sherry, picking up one of the bags.

“If I’m still here, it’s yours,” Sherry grins like the Cheshire cat.

Stupid fat bitch. I hesitate.

“You could put down a deposit,” she suggests. I don’t like her sugary tone of voice.

“Ain’t got it,” I mutter.

“That’s too bad. I saw Kaia looking at it earlier,” she goads.

I pause, and then look her dead in the eye. “Yeah? Well, maybe it was meant to be hers,” I answer, and turn away. I feel rather than see her shrug behind me.

I climb the stairs determined to make some money. Sherry’s attitude must have lit a fire under my ass. Three hours later, I’ve pulled off seven lap dances and two “bottles.”

I’ve worked here for months, and I still don’t know why we call the VIP dances “bottles.” Everybody knows that they’re not getting champagne in there. I think we should call them “mugs,” instead… a little double-entendre for the poor sap that feels cheated after the hour is up.

I’m feeling unusually good for a Saturday night. I had drinks in the champagne room, and now I’m tipsy. Blue is in the DJ booth tonight, playing all the upbeat rock numbers that I love to dance to.

The club is full of young guys in packs, which would normally get on my nerves. Our Saturdays usually cater to this crowd, and young guys are cheap. Every dollar counts for them. Tonight I’ve already made more than I expected to make, so I’m not concerned. None of the customers have been mean tonight, which also helps.

I’ve been rejected a few times, of course. But for once, I’m not thinking about the rejections, or taking them personally, or even noticing them much.

When I’m called to the stage I give it my all, bending, ducking, and spinning around the pole in time with the music. Tonight, to my amazement, our whole charade actually resembles a real show instead of a watered-down commercial for the VIP room. Some of the guys holler and whistle. Everyone in the room is tipping. It’s as if the whole club is up on this cloud with me. I see rosy cheeks and lots of laughter. I see girls getting dances in clusters. My energy is boundless.

Then I notice the one guy in the room who isn’t smiling.

He’s sitting against the mirror with a cynical, deadpan expression that doesn’t waver. He looks like he’s about my age.

I zero in on him. Although he’s passably attractive, with sandy hair and wan Irish skin, he’s not the kind of guy you’d notice for his looks. He’s neither dressed up, nor dressed down. The understated, slightly crumpled white-button down shirt and generic khakis he’s chosen leave the impression that he has very little interest in what he wears.

His pale, yellow eyes contain intelligence. I’m riveted. I’ll bet he’s looking at each of us, thinking, “You don’t really expect anyone to fall for it, do you?”

I decide that I need to speak to him. I’m dying to know what he’s about. But first, I’m going to show him that he isn’t the only body in this shit hole that’s got a brain.

From atop the stage, I make my way over until I’m standing directly in front of his chair. I meet his gaze. I widen my eyes and puff out my lips. I set my expression to convey a helpless, dewy lust. Like the girls on the covers of Harlequin Romance novels. I spin around the pole. When I land, my head is thrown back, my chest heaves, and my legs are slightly parted. I touch my crotch and tap my garter.

Then I roll my eyes at him and shrug.

He can’t help it – his lips are twitching. I can tell he wants to smile, but he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction. He pulls a dollar bill from his pocket.

I lean in, and motion him closer. I put one hand on the outside of each of my breasts. He hesitates. I raise my eyebrows.

He reaches towards me with the dollar. I squeeze my breasts together around his hand and his money, keeping his fist captive in my bosom until I’m ready to release it. I continue to hold his gaze. He holds mine with the same defiance.

“I like your nose ring,” I tell him. My tone is sardonic.

“I like yours, too,” he returns in the same tone of voice.

I have just challenged him, and he has accepted.

I shuffle around the stage, hitting up each guy several times. I pretend to have forgotten all about the yellow-eyed boy until the last song of my set, when it’s time for me to remove my g-string.

I return to where he’s sitting, and I grab the pole. I do an elaborate set of moves, breathing lustily, making eye contact, and never dropping the rhythm.

I peel off my panties, one centimeter at a time. I stroke my small, trimmed tuft of pubic hair, flash him my crotch, and fashion my mouth into a pout.

Then for his eyes only, I make a hideous face, grimacing and showing my tongue. It lasts about half a second – if he blinked, he missed it. I pull my features back into a poker face that rivals his. Then I motion for him to put more money in my garter.

He’s smiling despite himself. He complies. I like his smile. It feels like we’re co-conspirators.

I finish my set, pull my dress over my head and immediately make a beeline for him. I plunk down into his lap as if falling into an easy chair with a good book.

“I hate my father,” he says, in greeting.

“That’s okay. I hate mine, too,” I reply.

For some reason the conversation doesn’t strike me as odd. If this was a movie, everyone except us would be blurry and muted. I feel, inexplicably, like I have known this guy forever.

“I don’t have any money at all,” he tosses out, matter-of-factly. “Just so you know. If that’s what you’re here for, you’re better off somewhere else.”

“I don’t care. That’s not why I came over here.” I can’t tell whether he believes me or not.

“This place is ridiculous,” he says, in a way that suggests that he really doesn’t mind.

“Glad you noticed. Have you got a name?”

“I’m Sean.”

I lean in to whisper my real name, rather than my stage name, into his ear. “They don’t know it, so please don’t tell anyone.”

“What do they call you?”

I tell him my stage name, almost apologetically.

“I never would have believed that,” he laughs.

“You aren’t supposed to.”

A new waitress whose name I’ve never learned comes over and asks him if he wants to buy me a drink. I wish they’d all just leave us alone. This guy’s not a mark. I’m embarrassed for him to think that I’m hustling him.

“Twenty bucks for a drink? What’s in it?”

“You don’t wanna know,” I grin. I turn to the waitress. “Give me thirty seconds, okay?”

She slinks over into the corner with her tray and watches us.

“Listen,” I whisper into his ear. “You don’t have to buy me anything. I’ve made my money tonight, and I’d stay here with you if it was up to me. The club has this stupid rule. I can’t talk to you unless you buy a drink or a lap dance. So… just don’t take it personally when I have to get up, okay?”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” he says.

“Oh. Okay.” I motion the waitress back over, but I feel weird about doing it. I don’t want Sean to have to spend money to talk to me. I feel ridiculous. And yet, here we are. Either he spends money, or I don’t get a chance to talk to him. Why couldn’t I have met him somewhere else?

“Cranberry cocktail,” I announce.

“Do they at least give you guys alcohol?” he wants to know.

“Of course not,” I roll my eyes.

My drink arrives, he pays for it, and I can’t shoo the waitress away fast enough. Poor dear, from the look she just gave me, she’s probably holding out for a real commission. Fat chance.

I position myself carefully on one of his legs so that I can face him while we talk.

“Do all of these guys seriously think that these girls are into them?” he wonders.

“That’s not really the point,” I explain.

“Spend a bunch of money to look at girls who wouldn’t give you the time of day…”

“How do you know?” I ask, boldly.

He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he swivels his head around to look at the back of the house.

“What goes on in there?”

“Ugly people pay lots of money to have bad sex,” is my succinct reply.

He nods. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Everybody’s got to be somewhere.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t make that one up. I’m not gonna pretend that I thought of it to try to impress you,” Sean assures me.

“Why would that impress me?”

“It’s the best joke I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re totally full of shit, you know,” I tell him matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

“Oh, you know, do you? Well, that’s as good a start as any, I guess. If you know it, you can change it.”

“I don’t want to change it. Why would I want to change it?” He sounds proud of himself.

The backbeat of this entire conversation is a wry amusement, and a mutual respect for one another. We both feel comfortable. I shift around and lean against him, enjoying the warmth of his body while we talk.

Sean tells me that the guy sitting next to him is his friend who’s visiting from Ireland. “He wanted to do American stuff. He was big on that. So I took him to the Garth Brooks show in Central Park, fed him beer, and then we went to the strip club. I figure if you’re going for the American experience, that about covers it.”

I laugh. “Where’d you grow up? Texas? Kentucky?”

“The Bronx. You?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“What do you really do?” he asks suddenly, catching me off guard.

I hesitate. “You’re looking at it,” I say.

“I don’t believe you. Do you go to school?”

I can’t believe I’m considering telling him anything about my personal life, but it spills out of me before I can stop it. “Not yet. I’m saving for music school,” I blurt.

Sean cocks his head. “Who do you like to listen to?”

“Oh, man, don’t get me started. I like a lot of blues. A lot of old stuff.”

“You look like a punk rocker. Or maybe a goth chick.”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to typecast people?”

“Ah, come on. Most people are begging for it,” he says.

I’m so caught up in the conversation that I’m surprised when I look over at the wall and see Tina standing there wearing a stern expression, tapping her watch. I shake my head at her slightly and shrug, so that she at least thinks I tried to work Sean over. Fortunately, he doesn’t notice.

“I have to go,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” I start to get up.

“Hey, I play bass,” he says. “We should jam some time.”

“I would love that,” I exclaim.

“Cool, let me give you my number then,” he offers, digging in his pocket.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” I hiss in his ear. “I’ll get fired if they see me write down your number.”

“Right,” he says, and I hear the sarcasm creeping back into his voice. My stomach sinks. He thinks I’m hustling him after all.

I can see Tina glaring at me out of the corner of my eye. Oh, relax, bitch. Sloane will make sure that you get to fix several times over tonight. Leave me the fuck alone.

I look at him again, apologetically. “Can you come back?” I whisper. “Just to give me your number?”

His expression is inscrutable once more, and I have to walk away before Tina comes over to us. I grit my teeth, angry that once again the club has managed to tear the rug out from under me, just as I was about to get something that I really wanted.

God damn this place.

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