THIRTY-TWO

“Here, kitty, kitty!”

A balled-up dollar bill lands next to one of my stilettos, followed by a round of hooting and hissing. I hate the way these guys act when they’re here in groups. It’s ludicrous – not one of them would bother to be so obnoxious if he was in here alone. This time, they are five young Hispanic guys, perhaps Dominican – I can’t really tell – all of them slouching too close to the stage in their wife-beaters and their baggy low-rider jeans with the boxer shorts hanging out.

“Oh, mami, mami, come bring me punani,” another one chants. I give him what I hope is a withering look, but he just chortles, sipping his O’Doul’s with gusto. I’ll bet the dumbass really thinks he’s getting drunk.

I don’t even try to move to this techno beat that Richard has on. I’m cold, pissed off, and way too sober. It’s less than halfway into the shift.

I’m strapped tonight, of course, and I somehow owe the club a fifty dollar late fee. I suspect that this fine is retaliatory on behalf of Alannah, who wasted no time telling everyone we work with that I tossed her ass out onto the street, leaving her with no place to go. How I ever managed to succumb to that bitch’s convoluted little mind games and come up empty-handed is beyond me, but that’s exactly what has happened. The dog eyes I’m getting in the dressing room from most of the girls who work here say it all.

“Shake it, meatflaps,” I hear one of the would-be O.G.’s saying behind me. I set my jaw hard. I don’t deserve this.

Ignoring the roughnecks, I climb up the pole and flip backwards, letting all the blood rush to my head until my ears start to pop. I do various pole gymnastics for a minute or two while I’m completely naked. I’m trying to kill time until this horrific set ends so that I can get offstage and suck down some vodka.

Meanwhile, the vulgar little bastards are growing more and more rowdy. The catcalls continue, and so do the insults.

“Choacha!”

“Yo, baby, come on over here and meet Oscar!”

“Show us some coochie! Gotta dolla fo’ to make you holla!”

There is more loud laughter. One charming lad stands up and claps his homeboy on the back. “Good one, B,” he says.

“No doubt, no doubt,” says his friend, who also rises and leans over the periphery of the stage. “Hey,” he addresses me.

“What?” I’m abrupt, already defensive.

“Baby, what you got to be all the way over there for? I’m sayin’ – give me and my peeps some love. We got money.”

My gaze is suspicious. “You can’t just do whatever you want to me for a damned dollar, you know,” I assert.

“How much would that be?” one wiseass pipes up, but he falls silent when B glares at him.

“Nah, girl, come on, it’s cool, we was just messin’ wit you,” says B. “We came to have a good time. Come on over here and dance for us.”

“I’ll dance for you over here,” I say.

B pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and waves it in the air.

Normally I wouldn’t fall for such a tactic. But tonight I’m flustered. There’s too much going on in my head for me to give this situation the amount of caution it deserves. I cross the stage and lean down for the hundred. “Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says B, his eyes alive with merriment. “Turn around for me.”

“No.”

“Well, where I’m supposed to put it then?”

His friends punch each other, mumbling approvingly and egging him on. I tap my garter. “You can put it here,” I announce.

“You saw this was a C-note, right, mami?”

“Yeah, and? So what?”

“So ain’t you gonna let me put a whole C-note no place better than on your leg? That ain’t special.”

I sigh. Nobody’s ever tipped me a hundred dollars onstage. It’d be nice to be able to say that someone has. Maybe it’d make the other girls respect me more.

“You can put it between my tits,” I say reluctantly.

B’s friends start to hoot again, and I’m immediately sorry for what I’ve volunteered. But it’s too late to back down. I cover my breasts with my palms, and I push them together to create cleavage.

B holds up the hundred.  I lean towards him. He puts his fist in between my hands as they lay over my chest. I try to grab the bill from him, but he won’t let it go.

“Now come on,” I tell him, my expression stern.

“Aw, honey dip, I’m just gettin’ my money’s worth,” says B. “Spread your legs, baby. Let’s see some poontang.”

“That’s not part of the bargain,” I announce indignantly, and I pull away.

I’m not fast enough. B grabs the back of my head with his other hand and starts trying to shove it down into his crotch. His buddies cheer. As my palms come off my chest to push on the stage floor for leverage, one of his friends grabs a handful of tit, while another one of them slaps my ass. They surround me like brush wolves on a kill. I don’t even try to defend myself against so many men. Instead, I scream.

“TIM! MAKE THEM QUIT TOUCHING ME OVER HERE!”

Tim looks over at the stage with little interest, and Ronnie takes his sweet time strolling up to the scene. By the time he is standing in front of us, the hooligans have had their fill.

“Fellas, no touching the girls onstage. Okay? If you do it again, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Ronnie tells them, far too mildly for my liking. He and B nod at each other in understanding, and then he starts to walk back to the bar.

By now, I’m shivering next to the pole on the opposite side of the stage, climbing back into my handkerchief of a dress, and I’m absolutely livid. Last week, someone touched Brittany while she was on stage, and she didn’t even have to raise her voice. Ronnie pulled the offender up out of his chair and had him out the door before the poor wretch was even aware that he was being moved. I’ve made these people a lot of money some nights. At the very least, I warrant the same courtesy from the club as Brittany does.

“That’s it?” I carp at Ronnie. “That’s all you’re gonna say to him?”

Ronnie shrugs from across the club. “I gave him a warning. If he does it again, he knows he has to leave.”

“That’s bullshit!” I exclaim. “You’re letting these pricks think they can get away with anything they want to in here!”

“Sweetheart, spare us the ‘woe-is-me’ act. You’re not fooling nobody,” Tim pipes up.

Richard has turned the music all the way down, and the house lights almost all the way up, making an even bigger spectacle of me than is necessary. He’s standing outside the DJ booth, beaming.

The other girls, forced to pause mid-lap-dance, shoot me hostile looks that match the ones their customers are giving me.

The homeboys that started it all are now sitting back against the mirrored wall, all holding the same identically cocky pose. Each one is slouched all the way down in his chair with his arms folded over a sweaty chest and a dirty wife-beater.

I decide to stand up for myself.

“Tim, what the hell are you talking about?”

Tim raises his glass to his lips. He’s drinking seltzer water – I think.

He takes a sip, and then replies, “So a customer touches your precious booby. Innocent little you. He does it onstage, he’s a bastid. He does it in the VIP, you make money. It’s not no big deal. And why do you have your dress on? Your set’s not over.”

“Oh, fuck yes, it is,” I tell him, and I climb over the rail and off the stage.

“What do you think you’re doing, missy? A girl has to be on that stage at all times!” Tim yawps.

“Oh, so some rules are set in stone? While the bend the other ones any way you feel like?” I fume. “I don’t fucking think so. I’m done. Get someone else down on her knees for you.”

“I am going to fine you an extra fifty dollars for every minute you are off that stage if you don’t get back up there right now!” Tim decrees. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

“That seems to be a common theme, so I guess I must,” I say.

“GET BACK UP ON STAGE OR YOU’RE FIRED!”

“How on earth do you fire someone who pays you to work?” I wonder as I head towards the dressing room. “I don’t think you can fire me. I think this is me quitting.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarissa whispers when I pass by her on the way to the basement door. “You know he’s not gonna let you come back if you leave!”

This is the first time she’s spoken to me in a couple of months. “Piss off, whore!” I tell her.

I storm downstairs, grab my bag, turn right around and head back up the stairs. I don’t even want to be in this place long enough to change out of my skimpy costume.

On the floor, the music is up once more droning some colorless techno, and Alannah has taken my place on stage.

I muscle my way past the bar, ignoring everyone. I don’t look back once. It’s not until I get out the front door that I remember my car is in the shop. I’m not holding enough cash to pay for a cab.

I open up the bag to find that my jeans and my coat are missing. Some bitch went and fucked with my things – probably Alannah or one of her friends – on this night, of all nights. Fabulous. That’s just beautiful. There’s no way I’m going back inside to further humiliate myself by asking anyone where my clothes are.

It’s nearly winter time, it’s windy and crisp out here, and now I’m going to have to take the subway home in what amounts to lingerie and stilettos. At midnight.

I try not to think about how cold I am, walking cross-town for several blocks dressed like a regular streetwalker. Shit, even those chicks wear jean jackets and legwarmers sometimes.

It’s warmer when I get down to the subway station, but not by much. If I was dressed for the weather, of course, I know damned well it would be sweltering down here. Just not tonight.

The station is deserted. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. There’s no one around to see me dressed like this, thank God. No cops – they’d probably arrest me for soliciting if they showed up right now. But I keep looking behind me anyway, paranoid that someone will materialize. Knowing that if anyone does, I’ll be alone with him and my screams as they bounce off the walls underground.

Finally, after an eternity, I see two tiny dotted headlights beginning to shine their way around the corner of the subway’s passage.

A middle-aged man, tall and robust in a suit and a trench, walks purposefully down the stairs in my direction, looking dead at me. I shrink against the bench, praying that the train moves faster. He strides closer. I can see the first car in the distance. I can’t hear it yet. He advances. I look away.

The train roars to a stop in front of us. The stranger takes off his coat, throws it across my lap, and strides through the doors as they open.

By the time I recover from the shock that I’m the recipient of this random kindness, I have to throw my body between those same doors to keep them from closing in my face. I huddle in the coat, which covers me and then some. My face is in my hands. I’m too ashamed to even look up and thank the man. When I finally work up the nerve to do it, he is already getting off at the following stop. He doesn’t turn around to look at me again.

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