Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  * * *

  Sandra says I could give private lessons. She doesn’t have a clue. Sure, maybe years ago someone with a humanities degree could offer private Latin tutoring. Latin was a difficult class and lots of students were taking it, so their parents would get them a tutor. But it’s been many, many years since then. Latin’s fully part of the past now; students haven’t even heard of it. And nobody needs a private tutor for literature lessons. Nobody. It’s something you study on your own. She proposes some other options: I could lead one of those reading groups they organize at the public libraries. She’s clearly sensed my mounting desperation and has been looking into job prospects I might aspire to. I note that they’ve also been cutting the book club budget because of the crisis. A lot of the clubs have been canceled, actually, and the ones that are left already have coordinators. She says I could form my own book club on the Internet and charge for it. I tell her that’s dumb. She gets mad. She thinks I’m rejecting all her suggestions without even considering them. And she’s right, I guess, but her suggestions are ridiculous, completely unfeasible; I wish she’d think about them for a minute before opening her mouth. I know I can be hard on her, I know she’s just trying to help, but she needs to realize that offering useless help just wears on the person you’re offering it to. She gets mad, and I get worn out. If we keep it up, we’ll be at each other’s throats by the end of the week. Are our lives so poorly stitched together that they’re going to end up bursting apart at the seams at the first serious problem? And what can I do to prevent it? Smile all the time to keep her calm? I don’t feel like smiling. I don’t feel like doing hardly anything. I’ve become totally inactive right when I have all the free time in the world. When I was teaching, I always wanted to go back home and read. Now I can’t even concentrate on what I’m reading. I’m afraid I’m the most basic kind of guy: I need work because it gives me a connection to the rest of the world. It turns out that all those clichés we’ve heard a thousand times and mocked another thousand are true. Work gives you dignity, integrates you into society, gives you a place in the world, makes you useful. I guess if I were a more intelligent man, a man who thought more deeply, with a more fully furnished soul, I wouldn’t need a job title to feel good about myself, but even the act of reading leads me, thought by thought, into the usual dead end: I’m useless to society; reading doesn’t pay dividends.

  I’ve gone out with Iván a couple more times, long enough to have a beer and talk a little. I admitted to him that I’m screwed without a job, and he went off on a fantastic rant in his coarse, roguish, hilarious language:

  “Work is just a way to get money in your pocket, man, that’s it. Where’d you get that bullshit about how it gives you dignity and makes you more of man? No way. The only thing that gives you dignity is having money in your pocket. Your problem is you’re spoiled, man, and you’re not seeing things clearly. What really sucks is having a job but not earning jack. That’ll really give you a complex about lack of dignity and all that shit! And that’s where most people are. They spend their lives in a job they don’t give a rat’s ass about, and at the end of the month they get some shitty paycheck that won’t even buy them a pair of new socks. When you don’t have any money in your pocket—that’s when you don’t have dignity, Javier. Every door is slammed in your face, and you’re a goddamn slave, a loser. You might as well be invisible. That’s a real problem, man, not dignity! So don’t give me that crap about feeling useless to society. What society, man? The one that leaves people out on the fucking streets? Come on, man, that’s bullshit! I wouldn’t even waste an hour of sleep thinking about it.”

  It was a practical, unconventional, and accurate analysis. It was also my chance to ask him what he did for work, but out of respect instilled in me by others and my fear of offending him or seeming rude, I kept quiet. It would have made sense for him to tell me of his own accord, but he kept quiet too. Maybe he was making a living with some illegal enterprise, or maybe, despite his anarchomaterialist outburst, he was only a manager at a grocery store and was embarrassed not to be living in keeping with his own impassioned theories. I don’t know. In any case, I enjoyed his company. He was so radical, and at the same time so free, that it was a pleasure listening to him talk.

  When we met up at a bar for the third time, he caught me off guard by asking for my address. I hesitated a moment, and he got offended.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  I apologized profusely, and eventually he smiled.

  “I’m going to send you a gift that’ll make you shit your pants,” he said.

  And so he did.

  * * *

  First recreational outing with Genoveva. She’s scheduled an activity I rarely find enjoyable: shopping. I generally buy my clothing at stores I’ve been going to for years. The managers and sales clerks know me; they know what I like and what looks good on me: Max Mara, Armani, Calvin Klein. I’d never choose anything by Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, or any of those other flashy, avant-garde designers. Discretion is paramount for me. Papá used to tell me, “A businessperson is like a banker or a politician: he or she always represents the company. Avoid loud colors, wear suits and blazers, and a more masculine look is always good. Above all, though, no flowery patterns or ruffles. Your mother would never have approved of them.” Papá was common sense personified. He never remarried, though any other man in his position would have. As a widower, he faced endless challenges: he had to hire nannies, worry about my education, choose a school, a university . . . every detail large and small. He was always unflinching and meticulous; few men could have done better. The main reason he didn’t remarry was that he was shattered by my mother’s death. And once he’d gotten over that trauma, I became his reason for living. Not wanting to force a fake mother on me, he elected not to have more children, not to have a companion or enjoy the comforts of love. Two things seemed to be enough for him: the company and me. I didn’t realize how much he’d sacrificed for me until I got a little older. He was an imperturbable man, but he must have occasionally longed for female companionship and the fundamental joy one derives from having a large, happy family. When I was old enough to understand, I started worrying about him, trying to make up for the deprivations I’d unwittingly imposed on him. I threw myself into the company, thinking I could show my gratitude that way. Everything was going well until this economic recession undermined what had so laboriously been built. Luckily, Papá didn’t live to see the consequences of such profound destruction. What should I do now? Keep fighting even in his absence: get the business back on its feet, diversify, try to start exporting our products . . . but I’m tired, so tired. David’s departure, the way he abandoned me, has completely discombobulated my mind. That’s the worst part: I don’t really care that he’s fallen in love with a younger woman, but having my work be disrupted has plunged me into a depression. I wasn’t counting on him to help run the company, but having him there gave me a sense of stability. Now I’m on my own. I wonder what ideas Papá would come up with to keep the firm active, but I have no answers. Fatigue hampers my thoughts.

  Genoveva wanted to surprise me. She took me to a bunch of stores that sell cheap clothing for young women: Zara, Stradivarius, Blanco. I’d never been into one of those shops, and they’re really something else: blasting music, garish décor . . . And the clothing! The clothing is awful, cheaply made, practically disposable. The sales clerks wandering around look really wild, their eyes so heavily made up they can hardly blink. The clientele isn’t any better. I couldn’t believe it: young girls dressed up in the tawdriest way, with skintight jeans and high heels, their hair dyed all sorts of colors. And it’s pure chaos: everybody paws everything, moves it around, takes it off the hangers and leaves it tossed in a corner. There are no doors in the dressing rooms, just a curtain that anybody could pull aside, exposing half-naked you. Genoveva was being really funny. She was clowning around, imitating the sales staff, giving uninhibited lit
tle shrieks. Most amazingly of all, though, we bought a ton of stuff. Geno was in her element—she says she goes to those places sometimes. Most of the clothing she buys she passes on to her assistant to give to her daughter, but she says sometimes one of those cheap garments looks great combined with a designer piece. For example, she chose this military-style jacket with gold buttons that made her look like a Hussar. I was dying with laughter when she tried it on, but then it turned out that in combination with the black skirt she was wearing, it actually looked really nice. I bought a few pairs of skintight pants. Absurd. We ended up walking out with two massive bags full of clothing we’d never be able to wear—but the important thing is it had been ages since I’d had so much fun. Then Genoveva suggested we go get some gin and tonics.

  “A gin and tonic in the middle of the afternoon? That will definitely give me a headache.”

  “Nonsense, woman, don’t be silly. It’ll do you wonders.”

  Headache? Please! Irene doesn’t have a clue. She’s always seemed a bit prudish, but she’s worse than I thought. Had she really never been to a fast fashion store, not even for fun? Does she really spend her whole life at the factory, endlessly working like she’s being punished for something? Sure seems like it. It’s obvious her father took advantage of her. The company was sacred! And Mr. Sancho was always high-and-mighty. I used to see him at the club some Saturdays when he came in with his daughter and son-in-law. That son-in-law! He must have really had it up to here with the old man. I’m sure he celebrated when his father-in-law died. He did well for himself to marry an heiress, but I don’t know how aware he was that marrying Irene meant marrying the company, the last name, the father, the whole shebang. Now that I think about it, it took him a long time to dump her. He must have been making sure he had all his financial ducks in a row. And now he’s flown the coop. I’d like to see the girl he ran off with, but I doubt he’ll bring her anywhere he might run into our friends. The girl is probably dead broke and totally smitten with him. I’ll bet you anything David sold the motorcycle he rode away from his wife on so he could live out his undying love with her. After all, that marriage had been dead for ages! But Irene’s held her head up and kept going. She’s doubled over with laughter right now at our having bought such gaudy clothing. I don’t get what she finds so amusing. Has she not noticed the way girls dress these days? But fine, I don’t mind taking her with me to a few places—it’s not like any of my other friends have the kind of free time that I do.

  “When are you going to wear those striped pants you bought? They’re perfect!”

  “You’re nuts! I’ll just wear them around the house. Where am I supposed to go wearing something like that? Seriously, where?”

  * * *

  It was Sandra who gave me the letter. She’d pulled it out of the mailbox when she came home from work. I hadn’t retrieved it because I haven’t left the apartment for a week. I don’t feel like it—I know what I’m going to find, and nothing’s going to make me feel any better. Sandra’s getting worried; my staying home seems to her like the beginning of the end. To placate her, I tell her it’s nothing permanent, just temporary laziness. But my explanations don’t assuage her concerns. Her anxiety has led to nearly as many fights as my own mental state.

  She was struck by the handwriting on the envelope, rough and hesitant, almost as much as she was by the fact that I’d received a letter. So she gave it to me as soon as she arrived. It was from Iván, and it contained a short note: “Here’s that gift. I’ll be expecting you and your girlfriend.” Along with the note were two tickets for a show: “Diamond Room. Saturday the 12th at 10 P.M. Unaccompanied men will not be admitted.” Sandra says the place rings a bell, but she can’t place it. We look it up on Google, and what we find makes me howl with laughter. The Diamond Room is a club on the outskirts of the city that specializes in male striptease. “Guaranteed entertainment. Handsome, hot-blooded men. Special discounts for groups of ten or more.” Sandra finally remembers, and she laughs too.

  “Yes, it’s a strip club for women. They almost always go in big groups. One of my coworkers told me you can’t take it all that seriously. Women go there for bachelorette parties, birthday parties, to celebrate a divorce . . . I thought it was a just a fad—I’m surprised the place is still open. By the way, who’s Iván?”

  I remind her who Iván is and tell her he’s called a few times to invite me out for a beer.

  “Why does he call you?”

  “I guess he’s grateful because I went to his grandmother’s funeral. He’s an odd guy. I have no idea why he sent these tickets. Maybe he works as a server there.”

  “Or maybe he’s a dancer,” Sandra laughs.

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but it doesn’t seem likely. Being part of that kind of show requires certain qualities—the ability to move to the beat of the music, a degree of sophistication, good looks—and this guy strikes me as boorish, quite incapable of being provocative or attractive. In any case, my suspicions have been confirmed: Iván doesn’t work somewhere conventional. Not a body shop or a grocery store—a strip club. Hot-blooded men. I guess his grandmother never found out about it. The world’s a big place, and it’s got all sorts. It’s just that we don’t see it: we move among the members of our own tribe, our particular social sphere.

  “So are we going to go?”

  I’m caught off guard by her logical question. I hadn’t even considered it. A striptease at the Diamond Room? I look at Sandra with a measured expression on my face.

  “You think we should? Does that seem like our kind of joint? You said it’s all groups of women looking for a night out. Seems like a couple would be out of place—it’d be awkward.”

  “We can go as observers. It’ll be like a sociological experiment.”

  We’ll finally get him out of the house for a bit. He’s been refusing for days. When he opened the letter, I saw his eyes light up and heard his laugh. That beautiful laugh I’d almost forgotten. My friend María’s brother is a psychologist. I’m sure he’s depressed, even though he refuses to admit it. Other people who get laid off don’t take it so hard, but he’s really sensitive: his parents’ death when he was young, his love of being alone . . . If only I could help him! But I can’t figure out how. So let’s go, let’s go to that strip club and have a good laugh. I need it too—it’s eating me up seeing him like this.

  “I didn’t realize you were interested in sociology.”

  “Maybe what I’m interested in is seeing a bunch of naked men with perfect muscles and flat abs prancing around. I think the real issue here is you’re jealous—but we should go, or your friend might worry you look down on him for working there.”

  I didn’t put up much resistance. After all, I was curious.

  Just as Sandra had said, the place is full of groups of women, which occasionally include a man or two. Very few couples like us. There’s a small stage with a long catwalk extending out among the tables. Dim lighting. All a little shabby, ugly, grungy. A large, gleaming disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Maybe it’s an old sixties-era cabaret that’s been repurposed. The range of ages among the audience members is actually quite remarkable: teenagers, older women, thirty-somethings. It’s noisy. Nobody’s talking in hushed tones while they wait for the show to begin. It feels rowdier, more like a beachside bar or Oktoberfest: bursts of laughter, coarse shouts. The waiters bustle around, distributing the complimentary drinks included with the tickets. Anything after that, we’ll have to pay for. I scrutinize the waiters, looking for Iván, but he’s not passing out drinks. And he’s not tearing tickets at the entrance or serving customers at the bar either.

  Sandra is distracted, scanning the room. She must have begun her sociological observation. She looks beautiful tonight, in a blue dress I haven’t seen before and with her eyes carefully made up. A voice comes over the loudspeaker and announces that the show’s starting. The house lights go do
wn, and intense spots illuminate the stage. A master of ceremonies appears, dressed like the ringleader of a circus: a fuchsia sequined jacket and shiny black satin pants. He’s an older man with a raspy smoker’s voice.

  “Ladies—and gentlemen too, but especially ladies—welcome to the land of happiness and freedom. What you’re going to see here tonight is not just any show, it’s the best show of its kind in all of Europe. Having been chosen through a careful selection process, some of the best-looking men in the city will be appearing on this stage. Enjoy.”

  Given the dry, formal introduction, the attendees’ response is pretty unusual: they scream, howl, roar. They clearly aren’t taking the MC seriously. They order him off the stage, bellowing at him, “Let’s see it! Get out of here! You’re wearing too much clothing! We want meat!” The room is in an uproar, a pandemonium of laughter. Sandra looks at me in disbelief and starts cracking up. I’m so startled, I’m not sure how to react. It’s not like I’ve been to a lot of stripteases, either male or female, but this intro seems less like a performance and more like an audience-led riot. The MC’s still talking; he tells us the title of the first act. It sounded like he said “At School,” but there’s such a thunderous din that he really could have said anything.

  Next the room plunges into total darkness and the shouts die out. The lights go up on stage, where, as if by magic, someone has set up a classroom with a chalkboard and six red student desks. A young man is seated at each one. All of them are wearing ridiculous school smocks and large silk bows tied around their necks. Their shorts leave their bare legs exposed. A teacher, less youthful-looking than the students, appears on the stage. He’s tall, shapely, muscular, and dressed in black. The music pounds through the speakers, rhythmic, steady, sexy. The teacher starts dancing to the beat. His sinuous movement starts with his head and gradually spreads down through his torso, arms, hips, thighs, feet. He looks like an inchworm moving across the floor, pulling back, stretching forward. All of a sudden he stops short, goes toward the seated students, and pulls one to his feet, grasping his hand. He leads him to the center of the empty space and gestures for him to mimic his dancing. The student makes a clumsy attempt. The teacher corrects him but then, having grown impatient, sends him back to his place and tries with another student, who isn’t a good dancer either. This is repeated three times, and each time the audience cracks up at the young men’s bumbling imitations of erotic dance. When the fourth student fails too, the teacher grows desperate. The music gets louder, the classroom lights dim, and a spotlight lands on him. His dancing becomes frenzied, unhinged, lewd. He moves as if in the grip of a sexual fever, like a male animal getting ready to mate. He removes his clothing piece by piece and throws it furiously to the floor. By the end, only a pair of skimpy briefs covers his member. He turns his back to the room and shows off a small, dark butt, each muscle tightly sculpted. The audience explodes. Then, as if they were on springs, the six students leap up from their desks and imitate the teacher’s movements, this time flawlessly. They dance in unison, connected to the rhythm, perfect. They pull off their shorts, which fly through the air. A little while later the school smocks are ripped off with a single yank, and the six young men are left standing there in briefs just like their teacher’s. Their bodies are slimmer than his, less defined by age. They are of similar build, similar height. Applause thunders through the club, but the men don’t bow or wave to the audience; instead, they race offstage. The house lights come up, dazzling after the semidarkness. There’s a flurry of waiters, drink orders; a few spectators get up and visit other tables. Sandra stares at me open-mouthed, stupefied but smiling.