No Touching

by Ketty Rouf

  Poppy hands me a pretty black G-string with rhinestones. It’s miniscule. It freaks me out. How much of a woman’s crotch can it possibly hide? My eyes dart around the room. Underneath the transparent clothes are nothing but strings and microscopic triangles of fabric that suggest hair-free pussies, ready to be shown off.

  “You’re not required to show your vag or your ass on stage. Just your tits. Let me see. Are they real ones?”

  Poppy’s like a greedy little girl. She cups my breasts with impatient hands. It’s the first time a woman has ever touched me intimately like that. She weighs them delicately in her hands, running her palms along the curves and brushing the nipples with her thumbs. It makes me laugh. I don’t know if it bothers me or if I love it. Some pleasures require indifference.

  I slip my dress on. I don’t regret buying it; Poppy seems to like it. She has me sit down in front of the mirror. I can’t stop staring at my decolletage. The pink of my nipples plays hide-and-seek with the sheer black fabric. And here I thought I was dressed. I close my eyes, and Poppy dusts my lids with black shadow, and then brown, in copious layers. She describes the colors, the makeup techniques. She doesn’t stop talking. With practiced movements, she applies eyeliner. I can feel the moist little tongue of the applicator near my bare eyelashes.

  “Look up. Don’t move!”

  Poppy isn’t done yet. I don’t ask, What are you doing? Aren’t you finished? Is this Carnival, or what? Being made up like this is the dream of the young girl I am now, here, beneath the grip of the tweezers and the eyeshadow, fascinated by the reds and browns, the ochre and orange and blue. With her painter’s palette, Poppy is drawing me a new face. I’m going to have a body to make men rock-hard, to break their hearts. That’s what being a woman is, too. Makeup and artifice.

  I stare at the unmoving face in the mirror. It’s like Rose Lee, but better. The eyes are enormous, darkened by eyeliner and mascara. The mouth is perfect. The cheekbones are high and rosy, like after a flush of emotion. Poppy rests her chin on my shoulder and contemplates her work.

  “Soon you’ll be able to do this all by yourself.”

  “You think so? It’s not something that just happens spontaneously. You’re all really beautifully made up. It’s intimidating. You’re all like . . . bombshells, ready to explode!”

  “Never say to yourself, ‘I’m not pretty.’ It’s not about being pretty. Doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with ‘pretty.’ It’s about being, like, totally desirable. You’ll learn.”

  “Is that something you can learn?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Being naked’s not enough?”

  “No, sweetie. Strip without tease is nothing but cat piss. Pointless!”

  “So how do you do it?”

  “Start by training yourself to look the customer right in the eyes. It’s not easy at first because you’re not used to it, because people don’t do that in real life. You have to really stare at him, and when you get close to him, give him a little smile, like you’re surprised, you recognize him, it’s him, you were looking for him and you found him. The love of your life is right there in front of you. Then you get shy, maybe turn away a bit, look confused—a little modesty is reassuring to them—but then you start again, with a wink, for example, and get just a couple of centimeters from his face. After that, don’t let him go! When you’re in a private room and you’re turned away from him, show him your profile, search for him with your eyes. Like that. Tilt your head slightly and look at him sideways—that’s a killer! He won’t know whether to stare at your ass or your face! Now you’ve got him! If he looks down when you stare at him, he’s a goner! You’re the woman he can’t touch. Your neck, your thigh, your arm—they’re the most beautiful things in the world. And don’t forget that little smile. That makes them think you’re getting comfortable now, and it’s thanks to them. You’re going to remind them of the main reason for their existence: getting a hard-on. That is all men live for.”

  “Men live for erections. Got it.”

  “Come on, girlie, with those big tits, you’ve got nothing to worry about! You’re going to crush it. We’d better get up there now. Leave your bag next to mine. It’ll be fine.”

  I feel vulnerable in the sheer dress and the G-string between my ass-cheeks. The heels, on the other hand, give me a little boost of confidence. I like being tall. I glance in the mirror one more time. Am I wearing just a bit too much makeup? All I can do for now is stick close to my mentor. I don’t know what to do without this girl who knows everything and is taking me in hand. We go upstairs.

  Poppy props her elbows on the bar and motions to the barmaid.

  “Watch it,” the girl says. “You start drinking too early and you’ll be licking the customer’s flies by two in the morning.”

  “Oh, fuck off! You gonna give me those two shots of vodka or not? Let me introduce the new girl, Rose Lee. She’s got stage fright. Needs a little encouragement.”

  The barmaid, Ariane, winks at me and says, “You’re in good hands,” and then serves us two shot glasses filled to the brim.

  “I’m not crazy about vodka . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter, sweetie. It’s not vodka; it’s fuel. You’re gonna have to change your habits a little.”

  I’m in good hands. I imitate everything Poppy does: clink the glass, smile, deep breath, toss it back. The liquid scorches my throat and rises up somewhere in my brain. I turn, feeling a bit braver now, to have a good look at the room, this theater of the striptease artist. Bits of light rain down on the stages like confetti from mirror balls. Blue and red beams project upward from the platforms, shining on the girls arching their backs in perfect waves.

  Poppy comes to stand beside me. “See her?” She points at a dark corner, away from the stage lights. “See that chick over there? She’s new. Look what she’s doing. She’s gonna get chewed out by the boss. Never do that! In private, okay, but not for a table dance. She’s letting herself go a little too far. I give her a month before she’s a straight-up hooker.”

  A busty girl is rubbing herself urgently against a customer. Like a cat in heat, without instinct or desire. A skank. I feel sick. I turn my head and look at the stage again. I know I’m not dreaming, but nothing seems quite real, either. It’s like the reality in here exists on top of the reality outside, making everything here into a sort of show. There are women here who can seduce a man just with the way they walk, with that tiny something extra that glints in their eyes. But some of the other dancers are clearly obsessed with their own reflection in the mirror; they’re gyrating just to please themselves, Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Yet others are absolutely demanding the men’s attention, going so far as to get down on their knees in front of them. Those are the ones crawling on their hands and knees, thrusting out their asses, offering them for a good hard spanking, arching their backs until they’re practically bent in half, like glittering earthworms, shiny and polished as a convertible leading a parade, turning onto their backs and spreading their thighs wide, giving everyone a panoramic view—no charge for that—and the possibility of getting a glimpse into their shadowy depths. The men are consumed, lost. They see everything I don’t, emanating from these bodies, to be bought with a few dozen euros.

  This waking dream of mine is starting to look like a trashy TV show. Poppy seems to read it in my eyes, to notice the dulling of their sparkle.

  “They’re not all like that. Those girls make a ton of money; that’s why they’re here.”

  “I get it. The law of supply and demand.”

  “Yeah, but we’re classy girls! There are plenty of customers for that, too! See over there? The glass of champagne?”

  Poppy jerks her head subtly at a man down at the other end of the bar, leaning his elbows on the polished surface.

  “He keeps looking over at you.”

  “Me?”

  She
motions to him. He smiles, drains his glass, heads toward us.

  “Here she is, just for you. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

  I’m here just for him. It makes me smile. He must be around forty, suit and tie, manicured hands. Probably just come from some office building in La Défense, or maybe avoiding a business dinner.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I always forget who I am, when I come here. But what’s yours?”

  “I’m Rose. Rose Lee.”

  “Are you new? I haven’t seen you before. Is that your real name?”

  I don’t answer.

  We go downstairs, to one of the private rooms. He sits down, legs wide apart. I dart a furtive glance at the clock. He’s paid for a three-minute dance. I can get through this. I slip my dress off. The rhinestone garter sparkles on my thigh, and the shadows are my makeup. He’s only going to see what should get him horny. I hesitate for an instant. Where do I start? Poppy told me to arch my back, to throw my head back so my hair would tumble down almost to my ass. “Make love with yourself,” she said. Knees slightly bent, I get my ass close to the customer. My G-string catches on his zipper. I cringe inside. I sit down quickly to hide the mistake. I lean back to rest my head on his shoulder and keep gyrating my pelvis, sliding a hand down to detach my thong. He must think I’m desperate to touch him, with my fingers fiddling at his crotch out of sight of the surveillance cameras. I stand up and face him. He’s smiling. But why? I don’t know if I’m being sensual or ridiculous, but it’s not the end of the world. Finally, I sway my hips. Just enough time left to take off the G-string. I’m totally naked in front of a stranger who doesn’t look at my waxed pussy even once.

  It’s over.

  It must have taken three minutes, the minimum for a private dance. A hundred and eighty seconds, and bam. Thank you, goodbye. I’m a professional who respects the rules down to the second. Fear, it turns out, is just as effective as ethics.

  “Get dressed and call the ticket-seller. Tell her to come down here.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? That was too short. I want more.”

  He buys half an hour. Then another half an hour. And then another whole hour.

  He doesn’t speak at all at first, his eyes straining in the dim light like a hunting dog’s. He’s very still, his arms spread out on either side of the bench seat like a torture victim. I sway closer and closer to his thighs, his crotch, his torso, his mouth. I straddle him—I saw some other girls doing it—and bring my cheek close to his; it’s all I can do not to whisper thank you in his ear. Then he starts to talk:

  “Sit down next to me. Don’t put your G-string back on. I want to close my eyes and just smell your perfume, your skin against mine. Just stay there, naked, and don’t move.”

  His hand is fiery-hot when he puts it on my knee and opens his eyes. I dance again, on his whispered order, which is more like a prayer. Me: movement, swaying, music. Time seems to telescope in on itself; we’re outside time. But I have to keep track of it, this time is money, because, right now, that’s what my body is. My hot tits are money. And his body is money, too, his body that reeks of whatever is making him unhappy, a sour smell, and the smoldering embers of his arousal. How can he be satisfied with just looking; how can he want to pay money to look? I’m offering myself up to a stranger because he’s paid for it. I’m sharing my fee-for-service secret life with him, my makeup-masked, trembling fragility. We drink champagne. He’s ordered a bottle of Ruinart. Poppy’s right; it’s fuel. We sit for a long time just holding hands, like two schoolchildren who can’t find the words. I wonder if he loves me. I think I might love him as I rest my hand greedily on the thick wad of tickets in my garter, my money. He’s just come from a poker tournament; he plays professionally. I feel like I’m on a movie set, filming a scene. Or in a dream. Either way, there’s not a shred of reality in this private room where I’m selling the spectacle of my naked body. I want to dance, to make the perfect, voluptuous gestures I learned in striptease school, so his desire will come to nest in the palms of my hands, in the softness of my open thighs.

  We go back upstairs together, still hand in hand, without speaking, each of us with our secret. He’s waiting for me to dance onstage. I don’t want to tell him it’s my first time.

  Rose Lee, stand by. Rose Lee, next! The DJ’s voice resonates through the club. From the stage, spin after spin, bursting with excitement, knees like jelly, I cling to my customer’s gaze. It’s easier to exist in his eyes. But any time I look in the mirror, there you are, body, bathed in pink and blue lights, arched and unmoving: me, enthralled, not recognizing myself. Dark, piercing eyes, rosy cheeks, breathless, breasts on display like trophies. You, in the mirror, with your dilated pupils, scare me, tell me that just now in the private room that was really me gyrating near a stranger, me who felt like I might be dying because there was no anxiety, no shame in that dance I’d never danced before, only happiness—yes, happiness. I turn back to the audience. My customer’s chair is empty. He’s not there to give me his gaze anymore. I have to keep going alone.

  The rush of adrenaline and a terrible kind of joy have kept me from sleeping all day. It’s the alcohol, too, and the unending music, and the customer’s desire, which took on the thickness of the stack of tickets, and the thought of my little bank account, suddenly flush. All of it. I just lie in bed, immobile, as if I’m paralyzed. Poppy’s voice and the customer’s interweave with my disordered thoughts, haloed by the intoxication that refuses to fade: “You lucked out, got a good one; there are a lot of assholes, too . . . cheapskates . . . phonies . . . lost souls . . . idiots . . . sometimes the best customers are the ones who’ve just been dumped by their girlfriends . . . turn around, I want to see your back . . . say sweet things to me . . . you screw whoever you want . . . but the customer has to be totally convinced that you can’t see him outside the club . . . sorry, I’m so hard . . . I can’t bring myself to leave; can we go a bit longer? . . . it’s a self-contained world . . . pay special attention to the black credit cards . . . you must be so disgusted with men; we’re all the same . . . I don’t even know your real first name . . . make them line up for you . . . I’ll tell you which ones are lowlifes, but it’s none of our business . . . I want to lick you all over . . . you have to recognize the prostitutes that come in with the customers; they’ll do what we won’t, they’re there to finish them off . . .”

  My first customer’s name is David. I’ll never see him again. He’s moving to Stockholm tomorrow, to be closer to his two-year-old daughter. I stayed naked for hours to please this stranger, and it felt perfectly normal.

  12

  There’s no racket, no yelling or shoving in the hall on the way to the classroom. That’s normal. It’s Monday; everyone’s still asleep. I have to weave my way through a chaotic mass of backpacks to reach the door. Nobody moves aside; there isn’t even the faintest instinct for ordinary politeness. Just a jumble of black and pink and blue tracksuits slumping against the wall. Inanimate bodies, closed eyes above silent mouths. I prefer them this way, sleepy and absent. Especially today. My legs are still shaky from the otherworldly night I spent as Rose Lee. Sunday, on no sleep, I worked like crazy. Thirty essays corrected in one sitting, just so I’d have something else to focus on, so I wouldn’t think about it anymore. Was it so bad, that sensual hand, ashamed of being so eager, that caressing hand, stretching out for the tickets and toward the customer’s face? A lot of the essays I marked weren’t worth any more than three or four points out of twenty, and I didn’t even correct the misspellings: happyness, phylosophy, Buddist enlightenment, efemera, simpilstic approach. I read thoroughly, without ever feeling like I wanted to die, or mocking the poor student everyone looks at with pity, powerless to help. Suddenly infused with soaring pedagogical passion, I gobbled down those thirty unpalatable essays, which strayed off-topic almost more often than not, as if I were taking a pea
ceful stroll on a summer night at nine o’clock, gazing at a beautiful sunset. I kept repeating to myself that my place is here, among these underprivileged students, and not in one of those other Parisian schools I request to be transferred to every single year. And definitely not in a nightclub, showing my ass to anyone willing to fork out the cash for it. Compassion flooded through me, along with a tear or two, sanctifying my exalted state of mind. Thank you, students. Thank you, Hadrien. I knew now why he’d waited for me, all alone, by the teachers’ lounge. It wasn’t just about the spitball. He’d wanted to know if I’d read his letter. I’d found an envelope taped to the last page of his essay, on which he’d written simply, “For you.”

  Drancy, November 15, 2005

  Dear Madame Professor,

  I don’t really know where to start.

  I’m sorry I’ve said philosophy was pointless, more than once. I really, really didn’t mean it. I know I’d hate it if someone told me football was pointless. I swear I’ll never say it again.

  Ever since middle school, my mom’s been saying, “You’ll see when you get to your last year, philosophy will make you understand life, you’ll see, you’ll see.” And now it’s my last year, and I don’t feel like philosophy is helping me understand life. I like it, sometimes, though. I repeat phrases in my head from the texts you have us read.

  Speaking of that, I wanted to ask you a question, but not in front of the whole class. So I’m writing you this letter.

  I twisted my ankle over the weekend and didn’t go to football practice. I spent the whole weekend in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the swelling to go down. It’s weird; I kept imagining things while I was looking at the cracks in the ceiling. I don’t know if it’s normal, because it was like when you’re a little kid, staring at the clouds and thinking up stories. It was like ten thousand things came into my mind, and I remembered that once you said, “Take care of your inner life.” I remember I didn’t say anything when you said that, and then Amine came out with something like, inner life wasn’t life, it wasn’t even reality, it wasn’t anything. But while I was lying in bed like that, all these thoughts just came to me, all by themselves. Is that what inner life is? If that’s it, I’m wondering if it’s always negative. Because I thought to myself that life is a crack, like in the ceiling. Maybe it’s stupid. I guess I’m not the only person who feels like I’m nothing. I admire you when you talk about how important intelligence is, and you say we need to fine-tune our abilities. But to do what, Madame? If life isn’t all happy stuff and it beats you down? Life is like me, last weekend; it needs crutches. Don’t you think life beats you down, Madame?