by SJ Cavaletti
Do you think I’m greedy because I don’t want to tumble into debilitating debt for Mr. Right? Would you be Juliet if Romeo came along? Drink the poison?
I still had my needs of course. And I was older and more confident, no longer a little girl under Daddy’s roof. Like any young woman with a primitive drive to procreate I got horny sometimes. I had solved that problem by creating a situation that was ‘friends with benefits’ that had little possibility of becoming complicated. But this time, with Carlos, things were already complicated. I was falling for him, for all of his wise, deep thoughts and simple ways of explaining them. We were kindred spirits and I already wanted to see him everyday.
I didn’t want him to think I was loose. And even though I was ninety-nine percent sure that he liked me for me, there was still an aching suspicion, a possibility, that he just wanted me as a toy. This could all be his perfect dream. A young girl. Available anytime he wanted.
There was only one way to find out if he really liked me or not. I could not have sex with him. I had to hold out.
Then, there we were. Walking up to the hotel room door, by this point in time all the above thoughts and worries had long wiped any smile from my face. In the car, Carlos had noticed the transformation; I had told him I was just tired. But when he tapped the card on the door lock I grabbed his hand before we could enter.
“Carlos,” I said, “I want to say this now, before things get awkward. I won’t be sleeping with you tonight. I mean, I don’t mind sharing the bed but I’m not going to have sex with you.”
He contemplated me as he always did. He thought before he spoke. A great quality in any human being; I wished I was more like that.
“What makes you think that’s what I want?”
I couldn’t help a bit of cynicism creeping in, “Don’t you?”
“Right. Of course I would if you made a move,” he said coyly, “But that’s not why I brought you here. I wanted to get to know you better. I’d say that no matter what happens now it’s a bonus. I’ve already achieved my target.”
He winked… at ease sergeant.
He was so believable. I wanted to believe him. I decided to believe him. I was glad I did.
As soon as we entered the room, Carlos made a call to the concierge.
“Is it possible to have an aesthetician come? I know it’s late but we are desperate for a foot rub and some facials.”
He listened for a moment to the reply and then hung up.
“Seriously? Mani-pedis at this hour?” I asked. “Not that I’m turning it down if it’s possible.”
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a day off. Let’s use it all to relax and enjoy.”
Apparently, when you have money, these services are available at any time of day. A middle-aged woman came by about forty five minutes later made our skin to soft and our toes sparkle as we drank champagne until we were sleepy.
We finally involuntarily said goodbye to the magical evening, falling asleep under the spell of a potion labeled Bollinger. I woke up the next morning, me in my pyjamas and Carlos in a white fluffy robe.
Reappearance
It was hard to get back to reality. Carlos’ fairy tale life had an addictive quality that any of you could understand. I cannot believe anyone is immune to feeling that special. It was all I had been able to think about since being dropped back home by Gus. Between leaving Carlos at the airport (him heading off with another chauffeur) and being dropped at my house, we had already exchanged over a hundred texts. One such alarming exchange:
ME: I’ll be dreaming of your pretty toes.
CARLOS: I can’t believe you made me get pink!
ME: Stop! You’re cute
CARLOS: I’d do any color for you.
ME: I’ll miss you tonight. Would have been amazing to carry on what we started.
CARLOS: You going to work?
ME: Yes
CARLOS: :-(
And so it began. I wasn’t really sure if Carlos meant he would miss me or that he wished I didn’t have to go to work. But I left it alone. Because for now, it paid the bills and I had no choice and I also couldn’t see him. No matter what he meant there was no positive response. I was happy he’d be on a transatlantic flight that evening so that I could turn off my phone and focus. It wasn’t going to be so easy to find the customers fascinating that evening.
After heading into the club, I sat with Angelo getting my makeup done. I didn’t usually get my makeup done but I loved Angelo, found him calming and reassuring in a strange, spiritual way. He had started to come “out out” with me, Angelica and Jamie on the weekend and we had grown very fond of each other. Saying that, Angelo seemed fond of everyone. He was his namesake. An Angel. Many people sought comfort in this man. I had thought that hanging out with him could put me in the right frame of mind for the night ahead. Not to mention it would give me, Jamie and Angelica less time to chat. I hadn’t really decided on telling them the truth yet about where I had been. I couldn’t stand the assumptions. I feared being thought of as a prostitute with my entire being.
Angelo and I discussed his night out with Mike, a guy he had tried to set me up with a few times. They were best friends and an unlikely pair. Angelo was an open-minded bi-sexual guy who worked as a house Mom in a strip club and Mike, a straight-laced real estate broker whose wildest activity before meeting Angelo had been surfing. When they came together, the amalgamation was wonderful and I had had a few good nights out running into them around town in the past couple months. Mike was tall, gorgeous and kind and although Angelo never gave up on the idea of us being a good couple, I think he and I both sensed that it would ultimately make Angelo a third wheel and it wasn’t worth the pursuit. Our friendship with Angelo was more important than searching for a chemical explosion that wasn’t obvious.
I had my eyes closed as Angelo was gluing on some falsies when I heard a voice, “Well, well, well. Here you are, Houdini.”
It was Angelica. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know but when I did, she was there with eyebrows raised and hands on hips.
“Some disappearing act the other day,” she said.
Angelo looked at me, looked at Angelica and seemed to drastically slow his pace of makeup application.
“Yeah,” I said, “I decided to go out of town for a day.”
Ineffective excuse that raised even more suspicion.
“Why?” she asked, “And you called in sick last night?”
An important note about the business that you might enjoy learning. In Vegas there are so many strippers that clubs aren’t on timetables. Ladies are given shifts they are allowed to work (based on how attractive and experienced you are) and then show up as they please on those days. In most normal cities, dancers commit to specific shifts, usually three at a minimum and must show up. If I missed without calling in, I ran the chance of being fired. If I was sick, I had to call in. At Brick Road, I was required to book vacation at least two weeks in advance. Clubs are not all haphazard parties like when the parents are out of town. They are serious money making machines. And everyone taking part in the spectacle is there with one goal: to be lucrative. Calling in sick without a cough wasn’t cool.
Angelo came to my defence, “There are lots of illnesses, dear Angelica. I’m guessing she has a mental one.”
We all chuckled. He finished off my face with a blender brush and kissed his fingertips, satisfied with his masterpiece.
“That’s right,” I said with a wink while getting off his stool, “Still feeling a bit crazy in fact. Better hope it’s not contagious.”
Angelo knew I didn’t want to talk. He could read body language like he had a PhD in it and although he loved gossip, he wasn’t one to coerce secrets out of people.
“Angelica,” he said, “I have this new gold dust shadow and I’ve been wanting to try it out. Be my guinea pig? No charge?”
Give an opportunist and opportunity and she’s off. Thanks Angelo.
I tried hard to avoid the girls at first. I rarely hit the
floor immediately looking to do a dance. Apart from in Vegas, I hated doing $20 dances with a passion. I think that deep down inside, they made me feel like a true piece of meat. I always tried to dismiss this way of thinking though because on the nights when the Club was heaving it would have been far easier to just go around, say hello and ask for a dance. Let’s do the math for fun:
Hourly wage just doing twenties could see you having a rate of around two hundred dollars per hour (ten an hour is the max; short songs and some time to walk in between). Doing this carried little opportunity cost. Convincing someone into the Champagne Room was a time investment of at least thirty minutes of chatting, which if one were only looking for twenty dollar dances that were quick turnaround could equate to possibly one hundred dollars. So investing in trying to sell a Champagne Room package could actually lose me one hundred if the punter said no.
So if the math and risk seemed in favor of twenty dollar dances, why did I still choose to sell Champagne packages? Because painful feet, being completely objectified and mental boredom were the real units of measurement I needed to calculate how I wanted to go about my dancing career. Money is not the only bit of data. Just imagine night after night of no emotional contact, chat or use of intellect. Booming music bursting your eardrums and nothing else? No thanks.
But that night, I just wasn’t ready for a run in with my friends so I hit up the customer scene. I scanned the Club and all I saw were a few customers that usually came to speak to the waitresses and two other guys that I recognized but had never seen get a dance. One of the non-players was a guy that always had bad breath. He wasn’t ugly, rude or anything, in fact some of the girls had said he was quite nice but his breath could be smelled from about three feet away. The other non-player was a guy that seemed like he had mental problems. He always carried a backpack that sadly, because of his state of mind, conjured up horrible imagery of its contents and just made me wary.
I didn’t want to piss off the waitresses and talk to their regulars; they were always good teammates when the illusion of drinking was required. Often customers really needed to feel they weren’t drinking alone. Science says our smaller bodies can’t keep up with men so if you wanted to be some big guy’s beer buddy all night all you had to do was order a twisted tequila sunrise and you’d get a fruity concoction with no alcohol. Cocktail waitresses were also amazing at subbing for shots: water for clear spirits, flattened coca cola for darker ones. I needed the ladies on the side because drinking too much didn’t really agree with me. Not that I never did it anyway. I sometimes voluntarily faced hangovers. But normally, I tried to limit my intake to a few drinks per shift so that I was socially lubricated but able to do it day after day without headaches or getting fat.
In the end, I chose halitosis man. He sat in a back row of armchairs that were quite a distance from the stage and just under the overhang of the second level. There were seats available on either side of him, as there always were. I went in for a quick approach and caught a whiff before sitting down. Maybe I could talk to him long enough and other customers would start rolling in. Then I could potentially avoid Jamie and Angelica until they were too drunk to care about my whereabouts.
“Well, hello there,” I said from a standing position as I never sat down until an explicit or implicit invitation was made, “I’ve seen you here so many times and I can never figure out why such a handsome guy is always sitting alone.”
He smiled and the intensity of the bad breath seeped through his teeth, strengthening the foul aura around him. The problem seemed to be a combination of dehydration and drinking too much coffee. His teeth were lovely, straight and white, so oral hygiene was probably not the issue. This was a reek that came from deep within. Truth be told, he was quite a cute guy without the bad breath. He was of some sort of Latin descent, with very light skin and black eyes. He had a kind face with deep, dark eyes that looked happy. His lips were puffy and upturned in a perma-smile and there was kindness in his body language.
“Yeah. I stop in here between jobs so never stay long. I run a fleet of cars for some of the big hotels and drive one myself, always on the run you know. Sit down, sit down. I have a spot for you here,” he said kindly and as if to an old friend. He was really pleasant.
I sat. Oh geez. It was really hard to focus. I tried to only breathe in through my mouth but I could taste his aroma. I alternated between breathing apparatus, nose, mouth, nose, mouth. I wondered if I would walk away smelling like him.
“Ah, ok, that explains why none of us have time to pounce on you,” I laughed coyly.
“Yeah, I guess,” he laughed back.
“Well I’m Ana,” I held out my hand demurely as I always did. I wasn’t one for the immediate hugs and kisses and had developed a southern belle ‘kiss my hand’ approach though most guys missed the invitation and shook it gently instead. I hoped he would, too.
But he kissed it as he was both sober and socially intelligent enough to get the drift.
“I’m John. Really, that’s my real name. I know some of the girls here and they told me that they usually assume guys use John as a made up name.”
I giggled. “That’s right, we do… so you know other girls here. Are you waiting for someone in particular?”
(Don’t forget the house rules.)
“No, no. I just drive some of a few gals around from time to time,” he said.
Oh my gosh to be in an enclosed vehicle with this stench. I’m guessing he didn’t have a lot of repeat requests from customers. But then, he clearly ran the night shift and drinking had a numbing effect on all the senses so who knows.
As trained to do, a waitress approached us once she realized I had actually introduced myself and might be planning on staying. It was proper etiquette that I order a drink to boost the bar tabs and hopefully get her a tip. Her black, tattered wicked witch skirt floated just above her butt cheeks and she had a lovely pert ass that landed almost directly in front of my face.
“Hello, you two. John, would you like another drink?”
The waitresses knew all the regulars’ names.
“Ah, not me. I’ve got to drive tonight. Ana, would you like something?”
Yes. Yes please. Something that will singe my nose hairs.
I had a quick moment of contemplation before taking my gut reaction. On the whole, unlike most of the other dancers who were happy to get free drinks, I really didn’t like to take from a customer unless I thought he was going to buy dances. It wasn’t my style to order and run. The idea of chatting politely with a customer for 15 minutes just to drink my profit didn’t seem smart. But tonight, John seemed a nice enough guy and he might be a good safe ride home one night. I’d be sure to take his card.
“Sure, thanks,” I said,” How about a mojito for me… and John, you should just get a virgin one. They’re really refreshing.”
“No, no really. In fact, I have to run out in a minute to a job,” he said.
The waitress went off to fetch my drink.
“Ah, shame you can’t stay, John. You seem like just the type of guy to ring in the night with.”
“Yeah, not many women come by here to chat with me so the one night a beautiful lady does and I have to go? Murphy’s Law, eh,” he said.
“Well I’ll be sure to say hello next time you’re in,” I said, “How about giving me your card. You know us dancers always need late night rides.”
He dug out his wallet and pulled out a card with a black embossed limo and his name and number. Along with it he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“Really sorry, Ana but I do have to go now. Could you pay for the drink and keep the change,” he asked and he got up and threw his jacket over his shoulders.
“Sure of course. Thanks for the drink,” I said.
“Great. You’re a star,” he said and dashed off.
Ugh. Back to square one. I grabbed my drink from the waitress and told her to keep the change then headed to the usual spot at the upstairs bar where I felt p
retty certain I would find my mates.
I climbed the glass transparent stairs and sure enough, saw them with drinks already ordered.
“Dude,” Jamie practically shouted, “Were you talking to the guy with the bad breath?”
“Yeah. Well, I just thought, why not? Who knows, right,” I said, not even convincing myself, “I feel badly asking this because he’s actually a super nice guy but do I smell like him?”
The girls sniffed me.
“Nope,” said Jamie, “Just eau de cheap fruity shit.”
“Yeah, the guy’s name is John and I think he’s actually a nice guy. Maybe one of these days I’ll help him out and tell him to sort out his breath. Angelica, that’s a job for you. You’ll get a free drink and a tenner for your good deed.”
We all laughed. I held up my mojito and we clinked glasses.
“Sooooo…. You know I’m not going to let you off the hook,” Angelica said.
“Off the hook?” Jamie asked.
“Ana, snuck off yesterday, early in the day and called in sick,” Angelica purred, “You were with Carlos, weren’t you?”
“What makes you think that?” I asked, unable to conceal the type of shock that also acts as a confession.
“You wouldn’t miss work. I’m thinking it must have been a paid date,” she said.
The. Worst. Insult. Ever. My shield went up. “It wasn’t paid for your information,” I said.
Jamie chimed in, “So you were… with Carlos,” she said the last words with a whisper. “By the way guys you shouldn’t talk about this at the top of your lungs.”
She was right. It was very much frowned upon, even cause for dismissal to go out with a customer. Of course this was a grey area. We were allowed to date whomever we pleased but it was a purely subjective judgement call for the management. If we took business outside the club, we were goners. It wasn’t worth bringing this to anyone’s attention.
I lowered my voice quite a few decibels, “I was with him. I really, really like him. He’s like a male me. Well, better than me really… he’s mega smart and kind…And I WASN’T paid. He’s seriously amazing,” I rattled this out like a nervous ninny.
