by Vic Tyler
His tone dipped a little, begrudgingly but full of respect. Jorge only spoke with such regard for the conductors and musicians he envied and admired.
I peeked over my shoulder at the man whose name I only just learned.
Peter Lennox.
All of this was news to me. I definitely know I never heard the name before, but the man had such an air of familiarity that I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him. Perhaps it was the way his lips curled into a warm and kind smile or the way his mesmerizing coffee–brown eyes peered so invitingly under his long, dark lashes. Maybe it was simply his nature.
Throughout the evening, the guests had floated over to him. Whereas Jorge drew attention with his rambunctious nature and people flocked to me because of my looks, wit, and recent media attention, Peter seemed to do nothing in particular. People wandered to him as though magnetized to his presence, lingering as they waited their turns for his attention.
It was hard to imagine him and Jorge next to each other, let alone being friends. They seemed so different. Peter was like the smooth lapping waves near the shore, bearing a promise of soothing relaxation, and Jorge was a thunderously crashing waterfall, a roaring spectacle of nature.
The curiosity suddenly pinched at me – to know everything Jorge knew about him, to hear stories about their days together, to see who exactly this Peter Lennox was.
“Jorge –” I said, turning towards my friend, my eyes reluctant to leave Peter.
But Jorge was already deep in conversation with some of the other guests, articulately projecting and gesticulating wildly. He lived and thrived on the attention, which made him simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting to be around.
This time, he was telling the story about when he went on a bender with the English royal family after an eventful rendezvous at the Royal Opera House that involved a bird and a dentist. I would’ve called bullshit on the whole thing if it weren’t for the fact I saw a photo of Jorge and a certain prince–who–shall–not–be–named clasping shoulders and holding out peacock feathers while sporting toothpaste mustaches over their beaming smiles. To date, it was one of the strangest things I’d ever seen in my entire life.
But I was impatient to get back to the person I was dying to learn more about. And with Jorge so occupied and no help at all, I dared to close some of the distance between me and the subject of my curiosity.
I strolled with purpose, smiling and nodding at people I passed, as though I had somewhere I intended to go. When I was a few feet away from Peter Lennox, I casually looked down at the abandoned programs and flutes of champagne that people left behind on the cocktail table.
Opening one of the programs, I traced my finger along the black ink while my eyes glanced up. Peering under my eyelashes, I watched Peter nodding as he listened to some of the Philharmonic’s board members speak, completely concentrated and intrigued by whatever they were talking about.
With his simple yet classic tuxedo and his cool, handsome demeanor, Peter Lennox looked like he stepped out of an old Hollywood movie from the '50s. His dark hair was lightly slicked back, displaying his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His fitted suit accentuated the broadness of his triangular frame and the long lines of his tall, lean figure.
Our one and only encounter earlier had left a strong impression with me. It hadn’t been particularly notable or exciting, but nevertheless, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
It had happened shortly after I arrived at the gala. I had just started conversing with this year’s Grammy Awards winners, engaging in friendly banter about pop music versus the classics. When, all of a sudden, someone unceremoniously bumped against my shoulder.
I had stumbled to the side, panic shooting through me, and I crashed face first into the person next to me. My ankle gave way before I could regain my balance as it caught on the hem of my dress, and suddenly, the ground started flying towards me.
The person I fell onto caught me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist and assuredly pulling me up tightly against a firm, silk–lapeled chest.
And steadily, I had straightened upright, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest and adrenaline pumping through my veins. As I faced the cause of my mishap, my mind slowly registered the scene I was looking at.
A boisterous guest who had had one too many glasses of champagne was sprawled on the floor, his face planted right where my feet had been standing. Considering the now–empty flute that I had barely held onto, I figured that the golden liquid puddled under his suit was what was left of my champagne.
Even though my feet were now both firmly planted to the ground, the arm that caught me was still fastened around my waist. I looked up, and only inches from me was Peter Lennox, his dark brown eyes closely studying my face.
Upon our stares locking, his lips had curved into an easygoing, charming smile that was nonchalant and utterly disarming. I didn’t realize how long I was in his embrace until his thumb stroked the small of my back, a lingering touch too affectionate and gentle for a stranger. His gaze dipped, caressing my lips, before rising to meet my eyes again. A light flush colored his cheeks as he suddenly released me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He took a tentative step back.
“Careful now,” he said before turning swiftly on his heels and walking away.
I had watched, stunned, as he left without another glance back.
Before that moment, if anyone else pointed him out to me, I would’ve sworn he was a stranger. But as I replayed that scene over and over again in my mind, his face grew more and more familiar with each iteration.
Had I met him before? Did we know each other?
I racked my brain, flipping through the memories of each gala, concert, meeting, studio session, and any other relevant event that I could think of. Every face and name I had struggled to memorize and recognize, the list only growing in conjunction with my fame. But nothing came to mind.
Yet the expression in his eyes and intimate caress of his weren’t that of a stranger’s.
The thought flashed through my head: well, maybe he’s just an inappropriate creep.
But that didn’t seem right.
Staring as he continued to speak with his small entourage of guests, my eyes scanned him from the top of his head to his shiny dress shoes, trying to find something off about him. Anything. But physically, he was fine.
I took another leisurely look at his handsome features and the firm, taut outline of his masculine body. Yes. He was very fine.
Besides, he was much too well–liked and seemed highly regarded within the audience here tonight, and he never so much as touched a hair on anyone else.
Then, my mind argued, perhaps he’s a rabid, obsessed, stalker fan of mine. After all, the number of disturbing letters and messages after my rise to fame was only increasing at an alarming rate.
And yet, Peter Lennox didn’t look my way even once after our meeting. Not even an accidental glance or during an absentminded search of the room.
I would know.
It was like a riddle he left behind. One that made no sense and had no clues.
It nagged my brain, making me itch with impatience and burning curiosity. I always hated riddles. Really, what was so wrong with having a straightforward answer?
“Want me to introduce you to him?” Jorge’s voice broke through my thoughts.
He stood next to me, smirking as he watched me watch Peter.
My teeth gnawed on the inside of my cheek, as I resisted the urge to bite my lip. After all, the night had only just begun, and I didn’t need my teeth stained with red lipstick.
It was tempting. If Jorge introduced us, maybe I could tease out the answer. Maybe I could even ask him outright.
But introduce me? To him?
The thought was a sobering nudge to my suddenly bruised pride.
Straightening my back and lifting my chin, I replied, “No, he should be the one you’re introducing to me.”
I snapped around on my heels and walked away.
Suddenly, both those men felt too close for comfort. How had I inched my way over here when I was at the opposite end of the room not even half an hour ago?
It felt like there wasn’t enough distance between Jorge and me. Between Peter and me. Since the two of them were familiarly acquainted, it was too risky. The more I looked at Peter and questioned our interaction, the more I was tempted to ask Jorge about him, maybe even ask our mutual friend to strike up a conversation that I could slip into.
But that would be unbecoming of me. Men chased me, not the other way around. There was no man whose attention was worth groveling after.
No matter how intriguing I found him.
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EXCERPT FROM
UNCHAINING YOU
A slow, synth beat starts to thump, muted, from the speakers all around the dim room. I was hoping for something a little more upbeat since I’m running on three hours of sleep, and the velvety couches lining the walls of the VIP Room are starting to look like plush black clouds at this point of the night. If I strain my ears, I can hear the enthused and muffled whomp–whomp–whomp in the main room where everyone’s hunting — for money or attention.
The VIP Room is just quiet enough for the patrons sparsely spread throughout the area to converse with the dancers whose time they’re procuring hourly. Of course, some of them aren’t really looking for conversation.
Like Bill.
The pudgy, leering man sitting in front of me looks up hungrily as I lean forward to fill his vision with my heavy breasts. Even though they’re taped down securely, I’m still paranoid that the thin, elastic straps of my black, lacy bikini are going to snap, leaving me with no more than black, lacy pasties with sad, dangly tentacles.
I say ‘bikini,’ but it’s the kind you’d never wear in public unless you want to scandalize parents at the public pool and become a budding teenage boy’s first wet dream. The kind that would never survive a cannonball, and the one that makes your nightmare of seeing your bikini pieces floating up right next to you come true. More like a skinny dip–kini.
“Destiny.”
Bill holds out a few Andrew Jacksons, and I push my hip toward him so he can slip it into the side string of my thong. He takes his time, his dry fingers grazing roughly against my skin, taking advantage of the one opportunity during our time together that I let him touch me. After all, he’s more generous with his tips when I let him brush a feel or two during our hour.
Lowering my voice to a sultry hum, I purr, “Stay for a little longer, Bill.”
He chuckles in that not smooth way — the sound gutturally choked by his bubbling lust.
“Can’t tonight, baby.” He lowers his voice, trying to sound seductive. “Unless you want to come home with me.”
He arches his brow with a cheesy smile as his fingers touch his wallet.
It makes me feel dirty. Very, very dirty. And not in the sexy way.
For eight hours a night, a few nights a week, my sensitive bitties of skin are slapped on with cash like I’m a papier–mâché project. I’m basically rolling around in money, and if you mix in a little paste, you can make a cash cast out of me. But let me tell you, the whole ‘rolling in dough’ thing is an idea that’s only appealing to be entertained theoretically.
I mean, money’s pretty gross if you think about it. You never know where it’s been. Stuffed in wallets, forgotten in pockets, hidden in shoes or bras, dropped in gasoline–laden puddles on the street, handled by greasy, pizza–oiled hands, rolled to snort coke, slid into a stripper’s asscrack.
The first time I went home with a huge stack of tips, I did it. I spread out a bed of green and laid down on it. It’s really not that exciting. But go ahead and try. And if you’re more like me than you are Ebenezer Scrooge, you’ll find out that carpeting your floor with money doesn’t make it any softer.
It’s still cold, hard cash. In a cold, hard world.
I fight the urge to scrunch my nose, instead lowering them to watch my manicured fingers walk up his white dress shirt, his suit jacket lying forgotten next to him to minimize the layers between us. “You know I can’t go home with customers.”
Can’t, won’t, don’t want to. What’s the difference? In the end, it’s not going to happen.
Some of my clients are sweethearts. Just lonely ones. But some men, like Bill, wave around their money using the carrot–and–stick approach. The cash being the carrot, and the stick being… well, their stick. When I say I don’t provide those services, they don’t back down.
They raise their offer.
Bill’s eyes travel over me as he continues fingering his bulge. The wallet, of course. It’s not the only thing bulging in his pants, but at least he knows which of the two I’m interested in, period.
The lines in his shoulders relax as he gives up for the night and leans back against the couch. His doughy cheeks pull back into a smile.
“Shame,” he drawls pointedly, hinting at how much I’m missing out.
Considering that chipmunk sized tent he’s pitching, I’m pretty confident I’m not missing out on much.
But I hood my eyes seductively and pout a little bit. “You can always stick around for a little longer. You know how much I love spending time with you.”
Ten months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could make a man empty his wallet just by changing where and how I look at him.
I still remember my first day at Starlette when Sage, the strip club’s house mom, pulled me back from making my awkward rounds waddling around the floor. It was my first wearing six–inch fuck–me heels when I’ve only ever worn two–inch–high Mary Janes for church.
She pursed her lips and said, “Honey, if these men wanted to look at a woman who looks as miserable as you do out there, they’d go home to their wives.”
She made a science out of flirtation and laughed when I whipped out my trusty pen and paper. Gave me a big “mhm, you do that” when I said I’d go research all about ‘the art of seduction.’
Even now, Sage likes to joke that her greatest accomplishment to date is turning “Sunday School Skye” turn into “Devilishly Dazzling Destiny.”
Flashing a toothy, hopeful smile, Bill changes tactic. “Then how about dinner? Tomorrow night?”
I’m obviously not going to get him to stay another hour tonight. Lowering my voice huskily, I brush back his hair with the lightest of touches. “Dating is against the rules. But you’ll be the first to know if that ever changes.”
My own rules. Nothing against the other dancers who do date their customers. Believe me, I heard some of the cute love stories shared in the back, and even I’ve dreamed about a sexy, respectful millionaire who can’t resist me after a crotch grind, a motorboat, or an hour of very fulfilling conversation in the half–nude who wants to get to know the real me. And then I remember my clientele includes… well… Bill and his ilk.
No offense. Bill behaves (most of the time), and some of my regulars are nice. But even if I were interested in any of them (which, spoiler alert, I’m not), my stomach doesn’t get all fluttery with butterflies when they’re talking about their wives and kids. A club isn’t exactly ideal breeding grounds for a relationship… or breeding.
That doesn’t mean I don’t pretend I want them. I do. I pretend hard.
Winking at Bill, I peel myself off the couch and straighten as I turn around, looking at him cutely over my shoulder. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to handle a heartbreaker like you.”
He chuckles low in the back of his throat. “Baby, I’d never break your heart.”
I feel a little bitter on behalf of his wife. She’s probably sitting home right now on a Wednesday night, helping their six–year–old son with his alphabets or maths or coloring homework, while he’s here, dishing out his paycheck for a few boob shimmies and butt rolls.
But I shouldn’t complain. After all, Bill is a platinum donor to the Skylar Kay Survival Foundation.
“Y
ou break my heart every time you leave.” I wink before walking away, swaying my hips and letting my ass shake.
A couple of wandering eyes flit over to me as I sashay through the room. This is about as private as it gets for those who don’t have enough dough to cough up for some actual one–on–one time in one of the Champagne Rooms.
Nothing sketchy happens back there, of course. At least, it’s not supposed to. But it’s not unusual for a dancer to take off her bikini top for the several extra hundreds she’s getting for the same hour–long session.
I’ve never, and I won’t ever. Not because I think I’m better than any of the other women (God knows I’m in just as much of a shithole, if not in a worse one, as some of them). But I’m just not that comfortable with exposing my nips to strangers who don’t even know my real name. Only my ex–boyfriend has ever seen my bare nipples, and that’s not going to change for any amount of money.
I envy the girls who dance here because they love flaunting their gorgeous bodies and basking in the spotlight. But I’m not one of them.
I love dancing — heck, I wanted to be a professional dancer — but I’d rather dance with clothes on and not on a stage with a pole on it. I’m a statistical clichè working here out of desperation.
“You can always come home with me,” Bill says optimistically, trying one last time as we head toward the exit. “You know I’ll take real good care of you.”
It does make me wonder whether men’s bedroom skills improve if they pay for sex. Do they try to make the most of their money? Or is it an easy done deal since the sex is an expectation?
I’d assume the latter.
Is it terrible that I assume they’re mediocre at sex? Maybe even bad at it? Horrible? The lose–faith–in–mankind’s–manhood kind of sex?
Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been around one and a half naked guys. The second one was a Tinder date that finished with a handjob that lasted twenty seconds. We took a longer time taking our pants off. Not our clothes. Just our pants. Like I said, he didn’t even see my nipples.
