Stripper Lessons

by John O'Brien

  His eyes dart around the club in their usual circumspect fashion; he hates to be seen seeing. There is still no sign of the new girl.

  “—lo,” he catches from behind him.

  Startled. Spinning . . . no, other shoulder. This must be the tail end of hello, and indeed that would follow. It’s the new waitress that he first saw last night. He’s not sure he likes this girl. “Hi . . . lo,” he manages.

  The napkin is dropped. His eyes foolishly follow it.

  “Sparkling apple cider, right?” she asks, though she is already writing it and poised to walk away.

  Okay, that tears it. First the DJ/doorman talks to him, and now a cocktail waitress—a new cocktail waitress—guesses his drink order. NEVER, absolutely NEVER has anything like this happened before. And in the same night! This is some sort of banner day, but is it good or bad? Should he get up and walk out, or would that only make it worse next time he came in. No, if he leaves now he can never come back. That much is clear; maybe it wouldn’t be to a less observant person, but to Carroll it is. He prepares an answer. But as before it is too late. The waitress (what the heck is her name?) is gone, gone off to fetch his drink order. His hand is trembling. The most worldly part of him tells him that it’s all nothing, that it was only a matter of time before someone here got a little familiar. After all, these people chat and kid with the other men every night, and most of these other guys aren’t here half as often as Carroll is. But GOD! how he hates the thought of being included in the group. Loves it and hates it.

  Melissa’s naked now. Third and final. He tries to concentrate on the new girl. He can smell her beauty. She, at least, won’t know him from Adam, won’t try to get so damn chummy. Of this he can be certain, and his hand settles down a bit with that knowledge. Melissa is swinging her empty arm around the stage, as if she were still holding her scarf from the previous number. For a moment she looks confused, befuddled, but when Three-PieceNoTie puts up a bill next to his twenty she goes to him, obeisantly squatting with knees wide. He licks his lips, and Melissa’s one-word response cannot be heard over the music. Carroll wants his sparkling apple cider delivered before this song is through, so he won’t have to deal with the waitress while the new girl is dancing. He looks impatiently at the bar. He can see it sitting on the waitress’s tray, she gabbing with the barmaid. The guys are getting competitive around the stage, and this should be a lucrative set for Melissa. Carroll watches her as the music fades out. She stands there for a moment in her nudity, arms loosely at her sides as if waiting for some invisible doctor to tell her what to do now that she’s undressed at his bidding.

  “Melissa, gentlemen, put your hands together for the lovely Melissa. Remember, gentlemen, that each of our lovely—”

  The applause is louder than usual. His drink arrives. Too many distractions, Carroll wants everybody to shut up so he can get the name of the new girl. He pays for his drink hurriedly, waving off the change from a five. This pisses off the waitress, who would rather have coerced this tip out of him with a squint she’s been told is very intimidating. Melissa has collected her tips and left the stage. The curtain to the dressing area billows out. It is holding something exciting, Carroll can tell.

  “—together for our newest lovelylady, a lovelylady by the name of Stevie.” A heavy exhale resonates through the microphone; then, remembered, it is shut off. The needle skips only once on the record.

  No one else looks to be very interested, and Carroll wonders if this could mean Stevie has already danced tonight, danced for them when he wasn’t around. The curtain maintains its high pressure, then is parted by a hand, an arm, a leg. Like that the girl is on the stage. The room falls briefly to attention—a blond head will do this. But then some of the men drift back to their conversations, content with glancing at the stage every few seconds as a way to introduce punctuation into whatever it is they’re saying. Not them, Carroll is smitten.

  Now here’s a girl. She is perhaps five feet, seven inches tall with straight blond hair that caresses her shoulders gently. Her posture is implacably correct, as good as the final drawing in any man-from-apes sequence, in the most expensive textbooks, the finest schools. Stevie’s breasts push the outside limits of perfect. They loom high and resolute over her narrow waist. She has emerged for this first number effectively naked, wearing only a very short and sheer black camisole with a matching G-string, which reveals her pubic area to be startlingly hairless. To Carroll the vision is stunning, and he loves the fact that she could so iconoclastically snub club tradition on her first dance and dispense with the tiresome routine of Almost-Dressed to Not-Dressed, that she could be so proud, have such confidence in her body. He sees these things, and he adores that she can so quickly lead him to such percipience. But while a striking sight, her to-the-point nudity may be about two songs too early for many of the men, who look disappointed about something they haven’t yet identified and uncertain about why they should be. She makes center stage. The music is there and the dance begins.

  FirstOfThree—she’s lovely. Maybe in pictures, maybe there you can find girls like this. But I don’t think so, not in any pictures I’ve ever seen. This is beauty. Unique. Ineffable. What’s the point of description, the point, even, of thought? To sit here, living your life, when suddenly the world changes—how can we go on when we’re subject to such manipulation? How can we not? This image of this woman, so ethereal, so very far from any place my hands will ever be, nevertheless is palpable; I can feel her in my GUTS. It’s like I could be done here, like I’ve seen enough. I could just shut my eyes now and never open them again, knowing as I blindly grope through the rest of my abject life that I did precisely the right thing. Like knowing just how much salt is in a pinch, I would be an artist. Or maybe a sinner. Yes, I would be a sinner for failing to deliver my life to the furthest possible pursuit of this vision. I would be a sinner for not seeing her the moment after I closed my eyes. I don’t want to be a sinner. I want to do what is right, and everything I know in the world right now, every part of my body and soul tells me that What Is Right is to continue looking at her. My mouth is dry. I am thirsty, but I can’t look down to pick up my drink for fear that I will miss it, miss whatever she is at that moment. It would be a betrayal to look away. I will not be thirsty. I will not look away. I will not.

  SecondOfThree—she breathes intrepidity. Out of the curtain and back in my face, her gossamer top left behind and probably still floating earthward in the air currents of the room, her bottom still in place, awaiting what may come. Her breasts are unequivocal. He who would taunt her betrays a blasphemous voice. There she walks in hostile quarters indeed, among only enemies and those who seek to defile her—save me. But she fears not even fear itself, and she doesn’t run. She knows it is this way everywhere. At once her dance is neither reluctant nor rushed. She neither meets their eyes nor looks away. Regret has never touched her, pain bows down: a trick. I can see how it was for her as she witnessed their leering, jeering cries. I can see her response; it is there for everyone to see through the light fabric hanging from her waist. Where others would have retreated, she advanced, and laid herself bare, put down her razor and so the dare that would—and did!—catch them with their pants down, around their ankles like so many masturbating boys caught wiping their fingers. I can see her response. She would not look away. She would not.

  ThirdOfThree—she’s not me, but what I could never dare to be. With no cloth at all she emerges from the curtain, gaining the stage as if she’s done it not twice, but a stellar-trillion times before. I now see that the place where she walks is for her and her only. Prepared by others before her, it will be patrolled by those that follow; they will keep it for her return. There she stands, more naked than I have ever been, yet absolutely untouchable. Her sweat is her garment; mine simply smells. She glistens; I drip. Her perspiration is sweet water, and I would lick it chastely from her feet, would gratefully die for the privilege; she would never allow it. Her beauty is sublime; I have non
e. She walks among men; I crawl. And if I were to recklessly approach her, speak to her, utter a simple platitude, if I were to give her the time of day, ask for it, if I were to gently cough while crossing her path, breathe while standing near her, and if she were to answer, respond, look up, acknowledge me in any way, she would not hate herself for it; I would. Though some things are beyond my control, and our eyes may someday meet—dare I say—in the brief and mutual recognition of one human to another, it would be a tragic mistake. We could not be the same. We could not.

  “—lovelylady by the name of . . . of Stevie, gentlemen, put your hands together for our newest lovelylady here at Indiscretions . . . Stevie!” The patter of the DJ / doorman resumes for most of the room. Elsewhere it’s reduced to a keyword in pricked–up ears: “. . . Stevie . . . Stevie . . . Stevie. . . .”

  Stevie, thinks Carroll. And as Jasmine takes the stage he thinks, Stevie. And later as Candy, compelled by curiosity about the geek-who-suddenly-forgot-to-sit-at-the-stage-and-tip-after-all-this-time, pinches a nipple solely for Carroll’s benefit, he still thinks, Stevie. He waits patiently for the show to roll over, set after set. Three bottles of sparkling apple cider are stacked before him, placed there by the opportunistic cocktail waitress who picked right up on his agreeable disposition and is happily liberating fives from him along with each absent, drink-ordering nod. She is pushing the Envelope as well as the cider, and the manager fairly twinkles in delight over her spunk, vowing to himself that he’ll have another crack at her late tonight. Finally Sabrina is up for her set—she was dancing when he came in tonight—and he knows that the cycle is complete. He need only wait through Sabrina and Melissa, then it will be HER again. The name echoes even more loudly at the realization. SHE will dance again, he thinks, Stevie.

  He is not disappointed, watching as she again goes through her set. He is rapturously dazed, wearing a face not unlike that of a long-interned hostage glimpsing his wife on the tarmac, a point of entry. This time Stevie’s set is slightly different, varied appropriately in small matters of timing and costume, but not so much that Carroll would notice or care. She can do no wrong in his eyes. Her message is delivered; she may choose to repeat or alter it at will. There’s plenty of room for writing on the stone tablet of Carroll’s heart, and he is predisposed to adore each move and every choice she makes. He is also terrified, terrified when she looks his way, though these occasions are admittedly few and far between. However, that is small stuff, no real problem for Carroll, who is such a master of the averted glance that he responds reflexively despite his bedazzlement. The one exception, the one justifiable excuse for briefly departing the apparition is that. God forbid their eyes should meet.

  The truly close call comes later in the evening; in fact it is the last show of the night. Sabrina is hurriedly finishing her set, bowing absurdly facing the curtain and probably wrapping up her last song a bit too early for the sparsely seated diehards left in the club. She has a trick lined up. Shadow man, he waits even now at the Airport Sheraton, and she needs to do him quick and get home without pissing off her always suspicious boyfriend. This is very unusual, strictly taboo as far as Indiscretions is concerned, and if she were busted the best-case scenario would be walking papers from the club and a rep that she’s so far avoided, local blacklisting more likely. As far as she knows she’s the only girl currently at the club who tricks, and even she hardly ever does it. The bread from dancing here is just too good. But the kind of money offered her tonight and the guy who was writing the figure on his cocktail napkin were both too sweet to pass up.

  So Sabrina’s off the stage early, apologizing to an annoyed Melissa, who hates last-minute surprises. Stevie is in the corner of the dressing area, waiting for her final set and full of first-night cooperation.

  Counting on this, Sabrina whisks to a squat in front of her and says beseechingly, “Honey, I’ve got to book a few minutes early. It’s no big deal around here, but we do always cover for each other and you ought to get used to how it works. So if anybody’s looking for me just tell them I wasn’t feeling too good. Okay? Please?”

  Stevie nods: sure, seeing through it and not really caring. Melissa, ready to dance, goes and stands by the curtain. She doesn’t want to know.

  Carroll’s problem really begins during Melissa’s first song. The manager, unable to find Sabrina and wanting to talk to her about a last-minute schedule change, sticks his head in the dressing area.

  “Hey! Great first night! You seen Sabrina?” he asks Stevie.

  “She wasn’t feeling well. She said to tell anyone who asks that she had to leave early.” Standard from other gigs, this is about the most risk-free response that Stevie could think of, neutral fare from the new girl.

  The manager frowns, vexed. “Okay, tell ya what: I gotta stay up here and change the record cause the boy’s dumping the bar trash. How about you running back real quick and checking the ladies’ room for me—I hate to go in there anyhow. Maybe we can catch her before she leaves.”

  She’s already gone, you fat fuck, thinks Stevie. “Should I really go out there in my costume? It isn’t much,” she says, looking down at the same little nothing she wore for her first set.

  But the manager, now coughing spontaneously, waves her off. “Yeah, sure. It’s fine, the place is empty. Hurry back. I’ll hold Melissa an extra minute with the record change. You’ll have plenty of time.” He turns away, adding over his shoulder, “Great first night! Really!”

  Stevie isn’t thrilled with the idea of being out on the floor in a costume, especially this one, which she wears only when she wants to get attention. But the place is dead, and she knows better than to throw what will be seen as Attitude on her first night. Sabrina’s gone anyway, and to play this out she need only stick her head in the bathroom and holler. She’ll make it quick.

  Bridled by the evening’s unforeseen distraction, not to mention wanting to keep a safe distance, Carroll never did move forward to occupy a seat on the stage as they became available; rather he remained all night in his original seat in the rear, specifically in the rear on a path that runs from the stage to the ladies’ rest room. So there he sits almost too preoccupied with anticipation of her next set to notice and anyway knowing the club too well to ever expect an on-deck dancer to appear on the floor, when Stevie materializes before him, wearing only her sheer and tiny costume. Actually, she’s still a few yards away but closing fast, and Carroll is quite literally paralyzed with fear, panicked to the point that, though the idea of meeting her eyes is as preventable as it is unthinkable, he cannot even divert his gaze from her face. Fortunately her eyes are fastened on the door behind him. She is evidently on a mission of mercy, but it won’t be long, he knows, before she is on top of him. Their eyes will meet. She’ll wait for him to apologize, but he won’t know what to say, and she’ll be forced to say . . . well, to say whatever she would say in place of the annoyed excuse me he would hear from anyone else.

  But succor arrives from an unlikely source, as Melissa, spotting Stevie walking away from the dressing area, and unable to tolerate another anomaly in her evening, calls to her from the stage, “Hey Steeevinnn, the plan is to wait backstage when you’re next up!”

  Stevie turns to her accuser. Melissa has stopped-dead her dance and stands half naked, left hand clinging naggingly to her bare hip like a just-laundered sock to a sweater. A pair of the few remaining men giggle, and she hisses them quiet from the side of her mouth.

  “Ahh–,” begins Stevie.

  “Way!” adds Melissa, needlessly interrupting.

  Overloaded—way overloaded—Carroll emits an odd squeal and bolts for the back door. He fires up the Vega, quits the lot, one yellow light. He’s going home.

  Thursday friday

  Wee hours, albeit swelling with yet another new cycle. There’s always another day to be swallowed. All the projections of doom, years, lifetimes of hawking Armageddon and evil empires: just a con. Too easy, a get-rich-quick keeping us from the horrible t
ruth: everything gets done one click at a time. In his bed, Carroll has the most vivid and cogent dream of his life.

  He is sitting naked in an enormous hot tub. His father is with him in the water, and through the rising steam he sees that his dad—in reality a gray man of sixty-two at Carroll’s birth and dead by his seventh birthday—is young and handsome, no wrinkles, jet-black hair. Carroll recognizes him from pictures taken in younger years, holding infant siblings known only as adults to Carroll. There is an unspoken warmth, like the water, between his dad and him, but again, the memories are not there to support this. Nevertheless, it all feels perfect. Suddenly Carroll becomes aware of a third presence in the hot tub; indeed, he and his father have been sitting as if on points of a triangle. It is a girl. Though she is right in front of him, Carroll cannot make out her face, but he knows she is beautiful. She rises spectrally from the water, exposing her naked breasts, stopping when the water is at her waist, but this seems incidental: Carroll knows she has nothing to hide. There she waits, gently hovering at this unlikely height. “What are you?” asks Carroll. The girl smiles at him, ineffable reassurance. “I’m an angel,” she says. “You’re an angel?” asks Carroll. “Yes,” she says. The water, the steam, Carroll now realizes that tears are streaming down his face. “Then I want to ask you something,” he says. “Okay,” she simply says, all peace, all accepting. Carroll sees that she is now rising further out of the water. He watches the water fall away from her thighs, her gentle pussy. “Will the meek inherit the earth?” he asks.