Stripper Lessons

by John O'Brien

  “Quick,” responds petite, strawberry-blond Tamara. “They’re in for lunch, they’re out.” She goes back to nibbling a wayward thread from the folds of a costume. Then, as if the proper interval has passed, permitting the release of this additional information, she adds, “You don’t get the ones that sit around for hours.” She’s said enough.

  A thoughtful pause, then Stevie responds, “I guess I’m still too new here. I haven’t noticed any of those.”

  Snap. The thread is broken, hopefully not too short, and Tamara rolls the fabric between her fingers. “Me neither, really. Working mostly days like I do I wouldn’t know about here. I mean, this night shift is unusual for me. Highly unusual. But when I worked in Atlanta and it was all nights—I mean only nights—it got so they had to bounce guys out every now and then.” She nods gravely: the straight dope. “You could count on it: some guy would practically be living in the place. Night after night, always trying to talk like he was everybody’s brother, so’s you couldn’t even go near him for fear of making conversation. Yeah. There was one guy, I remember, the manager and the doorman had to tell him to leave cause he was harassing the girls.” At this point Tamara looks to the floor beneath her pretty feet: the moral. “And he never once put his hand on any one of us.”

  “Atlanta, huh,” says Stevie, unable to think of an actual response. Against her better judgment she gives trim to a tender cuticle.

  “Every night till four ayem, sister. I made beaucoup bucks, too.”

  “Lots of money, huh.” Ouch! Not wanting Tamara to see the blood, she wraps the finger in its own fist.

  “I heard last night was your first night here. So how’d you like it?” Tamara wants to know. Finished with her costume, she folds her hands in her lap, finally ready to proceed with the interview.

  Stevie smiles too widely, glances at the mirror. Yep, lipstick on the teeth. “Swell. Kind of loose at closing though—girls leaving early, last-minute favors and errands—that was new to me. I’m used to a little more structure.” She extends her finger, using it like a toothbrush to remove the lipstick from her teeth.

  A new tone here from Tamara: trying real hard to sound bored, as opposed to really being bored. “Oh? Where’d you used to work? Vegas?” And with this a jocular little chuckle.

  “Yeah, right,” laughs Stevie, waving off the notion with her hand and catching a glimpse of red in her peripheral vision.

  Tamara joins her laughter only after she’s sure it’s safe. “Well, where then? Where’d you used to work?” And wanting to foster the nascent intimacy she thinks she felt in their shared sarcasm, she adds, “After Vegas, I mean,” and the small joke is renewed.

  “Please,” says Stevie, still smiling but recovering appropriately from her laughter. “No, actually I was at the Playboy Club in Century City. I was a Bunny. That is, I was a Bunny until they shut the doors.” Strange. She feels moisture on her finger.

  “You were a Bunny?” says Tamara, smile smack-frozen in mid-disbelief, not sure if it’s just more kidding. Or was this silly bitch really a Playboy Bunny! “But that place has been closed for a long time. What have you been doing?”

  Stevie catches the tone, sees that she has divulged more than she should have, and turns her attention back to her fingers. That cuticle is bleeding. “Just temp work here and there. I had some money saved.” Right. I’m just a hard-working-class waitress. Pennies for a rainy day, wouldn’t want to have to sell the 308. What would go first, the Ferrari or its phone? Can’t have one without the other.

  “Temp work,” demands Tamara: not good enough. “Like what, a secretary or something?”

  These things sure bleed a lot, thinks Stevie, growing uncomfortable with the conversation not to mention bored. She can’t remember the last time she had to work. She’s not even sure what her rent is these days. Does she have to spell it out? “No. Reno. I did a couple of shows in Reno. I knew some people.” Holding up her finger, she adds, “I’m bleeding.”

  But Tamara had already noticed that, and simply says, “Reno. Huh.”

  The music wanes. In comes Jasmine to prepare for the third of three, the last song of her set. “How are you guys holding up?” she asks cheerfully.

  So under the guidance of the mirrored ball and the other sundry skylights the evening progresses. There are a lot of girls dancing tonight, and Carroll finds himself drinking a lot of sparkling apple cider at the bar, waiting for Stevie to do her sets. She is rarely working the floor tonight, not out here hustling table dances, preferring instead the getting-to-know-you gossip of the dressing area, or so Carroll guesses. He’s seen that tack before in new girls, especially on overstaffed nights such as tonight. The manager is unwilling to say anything, for it might indicate to whomever he works for that his scheduling abilities are less than sterling, and he needs to hang on to the scheduling as a way to leverage the girls.

  But when Stevie’s out here, when she does do her sets . . . well, Carroll’s attention is there and there only. Here she comes; he can feel it. He anticipates her introduction, knows the words a mike-knock ahead of the DJ/doorman: “. . . Stevie . . . Stevie . . . Stevie. . . . “

  Then Stevie dances.

  Then it’s over—a twinkle—and Carroll discreetly wipes from his face what sweat he can with a cocktail napkin, orders another sparkling apple cider.

  An idea has been growing in the back of his head. It’s something he doesn’t want to face, but it’s there nonetheless, and given that he’s been acting rashly lately, he knows that he won’t ignore this thing forever, that he’ll look at it, address it, assess it. He will, maybe not tonight, but probably tonight. He will.

  “One more time, gentlemen, put your hands together for the lovely Stevie. Okay. . . . And up next—remember, gentlemen, that the lovely Stevie, as well as all our lovelyladies, is available for a topless table dance. They’re up close and personal, and the perfect way to have a private conversation with the lady of your choice. Just ask your favorite dancer for details. Okay, gentlemen, on we go with the first of three from the lovely . . . Nikki, gentlemen. Put your hands together for the lovely Nikki.”

  Nikki. Pretty blond hair, right? Still, Carroll looks to his left at the row of tiny curtained booths reserved for the table dances. There are four. Each is merely a small bench for the customer to sit on, curtains on either side providing the privacy, while the dancer leans into the booth from a standing position. Gyrating. Dipping. Panties on. Top off. Why? He can see two head-tops (toupees?) above the curtains, two dancers moving in front of those. Often a dancer will drop down for conversation, often keeping her hands on the higher woodwork, sort of like a gibbon. Talking. Why? Jasmine is doing that now, talking earnestly with some guy who’s got too much hair and probably too much money. Hence the conversation, right?

  From up here at the bar he can see quite a bit more of all this than he’s used to seeing from his usual vantage points along the rail or around the general floor of the club. This chair is higher. Maybe not such a good thing, better to miss some of the sights. Stevie is already out of the dressing area, talking to a customer and gesturing to the booths. Last night he suffered sheer hell (and this was from a distance!) each time (three) he was forced to witness her dance so close, so out-of-his-sight, for some jerk who was so not-Carroll. Now . . . yes, she’s walking over here with this guy. A size forty-six suit. An empty booth. Oh God. Yes, sparkling apple cider, that’s fine, thank you.

  For all his will to not look, Carroll’s eyes keep drifting to Stevie and Size-Forty-Six like a tongue to a bad tooth. What he gets is her silken back and golden hair, pressing relentlessly close to the repugnant figure seated in the booth. Of course they can’t be touching . . . and neither one is talking much. She does look a little bored. WHOA!!! She looks up, catches him staring. Back to cider, back to cider.

  When you gonna ask her? When you gonna ask her?

  Nikki is her usual acrobatically competent self, playing the gimmicks with casual finesse, keeping herself clea
n by never staying too long in any one mirror. The guys dig her, and the rail waxes green.

  Whenyougonnaaskher? Whenyougonnaaskher?

  He’s not sure which dance this is for Nikki—the what of what? He’s not even sure if he’s ever before been unsure which dance any dancer has ever been on—the this of that. Lights, red, blue, looks-like-something-new, are everywhere. His cider bubbles more than it ought to. Less? Nikki. Nikki. Not all that blond, buddy. What? What does that mean? What difference does that make? Either this is the same dance or Size-Forty-Six is dropping twenties all the fuck over the place behind that curtain. She’s still at it. Stop! he wants to scream. He closes his lips over the straw that half floats in his drink.

  “Stah!” he screams down the straw. But no one around him even hears, and cider bubbles up out of the very full glass and onto the bar.

  WHENYOUGONNAASKHER?WHENYOUGONNAASKHER?

  She’s still at it. Stop looking. She’s still at it. He decides to tip Nikki. Since he is not seated at the rail, this necessitates standing and walking a few feet. Okay, no problem. She’s still at it. Stop looking, he’s not you. Tip Nikki. Carroll rises, stands in front of his barstool—no room to go anywhere else. There are numerous muttered excusemes between him and the relatively clear area behind the seats that surround the railing, each requires a minimum of one repetition. Bad stuff, sure enough, but at least it keeps his attention focused away from her (she’s still at it). Wait. His change is on the bar. He left his fucking change on the bar, and all he has in his wallet are two twenties from his bank machine. How can he tip Nikki if his change is on the bar? Why is he standing here in everybody’s way if he’s not going to tip Nikki? He certainly can’t afford to give her a twenty, but how can he walk back through the Gauntlet of Excuseme only to come out again? How can he go back and not return, having done nothing? Maybe the bathroom . . . yes, that’s it, he’s going to the bathroom. He starts walking across the floor to the door to the men’s room. Wait. How can he go to the bathroom and leave his money sitting on the bar? There he stands, the light playing over his features foolishly (it’s not his light, not for him). He suddenly realizes that the music is dying, Nikki is finished with this dance, the what of what. There may not be another. That option may be closed to him. Wait. There’ll always be another dancer, so you’ll always have the option to tip. Okay. No problem, that. He’s left with how to go to the bathroom and leave his money sitting on the bar.

  Then his eye is on Stevie, who is away from the booth and fastening her top, and Carroll sees the answer: just go. The situation is no longer in your hands, so just go.

  And he does, and he comes out, and his hands are still damp from the electric hand-dryer, and Stevie is providentially standing right here (or somehow just standing right here where he never expected her to be standing) and he says, croaks really, like quick and without a thought, like a yelp after someone steps on your foot, “Dance . . . at table? Um . . . topless table?”

  It’s awfully quiet. He can hear his own heartbeat. He wonders what her expression is, but her face is about the last place he’ll be looking right now.

  Stevie sighs: againnnnn? She wonders what this guy is looking at on the floor, plans to check her shoes for gum while she’s in the ladies’ room. “You want a table dance?” she confirms.

  “Yes,” he says, nodding and now looking at her shoulder (shoulder?).

  “Okay, they’re twenty dollars per song. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, great. Ahh . . . tell you what: why don’t you go over there, and I’ll be along in just a minute.” A song has just started, so they’ll have to wait for the next—these guys flip if they don’t get their full song—and she really doesn’t want to rap with this guy while they wait. She’s got to go to the bathroom anyway. She’ll just make sure she’s out in time.

  “Yes. Thank yOU,” says Carroll a bit too loudly there on the end.

  And boy does it sound strange to Stevie.

  Before he even makes it back to his barstool he can see that his money is untouched. Only then does it occur to him that when he asked Stevie for a table dance (he asked Stevie for a table dance!) he really didn’t know if he had the money to pay for it . . . no, wait: he’s got two twenties in his wallet, and his change will be of no help here anyway (twenty dollars per song!). He must not have been thinking clearly because in the bathroom he prepared himself for the eventuality of having all his money stolen. That didn’t happen, but retaining possession of a few dollars is small shelter from the storm of anxiety that is rapidly gathering in his gut. Nikki is still on the stage, doing what must be the third of three. Now he sits and waits for Stevie and feels real terror.

  He casts to the left. There is only one booth in use, seems to be no one waiting. That’s good; at least he won’t feel so much like one out of four caged rats. . . . What the hell is this? He always feels like a caged rat, except during the incident today on the twelfth floor, the SoLo/Bombgate tiff. That almost felt good, like touching something nice that you’ve only been looking at up till then. What about Stevie? How could he feel like a rat (it’s almost time!) sitting in front of her, talking to her? She’ll be dipping for him. She’ll be hanging from the woodwork to talk to him. Oh, God! What the fuck could he possibly have to say to her? Nothing. He is a rat. He knows. And in a minute or two she’ll know it too. She’ll know it forever and that’ll be that. This is horrible (is the music getting softer?). It’s still too crowded. He doesn’t have time to make a clean getaway, and if he left now he could never come back. It’s like being on the 405: the freeway is backing up fast; there’s an exit RIGHT HERE, but you’re in a center lane with no hope of getting over. He ran an errand to Long Beach once for work: get signatures, nobody else available, big emergency. Caught on the 405 for an extra hour coming back and he’s sure everyone thought he spent that time on personal business. No one would talk to him, and to make matters worse, the next day they had to send someone else because the wording of the agreement was wrong. They gave him the news sarcastically, gauging his reaction, as if he already knew, as if it had been swapped out of his car by opposing counsel while he was busy jerking off in an adult bookstore somewhere.

  “—lylady by the name of . . . Nikki, gentlemen. Next up is—”

  “All set?”

  She’s RIGHT HERE. How did she get through the crowd so fast? They’ve parted, for chrissake. Of course. They would. She’s so close, just here at the barstool, he can even smell her . . . well, he’s not sure what it is, but it smells expensive. It smells like the green-smocked women behind the glass cases of the cosmetic departments in the mall. All a mystery. It smells exquisite. God! she’s beautiful. All set.

  “Are you ready? Because the song’s about to start. If you still want a dance we’d better get you into a booth.” She’s impatient, doesn’t want to deal with this one at all. Maybe. . . . No. . . . Well? “If you’re not ready we can do it later, or you could ask any of the other girls . . . if I’m not available . . . or if you changed your mind.” C’mon, little guy, give me a clue.

  “No, no, now. I mean, now’s good. I’m ready. Here, I’ll. . . . ” He goes fishing for his wallet.

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of that after. Let’s just grab a booth before the music starts, okay?” She smiles, nodding, and sidesteps over to the first empty booth, hoping he’ll follow.

  He does, after an inertia-breaking moment, follow her magnet like a ball bearing. Things are moving very fast for him right now, but later he’ll recall this moment and be amazed at the sense of liberation, at how he stood here, in Indiscretions, caring not one bit about who was looking at him, how he looked to them, or, for that matter, who or what was around him. The exception being, of course, Stevie, who now stands to the side of the booth, indicating, she hopes, that he should sit down on the bench. No problem, baby. He rolls right by her and drops into the pocket.

  She lowers a small hinged counter over his knees, a potential barrie
r, no doubt, between dancer and excitable customer. Rules of the game, his feelings are not hurt. He hears a pounding in his ears, and it takes a moment to distinguish it from the drumbeat of the new song and the microphone taps of the DJ/doorman. A girl moves onto the stage in the background beyond Stevie. He doesn’t know or care who it is. The music is now at full volume, and Stevie efficiently removes her top, placing it on the floor next to some other piece of fabric she was carrying around. Carroll’s eyes drop, grateful for the little bundle to focus on at her feet. Indifferent to his apparent inattention, which she now recognizes as nervousness (aha! so that’s it), she begins her dance as if his eyes were fixed on her breasts: a job to do. Okay, okay . . . Worth Doing Well:

  “So what’s your name?” she tries.

  “Carroll Mine,” he says a little breathlessly, hoping he gets this one right.

  Left nipple justtt barelyyy missinggg his right eyelash, she drops to a squat with her arms on the small counter, not hanging from the booth in the conversational posture that he has so often witnessed in the other girls. He can’t believe how close she’s getting to him with her breasts, almost as if he were special, as if he and he alone were permitted to touch her. And this, the way she has her hands on the counter instead of above her on the woodwork, as if she really wants to talk to him and him alone.

  “I’m Stevie,” she says. “I’ve only been here a couple of days—actually this is only my second night—but I think I’ve seen you here before, right?” She stands, then puts her ass out, her head in, swaying to the music and letting her hair brush over his face so that he’ll get a noseful of her conditioner; also, she needs to gather whatever it is he says in response.

  But he only says, “I know.” He’s never smelled anything so beautiful. He’ll never forget this. Something he should ask her, maybe so, maybe so, shouldn’t ignore these things.

  She shrugs inwardly. Fine. They’re about halfway through the song, and she’s convinced that he poses no threat. This is a guy who plays strictly by the rules. She can afford to get a little closer and give the poor thing his twenty dollars’ worth, probably his lunch money for the week (why do they do it?). His head is up now, and he finally seems to be looking at least in the direction of her breasts. Good. She takes a hard and fast dive in, swooping both nipples by his lips. A millimeter. An expert. Christ, he looks like he’s going to faint. Too much. She does it again, closer. There we go. She owns him now. They just turned the corner, and she’s got him trained. It’s a small game, really kind of silly, but she knows that a lot of girls do it. It’s a point you reach in the dance, a point where you’ve got the guy . . . well, hooked, and (it is silly) you can make his head bob around any way you like. So Stevie bobs Carroll’s head a couple of times to help the time pass. Left, up, right, down, left— Stop it now! When the hell is she gonna grow up?