Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  I dry my hands on my skirt (the towel-holder is empty), return to the fray which is easier said than done, since the wet tee shirt competition is just about to start and more men are pouring in to see the fun – Fun. (It has to have its capital.) When I at last reach our table, Angelique is talking to a foreign-looking man, tall and rather striking.

  “No, Reuben,” she’s saying. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve told you no before.”

  I’m intrigued. Is he propositioning her, trying to wean her from her pit boss? I suddenly feel jealous. This man has some quality I’ve never seen before – an intensity, a seriousness, a sort of fire and passion which has nothing to do with sex. You can see it in his eyes which seem too large for his thin and sallow face, staring fiercely out of it, burning up everything they light on. He can’t be more than twenty-five or so, but he looks older because of the expression in those eyes, one of suffering, oppression. He’s wearing ordinary blue jeans and a matching denim jacket, except they don’t look ordinary on him, but daring and original, especially in this setting where most people are dressed up. He’s very thin, as if he’s burnt up all spare flesh in action and conviction. His hands, too, are long and lean, and he uses them a lot, gesturing, appealing, stroking back his thick dark hair, rubbing at his chin. He hasn’t shaved for a day or two and his chin and jaw are shadowed, which makes him look not slobby, but somehow vulnerable.

  Angelique hasn’t introduced me. Some girls are like that – don’t want the guy themselves, but heaven help you if you try and snap him up. Actually, they’re both ignoring me, still deep in conversation. Angelique seems angry, almost scared. I can feel her vibes affecting me, making me not angry, but restless and excited. I bang my glass around a bit to remind them both I’m there. At last, he seems to see me, turns in my direction. I smile. He doesn’t, just keeps his eyes focused on my face. I can feel myself flaming as if his glance is fire, reducing me to ash, burning away all pretence and affectation. Angelique is silent, so I introduce myself. “I’m Carole,” I say, unsteadily. “Carole Joseph.” I no longer need to change my name. I want to be myself.

  “Jewish.”

  He isn’t asking, merely stating. His voice is very low, intimate and urgent, as if we’re sharing in some secret, or he’s telling me the password. I don’t say “just a quarter” as I usually do. He’s obviously Jewish himself with a name like Reuben, and those deep brown burning eyes, so why make myself three-quarters different from him? I simply nod.

  He rubs his chin. “From England.”

  “Yes,” I say, though it wasn’t a question, just another statement.

  “Staying here or visiting?” His voice is very deep. The American accent is barely noticeable, and is overlaid with something else. He seems to have pared down the language to its shortest simplest components as if he’s short of time, doesn’t want to waste it, or is used to giving orders.

  “Visiting,” I answer. For the first time in five days, I wish I could say “staying”.

  “How long?”

  “Ssh,” says Angelique. “It’s starting now.”

  I long to escape, sneak out with Reuben on my own, creep away from the racket and hysteria, have him to myself. This man is something special – I know that in my veins – the unique and different man I knew I had to find. He’s talking about Israel. I can hardly make the words out, but I can hear the fervour in them, see the passion and conviction in his face. Those other guys like Jake and Milt were playboys. I just clutched at them because I was feeling lost and lonely. Reuben’s in a different class entirely – young, good-looking, serious, obviously intelligent, and concerned with things beyond mere greed and gambling. He’s questioning me again. I crane forward to hear, but his words are scuppered in the fat man’s spiel.

  “Now any of you lovely girls who wanna get involved in our tee shirt competition, all you have to do is come up here and give me your names. Don’t worry if you haven’t got a tee shirt. We’ll supply one. We’ve got hundreds – big, small, very big. We love the big ones, don’t we, guys? There’s a prize for the biggest, don’t forget, but also for the smallest, the cutest, the best shaped nipples and … Sit down, Sir. There’s a security guard standing right behind you and you should see where he hits. You’ll be the winner of the next no-ball prize.” (Screams of raucous laughter, including the fat man’s own.) “My name’s Leroy. That’s a black’s name, isn’t it? No, I’m not a black, but my mother loved ’em, couldn’t get enough. Ha ha ha. Anyone out there with a wife or girlfriend who’s a little shy, just push her up on stage. We’ll wet her down and show everyone her titties. Look at all those horny guys sittin’ in the front row. Smile if you’re horny, guys. Great! Every goddamn guy is smilin’.”

  I feel embarrassed for Reuben. He’s not smiling, hardly seems to be listening at all. He’s still sitting next to Angelique (though she’s turned her chair away), and is scribbling on a folded bit of paper, his brows drawn down, his profile sad and stern. I think Jesus would have looked like that. I know the pictures show Him as a wimp, with long blond curls and clutching little lambs (or lilies), but He was obviously dark if He came from Palestine, and I’m pretty sure He looked haunted and oppressed when you think of all His problems.

  Angelique is nudging me. “Go on.”

  “What?” I say. I’m so obsessed with Jesus Reuben, I think she means take his hand, solve his problems, join his Church.

  “Get up there and give Leroy your name, hon. This is your big chance.”

  I shake my head. I’m even more opposed now. I want Reuben to regard me as someone cool and dignified, an apostle, a disciple, as serious as he is. They’re anything but serious on stage. They’ve dragged on a children’s plastic paddling pool and are handing out tee shirts and bikini bottoms to a troupe of giggly entrants.

  Leroy is bawling through the microphone again. “Hundreds of girls want to be in showbiz. Well, this could be your break, girls. Look at that great audience out there – impresarios, theatre owners, motion-picture producers, all pantin’ to spot new talent, snap you up. And even the regular guys will all be rootin’ for you. Come on, guys, get your wallets out, unroll those dollar bills. I wanna see you all go crazy tonight. It’s the first time for most of these girls and they’re nervous as all hell. I hope we get some pretty ones, but we take on anyone. We can’t say no. Last week, the winner had only one tit. We gave her the prize for most original. Ha ha ha. Right, who wants to see some action?”

  Screams of “yeah”, wolf whistles, glasses banged on tables.

  “The first girl to appear in our contest is” – he consults his list – “Dolores. Everyone clap Dolores. Isn’t she a looker?”

  No, she’s not. She’s rather plain and scraggy with the sort of thin straight thighs which have a gap between them at the top. Her hair is pretty, granted – long and fair and curly – but it’s breasts, not hair, which count, and hers are barely pushing out her tee shirt. She looks pale and numb with fear, cowering at one corner of the stage, still clutching an old brown handbag and her shoes. Leroy takes them from her, shoves her forward.

  “Say ‘Happy New Year’, Dolores.”

  “Happy New Year.” Her voice is just a whisper, choked and swallowed up.

  “Everyone say ‘Happy New Year, Dolores’.”

  “Happy New Year, Dolores.” We chant it after Teacher.

  “Where you from, curly?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “And what d’you do in Connecticut, Dolores?”

  “I’m a secretary.”

  “That’s a very noble profession. How many guys out there would like Dolores as their secretary?”

  More shouts, whoops, “yeah yeah” s.

  “Ever seen a place like this before, hon?”

  “Er … no.”

  “Well, we’re gonna wet you down. The guys do that. In fact, they have to fight for the privilege. See this bucket of water, hon? We auction it to the highest bidder and he gets to throw it over you. Okay? It’s not cold, I promise
, only melted ice. Ha ha. Once you’re wet, you have to dance around, okay – really show your titties off. We’ll play some real fast music to warm you up and you get shakin’, hon. Right? Now, who’ll start the biddin’ for the chance of gettin’ in the act with Dolores here? You can go back home, guys, and brag to your friends that you threw a pail of water over the new James Bond girl or the future Miss World. That’s what happens to the girls who win at Ritzy’s. They go on to make the big time – names in lights, legs insured for a hundred thousand bucks. You, sir? Right. Are you from the convention? How many guys here from the convention? Put your hands up. Great! Welcome to Ritzy’s. You gotta bid against each other, you convention members, really screw up the excitement.”

  I’m shocked. It’s just a way of extorting cash – more cash. They’ve rooked the girls, now they’re fleecing the guys. Mind you, the men don’t seem to object. They’re bankrupting themselves just for the chance of pouring water over an underdeveloped high-school kid who hasn’t shaved her legs.

  Five dollars, ten, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty … At last the bidding stops. An old greyhead in a stetson frolics on to the stage, his buddies yelling obscene encouragement. Dolores looks terrified, begins to murmur something, when – WHOOSH! – she’s just a dripping, choking, miserable drowned rat; water streaming from her nose and eyes, running down her thin white legs. Even the fair curls have disappeared. Her hair is dark and straight now. You can see her nipples standing out very sharp and clear as the wet fabric clings to them. The breasts themselves are hardly there. Perhaps she’ll win the smallest, or the shyest. She’s turned her back, is trying to shake off both water and embarrassment.

  “Come on, Dolores! This is your big night. All these folks here wanna see your titties, wanna see you dance.”

  She dances – well, makes a stab at it. A few men throw dollar bills, but the bulk of them are obviously disappointed.

  “She entered once before,” Angelique whispers to me. “Didn’t win. Not a hope in hell. I think she’s desperate for the cash, though. She’s only a kid, still lives at home with her parents. Her mother gambles and her father’s out of work. They’re all losers in that family.”

  I watch with new compassion. Yes, the girl looks defeated and defensive even while she’s dancing. Leroy tries hard to fire her.

  “Work that body, girl, work that body! Come on, do it for Leroy. You guys out there gotta give her more support. Or d’you wanna go home to your wives and fifteen kids? That’s right, Sir, make it worth her while. Now how many guys wanna see Dolores take her top off?”

  The shouts increase in volume now. I almost spill my drink, claw at Angelique. “You mean they have to strip?”

  “Some do, yeah. It’s nothing, just a bit of fun.”

  I watch, astonished, as Dolores struggles out of her wet and clinging tee shirt. Her breasts look even smaller with it off, though the audience are cheering and applauding, much freer with their money now. Dolores collects up all the bills, stuffs them in her handbag, gives a hasty bow, gallops out. That’s it.

  Leroy is already introducing the next girl. No, not a girl – it’s Grandma – Grandma Eunice. I can’t believe my eyes. She must be sixty-five at least, yet she’s changed into mini-shorts and a tee shirt with an Aladdin’s lamp emblazoned on the front, and the words “RUB GENTLY” spelt out across her breasts. They’re quite some breasts, in fact – large, well-shaped, imposing.

  “Say ‘Happy New Year, folks’, Eunice.”

  She really shouts it out. She’s obviously a pro, flirting with Leroy, pushing out her tits, tweaking at the nipples.

  “Eunice tells me she may have a little snow on the rooftop, but her furnace is still burning down below. You bet it is! Now, are there any Orientals in the house? We get a lot of Japanese in here. Actually, they don’t give a shit about the girls. They’re just missin’ their cameras. Ha ha ha. Look at that one, stickin’ out his tongue. D’ you like Orientals, Eunice?”

  Eunice grins, shakes her head.

  “No, she don’t like Orientals. Too small pee-pee. Ha ha ha ha ha.” Leroy goes near hysterical, slapping his fat sides. “Grandma likes ’em big and black, don’t you, Grandma? This is black night. Any blacks out there wanna drench our Eunice? We‘re gonna need a fire-hose to wet her down. She’s got a lot of titty and she’s got a lot of guts. Right, get movin’, guys. Grandma loves you.”

  The bidding goes much higher, right up to fifty bucks, but it’s a Japanese who wins, not a black. He looks scared to death, peering through his thick-lensed glasses as Leroy leads him up on stage; a tiny trembling guy in a formal pin-striped suit complete with waistcoat and silk handkerchief, standing next to Eunice in her beach-gear. I have to laugh.

  “Come on, get in closer, Shogun. You can’t see from there. She won’t eat you. Well, maybe she will. This lady likes cock more than cookies. Now watch it, Sir. No honourable karate chops or any of that kinda shit. You’re here to wet her down, not make her.”

  In the end, the Japanese pours only half the water before ducking back to the safety of his seat. Perhaps he’s scared a ten-foot black will lynch him. At least Grandma’s breasts are wet and looking huge, their outline and the nipples clearly visible. The men go wild, throwing money on the stage, wolf-whistling and cheering, Leroy louder than them all.

  “Isn’t she great? She says she’s got seven grandchildren, but she still likes makin’ babies herself. Ha ha ha. Work that body, Eunice, swing it round. How many guys wanna see her take her top off?”

  All of them, judging by the noise. I’m appalled. Eunice is at least twenty-odd years older than my mother and she’s going to take her top off. And not just her top. She’s actually stepping out of her shorts, parading naked-chested in just her black lace panties. Black lace on a grandma! Her breasts don’t droop at all, though. She must have had surgery and silicone. But the rest of her is flabby – wobbly thighs, folds of slack flesh drooping from her upper arms, more flab on her back. The men don’t seem to mind. All eyes are on her breasts still. She shakes and swings them, squeezes them together, prances down the catwalk, pushing her nipples right against male faces. The cheers crescendo.

  “How many guys wanna see her take her panties off?”

  “No!” I gasp it out aloud, hardly realise what I’m doing. Her hair is white and thinning. She has seven grandchildren. She can’t, she simply can’t.

  She does, she is. She moves like Cheryl, like Alexis, wiggling her whole body as she eases off her panties. Her pubic hair is sparse, not white, but mousy brown. Everything is old, except her breasts, saggy-old and drooping. Perhaps she needs the money for more cosmetic surgery – on her hips, bottom, face, eyelids, arms. Even her hands are a give-away, the veins too prominent, the fingers slightly stiffened from arthritis. Yet she’s jigging and cavorting like the youngest of the strippers, thrusting with her hips, rotating her whole pelvis, gasping and heaving out her passion. The music pants along with her, a love-moan from the saxophone, a slow roll to climax from the drums; the lights drape her nakedness; now red, now blue, now silver. Several men have joined her on the catwalk, are touching up her nipples, even licking them, stroking her bare flesh, showering her with dollars. Finally, she more or less collapses, gives one last heavy-breathing wiggle, then totters off, hugging all the cash.

  Leroy stops cheering to check his list. “Right, Wanda’s next. Anyone seen Wanda? No, Wanda’s wandered off. Ha ha. Okay, we’ll have Marie. Where’s Marie?”

  No Marie. No Wanda.

  “They’ve chickened out,” says Angelique. “They often do – lose their nerve when it’s actually their turn. Why don’t you go up instead, hon? You’ve seen the standard – not that marvellous, is it?”

  Actually, I was thinking just the same. If those guys could be so generous to an old age pensioner, then … No. I’ve said no and I mean it. Those demonstrators are probably still outside, starving now and freezing, yet committed to their cause. How can I let them down, make myself a sex object, betray what t
hey’d call my sisters?

  I watch Eunice swank back to her seat. She’s my sister, too, and her bag won’t shut for all the dollar bills. You could say she’s got guts, sense enough to grab her chances, cash in on her assets. I mean, a fortune just for taking off her clothes. Aren’t I crazy not to try it? After all, it’s no great deal. They’re topless on most European beaches now, and I needn’t take the rest off. Funny, though, I want to in a way. One crazy little bit of me is panting to go wild for once. You never can at home. There’s always somebody you know disapproving, or holding you in check. Here, I don’t know anyone – well, Angelique, but she’s all in favour, anyway. In fact, she told me that what she really likes about the States is that people are much freer than in England, ready to have fun and let their hair down, less governed by convention and what’s “done”. Why should some concave-chested spoilsport and a flabby over-sixty-five have all the men slavering and applauding while I moulder here with no one even noticing I’ve got tits?

  Reuben’s scribbling still, deaf to the music, blind to the stage, deaf and blind to me. At least if I got up, it might distract him. And would he really be so shocked? After all, he’d hardly come to a place like this if he were prudish and straitlaced. And if he’s a friend of Angelique, then he’s used to dancers, girls who flaunt their bodies. Okay, I know he looks like Jesus, but even Jesus was broad-minded, went around with Mary Magdalen who did worse than simply dance.

  I check the stage again. There’s another woman up there and I haven’t even noticed, despite the crashy music, the dazzle from the lights. She looks rather shy and nervous, with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders and her arms hugged right across her chest. She isn’t even wearing shorts, let alone bikini bottoms, but still has her creased old denim skirt on and short white high-school socks. Socks at a strip joint – crazy. The bidding’s pretty slow, sticks at fifteen dollars, which I suppose reflects her unerotic gear. If you’re allowed to keep your skirt on, then mine would be ideal, very tight with two high slits, and I’m wearing stockings and a suspender belt. That would turn them on, judging by the dancing girls who all wore suspenders and made a great play with their stockings.