Troika

by Adam Pelzman

  Now, that’s another thing I don’t let happen. All this time at the club, I never did come once. A couple of times I got real close, right to the edge where it almost feels like an orgasm but isn’t, just a little flutter, a tease, and not very satisfying. But I never did make it all the way no matter how close I got. I always, how do they say? Detach. I detach and that makes it stop. I get the hell out of the moment. But with Julian I don’t have time, ’cause it happens so fast, and the problem is that once you cross a line—it’s different for every girl, that line—but once you cross a certain line there’s not a damn thing you can do to cross back. And that’s what happens. So I dig my face real deep into his neck, bite him a little bit ’cause my body’s not following orders.

  The whole thing lasts just a minute or so, but who knows for sure ’cause it’s hard to judge time when your body doesn’t behave. But when I’m finished, I go real still, still like a corpse. And that’s the moment when Julian surprises me again, ’cause most guys right then will start pressing against me, grab my hand, rub it over their pants until they get off. But Julian does something different. He puts his arms around me, around my back, and strokes my skin with his fingertips, so light and airy that I get little bumps all over and I feel the tiny hairs stand up straight. And the chills, little shock waves, run through my entire body, and even though the music is pounding loud and our time’s up, I just want to fall asleep right there with the man.

  I try to fight the sleep, but it’s hard to do with the orgasm running through my blood. And I’m already so damn tired from being on my feet all day, dancing in these ridiculous heels, that I close my eyes. I rest my head on his shoulder. I go limp and drift off. I don’t sleep long, but real fast and deep, just a minute of perfect darkness before I wake up, before Julian taps me on the shoulder and whispers something in my ear I don’t understand. Just a minute of perfect darkness before he pulls me out of a place I really had no business going.

  BLINK, THERE I GO

  I’m young, just turned twenty-three, so I’ve only worked a couple clubs so far. There’s different types of places down here in south Florida. There’s the real high-end clubs, like Pink Flamingo or Jubilee, with valet parking and the best DJs, top-shelf liquor and lots of pretty girls—Russians, Colombians, Brazilians, and gorgeous black girls. And those places are sort of intimidating for me. Seems like most of the men who come in are either real rich or pretending they’re real rich, and a lot of those men, for reasons I just don’t understand, are not too nice.

  The other reason I don’t like those clubs, the fancy ones, is ’cause I got the wrong look. I mean I’m pretty and all, and I never had a problem attracting men. I got a body that’s better than ninety percent of the girls out there, but compared to the girls in a top place, the girls who are on the circuit, who fly around the country from club to club, compared to them I don’t quite cut it. First thing is I got small tits, and that’s the way I like it. Most of the girls got fake ones, and that’s what the customers want. So when they see me, and I’m standing next to a girl who’s got DDs and they’re pointing to the ceiling, well, there’s no way they go with the girl with the B cups, ’cause that’s what they get at home.

  And I got a pretty face, no doubt about it, but a customer once told me it’s not stripper pretty. I didn’t know what he meant when he said it, and I’m still not sure what it means, but I think what he was getting at is that I don’t have a slutty look, don’t look like I’m gonna get down on my knees and suck their dick. What I got is a look clean and serious that says boundaries, which some guys seem to like ’cause it’s safe for them. And not just safe, but a challenge too. But most guys when they come to a strip club they’re not looking for boundaries. They’re looking for green lights.

  At the bottom are the hole-in-the-walls, clubs that are real dark and skanky. All the men in these places are felons. The staff and the customers. They’re huddling in the corners, in the dark, exchanging little bags, whispering, maybe showing off the handle of a gun. Every girl in one of these dumps is a hot mess: crack whores, meth sluts, whatever. They dance for a guy, get a twenty, go to the back lot, hand the dealer the cash, and smoke a rock next to the dumpster. Sometimes a nice guy walks in, doesn’t understand the place, and he walks out without his wallet, his money, sometimes his teeth.

  The place I’m at, Paris Nights, is somewhere in the middle, and that’s how I like it. Not too fancy and not too sleazy. It’s a small place right off the highway, a few miles from the beach. Best thing I like about it is Schultz, ’cause he’s good with the girls. Lots of places, the head bouncer’s got his hands all over you, groping, grabbing, slapping, asking for a blow job, demanding it really, and threatening your job if you don’t give it to him. But not with Schultz. The man’s a gentleman.

  But it’s not perfect, of course. I mean, with this type of job, even at its best, how good can it be? The place is filled with smoke so thick that sometimes it’s hard to see the other side of the room. Now, I don’t smoke, but I’m inhaling that crap eight hours a day, six days a week. Another problem is that they keep the place freezing, blasting the AC, and I’m always chilly, goose bumps everywhere. And it’s not like you’re working in a library, so forget about putting on a sweater or a long-sleeved shirt. But the smoke and the cold, that’s not only for Paris Nights. It’s like that at all the places, though I hear Pink Flamingo just got a new ventilation system and you can’t even smell the smoke there.

  And at most of these clubs, even the high-end ones, there’s girls who do a lot more than just dance. Now, I’m a stripper and that’s it. No sex, no hand jobs, no blow jobs, nothing. They can touch my tits and grab my ass, and that’s it. But some of the other girls do more than strip, and they’re nothing but low-rent hookers. They go to the Champagne Room or the back lot and get a guy off. The girls who are tricking usually got their pimps right in the club with them, and most of the out-of-towners don’t know what’s really going on. They don’t know that the guy sitting by himself in the corner sipping on a soda, checking his phone constantly, keeping his eye on just one girl, maybe two, they don’t realize that this guy’s looking after his investment. And those are guys you don’t want to cross. Heartless, every one of them. The pimps are always recruiting, trying to pick up new girls to work for them, so a girl like me has to be careful. I stay clear of them, don’t give them even the smallest opening, and once they learn there’s no chance, they leave me alone. One time, I had a pimp get aggressive with me, so I just had Schultz give him a little talk, man to man, and that was the end of that.

  Like I said, there’s all types of customers at the club, some types you never knew existed, and there’s times when I think it’s interesting, this job, ’cause I get to see more of the world than anyone else, except for maybe a pilot or a diplomat. The other day a guy comes in wearing a white turban, mid-fifties is my guess, proud-looking with a long white beard and gold rings on each pinky. I can tell the second he walks in that there’s something regal about the man, and sure enough it turns out he’s a wealthy Sikh. Well, I see Lopez eyeing him, but I’m always one step ahead of that bitch, and I slip my arm around him before Lopez can even get her bony, tattooed ass off the bar stool.

  I introduce myself, say my name’s Perla, it’s a pleasure. Now, most strippers use a stage name, and there’s a few reasons why. First is, maybe their real name isn’t so sexy. If you were born with a name like Bertha or Harriet, one your parents gave you when you were a baby and they had no idea you’d end up in this line of work, then I don’t care how hot you are ’cause you’re just not making as much money as a Crystal or a Jasmine. That’s Marketing 101, and you don’t have to go to business school to know that. But Perla’s my real name, I was born with it and it’s just fine for stripping and it’s also good for the real world, so there’s really no need to make a change.

  Next thing is some girls change their name for privacy. Now, that’s something I never did unders
tand. True or fake, you’re only giving out your first name, no last names, so how this gives you any more privacy I got no idea. And if someone from your neighborhood happens to walk into the club and sees you shaking your booty on the stage, then it doesn’t matter what you call yourself ’cause they know exactly who you are. Some of the girls even use a few different names in case there’s another dancer in the club with the same one. It happens all the time. You just can’t have three Crystals tripping over each other on the way to the main stage—but that would be real funny to see, a bunch of strippers in their high heels falling over each other, money flying everywhere. So you always need a backup to avoid the confusion.

  So, this man in the turban puts out his hand and shakes mine, tells me his name is Singh, and I don’t know if that’s his first name or his last, but I can tell by the way he says it, real quick and proud, that he’s telling the truth. Not that I care, but it says a lot about a man when he tells you his real name. Anyway, I say Singh, it’s your lucky day, ’cause this pretty girl is buying you a drink. And even though he’s got dark skin, I see him blush a bit and he says thanks but I don’t drink. So I laugh. You mean you never drink alcohol or you never drink any liquids? In which case you’ve got some issues you need to be dealing with, serious medical issues. And he smiles and says of course I drink—water, juice and tea.

  I wave to Jade and she walks over to our table and says what can I do for you? I give Singh a peck on the cheek and say my turbaned friend here would like a bottle of water. And I shake my head in a way that says Jade, if he offers to pay, please don’t play the hundred-dollar joke on this man, ’cause I don’t think he can handle it. Jade knows exactly what my look means and she nods and says two waters and they’re on the house.

  Singh is awkward in the way that an older guy gets around a hot, young girl, and it’s hard for him to make conversation. I see this a lot, so I try to loosen him up, ask him where he’s from. Kashmir, which he says is a region in India or Pakistan, depends on who you ask. You married? He shakes his head, twists his lips and I get no response.

  You got kids? Singh’s face lights up and he says three, two girls and one boy, the oldest girl in medical school and the two younger in college and getting straight A’s. His boy’s on the squash team at Harvard, which even a girl like me knows is enough to make a father proud. Though God knows there’s tons of assholes from Harvard and I’ve met my fair share, even fucked one once. (He was a lousy lay, not that he had a clue.) The younger girl’s studying economics in London and has a boyfriend that Singh tells me is too ambitious by half. Too ambitious by half? I ask. And Singh smiles and says the boy just wants too much out of life, never satisfied, and a man like that scares us. He pauses, mumbles something I can’t hear and bites his lower lip. Then he corrects himself. Me, that scares me.

  That little slip-up with us and me makes me think there used to be a wife. Now, I want to ask him about her. Did she leave or did he leave or did she die? But there’s certain things a girl like me doesn’t ask. I got my boundaries and the men got their own boundaries and it’s my job to know when to stop, and something about the man makes me back off. A tremble in the lip when I asked the question, vague answers, the mistake with us. I catch everything, you know, but something makes me think that she died and it was probably real recent and maybe unexpected, or maybe it was after a long illness and they saw it coming.

  I feel some compassion for the man and I ask him if he wants to go to the VIP Room, maybe even the Champagne Room. I point over to the far wall and tell him I’ll make him feel real good, even give him a couple of songs for free, which isn’t something I normally do. Singh smiles, scratches his beard and says I already feel real good and I have you to thank, and he takes out a hundred and hands it to me, slow and careful, like that kids’ game where you carry an egg on a spoon. And then he gets up, bows real respectful and walks right out of the club. Just like that, he’s gone.

  Now, I’ve never been to India or Pakistan, never even been out of the country except if you count Cuba, which I don’t ’cause that’s where I’m from, not where I went. So here I am, getting to meet a real live Sikh and have a nice conversation with the man. And in some weird way I get to travel around the world—virtual travel like in some sci-fi movie. Blink, there I go. Blink, I’m back. Blink, gone. Blink, back. Blink, blink.

  SOME FOOL

  After that first night in the Champagne Room, I don’t see Julian for I’m guessing two months. And even though we had a real intense moment there, I try to forget him the second he leaves the club. That’s how I do it. I shut it down fast, ’cause most of the time you never see the good ones again. The creeps, for some reason they’re regulars. There’s a smelly lawyer who comes around every damn night it seems, stained pants and bad breath with teeth all crooked, but he’s got tons of money, so what can you do. But for a guy like Julian, you know it’s just a little escape for him, gets him fixed up and sets him off on the road all clear and focused. It’s like getting a B-12 shot, but even better.

  Then one night Julian walks in a few minutes before my shift ends, around quarter of nine. I’m on the stage, tired from working all day, barely moving, and everything’s looking foggy around me. I usually wear these grips on the soles of my platforms so I don’t slip on the stage. But both of them fell off—they don’t last too long—and now sure enough I’m sliding around like I’m on an ice rink. I’ll get new grips tomorrow, but the best thing I can do for now is stay close to the pole, keep my balance, and that’s what I do. But when I see Julian come in, it’s like a current runs through me, takes me out of my funk and suddenly I got my bounce back. There’s a big smile on my face and looks like he’s got one too, though it’s hard to tell ’cause of the lights and the smoke and the darkness.

  He walks over to the edge of the stage and I put out my leg. He holds my leg, my lower leg, and he pulls out my garter and wraps a one-dollar bill around it. Now, I know it’s a joke and he knows that I know it’s a joke, which makes it even funnier. He snaps the garter real hard against my thigh, like a rubber band, and ooh, it hurts in a nice way. And that snap on my flesh makes my mind real sharp and alert.

  I finish up on the stage ’cause it’s time for the new girl, Shanna, to come up. Shanna’s the flavor of the month, black girl, little tits, real ditzy like a blonde on a sitcom but she’s not blonde, and I like her. She’s impossible not to like. So I put my clothing back on, though there’s not much of it really so it doesn’t take long, and sit down next to Julian. I give him a playful peck on the cheek, my signature move, and he puts his hand down on my thigh real nice. Then I pick it up, his hand, and hold it to the light to see if he’s got the indentation. All clear, I say, and he smiles ’cause he knows exactly what I’m doing. But part of me doesn’t believe the guy, ’cause he’s so cute and seems like he’s got some money, so what’s he doing without a ring and a wife?

  The clock on the wall—that’s the one they go by for figuring out the shifts—says five minutes before nine. And that means I got to be off the floor real quick or I’m paying for more time. That’s how it works here. The girls pay a house fee to dance, seventy-five bucks a shift, and if you go over, you’re coughing up more dough. Be right back, I say, don’t go anywhere ’cause I’m just getting my stuff. I make a run for the changing room and Julian taps his seat like he’s staying, then I say on second thought meet me in the lot out back, that’s where I park my car.

  Now, there’s some girls who think twenty steps ahead, always playing things out in their mind and preparing for all sorts of different outcomes. But right now, I’m not that girl. And I’m not even thinking one step ahead. The only thing I’m thinking is that I’m just real happy to see Julian, I’ve been real lonely lately, and maybe we can go get a bite to eat and talk a bit, something normal. Since I started dancing, there were only a couple of times I met a customer outside the club. Real sweet guys, both of them, and that’s the only reason I did it. Not
hing much happened with either of them, just a nice meal and some good conversation—two people making a little connection for a couple of hours then going on with their lives. But you have to be real careful ’cause there’s some serious freaks out there, and it’s rare for me to get such a good sense about a guy that I’m open to taking a chance.

  First girl I see when I get in the locker room is Lopez, the nasty bitch, and a new girl from Poland or Ukraine or someplace like that. I got a problem with those girls from Eastern Europe, all stuck-up and gold diggers, every one of them. I move real fast, get my civilian clothes on: jeans, T-shirt, flats. I’ve been wearing platforms with five-inch fuck-me heels, so there’s no way I can do anything but flats outside the club. I brush my hair out, a bit of mouthwash, some eyeliner and I’m done.

  In the back lot, which is where they make the girls park, I’m half expecting not to see Julian, but there he is leaning against his rental car, a white boxy thing that looks like something an undercover drives. And I’m thinking maybe he parked in back by mistake or maybe parked here on purpose ’cause he didn’t want anyone seeing him out on the front lot, which is right on a main road and real visible. Or maybe he just pulled around quick while I was getting ready. Anyway, he’s got his arm resting on the roof and he’s got a funny look on his face. He pats the roof with his hand and says sexy wheels, right? Damn right, I say, hotter than a Porsche. I lean close, press up against him real tight and give him a hug.

  Julian leans back against the car and he does this thing with my hair, wraps a strand around my ear, fixes me up. What did you have in mind? he asks. And I say, Julian, I’m a little hungry, haven’t had a bite to eat all day, and maybe we can go find a place and have some food. He nods, looks at me likes he’s thinking hard, like he doesn’t know if he should say what he wants, something real risky, or if he should play it safe. Some food? Julian asks. Yup, and I wink, just some food and nothing else. Then he takes a big breath and lets it out, smiles, sort of embarrassed, and says I was thinking that maybe we could go back to my hotel, hang out and get some room service. He waits a sec to see my response, which is nothing. And I promise to be a gentleman, I swear.