Strip Me Bare

by M. Never

  I wait for Emily to finish her rant, huffing and puffing a minute more before she finally relaxes.

  “Better?” I ask as the waitress places our glasses in front of us.

  “Yes,” she moans, taking another huge sip of her mimosa. “I so needed to vent.”

  “Clearly.” I smirk. Emily is always good for some entertainment. This wedding is weighing on her. But that’s what you get when you plan a Tony award-winning Broadway musical. This celebration is going to go down in history.

  “Distract me. Tell me what’s up with you?” Emily slips on a pair of designer, cat-eye sunglasses as the ends of her long, dark hair flip in the summer breeze.

  I shrug nonchalantly, staring down at my phone’s screen.

  “Alana, spill. I don’t have patience for the pitiful little rich girl act this morning.”

  “Ouch, Em.” I scrunch my nose.

  She winces. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.”

  “Clearly. Maybe you and Alex should get away for a few days, just the two of you. To remember why you’re doing this in the first place,” I suggest prickly.

  “Well, when did Ally McBeal go all Dear Abby?” She waves her mimosa all around as she speaks.

  “When her cousin decided to go all bridezilla.”

  “I’m not bridezilla.”

  “You sure about that?” I kick her under the table.

  “Ouch! Yes!” She laughs. “Maybe we’ll do that, it sounds like a good plan. Even if we just spend the night in a cabana.” She pops her eyebrows behind her dark sunglasses.

  I look away. Too far. Not ready to go there.

  “Okay, out with it. Trouble with Magic Mike?” Emily picks up on my reluctance immediately. I can’t hide a damn thing from her. Never could. She’s the one person who can read me like an open book. It’s fucking annoying. I like being ambiguous.

  “Sort of.” I bite my lip. Fuck, I didn’t want to go into this, but Emily is the only person I can talk to. About anything. Even this embarrassing subject. Is there a hole I can crawl into before this conversation begins?

  Over the last few weeks I have been reminded over and over that Ryan is the personification of sex. Like living, breathing, walking sex. And that would be no problem if I had even a fraction of the experience he’s had. But the reality is, he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with minus the disaster in college. So, that doesn’t really count, and it leaves me feeling less than inadequate. I’m used to excelling in everything. But sex? And sex with Ryan? It gives me anxiety.

  “What? Are you afraid it’s not going to be good or something?” Emily attempts to interpret.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be good,” I painfully admit. “That I’m going to be some pathetic lay compared to the women he’s been with.” That sounds so bad, but it’s the truth. I’m inexperienced and he’s a god.

  “Nonsense,” Emily snorts just as the waitress refreshes our drinks. “Let me tell you something about men, Alana. They like innocence. They like inexperience. It makes them feel like they own you in that Neanderthal kind of way. It probably puts Ryan on cloud nine knowing he’s the only one you’ve ever been with.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t really know that,” I mutter, fiddling with the stem of my glass. We never did pick up the evil demons conversation again.

  “Keeping secrets in your relationship, cuz, I don’t think Dear Abby would approve.” Emily tsks. She’s loving this. Seeing me out of my element. Struggling with my insecurities and emotions. It makes me human. She usually teases me that I’m not. That I’m a robot. And up until a month ago she wasn’t wrong. I did what I was told, when I was told, and to the best of my ability. That is how I’m conditioned to be. What my father expects of me. And maybe I retreated into that because I was hurt and alone and unhappy. But just like before, Ryan broke those chains of resistance. He freed me. Forced me to feel and proved I’d like it.

  I rub my temples, completely stressed. Here I am, once again, drifting through emotional waters with Ryan holding the ore. He always knows the direction, while I’m always struggling to figure it out. Being a robot is easy. I know what to expect. I know the direction I’m heading. Being human is . . . chaos. It’s confusion and commotion and disorder. It’s the paradox to everything I know.

  “Want a little advice?” Emily unsolicitedly offers, taking a lazy sip of her orange drink.

  “I’m not sure.” I scrunch my nose squeamishly.

  “I’m going to give it to you anyway and you can decide what to do with it.” She’s direct. “Don’t be scared. Show Ryan who’s boss, then let him break you down. Let him know you can be strong and confident and still be vulnerable when you’re together.” She gestures to sex with her hands, just to make sure I receive the message. I’m nervous, not a numbskull. I get it. “It’ll drive him fucking nuts.”

  I ponder this.

  I suppose if I’m going to take advice from anyone about guys, it’d be from Emily. Lord knows she’s been with enough of them.

  “What are you doing about BC?” she continues.

  I nibble on my lip. “I started the shot last week.” I am nothing, if not prepared.

  She nods. “Good. And him?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he clean? Does he get tested?” She asked that a little too loud. I glance around to see if anyone is eavesdropping on our conversation. That’s the last thing I need. Someone my father knows running back to him, tattling that they overheard his pristine daughter openly talking about birth control, STDs, and sex.

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “The club makes him do it every three months. You’d think he’s a fucking porn star or something,” I mutter under my breath.

  “He’s close enough,” Emily grunts.

  I glare at her through my mirrored sunglasses. “You’re as bad as Jill, sometimes.”

  “I believe she referred to them as hookers,” Emily retorts.

  “He’s not that either.” I clench my jaw. His occupation will always be a sore subject for me, but I’m stronger than I look and I can handle it, and any ridicule that gets thrown our way. Joking or not.

  “Well, anyway,” Emily changes the subject, “I’m just glad you’re being responsible.”

  “Well, thanks, Mom.” I sneer.

  “It’s what I’m here for.” She smiles, beautifully ignoring my annoyance as she motions to the waitress for another round of drinks.

  Bring it on.

  I walk up to the entrance of Culture, and like usual, Lorenzo smiles when he sees me. The doorman has taken a liking to me, and the feeling is mutual. He’s a big, warm teddy bear—when he wants to be.

  In the past I’ve waited outside for Ryan, smoked half a dozen cigarettes, and hung out with Lorenzo while he checks IDs. It’s sort of my ritual. But tonight I’m feeling bold.

  “Hey, chica.” Lorenzo grins as he shines a light on someone’s license. He’s dressed in his usual getup—black button-up shirt, black pants, and derby hat. Every time I see him I hear the lyrics to “Still Not a Player” in my head.

  “Hey, Lorenzo.” I step in front of the velvet rope and look up at him, swaying back and forth in my heels. He continues to check IDs, turning away two underage girls with fake licenses. I swear, he can spot those things a mile away.

  “Got something on your mind, girlie girl?” His light moves like a strobe back and forth over each patron’s identification.

  I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I think I’m going to go inside tonight, Lorenzo.”

  “Oh?” Lorenzo raises his eyebrows, surprised, surveying me. I’m under a spotlight now. He’s asked me several times if I wanted to go in, and every time I turned down his offer. Immediately. I was never interested in what’s behind the velvet rope, but tonight I feel differently. Tonight, I’m curious. Tonight, I want to cross boundaries and erase lines.

  After a heavy beat, Lorenzo nods and unhooks the rope. The gesture feels like the Red Sea parting. I step past him with a small, appreciative smile and hammer
ing heart, making my way straight through the front door.

  “Why does she get to just walk right in?” Someone in line yells all pissed off.

  “Because she’s VIP, ho,” Lorenzo snaps. Then his voice travels up behind me. “Shelly, no cover!”

  I look at Shelly. She’s the girl collecting money. She’s a short little thing with curly black hair that’s so shiny it looks as if it’s been doused in Soul Glow. She smiles brightly, and I catch the glint of a gold tooth on her left incisor. I smile back timidly before stepping through the two black drapes behind her. Here we go.

  Culture is one big, sprawling room packed with people. It’s a dark space with white and blue strobe lights dancing on the ceiling and half-naked men walking around everywhere in tight, little, metallic blue shorts.

  Some are dancing with women, some are carrying trays of drinks, others are suspended overhead, spinning, twirling, and flipping from aerial ribbon like Cirque du Soleil. Okay. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. But it adds a bit of taste to the risqué environment. The strip show was so much raunchier than the club’s edgy atmosphere.

  Bobbing and weaving through the dense mass of people I make my way through the room. Its crowd is dominated by mostly women, but there are some men, too. I look for Ryan, but come up empty. As I search, someone suddenly grabs my hand and spins me around. Whoa. The guilty party is a tall, dark-haired, hottie dressed in a metallic blue Speedo. The stranger slips his arm around my waist and begins to move his hips against my body. Paralyzed by momentary surprise, I allow the advance before politely pushing him away. That just felt weird. The dark-haired hottie lets go of me respectfully, but there is still a glint of persistence in his eyes.

  “Do you know where I can find Ryan Pierce?” I yell to him over the loud remix of “Died in Your Arms Tonight”.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Ryan Pierce!”

  “You mean Jack?”

  Oh, God. Yes. Yes, Jack the goddamn Stripper.

  I nod.

  He points behind me to a half wall hung with silver beads.

  “Thanks,” I mouth and head off in the direction of the beads, when I feel a tug at my arm.

  “If you can’t find Jack, you can always come find me.” He ogles. “I’m Nick.”

  I smile awkwardly, shaking my head. Okay, Nick, thanks, but no thanks. I’m a one-stripper kind of girl.

  I slip away into the crowd and head straight for the beaded wall, the smell of lavender incense assaulting my nose.

  As curious as a cat, I brush some of the heavy beads away and peek behind the curtain. I only get a glimpse inside when someone grabs my hand.

  “There’s nothing you want back there, honey.”

  I glance up and recognize Divan, AKA The Dominator. He’s dressed the same as all the other men in the club—mostly naked. He’s tall, dark, and lovely, and when he looks at me, I feel completely at ease despite his alter ego.

  “What’s back there?” I ask intrigued.

  He shakes his head, and then assertively leads me a few feet away. “Looking for Ryan?” His deep voice resonates over the music.

  “Yes, have you seen him?” I ask loudly. The beat has changed to a relentless thumping sound.

  “No, but I can ask one of the bouncers to find him. They’re all mic’d up.”

  I nod as he walks over to a guy standing in a corner who is absolutely huge, intimidating, and quite frankly a little scary. He puts his hand to his mouth to speak and the word STAFF plastered across his chest ripples as he moves.

  Still curious about the curtain of beads, I glance behind me to find Ryan sliding out with a girl on his arm. They’re laughing and smiling, and before they part she gives him a long, drawn-out kiss on the cheek. My breath catches like someone just smashed me in the chest with a brick fist. As soon as he notices me, his expression twists into an ‘oh, fuck’ face.

  Oh, fuck is right, my friend.

  His whole demeanor changes in an instant as he saunters toward me. Morphing into someone powerful and intoxicating, someone who owns every cell, and atom, and organism in the entire room. He’s different here. His eyes, his face, his energy. It’s all different from the Ryan I know outside these walls.

  In fact, he’s not Ryan at all. He’s Jack the Stripper.

  Standing there stone sober he snakes one arm around me and nuzzles his face into my hair. “I would kiss you, but I don’t want to give the other women any ideas,” he hisses in my ear.

  “Kissing is off-limits?”

  Why did I just ask that?

  “On the floor, it is.”

  Why did he answer?

  Ugh.

  I blink rapidly at Ryan. I thought I could handle this. Seeing Ryan in his element, but I’m second-guessing my judgment.

  I have all these crazy emotions and questions splitting me in two. On one hand this arrangement eats away at me, knowing he gets paid to spend time with other women. On the other hand I can’t help but be curious. What makes this so appealing? For him and for them?

  My head is spinning from the environment, the change in Ryan, and the overpowering smell of lavender radiating off his body. Not to mention the fact he just admitted that kissing is permitted behind closed doors.

  “Are you ready to go?” he digs his hip into mine. He’s dressed in jeans and a button up, unlike all the other men in the club.

  I want to say yes, because I am, but I also want to know what the fuck is behind that beaded curtain.

  I find myself trapped in a decisive moment. We’re so close to taking the next step, I have to know if I really can try with Ryan, or if I’m just fooling myself.

  “What’s back there?” I thrust my chin in the direction he just came from.

  “You really want to know?” He almost challenges me.

  I consider for a beat and then nod. Yes, I really want to know. I want to know everything. Heaven help me.

  Ryan’s eyes become intense, like two blue storms of sexuality. Holy shit. Hurricane Ryan is about to hit.

  Ryan takes my hand and leads me toward the hanging beads, my pulse accelerating with every step. For a split second I consider that maybe I don’t want to see the wizard.

  But my wavering is too late as we slip through the heavy room divider and into a hallway filled with more dangling beads. These strings are different though, all dense crystals in all different shapes and sizes with bright orange and purple lights beaming behind them. And when you look hard enough you can see the silhouettes of men and women doing scandalous things in provocative ways.

  One term comes to mind as I follow Ryan down the hallway. Champagne Room.

  We stop in front of some hanging crystals, and they clink as Ryan pushes them aside. “After you.” I feel each high-pitched sound in my spine as I walk under an orange spotlight and into a small space with a white leather couch wide enough to lie on. Ryan steps in right behind me, pressing his body flush against mine. My mind races as he wastes no time.

  Is he really going to do this?

  Am I really going to let him?

  Can I even handle this? Five minutes ago he was with another woman. Quite possibly in this same room doing God only knows what.

  “Why do you do this, Ryan?” I expel. I know he explained it in words, but I need to experience it to truly understand.

  He ambles around me so closely, the only thing separating us is a whisper of air.

  “I told you, the money,” he responds as he unbuttons his shirt.

  “You said women, too.” I watch him cautiously, my gaze jumping between his eyes and his chest.

  “That was before you walked back into my life. You’re the only woman I want to touch now. The others, like you saw, it’s just an act. A business transaction.”

  “Doesn’t it make them feel used?” I flick my eyes up at him.

  “It mustn’t. They always come back.”

  “You like it. I saw your face. That wasn’t an act.”

  Ryan stands right in front of me, hi
s shirt unbuttoned and dangling open. “I won’t lie to you, Alana, I’ll never lie to you.” His tone is hard, but seductive. “I do like the attention, but it’s not real. It’s my job to sell attractiveness and fantasy, and I do it well. But that’s all it is, fantasy, and I know it. When I’m with you, that’s my real.”

  My breath catches when he says the word real. I can’t help but find the irony in his words. I’m exactly to him what he is to me. Two people, one and the same, both living a double life to get what they want—a future, and each other.

  And that is what I want. A future, with Ryan.

  I try to place my hands on his chest, but he steps away shaking his head. “In this room, it’s all about you.” He ambles around, stopping right behind me. “You have to tell me what you want, Alana,” he whispers in my ear, and I almost go limp, the sound of his voice is erotic as hell.

  I swallow hard, but can’t utter a word, because, truth be told, I have no freakin’ idea what I want. At least, not in this scenario.

  Ryan starts to rub my shoulders, I’m positive he can feel my hesitation.

  “Why are you so tense? This is supposed to be fun.”

  Fun? The word rattles around in my head. Fun—a time or feeling of enjoyment or amusement. Something I so rarely experience.

  Okay, let’s have some fun.

  I turn around to face Ryan and our eyes lock. “Show me.”

  “Show you what?” his tone dripping with sensuality.

  “Show me Jack the Stripper.”

  Holy fuck!

  His chest starts to heave as his breathing becomes heavy. Ryan pushes me down, and I land on the edge of the white couch with a little bounce. As he slips his shoes off, I vaguely hear music playing in the background. A trippy remix of Muse’s “Madness.” The melody sounds like something straight out of a Quentin Tarantino movie. I think it’s louder than I perceive, but I’m not sure. This whole situation is clouding my head.

  Ryan begins to move, snaking his body to the dark rhythm. Slowly, he slides his shirt down his arms and drops it onto the floor, exposing his well-defined chest. It’s hard and toned and looks slick, like he rubbed baby oil all over it. Then he starts with his pants, undoing the button of his jeans with one deft, smooth flick. After that, he leisurely slides down his fly, teasing me with glimpses of his shiny blue briefs. His body is so agile and provisioned, each move tuned to exhilarate my senses. And exhilarate them it does. Because now he’s standing in front of me, one article short of naked.