Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  It takes me a minute to recognize the long, thin shape hanging from his shorts for what it is. He sees the recognition on my face and spreads his legs wider, pulling up the waist of his shorts with one hand. The other hand lays a dollar on the stage. The shape dangles.

  I shudder in revulsion. I ignore the dollar and stomp my foot down hard on the stage to get Damon’s attention. The bouncer looks up at me and I tilt my head, beckoning.

  Damon hurries over.

  “The dude at the end of the stage has his penis hanging out of his shorts,” I say.

  Damon’s eyes widen as his head turns sharply to look. Old dude grins at him, too, not even trying to hide.

  “What the …” Damon walks over and lays one firm hand on old dude’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy, you’re outta here.”

  When the man stands his shorts ride up even further, revealing greying pubic hair and one testicle. I look away.

  “Cover yourself up or I’ll have you arrested,” Damon barks.

  “But isn’t that what these bitches are for?” old dude whines.

  Damon hauls him to the exit, none too gently. “Get the fuck out.” He pushes hard enough that the guy stumbles. “And don’t come back.”

  I leave the dollar on the stage. That’s zero for two sets. Lovely. I head to the smokers’ lounge to see if anyone is back there playing pool. I want someone to buy me a drink and talk to me like a normal person.

  Sadie and Veronica are the only people in the smoking room. Sadie pulls up a chair and offers me a cigarette.

  “I just had some homeless-looking guy flash me his dick,” I inform them.

  “Ewwww!” “Gross!” they say in tandem.

  “Why do men think we want to see that shit?” Veronica asks rhetorically.

  “Maybe he was just some old pervert,” I say. “Mentally ill.”

  “Or maybe he can only get off by forcing women to look at his junk,” Sadie counters.

  I shudder, but a crowd of guys comes in at that moment and we all straighten. It turns out that they’re good for a round of drinks. The DJ opens the stage in the smoking lounge.

  Several songs later I take the stage. One of the guys comes over with a handful of dollars. I crawl across toward him and catch the silver stud through my tongue between my teeth. Flicking my tongue makes the stud dart like a snake, clicking rhythmically against my teeth. He watches the metal flash, hypnotized.

  “What else you got pierced?” he asks.

  I just laugh, letting him wonder.

  “I have a Jacob’s ladder,” he says.

  “What’s that?” I ask naively.

  Before I even know what’s happening, he turns his back on me, drops his trousers, and bends over. More piercings than I can count at a glance run from the base of his testicles all the way up the shaft of his penis.

  I gasp in surprise.

  “Bet that would feel good,” he says pulling up his pants.

  “I can’t imagine,” I say weakly, pulling the strap of my G-string out for the dollars.

  At the end of my set I storm to the dressing room and throw my purse down on the counter. “That’s two penises I’ve seen tonight,” I tell Blake. “Count them. Two.”

  “What?” she exclaims.

  I brief her on the events of my first hour at work. She gapes at me, laughing in amazement.

  “I can’t wait to see what my third set will bring!” I say.

  I decide to wait in the dressing room. I’ve had enough of the floor for a while, and so I sculpt elaborate eye makeup and redo my hair.

  I’m called to stage one and my mood lifts when I hear the familiar strains of my music. There’s a group of five guys sitting at stage. They all have drinks in front of them and piles of bills all waiting and ready to go. Maybe this night will turn out okay.

  They tip moderately and I warm up into my second song. I kneel on the tip rail and take my top off, bouncing my breasts provocatively.

  The guy in front of me watches with a noncommittal expression and doesn’t put up a dollar. I don’t let my expression change.

  Then he leans toward me. “How old are you?” he asks.

  I hesitate. It’s an unusual question. I get asked all kinds of things but I’ve never been asked my age before.

  “Twenty-two,” I tell him.

  He looks amused. “No, how old are you really?”

  I look at him uncertainly. “I’m 22,” I say again.

  “You sure you’re not more like 35?”

  I’m dumbfounded. I make it a point not to care about age, but more than ten years older than I actually am is startling.

  “What, do you want to see my fucking driver’s license?” I snarl.

  He puts his hands in the air mollifyingly. “Are you really 22?”

  “Yes,” I insist.

  He shakes his head at me. “Well. You’re looking a bit rough around the edges.”

  All I can do is glare at him, speechless.

  He holds his hand out. “Sorry. Let’s start over. Friends?”

  I shake his hand, not knowing what other action to take. I finish the set but he never tips me. Neither do his friends. I make a measly $6.

  In the dressing room I look at my face critically. I admit that I look tired. I’ve been pushing myself hard, and the pressure shows in the shadows under my eyes and the fine lines around my mouth.

  “What are you looking for?” Blake asks, watching my self-assessment.

  “Some dude just refused to believe that I’m 22,” I tell her. “He insisted that I look 35.”

  She gives me a dangerous look. “I’m 34.”

  I bite back irritation. “I’m not saying that people in their thirties don’t look good,” I explain. “Or forties. Or whatever. I’m just …” I trail off. I don’t know what I am.

  “You’re just having a weird night,” she fills in. “And dudes think young is hot.”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “I am definitely having a weird night.”

  “Don’t let it get to you.” She pats my shoulder. “Remember: these guys don’t define you.”

  I nod. “Thank you,” I say. “Dudes are assholes.”

  She smiles at me. “I hear that.”

  I pat concealer under my eyes and head back onto the floor. For some reason none of my regulars are showing tonight. I really need some friendly conversation, some normalcy, but it’s nowhere in sight. I head over and stand next to the bar, surveying the club. It’s filling up but none of the faces are familiar. It’s become a strange, hostile place. I feel anxiety well up in my stomach and I take a deep breath. I spot a nice-looking guy sitting alone at a table in the middle of the floor. I force myself to make my way over to him.

  “Hi,” I say when he looks up. “I’m Natasha.”

  He smiles at me. “Hi, yourself,” he says. “I’m Walt. Would you like to sit?”

  I smile back. “I’d love to.” I slide into the seat next to him. “Are you having a good night?” I feel the tight knot in my middle loosen a little.

  “It’s better now.”

  I widen my smile at him as the waitress makes her way over. Finally, the hope of a drink.

  “Would you like something?” he asks and I gratefully accept, ordering a full-strength cocktail. Sometimes a little self-medication is totally in order.

  “I love your look,” he says after we’ve placed our order.

  “Thank you,” I reply. I’m wearing my favorite outfit. It’s all studs and spikes and leather.

  “How many piercings do you have?” he asks.

  I flick my tongue stud at him.

  “Anything else?” His eyes wander lower.

  I shrug, smiling slightly. I get asked this all the time. Men are wild to know if I have genital piercings and I always demur, letting them wonder and make their own assumptions.

  He hikes his shirt up, revealing a pale chest. In each nipple is a large-gauge ring, the weight pulling against his flesh in a way that I find revolting. But I grin enthusiastically. �
��Nice!”

  “Do you have yours done?” he asks.

  “I do not,” I reply carefully. “My nipples are very sensitive. I’m afraid of losing sensitivity if I pierce them.”

  “You should gain sensitivity.”

  I laugh. “That might be worse! They’re sensitive enough as it is.”

  Our drinks arrive and I take a long sip. The alcohol warms its way down my throat. “Would you like a private dance?” I ask.

  To my relief Walt says yes without hesitation and I lead him into the private area. He watches appreciatively as I go into my routine.

  I lean into him, my breath along his neck.

  “Bite me,” he whispers.

  I pull away slightly. “What?”

  He looks into my eyes. “I want you to bite me. Hard.”

  I look into the mirrored wall behind him, relieved to see Derek the bouncer watching the private area. Doing his job. I can use him as an excuse not to sink my teeth into this stranger’s flesh.

  “I’ll get in trouble,” I whisper back, biting my lip, letting him see my teeth. His gaze homes in on my mouth. I pull away from him and lean into the mirror. Touching him creeps me out.

  He rests his hand on the stage. “Step on my hand.”

  I look at him over my shoulder. “You like pain?”

  “Oh, yes,” he moans.

  This I can do. I place the ball of my foot on the back of his hand and apply firm downward pressure.

  “Harder,” he whispers and I shift my weight forward, feeling the bones in his hand flex under my foot. It feels very strange but, given the night I’m having, a small tingle of pleasure erupts in my brain. It feels kind of good to hurt someone.

  I press down until he gives a gasp of pain, and then relent. He holds his hand to his chest, rubbing it vigorously. At the end of the song he tips me an extra ten.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asks me as I’m pulling my clothes back on.

  “Sure,” I say, feeling a drop in my stomach.

  “Will you pierce my dick?”

  “What?” I exclaim, pausing in pulling my skirt on.

  “I’ll pay you,” he rushes to explain. As though that is the problem.

  “You want me to put a needle through your penis,” I say for clarification.

  “Yes, please.” His eyes are too bright, shining with excitement.

  I finish pulling my clothes on and sit on the edge of the stage. I take his hand, the injured one, in mine. His breath quickens. “I can’t do that,” I tell him.

  “I’ll give you a grand,” he says.

  For a moment I consider it. That’s a lot of money.

  “No,” I insist when my sanity returns. “The only thing I’ve ever pierced is my own ears. There are nerves. And blood vessels. I could really hurt you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “No,” I say again, standing up. “I can’t.” I walk away, feeling his eyes on me.

  There’s less than an hour left in the shift. I am nothing but relieved. I haven’t even made a hundred dollars and it feels as though everyone I’ve talked to tonight has turned totally loony tunes. I go up for my final set on stage one. The customers there get up and leave. Of course. I’m beyond caring.

  But here comes Walt. I sigh internally. I’d thought he’d left but he’s clearly been lurking somewhere. He sits and puts up a five.

  I slink toward him and sink into the splits, keeping my back to him. I roll forward, my butt in his face. Maybe if I can keep him from speaking to me.

  In the mirror I see the general manager materialize over Walt’s shoulder. I don’t think anything of it; it’s his job to patrol the floor. But then he wags a finger at me. I stand up and go to the edge of the stage, leaning down to hear him.

  To my shock, he grabs me by the upper arm, hard. “You trying to get the club shut down?” he hisses.

  “What?” I feel like I’ve been saying this a lot tonight.

  “You have pubic hair showing.”

  I gape at him. It’s against state law for a dancer to have a single hair show around her bottoms. We can dance topless, fully nude in clubs that don’t serve alcohol, and yet a single hair can get the club fined or even closed for 30 days if there are multiple infractions. As a result, the dancers make grooming a priority.

  “That’s impossible,” I tell him.

  “Get your clothes on and get offstage,” he snaps at me.

  I don’t say anything, just do as he tells me. I don’t want to dance for creepy Walt anyway.

  In the dressing room I sit in a chair and start pulling off my jewelry. I feel numb. Finally, I go stand before the full-length mirror and bend over, checking my crotch. No hair.

  “What the fuck?” I say to myself.

  Sadie overhears me. “What’s up?”

  “That weasel GM just told me that I was showing pubic hair.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says, not surprised. “He likes to do shit like that to the new girls.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Power trip? Show us he’s in charge?”

  This makes me feel marginally better. It’s just hazing. That I can handle.

  I start pulling off my clothes to change into my jeans and hoodie. I am ready to get out of here.

  At home I snuggle into Greg’s sleeping body. He’s all warmth and soft skin. He wakes enough to slip his arms around me. I bury my face in his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, sleepy.

  “I had a bad night,” I tell him.

  He kisses the top of my head. “It’s over now,” he tells me.

  Chapter Four

  Material Girl

  “Let me take you shopping,” Alo says.

  I gaze at him coquettishly over the lip of my glass, taking slow sips to buy myself time. I don’t like customers to buy me things; I’d much rather take their money. Cold, hard cash is this girl’s best friend.

  But a shopping trip is vastly preferable to being brought presents. Men insist on buying me gold, a metal that I never wear. I think it makes me look jaundiced. All my things are silver or platinum. Only a very few men have ever actually noticed. I am a cutout girl in their minds, a stereotype to dress and adorn.

  I also only meet customers outside of the club under special circumstances. I am not stupid; I know that one out of three women in our country is sexually assaulted. I work in an industry that inherently objectifies women, and some of the men who visit clubs assume that they have bought the rights to whatever they want to take.

  Alo isn’t one of these men. He’s in his early forties, never married, no kids. He makes really good money and spends it carefully. He shares a house with a brother, likewise a bachelor, and lives frugally. He spends his money on clothes, cars, and me. He tells me that he has an investment portfolio of five million and I believe him. He plans to work until he’s 50 and then retire to someplace tropical.

  He’d initially come to the club for a friend’s birthday. But then he met me. He likes me, likes my intelligence, my humor, and yes, my body. But he’s never tried to touch me; he’s never propositioned me, or said a single disrespectful thing to me.

  A few weeks earlier I had gone with him to get his first tattoo. In exchange, he paid for me to get my tongue pierced and a small tattoo on the back of my neck. He’d also let me drive his car, a 911 Carrera. On our outing he’d treated me with nothing but care, opening doors for me, buying me dinner and then laughing when I ordered a milkshake for my tender tongue. He never asked for my home address, agreeing to meet me in neutral locations. He never inquired about my personal life nor wanted to know if I had a boyfriend.

  Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he says, “I need to pick out gifts for my sister and my mom. I need a woman’s insight.”

  I gesture down at myself. “Are you sure you need help from this sort of woman?” I’m wearing a fire engine red velvet catsuit, spiked dog collar, and the signature silver rings that encase three of my fingers in metal
.

  Alo laughs, too. “I’ve seen you in the real world. I know you’re capable of looking normal!”

  I shrug and agree to meet him at the mall on Sunday.

  I meet him at a restaurant and we have lunch before shopping. He’s as polite as ever, telling me about adventures with his niece and nephew, fun tidbits from his job. He asks me about my studies and listens intently to my answers, asking intelligent questions. I’m relaxed with him. I like him and consider him a friend. Albeit a friend who pays hundreds of dollars to see me naked.

  After lunch we hit the shops. I help him pick out a robe for his mom. In the sleepwear department he purchases the robe, and five bra and panty sets for me. After that we wander into the home section and I pick out a beautiful glass pitcher for his sister. After, he suggests a stroll through clothing and he buys me a beautiful black lacy skirt, motorcycle boots, and a silver velvet top. In jewelry he buys me a silver choker with tiny diamonds.

  “While we’re here I should pick up some shirts,” he says. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not!” I reply. “Where do you want to go for those?”

  He names a high-end men’s store at the other end of the mall. I offer to carry some of the bags but he refuses. We walk slowly, admiring the holiday decorations on display, and window shopping as we go.

  In the window of a furniture store I spot a coffee table that stops me in my tracks. It is unlike anything I own. It has a white faux marble base and a glass top. It is simple, elegant, and striking.

  “Look at this!” I exclaim. “That is a totally cool coffee table.”

  “It is,” Alo agrees. “Do you want it?”

  I look at him doubtfully. “You want to buy me a coffee table?”

  “Why not?”

  “Um …” I bend down so that I can see the price. “It costs $800!”

  “So?”

  I look back at the table. It is beautiful. I want the money but I know he’ll never just give me that amount. For some reason many of the men I meet in the clubs want to give me things as opposed to money. Maybe it makes them feel as though I’m a girlfriend. It lets them forget that our relationship is primarily a financial transaction. Alo gives me about a hundred dollars a night two nights a week. I’ll never get eight bills out of him all at once.