by Catlyn Ladd
Suddenly there’s a hand on my arm, firm and insistent. “Hey!” I say, pulling away. I look up into the stern eyes of a bouncer.
My first thought is that they’ve decided to boot me because I’m underage. But his other hand grips Rain by the elbow. He reaches back for me and leads us off the dance floor.
I play it casual. “What’s up?” I inquire.
“The two of you can’t dance together,” he says over the music.
“What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I struggle to make sense of his words through the liquor and the adrenaline rush of the music and Rain’s skin.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rain takes a more aggressive approach.
“We don’t allow that lesbian shit in here,” he says.
I gape at him, too surprised to respond.
Rain is less tongue-tied. “We’re not lesbians! Look!” She gestures to Gabe and Trevor who are making their way toward us. “Boyfriends!”
“What’s going on?” Gabe puts his arm possessively around my shoulder and I shrug it off.
“This dude says we can’t dance together,” I explain.
“Why the hell not?” Gabe inquires.
“We don’t allow girl-on-girl here. This is a clean club.”
“Who cares? It’s hot!” Trevor exclaims.
I feel a rush of irritation. This isn’t about him, isn’t about what turns him on. I should be able to dance with whomever I please in any way that I want. “We weren’t doing anything,” I say. “We were just dancing. Just like all them.” I gesture to the dance floor that is now packed. Some couples dance together, but there’s a lot of free form going on as well, clusters of women and other mixed groups.
“You were dancing together,” the bouncer explains, making a gesture to indicate our two bodies. He sounds out of patience.
“So?” I still don’t understand. “We weren’t making out. We’re not naked.”
Now he’s done with us. “You need to leave.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Gabe begins.
But I cut him off. “Fine.” I grab Rain by the hand. “We’re going.”
“Asshole!” she yells over her shoulder as I hustle her along. Trevor and Gabe trail after us.
In the parking lot I laugh with disbelief. “What was that all about?”
“Two chicks together is hot,” Rain says petulantly. “Them’s a bunch of faggots.”
“Don’t use that word,” I tell her.
“Why not? That’s what they is!”
I look at her. She’s as beautiful as ever and I feel hunger for her perfect, smooth skin. But I begin to see that she’s as bigoted as the bouncer who just kicked us to the curb.
“Let’s go,” I tell Gabe. “I want to go home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Pretty Boy
It is early on a Friday night and the club is dead. Only one stage is open and I dance with myself, loosening up my muscles, getting into the groove. The DJ has played something slow and sensual and I slide down the pole, arcing my back, stretching. I become aware that a group of three guys is coming in, paying, showing their IDs. I watch them because there’s nothing else to watch.
They go to the bar and I turn away, falling smoothly into the splits, warming up my hamstrings. In the mirrored wall of the club, I see them get beers, clink their bottles together. I lie down on my back and thrust my hips up, rotating my joints slowly.
They make their way over to the stage and sit down in a row. No money immediately appears and I roll onto my belly, rising to all fours to check them out.
The one in the middle makes my stomach flip. He is everything I like, and my first thought, immediate and irrepressible, is I want that. He is beautiful, the kind of guy you’d see in the movies, so perfect that it’s hard to look away.
Like most people, I have a type. When it comes to men, I like them dark, swarthy. I like men who look like pirates.
This man has dark hair curling over his collar in ringlets and tightly groomed facial hair with a neatly trimmed goatee and long sideburns with a narrow strip cut just above his jaw, rockabilly style. The narrow strip of beard directly under his lower lip is colored fuchsia. His head is covered by a black bandana tied to keep his hair out of his eyes. He wears jeans and the most fantastic black leather biker jacket that I have ever seen: it is absolutely covered in spikes and safety pins. On one finger, the middle of his right hand, he wears a jointed ring that extends from his top knuckle to almost his fingertip. It’s like my rings.
I fall immediately in lust.
I am not looking for commitment, or anything serious. In fact, I am not looking at all. But this boy … this boy is yum.
I go to him first. He’s in the middle but I can’t resist. I want to get a closer look. In an attempt to be fair I lie down and stretch out in front of all of them, one leg bent with my foot on the floor, the other out long. I watch him watch me.
His eyes are dark, framed by thick, curling lashes. He’s not afraid to look and his eyes skim down my body, hesitating at the swell of my breasts, scanning down my legs, and landing on the V of black material between my legs, tight across my hipbones. That’s where he looks the longest and then his eyes meet mine. I smile seductively.
His lips part slightly and he softens around the eyes but his expression barely changes. He is enigma, hard to read.
I sit up and pull the strap of my thong out. When he places the dollar in the strap, I notice his hands. Narrow fingers, clean nails kept a little long, fine-boned and masculine.
I love men’s hands.
Off stage I go to the dressing room and dump a pile of clothes and money onto the dressing room counter.
“Oh, my god,” I say to Kris who sits curling her hair at the dressing table. “There is the most beautiful man out there.”
“Really?” She looks up with interest.
“Yes. He looks like Johnny Depp.”
“No way.”
“Seriously. Like 90s Johnny Depp. Like Cry-Baby.”
Now Kitten is listening, too. “Okay, I’m going to look.”
Kris puts down the iron. “Where is he?”
“Sitting at stage.”
The two of them go out, mock wrestling at the door to get through first. It’s early in the night and slow. A hot guy makes things more interesting.
I straighten my money and put it in my purse. I’m standing at my locker trying to decide what to wear when they burst back in, giggling.
“You mean the one with the dark hair who looks like a pirate?”
“That would be him,” I say, pulling out a black studded bikini. It’s an outfit I usually reserve for later in the evening, but special times call for special measures.
“Yep.” Kris picks up her curling iron to finish her hair. “You are not lying.”
Kitten fans herself theatrically. “I’m up on that stage next. Ooh, baby.” She paints bright red lipstick on her mouth.
I feel a stab of what I can only classify as jealousy. Kitten is total punk rock with bright purple spiked hair, a tattoo of a pinup girl on each bicep, and a safety pin through her ear. She might be pretty boy’s type.
I quickly pull on the bikini and thigh-high black vinyl boots. I take a wrap of sheer fabric and tie it around my waist. I switch out the necklace I wear for a choker of silver spikes.
I follow Kitten out and feel relief when I see the three of them get up from stage as Jet switches places with Kitten.
“Aw, don’t leave, boys!” she calls coyly.
“Just getting a refill,” one of them says, holding up an empty bottle.
I follow them to the bar.
“Hi,” I say, pushing between one of them and the pretty boy. “I’m Lex.”
I shake each of their hands in turn. “Greg,” says the pretty boy.
“Pleased to meet you.” I hold his hand a fraction of a second longer.
They don’t offer to buy me a drink but I don’t take it personally. “First t
ime here?”
“First time in a strip club,” says the blond friend.
“No way!” I laugh. “Strip club virgins.”
Greg responds. I have a hard time taking my eyes off of his mouth. Now I know what people mean when they refer to lips as “Cupid’s bow.”
“We were just sitting around like we always do and someone said ‘strip club.’ None of us have been,” he tells me.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask coyly.
“Naked women and booze?” the dark-haired friend says. “What’s not to like?”
Greg’s eyes are on Kitten who sits on the tip rail and has one foot on either side of a customer whose eyes are level with her nipples. “What’s not to like?” he repeats.
One of my regulars comes in and I catch his eye. “Have fun, boys,” I say. “I’ll come check on you later.” I run one fingertip down the row of safety pins on Greg’s jacketed arm. “Nice jacket,” I toss over my shoulder.
A couple of hours later they’re playing pool in the smoking lounge. Every song, one or the other will put a dollar up on the stage in there, but they’re pretty engrossed in the game. Kitten is sitting on the wide drink rail that runs around the wall behind the pool table. She is clearly trying to get pretty boy’s attention and he does reply when she speaks, but mostly he’s engrossed in the game.
As he lines up to take a shot, Kitten jumps down and sets her ass over the pocket he’s aiming for. He laughs but doesn’t hesitate and takes the shot. He lines up for another. He’s concentrating hard and doesn’t see me walk up behind him. Just as he shoots, I drag my fingernail lightly down his arm.
He misses. Curses. Laughs.
I walk away, glancing into the mirrors lining the walls to make sure he’s watching me but too fast for him to see me look.
He’s watching.
I can’t get a read on him. He comes in every weekend after that, with a rotating group of five or six friends. They are all smart, funny, sweet guys, and they quickly make friends with the regulars, the staff, and the dancers. But pretty boy is a little more aloof, a bit watchful.
His mystery breeds rampant rumors among the dancers, who speculate endlessly about him. We discover that he’s in cosmetology school, that he drives a Trans Am. He gives us makeup tips and gifts me eyeliner, probably still the most interesting present I have ever received from a man. It’s really good eyeliner, too, and I throw away what I’ve been using.
I decide that he’s a player. He has to know how good-looking he is, and the way his dark eyes look steadily into mine speaks of a cool confidence, knowing that I will come to him. He will wait, then use me and discard me. I try to decide if that’s what I want.
Finally, one night the whole staff of the club is at breakfast and pretty boy and his friends are there in a booth together. One of them is on his knees, turned around in the booth, talking to Trinity in the next booth over. Greg throws a French fry at one of his friends and they all howl with laughter.
I get up from where I’m sitting with a couple of the bouncers and make my way over. His eyes rise to meet mine and his lips curve up slightly. His eyes are incredibly dark, even in the bright light of the diner. Not a hair is out of place and his swarthy skin has a natural, healthy rosy glow. He looks like he’s been airbrushed.
“Do you want to meet me after breakfast?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies and my stomach does a slow flip.
His friends have fallen silent, and one of them pauses with a fork halfway to his mouth.
“Where should I meet you?” he asks.
I name a street corner downtown. I am not ready for him to know where I live. I still need to get a closer read of him.
“I’ll be there.”
“As will I.” I turn and walk away, feeling my heartbeat hammer in my chest.
“Dude,” I hear one of his friends exclaim. “Why is it always you?”
“Of course it’s always him,” another one of his friends says. “He’s got what all the ladies like.”
“What? A pretty face?”
“That goes a long way.”
I file this conversation away. It seems to be proof that he does get a lot of tail. So he probably knows how amazing-looking he is. Which means that he’s probably a player. I’m not sure I care; it’s not like I’m looking for anything serious.
Main Street is dead at three o’clock in the morning. I sit in a doorway and wait, enjoying the night air. He pulls up in an early 1980s Trans Am that’s custom painted with a dragon uncoiling on the hood. It’s a wild car and it fits him perfectly. In many ways he is as theatrical as I am. The car, the elaborate facial hair, the fuchsia color in his goatee, the spiked leather jacket: every part of him is intentional, produced. Just like me.
I let him look for a minute before stepping out of the shadows. I don’t wait for him to greet me but tilt my head down the street. “Let’s walk.”
He falls into step beside me. And we walk.
We walk until dawn streaks the eastern sky. We talk about the club, about friends, about movies we like and books we’ve read. I begin to relax. He does not make a single move toward me. He doesn’t even try to take my hand.
I fall into bed as the sun comes up, feeling more confused than ever. I have met my share of players, and most of them make a move once they think the girl is on the hook. He didn’t. So maybe he’s not a player. Or maybe he doesn’t like me.
The next weekend they’re back and he greets me with a slow smile. “What are you doing Sunday night?” he asks.
“Not a thing,” I say.
“Want to meet me again?”
I don’t hesitate. “Name the place.”
He names off a grocery store in a town several miles from the town where I live and work. “Meet me in the parking lot. Eight o’clock?”
“I’ll see you there.”
I’m a few minutes late because I can’t find the store. When I pull into the parking lot he’s leaning against the side of his car, smoking. My stomach does its slow flip. He looks like he should be on a movie set. It’s kind of ridiculous.
“Get in,” he tells me, and I tuck myself into the low-slung seat of the car. He heads up into the mountains, driving well and confidently. Just like he seems to do everything else.
I don’t ask where we’re going, just enjoy the ride. The stereo plays quietly and he doesn’t speak, seeming engrossed with the curvy road unspooling in the headlights. He’s comfortable in silence.
Several miles out of town he turns off onto a dirt road that switchbacks and then ends at a breathtaking drop overlooking the plains. Lights sparkle into the distance, mirroring the cloudless sky above.
I get out of the car and walk to the edge. He leans against the hood behind me and lights another cigarette.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
He says nothing but I see him nod. The dim radiance from the lights below, the stars above, and a rising moon light his features, gilding his cheekbones and flashing in his eyes.
“I bet you bring all the girls here.” I’m testing him, trying to break the smooth façade of his expressionless face.
“I bring friends here,” he replies. “People I like.”
I walk back toward him, trying to read his expression. “Do you like me?”
His voice softens. “Very much.”
I walk up close to him, my body brushing his. Still he does not move. He’s sitting against the hood, his hands at his sides, open palms against the nose of the dragon painted on the car. I take another step, forcing him to move his legs. I step into the space between his knees. He regards me calmly, and I take in his perfect skin, curling eyelashes, parted lips.
I put my hands on his shoulders and still he does not move. He only watches. But when I lean in to kiss him he kisses me back. It is only when I press my body fully against his that one hand rises to my back, pulling me in, caressing fingers along my spine through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
When I pull away he lets
me go, his hand returning to the hood of the car. I sit next to him, my mind a welter of confused thoughts. I still don’t have a bead on him. Then he takes my hand, his fingers curling gently around mine.
In the weeks, months, then finally years, to come I learn that Greg is exactly what he appears to be, nothing more and nothing less. He is aware of his beauty but only because people tell him. He mostly discounts it, though he does take pride in how he looks. His quiet confidence is exactly what it seems and was born through contemplation and teaching himself to be self-assured and honest. He is occasionally prone to shock-value behavior, like putting a cigarette out on his tongue. He is a calm, rational person with just enough wild to interest me.
Eleven months later we go to the courthouse and get married. As of this writing 17 years later, we are still living happily ever after.
Chapter Twenty
The Renaissance Man
I hang out in the smoking room a lot because that’s where the pool table is. I don’t really play pool, but the regulars do and I like to pass time with them when the club is slow or I need a break. I’ve been working here for only a few weeks, and already I’ve gotten to know the handful of men who come in almost every night to play pool, drink beer, and give each other shit. They don’t tip, but they also don’t proposition me or try to be my boyfriend.
I’ve noticed the man before, last weekend, and here he is again. He sits in the corner surrounded by a handful of girls. He tips $5 a song to some of the girls who dance on the narrow stage in the smokers’ room, and I’ve seen him in the private dance area. He’s maybe in his fifties, with elaborately groomed facial hair; this is what initially catches my attention. He’s also immaculately dressed in pressed white shirts, linen trousers, and expensive sports jackets. On the pinkie of one hand he wears a gold ring with a darkly red flashing stone the size of my thumbnail.
At first I take him for a rich perv, but some of the experienced dancers, women I consider smart and thoughtful, sit with him. Finally I ask Kris, whom I trust, “What’s up with the guy in the corner?”
