Strip

by Andrew Binks

  “Now, this is not just any costume.”

  I thought she was going to tell me it had magical powers but that I would turn into a pumpkin after midnight, which didn’t leave us much time. She had a warning nevertheless.

  “You have got to be careful.” She slowly regained some clarity. “If you get any hair or skin caught in the zippers it will hurt like hell.” Then she ran the glimmering oyster sleeves over my hands and they expanded and stretched up my arms. She continued and pulled the jacket over my back. “Spandex,” she said, “the stripper’s friend.” She zipped the front to just below my chest.

  “Whose is it?”

  “The Italian Stallion.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “You ever hear of him? Actually he was Romanian—Ionelo—stupid name for a stripper. And yeah, he was one of the ones who said he loved me, but in the end got pissed off with my plumbing. He took off. I think he’s out in la. Who wouldn’t be? The Northeast is such a slog. Damn cold, too.” We were silent. Our only warmth came from that smoky den upstairs where we wandered around half-naked.

  Brittany fidgeted with the zips at the wrists and the tangled fringe. “I keep thinking I’ll see him in a Chippendale calendar. Maybe he’s doing porn. I don’t know. I don’t really give a shit. As long as he’s alive.”

  I wanted to say something about Daniel, like I know what you mean, or I hear you, or even go on and on about my stupid broken heart, but why bother. Brittany was tough. I could be tough, too.

  “Take off your pants.” She turned and pulled the slick pants off the hanger.

  I waited in my scalloped sequined g-string. Both of us barefoot.

  “Your scallop shells are a nice touch, but they could be trouble.” She crouched at my ankles, futzing with the zippered seams before I put on the pants. She really was plain, not the Brittany Barrymore I had seen upstairs. The lights and costumes hid the roots and the flaws, her splayed toes, bony spine and washed-out skin. Funny how alluring it all is and, when you think of it, you have to find more than perfect breasts and soft skin to love about a person. Her posture, her charisma and her spirit made it all come together in some kind of magical way. But that fantasy had vanished and Brittany was at my feet pumped full of coke and cocoa.

  “You know, they say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. But I don’t remember that. I remember thinking, what a stupid way to die and then I thought about all the things I wanted to do. All the roles I hadn’t performed, how I wanted to be an actress when my dance career was up, all the possibilities waiting for me when I finally stopped dancing. I believed in my future as a non-dancer, which was weird. Most dancers live in denial, as if they’ll never be non-dancers, and then when they stop dancing it’s all such a big goddamn surprise, and they act like they are magically deserving of a new and promising future. Deer in the headlights, and those headlights are attached to the front of a fucking eighteen-wheeler towing a great big question mark.” Without losing a beat she went on. “And please don’t tell me this is your future.”

  I didn’t have anything to say. I wanted to see myself in the costume for the future that existed for the next few hours. “Tell me this is a sideline to something greater.” But this had taken over everything and Madame’s group, my big dream, seemed so inconsequential.

  She fidgeted with a stubborn clip on the pant leg. “I also remembered all the emotions in those seconds, every single one I ever had in my life, and every moment that they were created. I felt it all right here.” She tapped her sternum. “That’s all that there was for me.” She looked up at me. “It didn’t seem like there was a present at all or if there was, that it just wasn’t as important as the past. I still don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  Still I couldn’t speak.

  “This is the tricky part.” She was clear when she had to be. I placed my feet into the pant legs and she started helping while I shifted. From there she began to slowly zip, one finger between my skin and the zipper. “So the hair on your leg won’t catch. God he was hairy—Ionelo—IO for short. Yeah he owes me all right. Talk about being used. Good thing I had this dry cleaned. Talk about hair in the zippers.” I tried to follow with the zip on the other leg but it was impossible without flexing my legs. She took over and the pant leg clung, like a second skin, and moulded tightly onto my cock ringed, scalloped-shelled crotch as she pulled the zip. “Whoah, that should make some guy happy,” she said and then she flicked my basket with her knuckle.

  I stepped into my shoes and she tied them for me. She took a cowboy hat out of a cardboard box, pulled away the plastic and handed it to me. “The hat will fit. It never fit him, his head was too small. No brains for one thing. Go on. Look in the mirror.”

  And it all came together when I put on the hat.

  “Hey, I think we’ve gotten rid of his sour aftertaste for good.”

  My blond lock fell over one eye and I pressed my chin down. Nose. Lips. Eyes. This could be my night.

  And the next moment she was blathering, “Ooooh, I had some shhhhocolate.”

  “Go sit down.”

  She disappeared into herself. Collapsed back on her ass on the floor. “G’wan upstairs.”

  With every step on those back stairways this second skin expanded and contracted. So much better than that crummy ballet company tickle trunk, staying awake as Geppetto in a gunny sack or inside a fucking mouldy foam tree. I climbed slowly, relishing the fabric on my bare ass, the squeeze and release—my balls, too—all so invigorating. The scallops on the g-string pinched, and my crotch responded with the rubbing between thigh and fabric, thigh and fabric. I became so aware of my body. My chest. My back. My thighs. I took up space now. I couldn’t hide. I’d have to live up to this look. It wasn’t jeans and a tank top. It was what it should have always been.

  I punched in my three songs and stepped up to the stage. Steve waved from the booth and whooped. Then there were whoops from all over the club. The girls stopped in mid-serve, mid-grind. Everyone was watching.

  “Gloria” plunged into the room and it was loud. Steve cranked the sound. You couldn’t ignore me. There was nothing I could not do.

  It was my song, and it made sense to me as I grabbed my hat and shot it to the back of the room—take that, Laura Branigan, I do think I’m pretty fucking important after all. My arms flew, one after the other; my hips followed; then my spine, my neck, my head—all flew with the fringe and then I spun as every bit of spandex kept me in a tight orbit on the stage. I blazed—in flames—and the crowd was high, too. I caught their eyes for split seconds, and exhaled their stale sick smoke that plugged my throat, blinded me, smothered me and drugged me. I owned them. They were in me. The girls didn’t move. Brittany surfaced in her kimono, became part of the smoky audience. I was on fire and they were there with me. I was a combination of years of technique and that moment of inspiration. They all knew then. I was a real dancer. For all the regimented crap, I was finally letting the dancer out.

  For “Africa,” I unzipped and ground. I peeled the jacket down my arms, over my back, and back and forth over my ass. I flung it behind me. Women stood and reached up to caress my chest, lightly touch it. Then it was time for my pants. I could undo the zippers on the seams and the pants would stay clipped at the top and Velcroed at the bottom. At the edge of the stage, I coaxed women to stand, then pull down my zippers; I pointed to them, and then to the zipper. They didn’t catch on at first so I just kept doing it à la Brittany. Point to them, then to the zipper, them and the zipper, them and the zipper. They’d play coy: What should I do? Maybe they were shy. It was an act. It was all an act; their act, too. I held the clip at the top—they undid the zippers, both sides at two different times. Two different women.

  Then I spun into the middle of the stage, unclipped the pants at the top, held them tight, pulled and, poof, they were gone (a disappearing act that even Patrice couldn’t rival), and
I was in my g-string. I decided to leave “Je T’aime… Moi Non Plus,” for now and use a song I had heard frequently in the café under my place, French singer Diane Tell singing “On a Beau.” There was something about her vulnerable voice and I could almost understand the lyrics. It was then that I felt as if the audience embraced me. I wasn’t grinding to top-forty. I was actually moving to something they knew and cared about. I kneeled at the edge of the stage, leaned way back with nothing between my ass and the cold floor but peach fuzz and scalloped sequins. I rolled over and ground the stage while sweat ran into my eyes, and my body felt slick with it. I rolled again, with fingers down my torso and through the hair. They thought it was ecstasy and bliss. Bliss for all, we were all enjoying me—lips, chest, nipples, stomach, ass, on and off while the hips pumped.

  And off came the g-string, both sides unclipped, like the pants. It all flopped out, the whole package, dangled two feet from some couple’s faces. I was down again and then I rolled up and over to a different table. Faces looked up to me. Take that, I thought. Only the terrified stared past. I was still swollen, but it was my ass the women wanted to see. Run their hands on and over and down to my knees and up to my crotch.

  And it was my cock for the straight men, too, comparing like we do. But we all enjoyed me. This was what Brittany had meant.

  Then the lights were out.

  Cheers drowned the house music. People looked around with What happened? on their faces.

  My head roared and my body was numb. The adrenalin left me weak. It was the night I became, to myself, Le Grand Blond, the night I let loose and put the icing on the big blond cake. I was high and my mind raced. Sure I’d had the rush as part of the Company, the overwhelming applause that turns swans into swine in seconds, making egos swell almost as fast as my cock in Steve’s mouth. And yet, all it took was a masochistic ballet master, or mistress-on-the-rag to bring you back down to earth, tell you that you were shit. Ego. Go to the newsstand and you’ll see what it does to those with perfumes named after them, or their own lines of designer jeans. They may be on their way out but they’ve tasted it, soiled their soul. Can’t ever turn back, will do whatever it takes to stay there, even if it means dropping dead. It’s one of the most powerful forces in the world and leaves nothing in its path. It’s so good to ride it while you can. All of the love you never gave yourself is finally screaming to get in.

  But that was then, in Quebec. In this stairwell, if I survive, I will only ever indulge in small doses. I am to ego what Brittany is to chocolate.

  The girls stopped me, touched my shoulder and babbled about my act. Laughed, too. They used words like franchement beau and tellement sexy. Trés this and trés that, and I knew what they meant. I guess my French was getting better. One of them said it and the others repeated it: Le Grand Blond. Not “Flash” or “Rod,” or “Streak.” That night, j’étais Le Grand Blond. Je suis devenu Le Grand Blond.

  Downstairs, Brittany was trying to stay upright in her chair. There were tears in her eyes. Her head shook when she spoke. “Never let them say you can’t. Don’t let them take it away from you. You can’t keep it to yourself anymore.” I knew what she meant but I feared it was a one-shot deal. How could I ever bring it all together like that again?

  I got dressed and went back upstairs. Steve rushed out of his booth, took his gum out of his mouth and gave me a big wet congratulatory kiss. Guy gripped my ass and I’m still not sure if he was pissed or pleased. Marcel said I shone. For a few minutes everyone loved me. Had I been that bland before? Later Brittany was up on the stage. Perfect. It seemed the only thing that fed her were the lights and the attention of the crowd.

  That night I dreamt about the little boy with soapstone cheeks running through the backyard as a bloodstained cowboy. The best-dressed only child on the street. Falling through the hedge. No one but me cared if it was real rawhide. No one had time for my chrome-plated pistols. As a sharpshooter, I lied my way into friendships. Showed up unannounced, saying we had promised to play Cowboys and Indians. No kid liked dentists, or this dentist kid. Real chaps and fringe couldn’t compete with imagination.

  One Easter, I wore that cowboy outfit into the ravine near our house. The puddles were still deep from spring runoff. Some boys stood in a group, some I thought were friends. The pug-faced leader said I’d stolen Benjamin Weinstein’s girlfriend. But Benjamin Weinstein never had a girlfriend. I did. Rebecca Lefebvre—blonde hair, Chiclet teeth. We spent Saturday afternoon matinees holding hands. They said I’d stolen her from Benjamin. When I figured out that the ravine wasn’t a safe place to be and tried to run, it was obvious that running in cowboy gear wasn’t easy. A horse would have come in handy.

  The thuggish guy from the nearby Catholic school pushed me face down into my two-gallon hat. He leapt on my back and punched until I was numb. The others pulled off my chaps, my vest, my pants, my underwear and threw everything in a tree. The oaf on my back grabbed my head; when one of his fingers popped into my mouth, I chomped down with every last bit of cowboy energy, right though to the fucking bone. He was off me in a flash, his band of no-goods trailing after him like little lemmings. I climbed the tree ripping my cold skin, tugging at the authentic leather piece by piece. Dressed. Told no one. That outfit was worth everything to me.

  She must have left the next day, Sunday. On Monday Steve said he had something for me. Brittany had left the costume behind.

  Seven

  The three heads of deltoid shape a dancer’s shoulder into one thick orb of strength. No matter the power of the arms, the shoulders have to bear the burden and support the arms. You see the shape there, distracting if overdeveloped and hindering the line if overlooked. It is fragile and essential for the danseur to make the ballerina appear to float through a supported grand jété, suspended about his head in a pressage or lifted throughout a pas de chat or any of a million moments the hands touch the body. A shoulder is there to fall upon, swing from, roll on or cry upon.

  First it was love I sought, then I settled for admiration, then some attention and as a result, soon I wanted anyone. Some are fulfilled on the stage, even in the wings, but I carried my needs, kicking and screaming, out the stage door. I was dying for something. You’ve seen my type in the cafés, eyes searching, saying, Notice me for Christ’s sake. Unfortunately, this kind of behaviour snagged me an English-French transplant student from Winnipeg living in the Old Town, who saw me strip and then days later followed me home from the bus stop. He was angry and into my pants because no one wanted him—he shoved his pelvis at me, ground me, kneaded my ass with a bruising enthusiasm. I shut my eyes against his conquest. Maybe he thought I was falling in love, but I was falling asleep in the lukewarmness of the moment. I’m sure I hoped Daniel could have loved me with as much zeal. I don’t remember. I do remember this one had the face of a hungry monk, thinning hair and a bony body lean where there was flesh. Just get it over with for God’s sake and let me sleep. But sex was air to him. And I was in his lungs, as a real live dancer who stripped. The idea fed his arrogance, and I had little to do with that high. How did he make those aerobics happen—get our hips to the ceiling, our nuts banging their numb way into each other? How did he do it—it couldn’t have been that much fun—but oh no, he was frothing at my buffet, high on sex and ended up unloading himself onto the nape of my neck and across my shoulders. And why, after a too-long smoky Saturday night, was he once again breaking down my door and my back on Sunday morning with a well-meaning café au lait and pain au chocolat fresh from downstairs when all I wanted was to sleep right through to eternity? “I am Jonathan,” he said.

  I was beside myself with fatigue. I broke down and bragged a little. Told him I had been with the Company.

  “Really?” he said. “But I’m from Winnipeg. When did you leave?”

  “Less than a year ago.”

  “I remember you! I saw you in lots of things. I thought you were familiar. Études, my God
your ass in those white tights—what the hell are you stripping for?”

  “Well I’m just doing some research for a new ballet. I’ve decided to go it alone.”

  He didn’t believe that for a moment.

  And after two more hours of pelvis slapping, I sent him on his way. I hoped he registered my indifference and irritation and would get the message. I collapsed, but the café au lait turned it into a troubled sleep. I wanted rest, and love that didn’t come with sex attached like an oversized game-show price tag. Look what you win! Sex! With a stripper!

  In the early afternoon I crept, unnoticed I hoped, to my watering hole Belle Époque, where I drank alone and stared at the wall. It was a luxury to afford beer and have a moment to feel sorry for myself and feel as important as “Gloria,” my song. Poor me. But I couldn’t bear anyone pulling at my leg or grinding his bony pelvis into me for a desperate one-off, locked in his own bubble of ecstasy. When I got home, I phoned Kent to share a delivered pizza.

  Before pizza we hugged and he pressed hard against my crotch with his own. Even though it excited me—just being next to him and his hands, and all that his hands could do—I needed to be held. “They’re dying in New York,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Gay men are dying.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. You’re not planning a trip to New York?”

  “Not anymore. Can we relax for a minute? Maybe change the subject?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I just need to connect, right now, with more than my cock.”

  “I’ve created a monster?”

  “The cock ring works fine if that’s what you want to know.”

  “What about the big, friendly stripper, the one whose boyfriend keeps blowing you? He sounds nice. Why don’t you connect with him?” All of this said with heavily weighted stresses of sarcasm, driven into the conversation like the jabs of a conductor’s baton during the key change denoting betrayal in Swan Lake.