Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “Do my legs have to be bare, Iván? They’re really pale. I haven’t been out in the sun for a while. Wouldn’t it be better for me to put on some flesh-colored tights or some pantyhose?”

  “No, man, they’re fine.”

  The hell with the teacher! He’s gone vain on me. Though actually it’s a good reaction. The reaction I was afraid of is “I look ridiculous,” but if he’s worried about looking good, we’re doing OK.

  “No, Javier, look, man, the idea here isn’t to be Brad Pitt sexy. It’s almost the opposite, really. This is like a joke, get it? Goofing around. You’re here not to make the chicks fall in love; you’re here to give them a good time, and maybe have a good time yourself. Look at it that way, and you’ll see it’s goddamn gravy train. You have a good time, and afterward they pay you. That’s awesome, right?”

  The strippers are bustling around me. They’re about my age, maybe a little younger. Iván introduces them as they come into the huge communal dressing room: Domingo, Pablo, Fefo . . . One of them is Asian—I noticed him when I saw them perform. His name is Wong.

  They shake my hand with indifferent politeness. It doesn’t seem to be unusual for them to have a new colleague. Of course, this isn’t like a factory floor. Being a stripper isn’t a profession, and you don’t have to take any exams to get the job. I imagine they cycle through a lot. I imagine they all must have other jobs: bartenders, bouncers . . . what do I know! Maybe some of them are just going through a rough patch, like me.

  The atmosphere is like that of any locker room: the guys shout, slap one another on the back as they walk by, joke around. When I put on the absurd schoolboy outfit, the other “students” gather around to gently rib me: “There’s a new kid, teacher!” “Those are some grade-A legs!” “If you misbehave, I’m going to tell on you.” It must be a sort of ritual with the newbies, because they quickly lose interest in me and wander off. One lifts weights in a corner, another sends text messages on his cell phone . . . Only Wong stays with me a while.

  “Is this the first time you’ve done a striptease?” he asks.

  Iván jumps in before I can reply.

  “Can you believe this guy? Isn’t it obvious, ching-chong? Does he look like he’s been dancing in Pigalle?”

  “I’m not Chinese, I’m Korean. I’ve told you a thousand times.”

  “All right, fine, Korean, who cares!”

  I have to keep them all away from him—they’re going to scare him off. I don’t have a goddamn clue what Javier thinks of us. Probably considers us total cretins. None of us talk like him or move like him. It’s obvious from a mile off that he’s a guy who went to college and reads books. But he’ll get used to it, and if he doesn’t he’s even more of a dumbass than I thought, and he’s on his own.

  “Look, the makeup is on those shelves over there.”

  “I have to wear makeup too?”

  “Duh, man. Otherwise, the spotlights’ll make you look like a fucking corpse. White light washes out your facial features.”

  Jesus, so it’s all out in the open now! He was annoyed when he asked, too. “Me in makeup?” I’ve assured him repeatedly that the show isn’t for queers, but he has to go all super-macho at the first opportunity. The hell with the teacher! I like him, but he gets on my nerves. I think that’s why I didn’t study psychology: it requires more patience than I’ve got.

  “You’re shitting me, Javier! Everybody has to get made up to go on TV, even the goddamn king. Don’t you know that? So like I said, that’s where the stuff is so you can paint yourself up.”

  “All right.”

  I’m getting on Iván’s nerves, acting like a spoiled brat. I’m forgetting he’s brought me here to help me out. I need to keep that in mind at all times: I’m not doing him a favor by being here, I came of my own free will. And if I can’t stand it, I can just quit after the first performance. Iván would understand. All I’d have to say is “I tried, but it’s not my thing.”

  “Hey, Iván, is there a rehearsal every week, or is this just because I’m joining the show?”

  “We rehearse every Thursday evening, man, like clockwork. Don’t make any plans on Thursday nights. Mariano’s a perfectionist, you’ll see. We always rehearse, even if we’ve done the show a hundred times. Thursday, rehearsal. Weekend, show.”

  “Is the rehearsal included in the pay, or is it paid separately?”

  “It’s included.”

  The hell with the little prince! Maybe he thinks this is Hollywood or something. Two hundred euros a show. That’s four hundred a week. And you only work for the twenty minutes you’re on stage, that’s it, as long as you stick around till the end to take your bows with the rest of the troupe. That’s sixteen hundred a month. Practically tax free too, since part of our pay is under the table. Surely he doesn’t think it’s too little money. There’s no way he made that much teaching. He’d have to wipe a lot of boogers to rake in that amount.

  “Does it not seem like enough?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course, man. I was just asking to be sure.”

  “As you should. A worker should always know what he’s earning. And this is a job, Javier. It might not be a job like any other, but it’s a living.”

  “Of course.”

  A job. Even he recognizes it’s not a normal one. This isn’t sitting behind a bank counter or fixing a broken engine. And it’s definitely not analyzing the poetry of Saint John of the Cross or holding forth on Fortunata y Jacinta. But it’s a job, man, a living.

  Mariano, the owner, comes into the dilapidated dressing room, which is really just a storeroom. Up close, he’s got a pretty sinister look to him. Dressed in a striped polo shirt and black pants, he has none of the magnetism he emanates when he’s up on stage, naked. He’s in loafers and white socks, tacky stuff. It’s strange because all the guys, including Iván, are dressed rather tastefully, even elegantly: dress shirts, jeans, name-brand sneakers. Maybe Mariano wants to look tacky, not show off the money he earns from the show. When I had my initial interview with him, he didn’t even look at me. He just asked me if I was married, if I had a car, and if I liked pop music. Weird guy. Today he comes up and reassures me not to be nervous, says it’s just a rehearsal and I won’t be performing in public until I feel ready. He eyes my legs.

  “Do you work out?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Well, you should. You’ve got nice legs, but they could do with a little toning. Can you afford a gym membership?”

  “Yes,” I say hastily.

  “Good, I don’t like giving people advances. Anybody here’ll tell you that.”

  “They’re also a little pale. I haven’t been out in the sun much.”

  “You’ve got a lot of hair, so that doesn’t matter.”

  “He’s bear-y furry! I’m all yours, teddy bear!” Iván jokes in a falsetto.

  He’s still glued to my side. Mariano moves from group to group, giving the occasional individual instruction: “Don’t gel your hair.” “Take that earring out.” His tone is harsh, very different from the one he used with me. He’s like a general inspecting his troops before battle. He’s certainly professional. Since he’s not wearing the sequined jacket, I figure he’s not going to be participating in the rehearsal. When he’s done inspecting us, he claps his hands.

  “Rehearsal starts in ten minutes! Everybody be ready!”

  Iván, in his Zorro costume, looks at me with an almost tender smile.

  “Buck up, teach, this is a walk in the park! Just try to feel the music and let yourself go. Imagine you’re up there in front of a bunch of chicks who want to suck you off and you won’t let them. Just make them horny.”

  I’m in the first number, so all of a sudden I find myself on stage. The room is empty, freezing cold. I feel the chill on my bare legs; it curls under my school smock and makes its way up to my belly, my chest. The micro-
briefs I’m wearing are uncomfortable, constrictive. The spotlights aren’t on; we’ll be dancing in the washed-out house lights. Everything looks a little shabby. The tables are bare, no tablecloths or lanterns. The chairs are stacked up in one corner. The walls could use a coat of paint.

  I look at my schoolmates out of the corner of my eye. We’re all waiting for the teacher to come out, for the music to start. The dancers seem serene, natural. They stretch, do breathing exercises. It’s comforting to have them there. It helps me feel less stupid in this hideous outfit in the middle of this empty room. Mariano’s sitting on a chair near the stage; I can see his white socks glowing in the artificial light.

  The music starts. My instructions are to do the same thing as everybody else. I’ve got the basic concepts because I’ve seen the show. In theory it’s easy—we don’t have to move in sync except at the end, when we’re supposed to all stop at the same time. The guy playing the teacher comes out on the stage. It’s strange to have him so close, to see his powerful muscles flex and ripple as he dances. I can smell his cologne. He moves to one side and leads each of us to the middle of the stage. We all pretend not to know how to dance. When it’s my turn, I try to seem clumsy and timid. I go back to my desk after receiving a pantomimed scolding. I wait for the others to play their part, and when nobody’s left, the whole class starts dancing together. I dance with the others, imitating them, swiveling my hips, swinging my pelvis back and forth. It’s hard to feel the music—I’m so nervous I can barely hear it. Suddenly it goes quiet. We stand still, expectant. Mariano comes up on stage and addresses me:

  “I’ve forgotten your name. What is it?”

  “Javier.”

  “You removed your smock too slowly, not enough energy. You need to rip it off over your head and then toss it aside like a rag, some piece of crap you never want to see again. Got it? Everything else is good. Let’s go again.”

  I feel panicked at first, thinking I’m the only one who has to go again, but no, the whole group puts their smocks back on. We start over, and this time I rip off the smock, which has concealed Velcro in the back, in one swift, decisive movement. Then I violently toss it aside. We reach the end, and I hear the boss’s voice, flat and toneless:

  “That’s better, Javier. Next week you can join the performance.”

  A few of my fellow dancers slap me on the back. “Congrats,” Wong says. Iván can’t say anything because he’s about to rehearse his number, but he winks at me as he walks by.

  We meet up again on our way out and go to get a beer. He’s jubilant. I’m surprisingly tired. My back hurts as if I’d spent the afternoon unloading a truck.

  “Congratulations, man, you were awesome.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I did my best, but I doubt they’re going to name me stripper of the year.”

  “No way, dude, you did great!”

  It’s like he thinks you have to go to college to shake your ass or something. I’ve seen newbies rehearse and rehearse and Mariano still doesn’t let them perform for almost a month. And you don’t get paid for rehearsals—this isn’t a pleasure cruise.

  “No way, man, no way! You were perfect! You’re a goddamn sex bomb and you didn’t even know it!”

  “No, I’m here because you recommended me, so I imagine the owner just overlooked my faults.”

  “Like shit!”

  Mariano playing good cop? Not a chance! Javier doesn’t know it, but the boss can be a real dick.

  “It’s true you didn’t have to go through the tryout phase because I recommended you. Usually they do a huge casting call and a ton of people come, especially with the economic crisis. But Mariano thinks highly of me—he says I bring good energy to the group because I like horsing around and all that. Plus he owes me some favors.”

  “I figured it was something like that.”

  “But don’t kid yourself, man—that was all you today. This is the first time I’ve seen anybody do one rehearsal and then get to debut the next week. I think it’s because of the image you project, as they say these days. You look like a good boy who has no idea how he ended up in a bad place like this. And that drives the ladies wild. That’s how it is with them: either you go all tough and macho, like you’ve been around more times than a racecar driver, and they eat that shit up, or you play the naïve kid so they can take you by the hand and teach you about life. Chicks are fucking weird, man, as you must know already. They go from one extreme to the other like a teeter-totter. But you’re a rock star, man—the other guys said so too. I’ll introduce you soon. Some of them are really cool. After the show some of us go out for a bite to eat. Not on rehearsal days, since everybody’s really busy. But today’s a special day—you just drove the ball right into the net. Want another beer?”

  “No thanks, Iván. I’ve got to catch the bus. It’s getting late, and Sandra will be worried.”

  “If it’s because of the damn bus, we have time for one more. I can drive you. We’ll have you home in a flash.”

  I have one last beer with him. Deep down, I want to. There are a lot of people in the bar, good background music—I’m feeling good. I feel like everything that just happened is getting farther away. A bad patch is ended. Though actually it’s just the opposite: the bad patch is giving way to something that’s just begun.

  We walk to a parking garage and stop in front of a black Volkswagen Golf. I don’t know anything about cars, but it seems like this is an expensive model: lots of electronic doodads on the dash, leather seats . . . Iván proudly shows it off.

  “My car’s pretty rockin’, huh? Do you like it? It’s awesome. It’s got everything, look: GPS, automatic parking system, high-fidelity speakers . . . I bought it less than a year ago with cold hard cash, no financing or any of that boring shit. That’s why I always park it in a garage—there are lots of crooks out there.”

  He drives pretty fast but smoothly, not recklessly, totally in control of the vehicle. He’s blasting techno music. He hums to himself. Suddenly he asks, “I don’t usually butt into people’s private lives, but out of curiosity, what did Sandra say when you told her you were joining the show?”

  “I haven’t told her yet.”

  “Damn, man, bad call. She’s probably going to be pissed you didn’t check in with her about it.”

  “I don’t have to check in with her—it’s my life.”

  Iván laughs. His laugh is metallic, insipid, almost stupid. I don’t like it.

  “I’ll say, man. You’re the boss, controlling the play, as it should be.”

  Get a load of the teacher! He plays the nice guy and all, but it seems he’s got balls. Of course, he could be bluffing and he just hasn’t dared tell his old lady yet. Well, in that case he’s on his own. That’s none of my business.

  * * *

  I’m not sure whether Genoveva is less interesting than I thought she was or if it’s just that everything bores me now. Going out to buy trashy dresses in a store with pounding music is all right. Drinking gin and tonics in a trendy bar is entertaining enough. But I always thought her life had a bit more to it than that. As it turns out, I, who according to her have been living on another planet, wasn’t missing out on anything special. I wonder what people do to fill up their free time. What do David and his young interpreter do? Stay in bed all day, of course! Is he getting set up in his new job? I imagine he must have found one. Or maybe he’s decided to live off his girlfriend’s salary, which can’t be much. Maybe he wants to lead a frugal life. When he was married to me, we led a frugal life, but we had a nice house and once a year we’d travel to some exotic place. He must be happy with a girl who won’t need luxuries. If he lives off of her, it won’t be the first time—though, to be fair, I admit he always earned his salary. Work came first for both of us. Anyway, he hasn’t called me even once to see how the company’s doing. He knows we’re going through a difficult period, but not even a s
imple phone call. He must not have been as interested in the work as he pretended to be, or maybe he’s ashamed to have left it under such circumstances. Deep down, I’m not surprised he was fed up. I am too. Fed up with the crisis, the unpaid invoices, the negligent customers, the rejected loan applications. The manager is still hounding me, as if everything would be fixed if I spent more time at the office. He clearly doesn’t want to bear the burden of the company’s failures alone. He doesn’t know what to do—he’s distracted, easily upset, groping around in the dark. You need a particular fortitude to keep a company going. Papá had it. However severe the crisis, he would have been able to ride it out, grapple with the setbacks, make the right decisions. For a while I thought I’d inherited his constitution, but I was fooling myself. I’m tired. David really knocked the wind out of me. If Papá had been alive, he wouldn’t have dared to dump me like that. Of course, then I would have still been living with a worthless loser. It’s for the best that he left me—this way, the truth is crystal clear. Sometimes I get lonely and feel like crying, but not because I miss my husband—I miss my father. I haven’t shed a single tear over my husband. I’m really proud of that. Genoveva has it wrong: I’m not a cowardly little girl who’s been sheltered from the world all her life. I’m just tired—but I’ll perk back up.

  Genoveva and I have plans this Saturday. We’re going to a private cosmetics demonstration. She says it’s really fun: they put makeup on the models in front of an audience and serve you a drink. At the end, they sell products at a huge discount. It’s being held at a big hotel. We’ll see if it’s actually any fun. It doesn’t seem like anything special. Probably after the demo we’ll go out for drinks. And I’ll ask Genoveva point-blank, “So, Geno, is this kind of thing all you do to have fun?”

  “What kind of thing, darling? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, the places you take me are fantastic and we always have a great time, but . . . it’s all a little shallow.”