Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “Yes, and this time it seems like it’s true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From the way Iván said it.”

  “Right.”

  “Please drop that tone, Irene! Anyway, you don’t have anything to lose by just taking a look! He works at the same club as Iván. We’re going to see the show on Saturday. Then we’ll get a drink with the guys, and you can decide there whether to move forward. No obligation whatsoever. I’ll tell Iván your participation is conditional. All right?”

  “OK, I guess that’s all right.”

  “I’ll call back to give you the time and place.”

  Unbelievable! This child is really starting to get on my nerves! And with everything I’ve done for her! She gets more bitter and rude every day. It’s been a while since her husband left her at this point—she could pull herself together. Plus, she does whatever she feels like and no one’s looking over her shoulder. She’s got money. So what more does she want? To get married again? When I suggested I could introduce her to eligible guys, she started shrieking like a hyena and told me she had absolutely no interest in romance. I don’t get her, to be honest. As far as I’m concerned, she can keep acting like a spoiled child and things won’t end well. You have to be clear on a couple of things in life, just a couple, and I don’t see her making an effort to identify what’s most important. At any rate, I hope at least she doesn’t ruin Saturday night for me. I’m looking forward to going to a dive, seeing new things . . . but I’m not like her—I get excited about things, I’m looking for stimulation. Hell, that’s the least you can do if you want to keep from blowing your brains out.

  * * *

  I hope he puts some real energy into shaking his ass tonight, because we’ve got visitors. Two broads are coming to see the show, and then we’re hooking up afterward. They’re not tourists and there’s no party involved. They’re locals, and they’re both loaded. And I think if it goes well they’ll be repeat customers at least for a few months. I hope this dude gets his act together, because they want a second. They’re total upper-crusties, so they’ll love a well-mannered prof type.

  “They’re super posh—mine’s named Genoveva. Genoveva, shit! It sounds like a princess’s name, like somebody important. She’s getting up there in years, but she takes care of herself and must have a boatload of Botox, so she’s not too bad. The important thing is she’s a wild one. She’s looking to let loose, has a sense of humor—the other day we were busting up laughing. She’s obviously been in the air longer than a peregrine falcon, those ones they’re always rattling on about how endangered they are. But she’s a straightforward bird—there aren’t going to be any complications or misunderstandings with her.”

  “And what does this have to do with me, Iván?”

  “Hang on a minute, man, let me finish.”

  He’s already glowering—Jesus, we’re off to a great start. It would be nice if he figured out that I’m the one who needs him this time, that sometimes you have to do your friends a solid. I bust my ass looking for good opportunities for him, making sure the little prude doesn’t feel defiled, and now he might go and tell me to deal with them on my own. As if these upper-class broads give a shit who you are anyway. They spend the evening with you, have a screw, and ciao. After that you disappear from their heads and they never think of you again. Plus, I don’t understand this crap about how he doesn’t want to go with Spanish women. He says it gets him down to talk to them, makes him feel like a real prostitute. The hell with this prostitute crap—as if that means anything!

  “The thing is, Genoveva—if that’s even her real name—has this friend who’s shy and she wants to take her out partying. But the two of them have to go out together with two guys—if not, there’s no deal. That’s the lay of the lay.”

  “But you know I don’t want to go there, Iván. Foreigners and parties are fine, but . . . ”

  “Hang on a minute! None of what I’ve said about Genoveva applies to the other one. She’s a lot younger. She split up with her husband not long ago. She’s got a lot of money and not a lot of life experience—she hasn’t been around a single block. You could say she’s a virgin with this kind of thing.”

  “What difference does that make? That makes it even worse.”

  “Goddammit, Javier, stop interrupting me! I’m trying to tell you this hen isn’t looking for cock.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said—she isn’t into fucking. She wants to see the guy naked, look at him a while, and that’s it. But she pays the same—and I assure you she’ll pay well.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s not that complicated, man—are you sure you’re a teacher? She’s not interested in screwing. She probably has her reasons: maybe she’s going through a terrible depression, or maybe she’s dealing with a childhood trauma and that’s why she split up with her husband, because he wanted to screw properly, or maybe she’s got some disease down there . . . What the hell do I know! That’s not the point.”

  Why the hell does the guy want to know why the poor woman doesn’t screw? Let’s say she doesn’t like cock and leave it at that! He can just lie there buck naked for a while until the chick gets tired of looking at him and kicks him out. Then he takes the money, takes off, and the hell with it! What difference does it make why she doesn’t want to fuck? I guess it’s possible she’s a total pervert and not a shy little dove, but I’m not about to tell this moron that—he’ll freak out and drop dead right here. And even if she is a pervert who’ll go home afterward and screw a ram she keeps in the backyard, what the hell do you care?

  “I just don’t get it, seriously.”

  “All right, well, I’ll tell Genoveva it’s conditional and we’ll at least have dinner with them. You take a look and then decide. If you have any doubts, you can give an excuse and take off.”

  “That’s mean, Iván—it would be better to just take a pass.”

  “Better? It’s better to hang me out to dry, make me lose out on a good gig? Thanks a lot, man, seriously! I thought you were my friend, but it’s clear the only thing you care about is your own hang-ups, and the hell with me, is that it?”

  “Please don’t be like that. We agreed from the start that I wouldn’t go out with Spanish women.”

  “Wow, man, that’s great! And who do you think you are, the pope? You say something once, and it goes for life? Go to hell, Javier—you’re going to screw me out of good business because you don’t feel like getting naked in front of a chick. But whatever you say, man, whatever you say. I’m leaving—I’ve got to run. Bye.”

  I went home, cursing to myself, without giving him time to say another word. Half an hour later, he was already calling me on the phone—yes, he’d do it, I could count on him, he’d do it. I said thanks. I’d figured that would happen.

  * * *

  In the beginning, when I’d put on the ridiculous little schoolboy smock for the show, I’d try to avoid catching sight of myself in any reflective surface. Now I don’t care anymore, though I’d still rather not come face to face with a mirror. Hence my lack of enthusiasm about today’s plan—the damn smock is ridiculous whether I can see myself in it or not, and I know the women we’re meeting were watching me in it when I was dancing. Even if I try to make a joke out of it, I still find it humiliating. But how could I refuse? Iván was furious, and I guess he was right: I can’t keep tiptoeing around this. Plus, I need the money. I have to keep paying for this life I’ve set up, which is my life now. Though sometimes I wake up with a start in the middle of the night, thinking it’s all just a dream. But no, this is my life now. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem real that I ever had another one where I did the things normal people do. That really makes me upset, and I can only shake myself out of it by getting up and going to the living room. I survey the shelves of books, the computer in one corner, the wing chair with an
ottoman in front of it that props my legs up while I read. Then I usually go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of warm milk. The refrigerator purrs gently. It’s nice. It’s my home. I don’t have to steal or kill or exploit anybody to keep it. Everything’s fine. I go back to bed and fall asleep.

  Today there’s a festive air in the dressing area. It happens sometimes, for no real reason. The guys tell jokes and slap each other on the back, roughhouse a little, chase each other around the room. Even the owner seems to be in a good mood, rolling his eyes heavenward in an exaggerated display of the patience required to put up with their antics. When the show starts and it’s my turn, I dance as usual. I know all the moves by heart, and I always try to perform them the same way. The other day I heard the owner say he wanted to change up the show a little. We’ll see what Shakespearean character I’ll have to play this time. I don’t have a preference, but if the changes get me into a less ludicrous costume, that would be great.

  The room is packed. There’s not a single table free. When my number’s over, I wait patiently for the others to finish. Mariano, the owner, ends the show as usual. He must be totally coked up today, because he’s really going for broke: compulsive movements, pure alpha male. He’s coarser and more arrogant than other times. He’s given his all for his audience, as he says. I’ve managed to keep from thinking about how, out there in that ferocious, shrieking audience, there’s a little dove waiting for me. The line I did has helped. I feel so good, I even know how I’m going to act when I’m face to face with the woman. I’ll get to the hotel room and undress like I’m getting ready to put on my pajamas and go to bed after a long workday. No affectations. If the chick’s hoping I’m going to do little poses or show off my body like Superman, she’s in for a disappointment. The only problem will be if she gives me orders: spread this, hold that, lie down like this. I’ll tell her that wasn’t part of the deal—I’ll refuse. She wants to see a naked man, and that’s exactly what she’s going to get. Though I admit I am curious to meet a woman with those sexual predilections.

  * * *

  I never imagined a place like this actually existed: large, rundown, kitschy décor. I’m surprised it hasn’t become trendy with the beautiful people. I have to admit Genoveva’s right—it seems like a fun plan. There aren’t many men in the audience—it’s mostly women between the ages of about twenty and fifty. Some look just like the girls who work in the factory. They’re all really done up: tons of makeup, lots of eyeshadow, colored highlights in their hair—appalling. And their clothing! Miniskirts, sequined T-shirts, tight pants, dizzyingly plunging necklines. They’re in teetering heels, of course, and when they walk it seems like they’re going to fall over at any moment. Looking at them, you could write an anti-style guide.

  At the table next to us is a group of boisterous fifty-somethings. The waiter tells us they’re celebrating because one of them is getting divorced. What an idea, to come here as a public demonstration that divorce is no big deal and you’re feeling freer and happier than ever! I’d like to know the real story.

  We were going to order gin and tonics, but the waiter told us there’s only one brand of gin, so Genoveva orders a bottle of Moët & Chandon to avoid any surprises.

  Suddenly the lights go out and the show begins. The MC is horrible—old, really dodgy. The first number takes place in a school. It seems humorous. Genoveva hisses to me that one of the guys is the one I’m going to meet later, but she doesn’t know which one. I examine them all; they seem pretty normal. By the end they’re all naked, with only a tiny pair of briefs covering their genitals. They look ridiculous, but they have nice bodies. It would be pretty much perfect if they were wearing hoods too—their smiles seem kind of pathetic. I can’t see them all that well, but they’re just a bunch of hicks. When they’re done, the audience applauds wildly and the divorcing ladies shriek at the top of their lungs.

  In the second number, that guy Iván comes out playing a sort of comical Zorro. If this whole show ends up being humorous and tongue-in-cheek, we’re in trouble. I’m rarely amused by that sort of thing—comedy films, jokes, any of it. Genoveva’s really excited, like a mom whose kids are performing in the school play. She laughs, cheers, finds Iván just hilarious.

  “Isn’t he a hunk?” she asks. “Did you see the way he moves? He’s fantastic!”

  “Fantastic, absolutely,” I reply, and take a sip so she won’t notice what I really think.

  Is he a hunk? Well, he’s a hunk of something. He’s fit and muscular, but his hair is cut so short and he opens his eyes so wide that he seems retarded. You could also take him for a crazy person. Even naked, you can tell from a mile off that he’s from the wrong side of the tracks. I don’t know what Genoveva sees in him. She says he’s funny. If the other guy, the literature teacher, is as funny as he is, the evening will be ending soon.

  There are breaks between each number to encourage the audience to drink more, and the numbers are all fairly similar, so the show starts to drag. The only entertaining aspect is that the spectators are getting more and more riled up, and at the end of some performances the dancers come down off the stage and circulate among the tables. The women shriek, catcall, reach out their hands to touch them. It all reminds me more of a schoolyard than of a real striptease.

  Only at the end, almost the end, does something interesting happen. The MC, the horrible, dodgy, paunchy old man, suddenly comes out to perform. When I saw him getting ready, I feared the worst—the ultimate caricature, a parody to top everything that preceded it. But no, I’m amazed to see him move with a provocative and sensual grace. Not like the others—he moves like he means it, as if that striptease were his life’s work. His stocky body exhibits the ravages of age and hard living, but I can’t take my eyes off him. He disgusts me and, at the same time, pulls me in. His dance is the only erotic thing I’ve seen today.

  When he finishes, the harpies who spent the whole show howling, only shutting up once he started dancing, burst into enthusiastic applause. All right, not bad, but is it worth enduring the whole tedious show just for those last few minutes of reality? I doubt anyone who’s seen it once would go back to see it again.

  As the audience starts filing out, Genoveva orders another bottle of champagne and four glasses. “They’ll be here soon,” she says.

  The light in the room is flat and harsh, unpleasant. Maybe to highlight the arrogant beauty of our companions.

  “All right,” I respond, on the verge of grumpy.

  * * *

  “You were awesome, boys, both of you! The shows in Las Vegas don’t have anything on this one. I loved it! So, Iván, are you going to introduce your friend?”

  He’s gorgeous today—it must be the adrenaline of the performance. He’s got a riffraff vibe that I love. It’s too bad he showered—he must be even hunkier when he’s flushed and sweaty from exertion. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll make him sweat later. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me? Genoveva, control yourself!

  “This is Javier.”

  “And this is my friend Irene. She really liked your dancing too.”

  “So you liked it, ladies. It’s a sweet show, huh?”

  Shit, they’ve ordered Moët! Awesome! There’s class and some good dough at this table. I already knew this Genoveva bird made the grade. There’s enough for everybody here. And the other one? She’s not bad, though she’s dressed like my grandma and has a little smile on her face that could mean anything. I’m sure the teacher will like her, since she looks like a little girl who’s being raised by nuns . . . though the bastard still hasn’t opened his mouth. If he screws up this plan, he’s going to hear about it, or my name’s not Iván.

  “We loved it, right, Irene?”

  “It was very good.”

  “It was amazing.”

  Jesus, she’s so bland! And I’m so nervous! These things revitalize me, remind me of when I was young and we girls used t
o go out as a group and they’d introduce you to new boys. But she’s so dry! There she is with that grim little smile she always puts on when we’re with other people. And she didn’t even go that far during the show—it was like she was at a funeral, motionless as a statue! And me laughing the whole time! Iván’s friend is handsome—he looks like an old-school college type, very polite. To be honest, he’s nothing like Iván. I wonder why they’re friends and how this guy ended up here. If Irene snubs him, I’m never going out with her again! I don’t have the patience for spoiled little girls who think they deserve it all. Has she ever thanked me for all the arrangements I’ve made? Not once. Naturally, she’s on this planet for other people to serve her and make her happy. But if she ruins the evening this time, there won’t be another one.

  “Have you thought about where you’d like to eat, Iván?”

  “Why don’t you decide? We’re flexible.”

  I hope she takes us to one of those posh places they must go to—though really there’s no way she will, on the off chance her snooty friends spot them with losers like us. And teacher is just sitting there, mute as a mummy. I could kill him! Of course, Genoveva’s friend doesn’t seem to be all that into it either, though she is giving him sidelong glances with a greedy look on her face. Maybe that’s what chicks like about him, that he sits there the whole time keeping quiet and pretending to be interesting.

  “I know a brasserie that would be perfect. Do you know what a brasserie is?”

  “Yeah, it’s where they brass you off.”

  “Oh, Iván, you’re too funny! You crack me up!”

  It’s obvious that if the two of us don’t get it on . . .

  * * *

  All right, we’re in the home stretch. We’re in the hotel room and she’s right there. She needs to tell me what she wants from me, at least give me a hint—but no, she’s inscrutable, impenetrable. She isn’t acting at all like a little dove. She brought me here without the slightest show of embarrassment or shame. She made all the arrangements at the hotel reception desk with the utmost confidence. She’s no dove, but I have no idea what kind of bird she is. Her friend Genoveva is easy to classify—she reminds me of some of the mothers of the students at my school. She’s older, probably about fifty-five. She speaks with that affected casual tone of the well-to-do. She’s tiresome, shallow. She couldn’t wait to take off with Iván even though that meant leaving me alone with this girl. This girl. There’s nothing extraordinary about her, but she’s not anodyne. Her eyes transmit an inner strength. She hasn’t said a word all night. She doesn’t smile. Anyone would say she’s doing this out of obligation, though that’s a ludicrous idea. She must be sad about something—but that’s not my problem. My only problem right now is figuring out what she wants me to do.