Strip Me Bare

by Marissa Carmel

  The table suddenly gets quiet. I look between Ryan and Sean. They have the exact same face, but entirely opposite personalities.

  Sean downs his coffee and is about to stand up when Ryan comes out with “How’s mom?”

  Sean stops and looks over at Ryan. He makes deliberate eye contact then says, “She misses you.”

  Ryan just nods and looks away.

  “Tell her I miss her too,” he says, without turning back to Sean.

  It’s clear their mother is a sensitive subject. I can’t imagine why. Sean fucks up and she begs Ryan to pay the price? I’d have some hostility too.

  Sean gets up, but instead of just turning away from me, he leans down putting his cheek right next to mine. My heart seizes as he whispers in my ear, “Take care of my brother, he needs someone to love him right.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” I respond evenly, my eyes sliding over to meet his.

  “As far as I know, you’re the only one who ever has.” He holds my stare for a split second.

  I’m totally taken back. I don’t know this person at all, yet he has no problem being fearlessly direct with me. My attention follows Sean as he moves away from me. He clasps Ryan’s hand and pauses. “I miss you too,” he says firmly, and then walks off without another word.

  Whoa. It feels like a mushroom cloud just lifted.

  “Clinic?” I ask Ryan.

  “Yeah, methadone. He goes every day. It helps keep him off the H.”

  “Heroin?”

  Ryan nods with a vacant expression.

  “When was the last time you saw your mother?”

  “Not for a few months.”

  “What’s a few?”

  “Like, eight.”

  “Oh, that’s quite a few.”

  “I know,” he sulks.

  I look at Ryan sympathetically.

  I have a sneaking suspicion he has way more healing to do then he’s letting on.

  I stare at the screen of my iPhone. The words read: Culture midnite.

  It’s when Ryan gets off work.

  He and I have gotten into this routine. I spend Sunday through Thursday afternoon in the city with him, and hang out at home on the weekends while he works. It’s been about a month and things are getting pretty intense; intense physically, intense emotionally, intense psychologically.

  I’m sipping a mimosa, waiting for Emily on the terrace of the Ocean Club’s restaurant. It’s a warm June morning and there’s not a cloud in the sky. The ocean is perfectly calm and the air smells sweet and salty.

  It’s a flawless summer day.

  Emily shoves her bag in the chair next to me, then plops down in another and huffs.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I can’t wait until this effing wedding is over. I wish we’d just eloped.”

  “Alex being a PIA again?”

  Emily grabs my glass and downs my drink.

  “You’d think he’s the goddamn bride. He’s driving me nuts. I don’t like that color, the centerpieces are too big, my shoes hurt,” she whines, mocking him. “Do you know how many pairs of shoes I’ve suffered in? Countless, but I never complained. I swear to God he cries like a little girl sometimes,” she groans.

  I motion to the waitress for two more drinks.

  I wait for Emily to finish her rant. She huffs and puffs a minute more then she relaxes.

  “What’s up with you?” She slips a pair of sunglasses on, Dolce and Gabbana cat eyes; the ends of her long, dark hair flipping in the summer breeze.

  I shrug, and stare back down at my phone’s screen.

  “Alana, spill. I don’t have patience for the pitiful little rich girl act this morning.”

  “Ouch Em.”

  She winces, “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.”

  “Maybe you and Alex should get away for a few days, just the two of you. To remember why you’re doing this in the first place.”

  “Well, when did Ally McBeal go all Dear Abby?”

  “Shut up, I’m just trying to help,” I kick her under the table.

  “Ouch! I know!” she laughs. “Maybe we’ll do that, it sounds like a good plan. Even if we just spend the night in a cabana,” she cocks an eyebrow behind her dark sunglasses.

  I look away.

  “Okay, out with it. Trouble with Magic Mike?”

  Oh how Emily loves to joke about that.

  “Sort of,” I bite my lip.

  Over the last few weeks I have been reminded over and over that Ryan is a sex god. Like living, breathing, walking sex. And that would be fine if I had even a fraction of the experience he’s had. But the reality is, he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with minus the disaster in college. So that doesn’t really count.

  “What, are you afraid it’s not going to be good or something?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be good. That I’m going to be some pathetic lay compared to the women he’s been with.”

  “Nonsense,” Emily says assertively just as the waitress drops off our drinks. “Let me tell you something about men. They like innocence. They like inexperience. It makes them feel like they own you. But in a good way. A protective, caring, shielding kind of way. It probably puts Ryan over the moon knowing he’s the only one you’ve ever been with.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t really know that,” I mutter. We never did pick up the evil demons conversation again.

  “Keeping secrets in your relationship cuz, I don’t think Dear Abby would approve.”

  I rub my temples, all stressed out.

  “Want a little advice?” Emily asks, as she takes a lazy sip of her orange drink.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer tentatively.

  “I’ll give it to you anyway and you decide what to do with it. Don’t be scared. Show Ryan who’s boss, then let him break you down. Let him know you can be strong and confident and still be vulnerable in his arms. It’ll drive him fucking nuts.”

  I ponder this.

  I guess if I’m going to take advice from anyone about guys, it’d be from Emily; God knows she’s been with enough of them.

  “What are you doing about BC?” she asks.

  I glance up at her, “I started the shot last week.”

  She nods, “Good. And him?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he clean? Does he get tested?”

  “Oh, yes. The club makes him do it every three months. You’d think he’s a porn star or something.”

  “He’s close enough.”

  I glare at her through my mirrored sunglasses, “You’re as bad as Jill sometimes.”

  “I believe she referred to them as hookers,” Emily retorts.

  I clench my jaw and Emily knows she just royally pissed me off.

  “Well, anyway,” she changes the subject quickly, “I’m glad you’re being responsible.”

  “Thanks mom,” I ridicule.

  I walk up to the entrance of Culture. Lorenzo is working the door like usual. He smiles when he sees me. Usually I wait outside for Ryan, have a cigarette and hang out with Lorenzo while he checks IDs. It’s sort of become a ritual.

  “Hey chicka,” he says with a grin as he shines a light on someone’s license. He’s dressed in his usual get up, black button up shirt, black pants and a derby hat. And every time I see him I hear the lyrics to Still Not a Player in my head.

  “Hey Lorenzo,” I step in front of the velvet rope and look up at him unsurely.

  “Got something on your mind, girlie girl?”

  I bite my lip, “I think I’m going to go inside tonight.”

  Lorenzo raises his eyebrows surprised, then nods and unhooks the rope. I step past him with a small appreciative smile and walk through the front door.

  “Why does she get to just walk right in?!” I hear someone in line yell, all pissed off.

  “She’s VIP hoe,” Lorenzo snaps back. Then his voice travels up behind me, “Shelly, no cover!”

  I look at Shelly; she’s the door g
irl collecting money. She’s a short little thing with curly black hair that looks like it’s been doused in Soul Glow. She smiles and I catch the glint of a gold tooth on her left incisor. I smile back timidly, and then with a deep breath, step through the two black drapes behind her.

  Culture is one big sprawling room packed with people. It’s a dark space with white and blue strobe lights dancing on the ceiling. The music is deafening, the DJ pumping out a dance mix of Died in Your Arms Tonight through the speakers. There are half naked men walking around everywhere in tight, little, metallic blue shorts. Some are dancing with women; some are carrying trays of drinks; others are suspended overhead, spinning, twirling and flipping from aerial ribbon like Cirque du Soleil. Okay. I definitely wasn’t expecting artistic entertainment. But it adds a bit of taste to the risqué environment. Really though, I didn’t know what to expect. The strip show was so much raunchier. This just feels like a New York City nightclub with some extra edge.

  I make my way to the back of the room, bobbing and weaving through the dense mass of people. It’s mostly women, but there are some men too. I look for Ryan, but I don’t see him anywhere. Suddenly, someone grabs my hand and spins me around. It’s a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man dressed in metallic blue Speedos who I don’t recognize at all. He slips his arm around my waist and begins to move against my body. Paralyzed by momentary surprise, I allow him to touch me, then as nicely as possible push him away. That just felt weird. He lets go of me respectfully, but there is still a glint of persistence in his eyes.

  “Do you know where I can find Ryan Pierce?” I yell to him over the music.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Ryan Pierce!”

  “You mean Jack?”

  Oh God.

  Yes. Yes, Jack the goddamn Stripper.

  I nod.

  He points behind me to a half wall hung with silver beads.

  “Thanks,” I mouth and head off in the direction of the beads, when I feel a tug at my arm.

  “If you can’t find Jack, you can always come find me,” he ogles. “I’m Nick.”

  I smile awkwardly. Okay Nick, thanks, but no thanks; I’m a one-stripper kind of girl.

  I slip away through the crowd and walk up to the beaded wall, the smell of lavender incense assaulting my nose.

  I brush some of the heavy beads away and get only a glimpse behind the curtain when someone grabs my hand.

  “There’s nothing you want back there, honey.”

  I glance up and recognize Divan, AKA the Dominator. He’s dressed the same as all the other men in the club; mostly naked. He’s tall, dark and lovely, and when he looks at me, I feel completely at ease to spite his alter ego.

  “What’s back there?” I ask intrigued.

  He shakes his head no, and then leads me a few feet away. “Looking for Ryan?” his deep voice resonates over the music.

  “Yes, have you seen him?” I ask loudly. The music has changed to a relentless thumping sound.

  “I can ask one of the bouncers to find him. They’re all mic’d up.”

  I nod, and he walks over to a guy standing in a corner that is absolutely huge, and has the word staff plastered across his chest in big white letters. I see him put his hand to his mouth and speak.

  Still curious about what’s behind the beads, I glance behind me and see Ryan sliding out with a girl on his arm. They’re laughing and smiling and before they part she gives him a long, drawn-out kiss on the cheek. It feels like someone just smashed me in the chest with a brick fist. When he looks up he notices me, his expression twisting into an oh fuck face.

  Oh fuck is right, friend.

  His whole demeanor changes as he saunters toward me; morphing into someone powerful and intoxicating, someone who commands the entire room owning every cell and every atom and every organism in it. He’s different here. His eyes, his face, his energy; it’s all different from the Ryan I know outside these walls.

  In fact he’s not Ryan at all. He’s Jack the Stripper.

  He snakes one arm around me and nuzzles his face into my hair. “I would kiss you, but I don’t want to give the other women any ideas,” he hisses in my ear.

  “Kissing is off limits?”

  Why did I just ask that?

  “On the floor it is.”

  Why did he answer?

  Ugh.

  I stare at Ryan, he’s dressed in jeans and a button up, unlike all the other men in the club. Why? I have these crazy emotions splitting me in two. On one hand this arrangement eats away at me, knowing he gets paid to spend time with other women. On the other hand I can’t help but be curious. What makes this so appealing? For him and for them?

  My head is spinning from the environment, the change in Ryan and the overpowering perfumy smell of lavender radiating off him. Not to mention the fact he just admitted kissing is permitted behind closed doors.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asks, digging his hip into mine.

  I want to say yes, because I am, but I also want to know what the fuck is behind that beaded curtain.

  I feel like this is my decisive moment before we take the next step. I need to find out if I really can try with Ryan, or if I’m fooling myself and need to cut my losses.

  “What’s back there?” I ask him, thrusting my chin the direction he just came from.

  “You really want to know?”

  I consider for a beat and then nod my head yes.

  Ryan’s eyes become intense, like two blue storms of sexuality. My whole body locks up. Holy shit.

  He takes my hand and leads me towards the hanging beads, my pulse accelerating. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to see the wizard.

  We slip through the heavy room divider and into a hallway of more dangling beads. Except these are dense crystals in all different shapes and sizes, with bright orange and purple lights shining behind them. And if you look hard enough you can see silhouettes; bodies of men and women doing scandalous things in provocative ways.

  One term comes to mind as I follow Ryan down the hallway. Champagne Room.

  We stop in front of some hanging crystals. They clink as Ryan pushes them aside, “after you.” I walk under an orange spotlight, into a small space with a white leather couch deep enough to lie on and walls a warm golden yellow.

  Ryan steps in behind me and presses his body flush against mine. My mind races.

  Is he really going to do this?

  Am I really going to let him?

  Can I even handle this? Five minutes ago he was with another woman. Quite possibly in this same room doing God only knows what.

  “Why do you do this Ryan?” I expel. I know he explained it in words, but I need to experience it to truly understand.

  He ambles around me so close; the only thing separating us is a whisper of air.

  “I told you, the money,” he says as he unbuttons his shirt.

  “You said women too,” I watch him cautiously, my gaze jumping between his eyes and his chest.

  “That was before you walked back into my life. You’re the only woman I want to touch now. The others, like you saw before, it’s just an act. A business transaction. It’s what I have to do to get what I want.”

  “Doesn’t it make them feel used?” I flick my eyes up at him.

  “It mustn’t. They always come back.”

  “You like it. I saw your face. That wasn’t an act.”

  Ryan stands right in front of me, his shirt unbuttoned and dangling open. “I won’t lie to you Alana, I’ll never lie to you,” his tone is hard, but seductive. “I do like the attention. But it’s not real. It’s my job to sell attractiveness and fantasy, and I do it well. But that’s all it is, fantasy and I know it. When I’m with you, that’s my real.”

  My breath catches when he says the word real. I can’t help but find the irony in his words; I’m exactly to him what he is to me. Two people one and the same, both living a double life to get what they want; a future and each other.

  And that is
what I want. A future, with Ryan.

  I go to put my hands on his chest, but he steps away shaking his head no. “In this room, it’s all about you,” he walks around, stopping right behind me. “You have to tell me what you want Alana,” he whispers in my ear and I almost go limp, the sound of his voice is erotic as hell.

  I swallow hard, but can’t utter a word, because truth be told, I have no freakin’ idea what I want. At least, not in this scenario.

  Ryan starts to rub my shoulders. I think he can feel my hesitation.

  “Why are you so tense? This is supposed to be fun.”

  Fun? The word rattles around in my head. Fun - a time or feeling of enjoyment or amusement.

  Okay, let’s have some fun.

  I turn around to face him and our eyes lock. “Show me.”

  “Show you what?” his tone dripping with sensuality.

  “Show me Jack the Stripper.”

  Holy fuck!

  His chest starts to heave as his breathing becomes heavy. He pushes me down and I land with a little bounce on the edge of the white couch. He slips his shoes off and I vaguely hear music playing in the background; a trippy remix of Muse’s Madness. The melody sounds like something straight out of a Quentin Tarentino movie. I think it’s louder than I perceive, but I’m not sure, this whole situation is clouding my head.

  Ryan starts to move, snaking his body to the rhythm. Slowly, he slides his shirt down his arms and drops it onto the floor, exposing his well-defined chest; it’s hard and toned and looks slick, like he rubbed baby oil all over it. Then he starts with his pants, undoing the button of his jeans with one deft, smooth flick. After that, he leisurely slides his fly down, teasing me with glances of his shiny blue briefs. His body is so agile and provisioned, like each move is tuned to exhilarate my senses. And exhilarate them it does. Because now he’s standing in front of me, one article short of naked. He’s beautiful and seductive and bewitching; and he knows it.

  My heart is racing because all I want to do is tell him what I want. What I really want. And that’s him, inside me.

  My head is racing because everything I know is telling me this is taboo. Something frowned upon in my social circle. In my father’s social circle. My rationale and my desire are slicing me right in two.