Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  “Go on, Tarzan, give it to her. She’s really hot for it. Kiss her on the lips, kiss her right on the lips.”

  Mr Universe turns her upside down, kisses her on the crotch. The laughter gets wilder and more vulgar. “What’s your favourite position, hon? Wow! She likes it from behind, folks. It’s okay, darlin’ – you can swallow it. It’s very low on calories.”

  The audience fall about. The girl is overweight, great fat arms and thighs. At least the two are matched for size. I can hardly bear to watch, though. They’re making sex so crude and rude and animal. They’re all sex objects – guys as well as girls. And it’s almost prostitution, the way that fat man keeps touting for more money. I expect he gets a cut.

  “Now, I want everyone here to give this marvellous guy a dollar. It’s still Christmas, still the giving season, so everybody give. That’s right – just throw your money on the stage.”

  When Mr Universe finally bows out, he’s clutching rolls of dollars in both hands, can’t even wave goodbye. There’s another burst of fireworks from the music, another exploding rainbow from the lights.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our next amazing guy – a real fantastic dancer – Guiseppo, the Italian Stallion.”

  I doubt if he’s Italian. He looks more Mexican with his black eyes and oily skin, his agile wiry body. He’s dressed in a pure white suit and shirt with a cream straw hat and natty little gloves. At least he can dance a bit, does high kicks and pirouettes while the band plays “Arrivederci Roma”. When at last he braves the catwalk, the girls mob him quite spontaneously, clambering out of their seats to unbuckle his belt, unlace his two-tone shoes.

  “Take ’ em off. Take ’ em off,” encourages the fat man. “How many girls wanna see this guy really strip down to basic Adam?”

  Guiseppo shrugs off his jacket, copying Cheryl and the girls again in all his sexy poses. That’s what bugs me, somehow. Why can’t the men work out something different, something more suited to their gender and physique, instead of just imitating women? Female strippers have spent years and years perfecting their techniques, then men come along and do just the same routines, when they’ve got completely different bodies and equipment. Don’t they realise they look comic and embarrassing, wiggling their non-existent hips like that? Those gestures all shout “female” while their muscles and their body-hair shout “male”. Guiseppo is exceptionally hairy. He’s taken off his trousers now and is gyrating round and round. Even his buttocks are covered with dark hairs and his chest is like an unmown lawn. He still has on his gloves and when he does get round to removing them, it’s just a take-off of Alexis. There he is, stroking each butch and hirsute finger and expecting us to drool. Most of the females do, in fact, but I feel just pissed off.

  His underpants are shaped like a miniature dress-shirt front, with a row of little buttons, two black lapels and a tiny red bow-tie to match the one he was wearing higher up. There isn’t any back, just two thin strings to hold the thing in place. He goes around the audience pushing this white shirt front into female faces, or sidling his bare and hairy buttocks onto laps. He doesn’t even smile, just looks sullen, even bored, though he’s pretty quick to gather up the loot – dollar bills stuffed right inside his pants. He can’t have much else down there if there’s room for so much cash. I’m beginning to wonder if these guys have pricks at all. You can hardly call it stripping if they won’t take off their g-strings. Another con, I suppose. You can see bare male chests or hairy legs on any boring beach, without paying a twenty-dollar entrance fee, plus all those bribes and tips.

  I’m going to call their bluff. If this is called a strip show, then the men should strip. After all, the females did. Okay, I admit I recoiled a bit at seeing all those Abigails really flaunted and exposed (and pubic hair trimmed and shaped like hedges), but at least they had the guts to go the whole hog. Why should it be different for the men? When Guiseppo comes this way, I’ll do what the fat man told us, have a grab. He’s coming now, shimmying his hips. He stops by Angelique, takes her hand, strokes it up and down his nipples. I grab, while he’s still busy, have a feel. There’s nothing there – well, almost nothing. The stallion is a gelding.

  “Watch out!” the fat man shrieks. “Young Carole’s goin’ wild. Didja see what she just did? I can hardly believe my eyes. Okay, get the lights down and let her do her thing. Give the guy a dollar, Carole. He deserves it. Yeah, just push it down.”

  I can’t give him anything. I’m paralysed. He’s sitting on my lap, pressed up right against me. I can smell his sweat and hair-oil, and his greasy hair is dangling in my face, as he pretends to grind his pelvis into mine. It’s all pretence. He doesn’t like me – I’m pretty sure of that – and I feel almost sick. Yet the audience is cheering us on, shouting out “Bravo”, “Encore”, and other ruder things. Now he’s including Angelique, doing the splits across both our laps, his naked sweaty legs sticking to our skirts.

  “That’s right! Two at a time. Goodness gracious, those girls are hungry for it! They’ve been waitin’ all their lives for a real hot Latin lover.”

  The Latin lover is rocking backwards and forwards on our laps, kissing us in turn, fat wet lips smearing all our make-up. His breath smells of cumin seeds, overlaid with mouthwash. I can’t stand any more. I push him off. Angelique is reaching for her purse, extracting dollar bills, paying for our pleasure. I’m so hopping mad, I hardly notice the next stripper coming on – Mr Fantasy. He’s black. Dressed in a lilac spangled boilersuit which he eventually strips off to reveal a g-string trimmed with fur. “Real mink,” shouts the fat man. “The most expensive cock in the house.”

  The white-haired birthday girl is straining out of her seat, darts on to the catwalk, throws herself between the two black legs.

  “Oh my goodness, Grandma’s goin’ down on the man! This is more fun than cookies and milk, isn’t it, Grandma?”

  Grandma doesn’t answer. Mr Fantasy has scooped her from the floor, rushed off through the curtains with her. We can only hear her squeals.

  “They’re going off to make chocolate chip cookies together. No! they’re back already. That was quick, Eunice. Eunice likes it black and quick.”

  I’m getting bored. Yes, really. It’s just vulgar jokes and sham. Okay, so all the acts are different – Tiny Tim with his thumb stuck in his mouth and cuddling a teddy bear, which I suppose is meant to appeal to our maternal instincts, and Dr Probe with his Master’s degree in Sexology, who enters wearing nothing but a jockstrap and a mortar-board; Dangerous Dave who snarls on stage looking really frightening, dressed like a punk in studded black leather with lots of zips and chains, and one final guy got up like an airline pilot who looked better in his braid than in his pale white flesh.

  I’m actually longing for my bed, alone, without any man at all. Perhaps I’m still hung over from Milton’s sleeping pills. Or there’s something basic wrong with me – the only female in the whole packed room not having fun. The airline pilot is squeezing between the tables, picking out the girls, pawing, snogging, smooching, aiming his pelvic thrusts at every female lap. One girl has snatched his hat off and is stuffing it with cash; another is stroking dollar bills down the whole length of his damp and sticky body, inching them slowly and provocatively past his throat, chest, belly, until she finally secures them in his g-string.

  I’m still amazed at all the contact. I never thought that strippers would actually get that close, let themselves be groped, touch and grab themselves – and all with total strangers. Everyone else accepts it, even revels in it, but I can’t help being shocked. I mean, if one of those men had VD or AIDS or something, or hadn’t washed after what Norah calls going number two, he could spread his germs, pass on his infection. After all, their buttocks are completely bare and they’ve been grinding them into any willing crotch, or slipping their hands down inside their g-strings, then fondling female faces. I’m not normally obssessed with germs – that’s Norah’s thing. Perhaps she’s influencing me witho
ut my realising. God! I hope not, or I’ll end up celibate or carrying Dettol in my bag instead of scent. Funny, though, I miss her. She’d loathe it here, of course, but I feel better when she’s with me. I can be myself with Norah, whereas with girls like Angelique, however nice they are, I somehow feel I’m not enough, have to make an effort, put an act on.

  She’s turning to me now, offering me a Virginia Slim. She would smoke those – they’re elegant and skinny like she is herself. “Are you all right, hon?”

  “Yeah, fine.” Well, what else can I say? I don’t want her to label me a prude.

  She reaches for her lighter. Every time I see her hands, I want to hide my own. Her nails aren’t just painted, they’re works of art – each one transformed into a glossy golden heart with a tiny A nestling in its centre. They do that over here: sculpture nails, reshape you toe to finger. The lighter, too, is gold and monogrammed. She lights both cigarettes.

  “It’s the finalé next,” she tells me, pausing for a drag. “All the guys at once and all completely starkers. No more g-strings. It’s quite a sight.”

  I stop griping and sit up. I’m intrigued, despite myself. I haven’t seen that many pricks – hardly any, really, if I’m honest, and I must admit I am quite curious. The band is playing expectant trills and fanfares, the fat man almost choking with excitement.

  “Stand back, girls. Don’t all rush at once. This is the moment you’ve been waitin’ for. Sit down, Grandma, you’ll need all the strength you’ve got.”

  The curtains open and out rush the seven strippers – all well and truly stripped now, right down to the skin, though sporting various minor props such as hats and gloves and sweatbands. I ignore the props, glance lower. I don’t know quite what I expected, but after all that build-up, the excitement and the foreplay, the simulated fucking, the thrusts and heaves and gasps, I’m primed for an erection – seven erections.

  I keep staring at the seven dangling droops. Tiny Tim’s doesn’t even droop. It’s too small for that, just a little bud, hardly visible at all between his thighs. The airline pilot’s is pointed at the end, pointing down. Mr Fantasy’s is large, but just as limp. Mr Nude Universe has bigger bulges higher up. The seven men strut and plume, rippling their muscles, puffing out their chests. It’s only now I understand why I’ve been feeling so cheated and resentful. A soft prick is a put-down, the clinching proof that the man is feeling nothing, limp and dangling nothing. These seven guys have spent the last two hours panting and frothing with a desire which isn’t there. They probably just despise us girls, see us as a source of easy cash.

  Oh, I know you could say it’s the same with female strippers, that Alexis and the rest of them feel nothing either and are just feigning their excitement and their turn-on, but you can’t actually prove it with a female. There’s no clincher, as with men, so at least you’re free to imagine they’re genuinely aroused, which just saves the thing from insult.

  They’re taking their bows now, still pulsing with mock passion, blowing kisses, striking erotic poses, while those seven floppy misogynists declare the whole thing a sham. I turn away, can’t look.

  “Enjoy it?” Angelique asks.

  I nod, wonder if I dare explain about the pricks, see if she feels the same, try and point out how hollow it all seems, sex without the x, without the charge and thrust, all posturing and facade. I fumble for the words. I’ve only just met the girl, don’t want to offend her.

  “Oh, come on, Carole. What d’you expect? Erections every week and on demand? It’s just a job, for heaven’s sake.”

  I don’t reply. It’s obvious I’m the only one dissatisfied, the only sourpuss. The other girls are still squawking with excitement, swapping high points from the show. I remember something Dr (Beechgrove) Bates said: “You’re angry with your father, Carole, for dying, so you take it out on all men, want to punish them.”

  Bugger Dr Bates! He always made things so involved. I’m confused enough already. Those females with the placards object to porn as porn. At least that’s fairly simple and consistent, whereas what I’m saying is (I think) that I want porn to be professional, porn for real. No, that’s ridiculous. I object to porn myself, and yet … Oh, I don’t know, but those female strippers seemed so glamorous, so suave. I’d rather look like them, earn their sort of money, than parade in a dirty boilersuit with nothing in my purse but skimpy principles. Yet I must admit I’d like to have a cause, something to believe in beyond mere cash and clothes; to be part of a group who cared enough to fight. I’ve always felt ashamed that I didn’t join the peace marches, or chain myself to railings, or cut the wire at Greenham. Instead, I used to criticise their gear, those awful woolly hats and nylon anoraks.

  I excuse myself a moment, pretend I need the toilet. I really need a break, a rest from all the noise and razzmatazz. The music is still ear-splitting, a sort of jangly yelping wail, amplified to pain. I fight my way to the exit, dodging chairs, tables, and randy men who grope me as I pass, shouting out “Hi, gorgeous! On your own?” I fend them off, squeeze through the mini soccer crowd still gathered round the bar. The foyer is mercifully deserted. It smells of curry, strangely, since they don’t serve meals, only snacks and sandwiches. A broken doll is lying in one corner. I pick it up. Perhaps a family lives here, above the basement. I’ve hardly seen a child in all Las Vegas. They don’t belong. It’s not a family place. Adults only. And “adult” means something slightly sordid here. Adult movies, adult entertainment.

  It’s funny – I longed to be an adult, dared trial-runs when I was only twelve or so, larding on the blusher, buying dangly earrings, stuffing out my chest with tissue paper. Now I’ve made it: breasts for real, mascara and jewellery no longer hidden in my piggy-bank, yet it’s all a disappointment. I thought it would mean more, much more, that I’d suddenly feel different, less confused, receive some insight or enlightenment, know what I believed in. But my eighteenth birthday was really much the same as all the rest – my father buying cakes and crazy presents, my mother nagging about crumbs and waste of money; a few jokey cards from friends. Perhaps we need something like the Jewish bar mitzvah, some solemn celebration to make the thing dignified and real, to convince ourselves we really are grown up.

  I walk round and round the foyer, the doll cradled in my arms. Nice to be a kid again. Or would it? Even then, you’re pressurised, have to keep up with your crowd, know what’s “in”, what’s yuk; follow trends and styles. I only started smoking because that was clever, daring. Now I’m hooked.

  Las Vegas is a bit the same. You have to be a swinger, keep on Having Fun. “Enjoy, enjoy!” everyone insists. It’s their favourite word, written on the menus, shouting from advertisements, in the mouths of all the staff – waitresses and barmen, Keno girls and hostesses. They say it when they bring your food, bring your change, find you tables, mix you drinks. “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.” To tell the truth, I’m feeling a bit sated. I’ve drunk too much, gorged too much, and I’m getting almost blasé. If there aren’t a hundred courses or two hundred dancing girls; a glade of marble nymphs or a pride of gilded lions, then the place is second-rate.

  I slump down on a bench. A television set is playing to itself. Two soldiers run for cover in a burst of rifle-fire. I can hear the fat man’s laughter as background to the guns, amplified and booming from the other room. Then Israel (or wherever) gives place to sunny Spain – bronzed and leggy lotus-eaters throwing beach balls, sipping Coca-Cola. “It’s the real thing, the real thing …” Actually, it rots your teeth, so next we get a toothpaste ad: Plaque Control with Fluoride. They’re Having Fun again – skiing, surfing, sunbathing, flashing ice-white teeth against white snow, white surf, white rum. They’re always drinking in the ads: Bacardi in Jamaica, bourbon in log cabins, and everything is Fun, even things like dandruff. You don’t actually see the itching or the reddened flaky scalp, just Golden Girls floating in slow motion over silver sands, their sheeny hair streaming out behind them, and blissful smiles again. They ought to do a combination
ad – shampoo, toothpaste, coke, Bacardi – just one beach, one big grin. Perhaps that’s why my mother drank, to find the missing Fun. There weren’t a lot of laughs in Elm Close, Portishead. My father did his humble best, but the house was cramped and damp and the immersion heater was always breaking down, so if you washed your hair it meant boiled kettles or cold water, not hot springs in Jamaica.

  They’re back to guns and bombs now, so I walk on down the passage to the restroom. I’d better use it now I’m here, though it’s cramped and filthy dirty, with a crate of empty bottles in one corner. (Budweiser, not Bacardi.) I pee as quickly as I can, wash my hands in a trickle of cold water. There’s a contraceptive machine above the basin selling Super-Sex French Ticklers. “Only Super-Sex offer the ecstasy of colour with improved raised spirals which combine total stimulation with maximum sensitivity.” Great. If I had a guy to wear one. I don’t want a guy, though, do I? I’m hostile to them, fixated on my father. Oh, Dr Bates, where are you? No, I couldn’t cope with him.

  I’m tired now, really tired, wish I could just leave. But that would be unfair to Angelique, and in the absence of a bloke, she’s my only friend. Well, Norah, of course, but even though I feel relaxed with Norah, there are still a lot of things we can’t discuss – men, pricks, French ticklers, even resentment. If I were Toomey, I’d be burning with resentment towards everyone, from her non-existent father (who was too drunk or wild or careless to even bother with a tickler), to bloody Dr Bates who more or less ignores her. And instead she loves the world – or at least accepts it, and her place at the bottom of the pile, with the poor, the sick, the sexless …