Eighty Days Amber (Eight Days)

by Jackson, Vina

  I even agreed to the occasional lap dance, as the punters at both of my new clubs were so much more upmarket than they had been at the place Barry ran, with their expensive suits and endless parade of dollar bills that they were only too happy to throw around at the slightest provocation. One man wanted me to do nothing more than remove my shoes for him and show him my bare feet. He would pay princely sums in exchange for just a glimpse of my toes, and even more if I allowed him to press his face close to my ankles as I stood en pointe, though I never allowed him to touch me. I was too afraid of losing my now comfortable position to risk stepping outside the management’s rules for the sake of a little extra money.

  The girls and I tried to split cab rides home wherever we could for safety’s sake – we’d all had a scare when Gloria, one of the dancers who I worked alongside regularly, had been approached in the alleyway behind Sweet Lola’s by a crazed fan who had taken a swing at her after she had spurned his advances – and also to save money. I was earning more than I’d dreamed possible at the Tender Heart, but I was still frugal with it, and so that night I’d asked the driver to stop once the meter totted up to the amount of change in my pocket plus a small tip and I’d walked the few blocks home from the corner of West 14th Street and 11th Avenue. It was 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning and the usually busy streets near the West Side Highway were quiet so I took a detour, walking up to the great steel arch of Pier 54 and watching the water of the Hudson River continue its gentle flow, glinting in the light of the rising sun. A local dance troupe ran performances and lessons here and I’d often thought of tagging along, perhaps even making some friends.

  Things were going well for me now in New York, but even though I was used to my own company, I sometimes felt terribly frustrated and lonely without Chey. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d only told me where he was going and when. I didn’t want to appear a nag or a shrew, and I was perfectly capable of surviving without him, but I had been born into a world of straight lines, uniformity and precision and I resented the chaos that his unexplained and unscheduled absences lent to my arrangements. I wanted to impose some kind of order on my existence, cement the feeling that, pitiful though it might be, my life must have some kind of purpose.

  I was in a reflective mood when I arrived back at the apartment, and still tired from that evening’s exertions, so I didn’t notice Chey’s blazer hanging over the back of the chair in the second bedroom that he used as his office, the folded-up newspaper on the kitchen bench or the gentle hum of his space-age washing machine.

  I had already begun my post-work ritual – tossing my hold-all costume carry bag onto the sofa in the lounge, to be unpacked when I was awake again, switching on the kettle to pour hot water over a tea bag and add a slice of lemon, reminding myself of the home country, splashing a little cold water on my face in the bathroom to wash away my night-time, dancing self from the regular, everyday person who kept her clothes on, most of the time – when I noticed him in the bedroom. I was by no means unobservant, but Chey moved like a cat, graceful, quiet, always like a coiled spring ready to be released. He could have crept up on a flock of pigeons without sending them skywards.

  My initial pleasure at seeing him was quickly replaced by other, stronger emotions when I remembered his abandonment, and how this time I had planned to lay down the law, and tell him that I wouldn’t be treated this way. Then I noticed what he was sitting next to. A colourful pile of chiffon and lace. The outfit that I had hastily tried on and discarded in favour of another as I packed my bag for that night’s shift.

  He took one look at the mixture of guilt and defensiveness that spread across my face and his expression hardened.

  ‘I thought you only danced for me,’ he said. ‘Is this how you now dress at the patisserie? I went there to look for you, but learned you had left . . .’

  ‘Then you thought wrong,’ I replied haughtily. ‘I dance for me. Not anyone else.’

  That much was true enough. Until I had completed that first shift at the Tender Heart, I hadn’t realised how much I missed the rigour of the steps, the flow of the music, the pleasure that I took from the applause of a satisfied audience, how I enjoyed watching all eyes fixated on the rhythm of my body.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Did you not think that you could call me, that I would look after you?’

  ‘I’m not your pet,’ I told him peevishly, ‘not some mail-order bride who just wants to sit at home and wait for you. Spending your money and fucking you in return like a whore.’

  ‘You know I don’t think of you like that,’ he replied, visibly aggrieved.

  I straightened my shoulders and set my jaw, prepared to argue to the bitter end. My independence had always been hard won, and consequently it was something that I valued highly. And if Chey didn’t like it, then I would leave him, and use the money from my dancing to make my own way in life.

  ‘I enjoy dancing. I missed it. And I won’t be beholden to you, or to anyone.’

  ‘You know that you’re no prima ballerina in a place like that, Luba.’ He waved a card for Barry’s joint, which he had found crumpled up inside my bag.

  I sighed. ‘I’m not there any more. I’ve already moved to a classier joint, more in line with my style. And don’t act like I’m a common stripper,’ I insisted. ‘You haven’t even seen me perform.’

  Eventually, we came to an agreement. He would watch one of my sets. If he liked it, he’d let me carry on. If he didn’t, I’d give up dancing for money, though only if I could find another way to keep my mind and body occupied and earn a living of my own.

  That night, he made love to me like a man possessed. As if the ardour and the calculated hardness he inflicted on me as he thrust repeatedly inside me was a way of deepening our bonds at a primal level.

  I’d never known Chey to be as tender and as rough, and it was a combination that both delighted and scared me, as if I was encountering the real Chey, a new ‘him’, and he was all of a sudden both a Prince and the Devil in human form.

  Looking into his eyes as he relentlessly fucked me, his hands grasping my arse cheeks as I lay on my back and cushioned the savage need of his assault I could see that he was already imagining the way I looked naked for other men when I danced and this was his attempt to mark me as his once and for all and keep me from others’ clutches. A form of jealousy, but one that made him so much more imperious, a lover like no others could ever be.

  I spent even longer planning the first set that Chey would witness than I had planning my first ever dance at the Tender Heart. What would he enjoy, what would he approve of? True, I knew I didn’t owe him anything, and I could do whatever it was that I pleased. But I liked Chey, and from the two alternatives available to me, continuing the status quo but with his blessing was undoubtedly my preferred option.

  I felt, instinctively, that he would like my dance, just as he had on the beach. He would enjoy watching me. But I wanted to make absolutely sure that he would see that what I was doing was different. I wasn’t merely a showgirl, shaking my titties for the tip jar. There was more to it than that. An art. I wanted more than his approval. I wanted his respect.

  So I went out of my way to make sure that every detail of my routine would appeal to his taste, from the stage lighting – white, not red – down to my outfit – a plain, floor-length gown, white cotton, like the one that I had worn on our holiday, which I could simply slip off my shoulders, without any elaborate strip tease. I went on stage barefooted, and performed my full set to one side, with the centre pole in darkness. For my music, I chose one of his favourite songs, something that I had heard him play in his office on the few occasions that he’d been at home, working on his computer. ‘Devil in the Details’, a home-grown American song by the Walkabouts, a track with a slow start rising to a more athletic crescendo that gave me a chance to start gradually, with more delicate movements, working into the more brazen steps. It was also my sign to Chey that I didn’t forget him when I was dancing.

&
nbsp; He came to my next set at Sweet Lola’s. And when he told me afterwards that I was good, I flushed with pride.

  His next comment, though, was like a slap across the face.

  ‘But you could be better,’ he added, just as he tapped the key code into the gated entrance to his apartment building.

  I bristled immediately, but stopped myself from snapping back at him, remembering that my plan was to gain Chey’s approval and support for my new venture, and if there was one thing that I had learned about men, it was that they liked to feel as though they were in control, even if they weren’t.

  ‘Really?’ I responded with all the sweetness I could muster. ‘Do explain.’

  If Chey noticed the acidity in my tone, he didn’t mention it.

  ‘Classical steps should be set to classical music.’

  ‘I did consider that, but thought it might be a step too far for the club. The Grand allows me a little classical—’

  ‘Leave the clubs to me,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘Okay . . .’ If Chey could broker me even more sway with the Madams, then so much the better. I wasn’t too proud to accept his help, if it meant that I would have more creative freedom.

  ‘And there’s a wildness about your movements.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like my Russian ballet teachers.’

  ‘Well, your Russian ballet teachers were right. You would benefit from more restraint.’

  Initially, his plans to influence my routines were entirely physical. He introduced me to his Dojo, a martial arts school on West 27th Street where I knew that he trained when he was in New York, keeping his body fit and his muscles taut, a habit that I in no way planned to discourage, as I would not date a man who allowed himself to get fat like his friend Lev.

  Besides my dancing, I had never had any need or desire to take any formal exercise. Saw all that sweatiness as somehow ungainly and unnecessary; as once I had dropped my adolescent puppy fat, I had always been naturally slim. Even my daily breakfast at the patisserie – a pain au chocolat or choux Chantilly and frothy coffee – had not added a pound to my trim frame.

  Chey led me through the reception area, tapping in his membership card and signing me in the guestbook as I surveyed my surroundings, the scent of dried sweat and damp towels, the few men and occasional woman in cheap and dishevelled exercise wear, and wondered how he thought that this might improve my dancing.

  We passed an acquaintance of Chey’s, who was wearing only a pair of brightly coloured satin shorts and protective straps on his hands, mock-fighting himself in the mirror and I stifled a laugh as he preened when we walked by. He and Chey locked eyes in a gesture of recognition, and then the other man ducked his head, like a dog in a pack that knows he’s just been cowed.

  I was pleased to find that in Chey’s company, no one ogled me; no one stared or seemed to find my presence unusual. I felt as though I stuck out here as much as I had when I first appeared on a stage, but Chey’s naturally confident bearing and slightly fierce expression seemed to deflect the attention from me, which was nice for a change. I didn’t like to be peered at unless I had explicitly granted the viewer permission, as I did when I was dancing.

  He demonstrated some stretches, and basic movements. Muay Thai, he called it, and I found to my surprise that my dancer’s body was naturally suited to the exercises. My legs and abdomen were strong, and my balance practised, so that when we moved onto the bags, I could kick and strike with ease and surprising power.

  Next, he showed me a variety of basic hand-to-hand combat techniques, fitted pads onto his hands, and invited me to hit him, while he ducked and blocked to avoid me.

  He was obviously allowing me to land most of my strikes successfully, and holding back his own strength to avoid hurting me, but even though I knew he was letting me win, I found myself revelling in the familiar stretch of my muscles, the dance with Chey as opponent instead of lover, the impact of my body on his body, the way that he looked as he dived and side-stepped to avoid a blow from my elbow or foot, the glow on his face as a slight sheen of sweat began to gather, highlighting further the definition of his muscles.

  I paused momentarily to catch my breath and he leaned forward and kissed me, biting my bottom lip so hard that I nearly cried out in shock.

  ‘You should have blocked,’ he teased. ‘You weren’t paying attention.’

  ‘I saw that coming from a mile off,’ I insisted. ‘Just didn’t want to stop you . . .’

  He lifted me straight off the ground and I wrapped my thighs around his waist, trapping him into a leggy embrace as he walked us over to the wall and pressed my back against the mirror.

  ‘But the door’s open. Someone will see . . .’ I whispered, knowing that I didn’t really want him to stop. Pressed between Chey and the smooth, cold mirror I felt my arousal growing. We were in one of the smaller studios, which held mats for stretching and a couple of punching bags, adjacent to a larger room that sported a full-size fighting ring, several bags attached to rings in the ceiling and a weight-lifting area.

  ‘I don’t care if they do,’ he replied, lifting up my vest top and displaying my breasts, nipples already erect, to anyone who chose that particular moment to enter the space. ‘Besides, no one will disturb us. I made sure of that.’

  I wondered only momentarily what Chey had done that made the rest of the gym inhabitants seem so afraid of him. Perhaps he was a particularly strong fighter. Maybe he owned the Dojo. But all of those thoughts scattered from my mind when he lowered the elastic of my leggings and slipped a finger inside me, and then another.

  ‘You seem to have enjoyed our session more than you let on,’ he said, fingering the wetness that had seeped between my legs, in response to both the physicality of the situation and the vision of his firm body as he moved alongside me.

  ‘So. Will you let me train you, mermaid?’ It had become his name for me, ever since the dance on the beach.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Good,’ he said, with an infuriating grin.

  He lowered his head to my ear and pressed his lips against my lobe, his breath hot against my skin.

  ‘Your first task is to learn to wait.’

  He was teasing me, and my profound irritation at being so powerless in the situation was overwhelmed by the enormity of my arousal. I was so desperate to feel his hands all over me again, to feel his cock inside me once more and to enjoy whatever it was that his vivid imagination cooked up this time that I allowed him to simply unpeel my legs from his waist and rearrange my clothing into a semblance of order.

  I felt stunned, drugged with desire, as he led me by the hand to the exit, totally aware and enjoying the fact that my nipples were visible through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.

  But as soon as we returned to the apartment he was called away again, and amid apologies that he would make it up to me once more, he was gone and I was left alone, to eat, dance, sleep, and wait for him to come back again.

  A week or so later, I came home to find an unusual costume laid out on the bed. I hadn’t seen any of the girls in the club wearing anything quite like it before. A series of leather straps, metal buckles, and a pair of clips with bells attached that I guessed were designed to be attached to my nipples.

  I’d seen one girl at Sweet Lola’s perform a routine in a leather corset, black lace-up boots and a whip that she cracked with each pirouette, but her costume hadn’t been quite like this, and neither was it the sort of outfit that I had guessed Chey had in mind for me. In my view, leather, PVC and the like were trashy items, the type of thing that hung in sex-shop windows, better suited to the sort of girls who needed something ostentatious to distract from the fact that they couldn’t really dance at all, merely rub themselves against the stage pole and hope that no one would notice how dead their eyes were or how clumsy their steps.

  Alongside the costume was a note: Try it.

  Chey understood my temperament well. We were not so different at our core, each of us
stubborn as hell and only liking an idea if we thought it was our own.

  I fingered the straps. The leather was thick, but soft. It wasn’t cheap or scratched. The buckles gleamed in the light, and the whole thing was well put together, as if it had been made by an experienced leather worker, not a factory that spawned cheap garments by the dozen.

  I had to stand in front of the mirror and have a few tries before I worked out how to strap myself into it, but when I did, I was pleasantly surprised. The costume formed a harness which outlined each of my breasts and my pussy in a diamond shape, with a strap at the back that gently pulled my shoulders up, affirming my posture.

  When I turned, Chey was standing in the doorway, smiling.

  ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘It’s not what I expected. Not . . . classical. You think I should dance in this?’

  The harness wasn’t tawdry, but it was very different to my usual understated style for the stage, which I felt drew attention to the delicacy of my movements and underscored the fact that my performances weren’t about sex. Or at least, not just about sex.

  ‘Only for me,’ he replied.

  He lifted his hand to display an addition to the costume. A pair of long black platform boots with no heel at the back and a metal ring on the base, so they resembled a horse’s hooves.

  I lifted an eyebrow in question.

  ‘They’re good for balance,’ he said. ‘But very difficult to walk in. Or so I hear.’

  Chey left the strange-looking boots at the bedroom door and glanced at me a moment longer, then began to loosen his tie and walk towards his office.

  The idea of dressing like an animal seemed a little foolish to me, but I responded immediately to the prospect of a challenge. My dance teachers had criticised me for many things, but never my posture or my ability to stand en pointe.

  The boots were made from a thin, soft leather with a camouflaged zip on the inside that ran three-quarters of my long legs, ending halfway up my thigh. At first, I had to hold onto a piece of furniture for support as I tentatively pushed myself up to standing, balancing on the platform of the shoe so that I could take a few short steps. It wasn’t quite like a ballet step, as I couldn’t straighten my foot completely, but with a little trial and error, I was able to adjust my posture so that I felt reasonably stable, if not as graceful as I would prefer.