As soon as the boss left, I tried calling Lek’s bar. This time the phone rang and rang, unanswered. I tried again, around eight o’clock, and again near midnight. No response. I prayed that Lek would not be worried, or angry with me for standing her up.
The grading went like clockwork. I was headed toward Bangkok by 2 p.m., driving one of the company Jeeps. My spirits rose with each kilometre that brought me closer to her. I pulled in at the hotel around six, took a quick shower, and then immediately set out for the Butterfly.
The place was already jumping, full of men in white naval uniforms. Maybe that was why no one had picked up my call the previous night. I sat down with a beer and looked around for Lek. There was no sign of her.
“Hello, mister. Remember me?” I recognized the round face and pixie haircut from my last visit.
“Hello, Ao. Of course I remember.” She looked delighted. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, thank you.” As she was leaving, I grabbed her hand.
“One moment, Ao. Do you know where Lek is? The tall dancer with the long hair?”
She shook her head. “She not here tonight, I think.”
A bolt of panic surged through me. Did she think I had abandoned her? Had she left the bar with some other man?
“You ask the mama-san,” Ao said, pointing to a woman behind the bar. “Maybe she know about Lek.”
I picked up my beer and sat down at the bar, inches from the spike heels of one of the dancers. I gestured to the mama-san.
“Excuse me, but do you know where I can find Lek?”
The woman looked me over critically. She was a well-preserved 40, with short-cropped hair and glasses, wearing a fitted hot pink suit.
“Lek buy herself out of the bar tonight. Today her birthday. She want to take the night off, celebrate with her friends.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone to celebrate?”
“Why? Who are you? You her new boyfriend?”
I blushed, but then nodded. “Yes, I’m Pat.”
The mama-san’s suspicious manner changed abruptly to friendliness. “Oh, Pat. You call her last week?”
“Yes, that was me.”
“Oh, Lek very much in love with you.”
My heart did a little flip of gratitude. My dear girl was not angry with me.
“I love her, too.”
The mama-san took my hand. “That is so good, mister Pat. She looking for someone to love her for such a long time. Ever since her operation.”
Some vague uneasiness gripped me. “Her operation? What was wrong? Is she ill? Did she have an accident?”
The mama-san laughed. “Oh no, no accident. But last year, she have operation to make her a real lady. No more katoey, lady-man. She always want that, save her money for five years to have operation.
“Lady-man?”
“Yes, you know.” The mama-san gestured toward one of the dancers, a long-legged, sultry-looking temptress. “Like Nong. Before, Lek a man but look like woman, dress like woman, want to be woman. Now, after operation, she really a woman. No more pretending.”
My stomach lurched. I thought for a moment that I would vomit. Lek, sweet, delicate, feminine Lek, was a man! I was in love with a man. I had had sexual relations with a man. The flesh of my penis was crawling, as if loathsome creatures swarmed over it. I was filled with shame and disgust.
“No!” I yelled. I jerked upright, spilling my beer all over the bar. It made a little pool around the heels of the dancer looming over me. She watched me curiously, surprised and shocked by my outburst, wondering what the crazy farang would do next.
“Mister, never mind. Lek good girl. She love you. You lucky man.”
“Lucky?” I roared. “She played me for a fool. She defiled me! She’s a devil in angel’s guise!” I stormed out of the bar. The girls cringed and shrank away from me as I passed.
Without knowing how I got there, I found myself in the shadowy cocktail lounge of my hotel, gulping down a double bourbon. I lay my head in my hands and sobbed. The Filipino band was warming up. I hoped that I would pass out before they started playing their set.
Suddenly there was warmth next to me, and a faint hint of jasmine. Cool, slender fingers touched my arm. I opened my eyes.
“You!” I hissed, jerking away from her hand. “Get away from me, you filthy whore!”
“Pat,” she said softly. “Please forgive me. I want to tell you, last weekend, but no time. Always we were laughing, or making love.”
A vision of her taut flanks straining back at me. A recollection of the dark scent of her butthole. “Get out of here. Don’t touch me, you, you abomination!”
I could see tears gathering in her eyes, making them shine even more than usual. I felt a brief pang of guilt, and something else I could not name.
“Never mind, Pat. You love me. I know you do. Man, lady, lady-man, same-same. All human, all love. Please, Pat.”
She looked tiny, suddenly, frail, crushed like a wilted flower. My anger left me, but I still came close to retching when she took my hand. “Look into my eyes,” she said softly. “Look at me, and tell you don’t love me. Then I go.”
I took one last look. Her raven hair shimmered in the multicoloured bar lights. Her ivory skin glowed golden, stretched firm across her high cheekbones. Wet traces of tears streaked her face, but her lips smiled that same luscious, sensuous, loving smile that I first saw across the room, three weeks, a thousand years ago.
I looked at her, and I wanted her. My cock stiffened even as my gut turned over and tried to expel its contents. I was more terrified than I had ever been in my life. I wrenched my hand away.
“Go away,” I whispered. “Leave me alone. I don’t love you.”
She did not hesitate any longer. She turned on her heels and walked to the door, an epiphany of grace. I bit my lip, and wondered what I had done to deserve this hell.
My work on the dam will be finished in another two months. Meanwhile, I don’t bother to go to Bangkok on the weekends any more. Charlie keeps bugging me to join the rest of the guys. He knows that something happened between Lek and me, though of course he doesn’t know the whole story.
“Come on, Pat. Forget her. You’ve got to be a phee-sua, as the bar girls say, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. I just shake my head and turn back to my Orson Scott Card novel.
After this gig is through, I think I might go back to the States. I’ll settle down in Cedar Rapids to be near my folks and find some nice girl. Someone blonde, comfortable, totally unexotic.
Then I catch a glimpse of some nymph in the Maha Sarakan market, sarong hugging her hips, jet hair trailing down her supple back and I’m drowning in memories. My cock like granite, my throat burning with nausea, an ache knifing through my chest. Desire, disgust, unbearable longing.
In those moments, I wonder if I’ll ever find a place to rest.
Lap Dance Lust
Rachel Kramer Bussel
We pull into the shadowy parking lot in some corner of Los Angeles. I look around the deserted area, wondering where exactly we are, only half caring. Most strip clubs in LA are located in tucked away corners like this one.
I’m a little apprehensive as we walk around to the entrance and part the strings of beads to enter Cheetah’s – a strip club, a real live strip club! I’ve been dreaming of just such a place for years, but have never worked up the courage to actually go, until now. I’d heard that Cheetah’s was “women friendly”, and from the crowd I can immediately tell it’s true. There are plenty of guys but also a decent number of female customers who look like they’re having a good time.
My three friends and I take ringside seats along the surprisingly empty stage and animatedly set about checking out each new dancer. Many of them are what I expected – peroxide blonde, fake boobs, very LA and very boring. Some have a spark of creativity and feign a glimmer of interest to tease out one of the dollars we hold in our hands, but many pass right by us or stare back with vacant
eyes.
We watch as one girl after another manoeuvres around the stage, shimmying up and then down the shiny silver pole, twisting and writhing in ways I can’t imagine my body doing. It feels surreal, this world of glamour and money and lights and ultra-femininity. I look and stare and whisper to my friends. Though I’m having fun, the place starts to lose its charm when I have to get more change and still no girl has really grabbed my eye. I settle in with a new drink and a fresh stack of bills and hope that I won’t be disappointed by the next round of dancers.
When the next girls walk out, I’m transfixed. She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing cave girl attire, a leopard print bandeau top and hot pants – all tanned skin, natural curves and gleaming black hair. She looks shiny, like she’s just put on suntan lotion. She slithers along, making eye contact when she passes us, crawling back across the stage, putting her whole body into the performance. She toys with her shorts, thumbs hooked into the waist, before sliding them down her long legs to reveal black panties. I know that she’s the one for me, that I really like her and am not just an indiscriminate ogler, when I realize that I preferred her with her shorts on.
After her performance, I offer her a wad of dollars. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m Gabrielle.”
“Hi,” I say shyly. “I really like your outfit.”
“Me too,” she giggles, then smiles before waving her fingers and gliding off the stage.
“Oooooh, you like her. You should get a lap dance.”
“Yeah, get a lap dance! Get a lap dance!”
My friends are practically jumping up and down in their excitement, making me blush.
“Maybe.”
“No, no, you should get one. She’s totally hot.”
“I know, I know, but let me think about it, OK?” They’re so eager for me to lose my lap dance virginity, I’m afraid they may drag me over to her.
I need to get away for a minute, so I go to the bathroom. To my shock, I find her sitting inside, casually chatting with a friend. “Oh, hi,” I stammer. “Is this your dressing room?”
She laughs. “No, but it’s almost the same quality.” I smile at her and then go into the stall, nervous at having spoken to her. When I emerge and begin to wash my hands, she admires my purse. I tell her about it and then take out my sparkly lip gloss. She asks to try some, and I hold it out to her, watching as her finger dips into the red goo. We talk a bit more about make-up and then she says, casually, “Did you want to get a lap dance?”
Did I? Of course! Yes, I’d like that, I say.
“Great, just give me a few more minutes and I’ll come get you.”
I practically float out of the door and back to my friends. I’m going to get a lap dance, and I arranged it all by myself! Ha! I feel like gloating. I wait patiently, trying not to let my excitement show in a big stupid grin.
After a few minutes, she emerges and summons me, leading me to the other side of the stage, against a wall where I’ve seen other girls pressed up against mostly old men. She seats me on a plastic-covered couch, then takes a chair and places it a few feet in front of me. “So people can’t look up your skirt,” she tells me. I smile to thank her for her kindness; it never would’ve occurred to me. I give her some larger bills, and we talk for a minute or two before a song she likes comes on.
And then, quite suddenly, it starts. She pushes me so my head is tilted back against the wall, the rest of me pressed against the sticky plastic, my legs slightly spread. She stands between my legs, then leans forward, pressing her entire body along the length of mine. She smells like sweat and lotion and some undefinable sweetness, and I breathe deeply. Even her sweat smells good, like baby powder. Her soft hair brushes against my face and shoulders; her breasts are pressed up against mine. Then I feel her thigh against my hand; she’s climbed up on the couch with me. This is definitely not what I expected. I’ve never been to a strip club before, but I thought I knew the deal – I’d seen Go, right? You can’t touch the dancers or you’ll get kicked out. But what if they’re touching you? What about her hand gliding along mine, the outside of her smooth thigh touching my arm, her slightly damp skin setting mine on fire? The look she gives me is priceless: as her body moves downwards and she’s crouched near my stomach, I look down and her hooded eyes are on me, her face a vision of pure lust, her mouth slightly open. I’m sure it’s a practised look, but it feels as real as any look I’ve ever received, and it enters and warms me.
I think I know what I’m getting into; I’ve read all the feminist arguments, the sex worker manifestos. This is just a job and I’m a paying customer: one song, one lap, one transaction. But all of that background disappears, likewise my friends, my family, LA, everyone else in the club. It’s just me and her, never mind the music; it’s that look as she slides between my open legs. I swallow heavily. I can’t move, and I don’t want to, ever again. I just want to sit here and let her brush herself against me again and again as I keep getting wetter. And then her hand reaches up, delicately turning around my necklace, a Jewish star. It’s the sweetest gesture, and something only another femme would notice or care about. She gives me a little smile as she does it, and I give her one back.
The song is almost over, and she gives it her all. Her body pushes hard against mine, pressing my chest, stomach, thighs. She’s working me so good this huge bouncer walks over and glances at us suspiciously, but she turns around and gives him a look that tells him to move along. I like knowing that whatever she’s doing with me is enough out of the norm to warrant the bouncer’s attention. I feel ravished in a way I’ve never felt before; it’s pure sexual desire, concentrated into whatever messages her skin and her eyes can send me in the course of a five-minute song.
When the song ends I give her a generous tip, and she sits with me for a little while. She takes my hand in hers, which is delicate and soft, and I revel in her touch. It’s tender and sensitive, and I need this, need to hear her sweet voice tell me about her career as a singer, her friendship with a famous musician, her upcoming trip to New York. I need to hear whatever it is she wants to tell me, true or not. My head knows certain things; this is a strip club, that was a lap dance, this is her job. But inside, inside, I know something else. I know that we just exchanged something special. It wasn’t sex or passion or lust per se; it was more than, and less than, each of those things. It was contact, attention, and adoration. Call me crazy, but I think it went both ways.
After we talk, I go back to my friends, but I feel a bit odd. I know they were watching, but did they see what really happened?
“That was some lap dance.”
“Yeah, that was really amazing for your first time.”
“She gave you her real name? That’s a big stripper no-no.”
“I think she liked you.”
I nod and respond minimally, still in my own world. For the rest of the trip, whatever I’m doing, wherever I am, part of me is still sitting on that plastic-covered couch, looking down at her, breathing her scent, revelling in her look.
I haven’t gone to any more strip clubs since, or gotten any more dances. How could they ever live up to her? I don’t know if I want to find out.
A Cool Dry Place
R Gay
Yves and I are walking because even if his Citroen were working, petrol is almost seven dollars a litre. He is wearing shorts, faded and thin, and I can see the muscles of his thighs trembling with exhaustion. He worries about my safety, so every evening at six he picks me up at work and walks me home, all in all a journey of twenty kilometres amid the heat, the dust and the air redolent with exhaust fumes and the sweet stench of sugarcane. We try and avoid the crazy drivers with no real destination who try to run us off the road for sport. We walk slowly, my pulse quickening as he takes my hand. Yves’s hands are what I love best about him; they are calloused and wrinkled, the hands of a man much older than he is. At times, when he is touching me, I am certain that there is wisdom in Yves’s hands. We have the same conve
rsation almost every day – what a disaster the country has become, but we cannot even muster the strength to say the word “disaster” because such a word does not aptly describe what it is like to live in Haiti. There is sadness in Yves’s face that also cannot be aptly described. It is an expression of ultimate sorrow, the reality of witnessing the country, the home you love, disintegrating around you. I often wonder if he sees such sorrow in my face, but I am afraid to look in a mirror and find out.
We stop at the market in downtown Port-au-Prince. Posters for Aristide and the Family Lavalas are all over the place, even though the elections, an exercise in futility, have come and gone. A vendor with one leg and swollen arms offers me a box of Tampax for twelve dollars, thrusting the crumpled blue and white box toward me. I ignore him as a red-faced American tourist begins shouting at us. He wants directions to the Hotel Montana, he is lost, his map of the city is wrinkled and torn and splotched with cola. “We are Haitian, not deaf,” I tell him calmly and he relaxes visibly as he realizes that we indeed speak English.
Yves rolls his eyes and pretends to be fascinated with an art vendor’s wares. He has very little tolerance for “fat Americans”. Just looking at them makes him feel hungry and feeling hungry reminds him of the many things he tries to ignore. Yves learned English in school, but I learned from television: I Love Lucy, The Brady Bunch, and my favourite show, The Jeffersons, with the little black man who walks like a chicken. When I was a child, I would sit and watch these shows and mimic the actors words until I spoke them perfectly. Now, as I tell the red-faced man the wrong directions, because he has vexed me by his mere presence in my country, I mouth my words slowly, with what I hope is a flawless American accent. The man shakes my hand too hard and thrusts five gourdes into my sweaty hand. Yves sucks his teeth as the man walks away and tells me to throw the money away, but I stuff the faded bills inside my bra and we continue to walk around, pretending we can afford to buy something sweet or something nice.
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