Sugar & Salt

by Pavarti K. Tyler

  The club pulsates with the passion of the performers, driving the desire of all those in attendance higher. Most of the patrons are aware of the after parties and back room arrangements. It’s a game of smoke and mirrors; make a whorehouse look like one, and no one will suspect it actually is. Instead of competition for The Sugar House, The Gilded Lily offers a relaxed atmosphere for deviants of every predilection. The owner, Rafael, and Janice have an amicable understanding.

  She was right: Donovan and Caitrin are the perfect distraction from an otherwise dreary day. She sips her Cosmo and lets the effects of the drink carry her along a wave of thought. She’s haunted by the shadow of Salt’s hand on the small of her back, the warmth of his lips on her shoulder. He would like it here—the playfulness of the show. Would he ever come to understand the fantasy on stage is no different from what she offers her clients?

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Donovan announces.

  “Hussies and cocksuckers,” Caitrin corrects.

  “We invite you to join our Parade of Oddities!”

  Donovan and Caitrin sit on opposite sides of the stage and hang their legs off the apron, announcing the performers as they come out. The parade includes a fire dancer, a sword swallower, a midget dressed as a baby being carried by a very fat man, an Asian Lolita who just happens to also be a contortionist, a Cambodian throat singer, and several other things most people never encounter.

  Conversation picks up during the modern day freak show. Drinks flow, and some tables order finger food. They don’t ignore the show so much as allow it to blend into the general atmosphere: Watch a man with a Mohawk perform a blockhead act, driving nails up his nose, then take a sip of your drink and rub a hand along your companion’s cock.

  In the middle of the room, Janice spies Pierce relaxing next to his client for the night. She knew he had good instincts—it was an excellent choice to bring him here.

  She approaches the table and places a hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “Good evening, I hope you two are having a good night.”

  “Spectacular,” the elderly man coos without looking away from Pierce.

  “I’m thrilled to hear it. I’ve had the bar pull out one of their top shelf champagnes for you, on me of course.”

  “Thank you, Miss Necia.” Pierce smiles and pats his companion on the leg. “That’s just delightful.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” She leans down and kisses Pierce on the lips before saying her goodbyes.

  She turns to make her way back to the bar before the show begins again, and a man at the next table catches her eye.

  Salt sits with a group of men dressed in suspenders and a fedora. Her breath gusts out. His gorgeous, green eyes twinkle as he flirts with the waitress. She takes off his hat and places it on her head before running her nails through his hair and sitting on his lap. His unruly, dark hair sticks up akimbo, making him all the sexier. The waitress leans down and coos something into his ear.

  The men sitting with Salt laugh and hoot. One with a huge, shit-eating grin on his face bellows, “I fucking love this place!” and waves for another waitress to stop and refill his drink.

  “This place is for degenerates!” Salt laughs.

  The sound of his voice punches her in the gut. She takes a step back, and bumps into Pierce’s chair.

  “Miss Necia, are you all right?” He stands and takes her elbow, helping to steady her shaking legs.

  “No.” She rushes away from the scene in front of her, heading for the ladies room.

  All this camp and ridiculousness usually soothes her, but with Salt here playing the interloper, the fun crumbles away and leaves her with the pain of her day-to-day life. Not only did that pain and drama refuse to remain at the coat check where she left it, but she exposed her weakness in front of a client—something she despises.

  She holds The Gilded Lily as sacred, almost as much as The Sugar House itself. It exists outside of time as a place where she can enjoy watching people distill down to their baser selves. It’s a world where desire and reality meet, and morality and pleasure don’t sit in such diametric contrast.

  She sits on the velvet settee in the anteroom to settle her nerves. Dark curtains line the walls and a chandelier hangs overhead. Beyond the door, a brightly lit, hygienic bathroom awaits, but Janice prefers to stay within the fantasy, taking deep breaths.

  Why is he here? After all his judgmental bullshit about what she does for a living, here he is, firmly in her domain. Does he know what kind of entertainment Raf peddles in the back rooms? Can he imagine the people who come here, not for the show, but for the dungeon? Perhaps he’s actually so stupid he doesn’t realize the waitress on his lap has a fifty percent chance of expecting to be paid for any extra-curricular activities they partake in.

  A wrenching pain rips through her stomach. Is he planning to go home with her?

  “Fuck this.” With hard set determination, she evaluates her appearance in the mirror. Still perfect. “Let’s go.”

  She returns to the main room, oblivious to everyone but the man she never would have expected to be here. As she marches toward him, her heels dig into the wood floor, clicking loudly even with the music blaring.

  When she is almost at the table where the waitress remains perched on Salt’s lap, Caitrin’s voice booms out overhead: “Attention everyone! Before our next act, I’d like to let you know we have a lucky table that has won a free round of drinks!”

  “All they have to do,” Donovan continues, “is have one person come up here and drink a shot for all of us to see!”

  Caitrin takes a shot glass from a waitress standing next to the stage, and places it firmly and deeply between her breasts. “Without using their hands.”

  “However, it’s up to you, dear audience, to decide who has to drink it. Come on up here, Table 8.” Donovan points and a spotlight shines directly on Salt’s table.

  The waitress laughs and claps, taking Salt’s hand and leading him to the stage. The rest of the table follows.

  “Okay, when Donovan holds his hand over each person’s head, you all cheer, and whoever you like the best will need to drink.”

  Donovan starts at the end of the loosely organized line. He lifts his hand over a neatly dressed man in a three-piece suit with curly, blonde hair. A roar breaks out through the audience. He laughs and bows.

  The waitress is next in line, but she bows out and points to the man next to her. She encourages the audience to cheer as Donovan holds his hand over him. He’s tall and skinny, but Donovan easily reaches above him. The response is even louder, and he receives some foot stomping.

  Salt stands at the end, his smile bright and playful.

  Janice watches as Donovan moves along the line. He comes to a heavyset man who sweats under the scrutiny of the hot lights. Instead of putting his hand over the poor man’s head, Donovan grabs him by the hips and starts mock humping him from behind.

  Salt doubles over in laughter as the heavyset man’s face drains of all color.

  “I don’t think you can have this one, Vixen! He’s far too innocent for your games.” Donovan runs his hands over the man’s chest.

  “Well, Donovan, what did you have in mind?”

  “Ohh, ohh,” Donovan moans like he is about to orgasm, humping away. “I have something special for him!”

  “Donovan... um, Donovan,” Caitrin calls. “Hey, Donny!”

  “What? Oh right, the show!” He smiles and steps away from the humiliated man, giving him a good slap on the ass.

  “Okay, everybody, who wants this big guy to do the shot?” He puts his hand over Salt’s head.

  The audience goes insane. Already worked up into lather, the prospect of seeing Salt drink from Caitrin’s cleavage sends them over the top. The floor trembles as they stomp their feet.

  He steps forward, and Caitrin shimmies her chest suggestively.

  Janice tenses.

  He dips his face down into Caitrin’s breasts, and wraps his lips around the shot
glass. Slowly, he pulls back, bringing the glass with him. He drops the glass into his waiting hand, and slugs back the shot.

  “Oh, too bad!” Caitrin calls. “I’m afraid the challenge required no hands.”

  “What?” Salt bulges his eyes out. “I didn’t!” He looks down at the glass in his hand. “Aw, fuck.”

  “Perhaps you can still earn a round of drinks for your table.”

  “Have anything in mind, my love?” Donovan stands, draping his arm over the heavyset man’s shoulders. He winks playfully.

  “How about he sings us a song?” She takes the glass from Salt’s hand and hands it to one of her leather-clad assistants.

  “Hmm, I don’t know. I think we want to see some skin!” Donovan declares as Caitrin unbuttons Salt’s shirt.

  Janice watches the display in horror.

  “Who wants to see this big, sexy man do a little dance for us!?” she coos to the audience.

  Salt winces, and his friend’s cheer.

  Loud music blares, and an assistant hands him a fan and a pair of gloves. Caitrin stands on one side of him, and the assistant on the other.

  If she weren’t so pissed off and upset over seeing him, the sight would be hysterical. Salt couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable—well, except for the poor fellow Donovan was now giving a shoulder massage.

  Salt pulls on the gloves and opens the fan, holding it so only his eyes showed—a natural coquette. The crowd roars. The assistant puts her hands on her hips and rocks back and forth, encouraging him to do the same. Then she and Caitrin put their hands on his shoulders and all three of them do the can-can, kicking their feet up from side to side.

  The skinny man sits down on the stage, laughing so hard he can’t maintain any sense of composure. Even the poor, picked-on man leans against Donovan as they revel in Salt’s ridiculous performance.

  He dances with them, swaying to the music. The shot of alcohol must have fed his courage enough to enjoy the show. He rocks his hips with smooth, sensual motions.

  Janice watches, transfixed by the movement of his body. Her anger and nihilism evaporate, leaving nothing but aching want in its wake. His motions mesmerize her, call out her name, and brighten her heart.

  Caitrin grabs his shoulders, turns him to face her, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. The assistant dances behind him, bumping her ass against his. Caitrin pulls his shirt out of his pants as the crowd cheers.

  He shrugs it off, but leaves his suspenders on. His chest shines in the spotlight, muscles making shadows on his abdomen.

  Caitrin takes his shirt and drapes it over her small frame.

  “You’re a natural, honey! Wouldn’t you say he put on a good show?”

  The crowd cheers again and Janice stands up to clap. Something about her movement must have caught his eye, because suddenly their gazes lock. The riotous crowd and half-naked staff fade away until only the two of them remain. Her smile fades as she recognizes the sadness in his eyes, and the crooked smile he fights to produce.

  In the background, Donovan announces, “What good sports!” and the audience cheers again. “And now for the comedy duo, Mixed Nuts.”

  Salt and his companions exit the stage as two faddishly dressed men enter.

  Man 1: What happened to you?

  Man 2 (in a cast): I was living the life of Riley.

  Man 1: And?

  Man 2: Riley came home!

  Salt keeps his eyes trained on Janice. His smile disappears, and the hard line of his jaw makes her shiver. The waitress hangs on his arm as they walk, oblivious to his shift of attention. Still shirtless, the suspenders break the landscape of his muscular chest.

  “What, you want to be violated on stage? Next time it’s all yours—no complaints from me!” The heavyset man laughs as they approach the table.

  Janice stands behind the seat Salt had occupied. When the group notices her presence, the eye-fucking commences from all except Salt and the waitress.

  “Miss Necia.” The girl hangs her head, and drops her grip on Salt. “Is there something I can offer you?”

  “No, thank you.” Janice glares at Salt. “But I believe it’s time for you to get back to work.”

  “Yes, of course.” She hurries away, head bowed so she blends into the scenery despite her lavish appearance.

  On stage, a woman with large breasts enters. Man 1 turns to exit, and bumps into her.

  Man 1: I beg your pardon.

  Woman: What are you begging for? You’re old enough to ask for it.

  “What the fuck?” Salt growls at her, looking after the waitress. “Does she work for you?”

  “No, but she still obeys.” She stands tall, cloaking herself in the garb of authority her reputation allows. A tangle of dark hair escapes her clip, and brushes against her neck.

  “Devon, who’s this?” The blonde man in the three piece suit holds out a seat for her.

  “I....” Salt falters.

  His friend smiles at her and holds out a hand. “Hello, I’m Drew Kaplan.”

  “Lovely to meet you.” She takes the proffered hand.

  “Come on.” Salt grabs her upper arm, pulling her away from Drew and the table. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t be a douche. Let her sit down.” Drew shrugs when neither of them looks back.

  On stage, a man dressed as a priest approaches Man 1 and the Woman.

  Minister: Do you believe in the hereafter?

  Woman: Certainly, I do!

  Minister: (Leering) Then you know what I’m here after.

  Janice feels his grip on her arm tighten, sending a thrill from her heart to her cunt. The façade falls—his proximity makes her head spin and she can’t think straight. “I’m here for the show. Caitrin is one of mine.”

  “She works for you?”

  “She’s my friend and employee, and she’s extremely good at what she does.”

  “Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair.

  “You didn’t mind when you were on stage with her.”

  “That was just a show.”

  “Was it a show when the waitress was grinding on your lap?” She narrows her eyes in accusation.

  “What?”

  “How much were you going to offer her? The whole night, or just a private dance in the back?”

  “She’s a....” Salt drops her arm.

  “Hooker. I think the word you’re looking for is hooker.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “Is she one of yours, too?”

  She laughs, drawing the attention of a nearby table. “She’s a little low class to be one of mine. Seemed to fit right in at your table though.”

  “Fuck you, Jan. Why are you being such a bitch?”

  The music swells, drowning out her retort.

  Donovan calls out, “And now, Viva La Vixen!”

  Salt glowers, but their attention swerves to the stage.

  Caitrin enters in a turquoise, full-length skirt and matching blouse. Her hair is tied up and she wears a small, pill-box hat and classic, white opera gloves. Her pale skin sparkles under the bright lights, and the contrast of her black hair makes her glow like some kind of ethereal temptress sent here to lead the men of the world astray. She struts across the stage, smiling, spinning, and preening so everyone can take in how perfect she is.

  At center stage, she poses with her arms elegantly extended, and the music changes to something with a pounding bass line. The music booms into the room, running through the crowd. Caitrin spins, dragging one arm up along her body and over her head, her fingers long and lovely. With her back to the audience, she leers at them over one shoulder and bends at the waist—her legs straight to punctuate her perfect ass displayed high in the air. She rocks her hips from side to side as she stands up and dances back around. Her skirt is now clipped up at her waist, revealing black thigh-highs clipped to a garter. She swings her hips in a wide circle, and then covers herself with her hands, making a mock embarra
ssed face.

  After taking several long strides across the stage, she leans back and touches the ground with her hands, posing in a perfect back bend. She straightens back up, leading with her chest, bringing her head forward last. Excitement rolls through the crowd because they know they will soon see all of her.

  Salt clears his throat, and places his hand on the small of Janice’s back. They stand in the darkness, side by side, watching Caitrin seduce the masses.

  She rocks her hips as she takes off her right glove, removing it with her teeth one finger at a time, white satin cast against blood red lips. With her left hand, she slowly pulls it off and lazily tosses it to the side, following the motion with her head in an effort to display the length of her beautiful neck. She takes the other glove off in the same slow fashion.

  Caitrin dances across the stage as music plays, but the crowd doesn’t hear it. All sensory attention is focused through their eyes, except for the lucky few who have someone to grope under the table. She seduces the audience, removing her skirt and shirt until she wears only a pair of old fashioned, black, satin underwear with garters attached to her stockings. Her breasts are exposed to the bright lights, with only black, sequined pasties retaining the illusion of decorum.

  She shimmies as the music reaches a crescendo, moving her shoulders back and forth with her arms extended as if inviting the crowd to join her. As she dances, assistants infiltrate the audience and pull people up on stage. The waitresses discreetly clear all the glasses and plates, and even some of the tables themselves.

  Donovan returns to the stage and greets the dancers.

  “You—” Caitrin points to Donovan. “—kiss me.”

  The crowd loses control, screaming and stamping their feet.

  Donovan raises one eyebrow, smiles, and grabs her. He puts his hands on her hips and Caitrin tips her head back, moaning as he licks her neck.

  The music swells and changes from a saucy 1930s beat to modern tones, whipping the audience into a frenzy.

  “Let’s dance!” she screams as the room plummets into darkness.

  Tables are whisked away, along with any remaining chairs. Punk Ska music booms through the crowd, demanding movement from their bones.