SIX: A Men of the Strip Anthology

by Marie Skye

  “Here. This might help,” Betty says in a soft voice.

  Glancing at the piece of paper she’s placed on top of my sports bag, I snort. It’s a leaflet for a Latin dance class. I can dance, that’s not my issue. Fuck, I’ve got more moves than Beyoncé so going to a class is a ridiculous idea. Plus it’s at my local community centre, a grotty hellhole hidden away near my apartment. They say it’s closing down every year and yet it’s still open, offering Latin dance classes apparently.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Listen here Sinclair Asher Beaumont, and hear what I say. You are suspended until you get your ass in gear. And if a dance class can help, then you better get that body God gifted you with, and shake it in that damn community centre.”

  “Fuck that Betty. I’m not doing it.”

  “This is my house Sin, my rules. So you better do as you’re told boy.”

  The door closes behind her and once I know she’s gone I let out a sigh. Then I kick the chair, watching as it topples over with a clang.

  I fume for a while, angry at Betty, angry at myself and angry at my mother. I said I wouldn’t let her death get to me but it was, it felt like I was on a rollercoaster and I couldn’t get off because I was stuck mid-air of the loop-the-loop. There was no escaping whatever repressed feelings were resurfacing and screwing with my life.

  I don’t hear Jag come in but he gives me a friendly slap on the back and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “What’s got you all twisted these days? It’s not a chick is it?” he asks chuckling before taking a swig from his water bottle.

  I say the words out loud for the first time, “My mother died.”

  He stares at me for a moment before giving a low whistle, “Shiiit. Look man, I’m sorry— I know you guys weren’t close but that’s still your mom.”

  I snort and he gives me this odd look, part pity and part ‘I want to slap some sense into you’ as I lean back against the wall and slide down to the floor, my head in my hands.

  “It’s like I can’t control it. I want to be okay, but I’m not.” Sighing I rub my temples, I need control. I need my life back.

  “You’re grieving, it’s normal to be all over the place. Take some time to sort your head out Sin and I guarantee you’ll be back eating pussy for breakfast and fucking your way around the club before you know it.”

  “I haven’t got a choice. Betty suspended me.”

  “Well she is a sly one, you wouldn’t take leave so she made you,” he gives a small laugh as we both think about the woman who runs this club. Betty— hard as nails, cunning as hell and not someone you’d ever want to cross.

  Jag finally breaks the silence as he heads back out on stage to finish the rehearsal, “Look, I know neither of us really do the whole ‘feelings’ thing but if you need someone to hang out with and just y’know, talk shit then give me a call.”

  I nod as he leaves. I know the guys at the club have my back, I’ve known it from the second I started here, but this wasn’t their issue. It was my problem and I wasn’t ready to share my past with them. There were somethings that even I can’t say out loud and I don’t want to see their faces when I tried. Easier to lock that down and shut it away in the dark place where it belonged. I just need to be that cheeky, fun, charming guy I normally am and everything would go back to normal. I need to be the drunk version of me all the time basically, and there was only one way to do that as I head to the liquor store on my way home.

  I wake up and my stomach rolls. Something stinks and I think it’s me. I try to shuffle over and end up flopping on my tile floor, my coordination out of whack. I see the dregs left in the bottom of a bottle of Jack and groan. This is why my body hates me today. My traitorous liver is screaming in protest at what I’ve been putting myself through this last week.

  Something needs to change. I can’t keep drinking myself into oblivion each night. I want to go back to work. Seven whole days off is almost like death in the performance world. Plus, I don’t like being left alone with my own thoughts. I feel the acid rising in my stomach seconds before my body heaves and I’m sick. Thank fuck I fell asleep in the bathroom because the mess I’m making of my life is too much for my cleaning lady to deal with.

  I hear a soft voice call out my name and I freeze. There’s someone in my apartment. There’s never anyone in my apartment. I swig back some mouthwash and quickly splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection because I know that I look like shit, have done for a few days now. I mean sure, the abs are still there but I’m not sure how long they’ll last with the liquid diet and lack of exercise. I’ve also got this gruff woodsman thing going on, but the bloodshot eyes and pale, sickly face is kinda killing it.

  On shaky legs I head out into my bedroom and see a red head wrapped in my sheets. Her makeup is smeared across her pale face, panda eyes making her look like some Halloween freak show as she calls out my name again, this time in greeting.

  “Hey baby,” she purrs and my stomach flips, threatening to empty then and there. I don’t know who this woman is, or why the fuck she’s in my bed. My heart starts pounding, and I’m sweating. It could be the booze, or that fact that there’s some random stranger in my personal space. She stretches, my bedding wrapping itself around her tighter, it’s like she’s digging her way in firmly so I can’t get rid of her.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  She blinks, surprised by my tone. What the heck did drunk me do? What did I promise her?

  “I’m Cheri. Don’t you remember?” Her face drops, but only slightly. I see her eyes narrow and I know I’ve messed up. This woman isn’t some fresh faced pick-up from a bar.

  “Clearly fucking not lady.”

  “You called me.”

  “Did I fuck!”

  She gets up, standing before me completely naked and unashamed. After rifling around in her cheap black bag she tosses a business card at me. It reads ‘Cheri Louise — Masseuse’.

  I take a long breath and exhale slowly, “I paid for sex?”

  “No you jackass, you were paying for a massage. I had sex with you because you were hot... and charming!”

  She’s pulling on her underwear now but her pretty shaved pussy isn’t doing anything for me today. She’s in my apartment and she needs to get the hell out.

  “You invited me here and then the next morning you treat me like shit.”

  I run a hand through my greasy hair, “Look — I don’t know what you were expecting. I don’t even remember you.”

  A jumper goes on over her perky tits and hey, at least she wasn’t a prostitute, it could’ve been a close call though. She’s dressed in a tight knitted jumper, a pair of figure hugging yoga pants, and let me just say I can see why I banged her. Cherry or Cherie or whatever the fuck she was called obviously worked out and looked after her body. That was more than I could say for myself at the moment.

  She stands before me expectant, anger radiating off her. She gives a little faux cough and places her hands on her hips.

  “What?”

  “Pay up asshole. You owe me £200.”

  “Shit you’re expensive for a chick who rubbed my back.”

  “Yeah, well, my costs go up if I suck your dick too. Shame you don’t recall that.”

  I shrug, a blowjob is a blowjob. I can get one anywhere.

  I pay Cherise and jump in the shower. As I lather myself up I think about how my body has always been an instrument, a tool to be used to bring in money, to give pleasure, to keep my mother supplied with her drugs. It was just a shell, a vessel that was daaaamn fine, and I’ve always known how to use it. When I was younger I had no autonomy over it, no control and I was used, abused and disillusioned with the world. Growing up, I finally claimed back what was mine. But I knew, I had learned by then, to use the gifts God gave me in this cruel life. Stripping may not be for everyone, but taking my clothes off is something I've got experience with. It's an art form and I make a lotta cash doing something I was raised to do. Now a
t twenty eight I finally had an apartment of my own, a car, fuck— I even had savings. Yes, a portion of my wages still went to my mother until a few weeks ago, but that was to keep her out of my life. I paid her to stay away. So why was her death fucking with my head? Why were all these feelings and memories resurfacing when I thought I'd buried them with her, six feet under, covered in damp soil? I thought I had left my past to rot, but evidently that cunt was a zombie determined to dog my every step. As I watch the bubbles disappear down the plughole I decide I’m done with this shitshow, it’s time to get myself back in the game. I can’t let my mother win.

  3

  It was a typical community dance hall. Mirrors lined each wall, some were cracked others faded at the edges. My shoes scuffed along the floor, a sign that it hadn’t been polished or waxed in a while. It was a dump. But then again, what had I been expecting for a $10 lesson? It was a run-down centre in one of the city's most run down areas.

  All I knew was that I just needed to get through some lessons and get my ass back to Betty to beg for forgiveness. I missed my job. I missed being one of the guys. I looked at the date on my phone, it had only been a week and I’d spent it drinking myself into a mess. A diet of coffee and tequila was not one God had in mind for a man with a body like mine. All my life I’d taken care of myself — to the best of my ability, no easy feat when your mother was a crack addict who rarely paid a bill let alone did a food shop. But I made it work. I would beg, borrow and steal to make sure we were okay and when I hit thirteen I’d discovered a local gym. The owner, Frank, had let me train and in return I cleaned. I scrubbed toilets like it was my life because working out had become a hobby that consumed me. I wanted to be big and strong. I wanted to be able to protect myself from the life I was living. The dark rabbit hole my mother dragged us down was not a place I wanted to be stuck in defenseless anymore. I was sixteen when I realized I was no longer under my mothers control, that I could fight back. Another ‘uncle’ had put his hands on me and instead of going along with it like I usually did I grabbed his fingers, bending them back as he squealed like a stuck pig. Let’s just say when I finished with him, he never came near me again. Even my father eyed me wearily from then on out. I wasn't a child any longer and I wasn’t taking anymore shit so my parents could afford another hit.

  That was only the start of how my life changed. A year or so later I was walking past a dance studio that needed a cleaner, it was a paid job and thanks to Frank’s glowing reference, I got it. Dancing became my new fixation. I focused my effort and skill on picking up the moves I watched. Some tutors would even let me join in at the end of the sessions and I learned to love my body, not because it was strong enough to fight off lecherous old men, but because it turned out that I was actually a pretty good dancer. I’d never really been good at anything, distinctly average, but when it came to using my body it was different— I was the best. Dancing and sex combined became my golden ticket as Betty offered me a position at the club and I’d never looked back.

  This community centre feels like a step backwards. News of my mother's death has me stumbling on the edges of my old life and it was only a matter of time before I fell back down that hole, until I lost who I worked so hard to become. I look around the room again, taking in the elderly people who’ve joined me. If this is a class for seniors I was going to murder Betty.

  As we wait restlessly for the teacher, I’m aware of how out of place I am. I’m about twenty years younger than everyone, over five foot and don’t have a bus pass yet. I peer in the mirrors; my dirty blonde hair needs a cut as it kisses the collar of my shirt. Same goes for the stubble on my face and while it did look hipster-hot on me, I wasn’t a fan. My skin still looks a little pale, but the magazine article at the dentist said it was all the rage this season. It brings out the green in my eyes at least. I call it the ‘washed out woodsman’ look. Huffing, I check my watch again. If this dance teacher is another granny in Spandex, I’m walking out. Simple.

  A small dark haired woman comes in, she apologises for being late several times in both English and Spanish. I cross my arms and glare at her, my eyebrow raised. She pushes her fringe out of her face and that’s when it hits me like a punch to my gut. She’s gorgeous and young — younger than me even. She’s got this wide set mouth, which breaks out into a friendly smile as she shrugs off her oversized brown parka and perfect pouty lips. They’re porn star lips, lips you want to kiss, the type of lips you want to watch as they wrap around your cock. Her hazel eyes are framed by thick dark long eyelashes and she almost looks like a bloody Disney princess. She gathers up her dark waves and scoops them into a ponytail. Her eyes meet mine briefly and I can see she’s just as startled to see me. She gives me a half smile and holy hell I want to kiss the dimple that appears on her cheek.

  “Sinclair Beaumont,” I say as I give her a brief nod.

  My eyes roam over her body and I’m not even bothering to hide the fact that I’m practically drooling over her. She’s about five foot four, petite but with curves that could kill. She obviously takes care of her body. A small waist, flat stomach but toned arms attest to that as her strappy top and yoga pants cling to every inch of her. I don’t know what’s come over me; I get my pick of women offered up on a platter in work. I may as well wear a perfume called Eau De Pussy, I’m drenched in so many available women but this feels, different. This is intense. This is more. More than what I don’t know, but I intend to find out.

  “Sofia Lopez. Now, let’s begin with the warm ups.”

  She bends down, stretching out her long legs, moving gracefully from one foot to the other as she talks, "Dance is about rhythm, it's about listening to your body."

  My cock twitches and right now all I want to do is push that pretty little head to her ankles, grab hold of her hips and slide inside her slick snatch. But I don't think that's what she's talking about when she says listen to your body. She looks back at us doing our stretches, trying to mimic her and I see her eyes slide down to my obvious bulge. Her tongue darts out across her bottom lip before she looks away blushing. It looks like the dance teacher wants me too and I can work with that. A hot Hispanic in my bed might just get me out of my funk. Fuck, if she teaches me some new moves for my routine while she’s at it then even better.

  “Today we’re going to start with a simple cha cha. The easiest way to learn this move is to say ‘one, two, cha-cha-cha’ as you do it until you get a hang of the tempo.” She places her hands on her hips to demonstrate the way our bodies should be moving as her feet nimbly carry out the steps.

  “It’s a simple move. Only two slow steps, two quick and finishing on another slow. Everyone with me?” She looks around the room confidently and the old guy to my left nods over enthusiastically.

  I snort, that’s a rhythm I can get behind as I imagine myself between her toned legs. My tongue can easily keep up with any tempo she cares to set. I wink as her gaze passes over me and I feel the temperature rise as she arches a brow at me and stares me out. This filly isn’t going to be an easy takedown, she’s letting me know that, but I am a pro at breaking them in. I’m a matador and she best believe when I wave that red flag, she’s going down.

  After the class I head to the toilets, my damn hard on is taking over my brain and I need to do something about it. Sliding my hands down past my waistband I free my dick. I make a tight fist and start fucking my own hand, pretending that it's her. I want that dark luscious hair bunched up in hands as I fuck her against one of the cracked mirrors. I imagine that tight pussy clenching around my cock as I thrust harder and harder, fucking away every other lover she’s ever had. And that ass, jeez that ass is going to destroy me. I need to touch that derriere— slap it, caress it, kiss it, pinch it, fuck it. That ass is mine. A voice invades my filthy thoughts and I grin when I realize it's none other than her. She's coming to check that everyone's gone home before she locks up.

  I picture opening this door and screwing her against the cubicle wall but I don’t think sh
e’d appreciate that just yet. Instead I wonder if my tiny dancer with an ass like Nicki Minaj is a voyeur.

  “Is anyone in here?” she calls out softly and I grin.

  “Just a moment,” I growl in reply. I’m dying to open the door but I don’t want to be done for sexual harassment. There are some lines that even I won’t cross, granted not many, but I wanted to enjoy this ride.

  “Sinclair, is that you?”

  “Just a moment…” I repeat with a soft moan. I’m letting her know exactly what I’m doing while giving her the option to walk back out and leave me to finish up. Instead she stays, adding fuel to my fire as I imagine her on the other side of the door wanting me as much as I want her.

  “Are you okay?” she whispers, letting me know she’s right outside.

  “I will be,” I say as I pump my hand faster picturing those lips. I come fast and hard with a drawn out groan. I haven't had an orgasm like this in a while; I thought I was losing my magic touch, especially since the Cherise fiasco.

  I chuckle softly as I clean up the mess I've made. My cum coats the back of the cubicle door and as much as I'd love to leave it there, to show her the effect she's having on me, I don't think we're quite at that stage yet and I don’t want my filly to bolt.

  I hear her step back as I unlock the door and move out into the bathroom. She’s blushing furiously and biting down on her lip. I knew it, she was a little peeper, well almost, but hearing me had turned her on. The flushed cheeks and heavy breathing were a dead giveaway. She licks her lower lip as I grin at her.

  “So Miss Lopez, do you normally hang out in the gents bathroom listening in?” I say as I step forward, backing her up against a sink.

  She quirks an eyebrow at me, a cool facade slipping into place but not before I’ve seen a flash of desire. “Do you normally loiter in toilets pleasuring yourself?” she asks with a steady voice. “You really should see someone about that. A therapist maybe?”