Dealing Flesh

by Birgit Waldschmidt

  Doubt Cloud: Forget about that dude. Nothing good can come from it given you are at a strip club, not a social event.

  Scaredy Cat: Yikes, looks like he’s coming over.

  Romy: Ehh-ehh?

  Hot Shot: Play it cool. I’ll handle this.

  Within seconds, the broad-shouldered man positions himself next to me.

  “I like your moves,” he says with a warm, but masculine tone of voice. “My name is Trevor. What’s yours?”

  “Chevana,” I say, sort of shyly showing him my pearly whites.

  Somewhere throughout the passing perky dialogue, Trevor reveals that he works as a cop when not here. The wildfire inside me gains additional strength, especially with Fantasia reminding me of my fondness for husky handsome men in uniforms.

  Romy (gushing): He’s perfect…got it all – the body, the face, the height, the job, the smile, the name, the voice, the attitude.

  “Will you dance for me?” Trevor asks.

  Romy (gibbering): Oh, dear. I am going to pass out.

  I almost stumble over my words.

  “Uhhmm. Ya…I’d be happy to.”

  I grab his hand and guide him into the bordering room. Other than a couple of women huddling over their customers in dark corners, and the stripper on stage who entices a handful of men, the atmosphere presents itself as amply private. Trevor flops down in front of me onto one of the soft covered purple couches that have mirrors above them. His nearness makes me crazy…in a good way. I temptingly wind my body around him in slow snake-like movements, pulling my cleavage close enough to his face that he can get a good whiff of the vanilla musk I squirted on twenty minutes ago. I feel my legs shake incessantly as I try hard to maintain balance on those impossible stripper shoes. It appears that Trevor doesn’t notice my wobbliness in the dimly lit space, at least, not to my knowledge. My arms naturally fold around his neck, embracing him as if we truly were lovers.

  Lustania: Fuuuck, he’s gorgeous. I wished we were alone.

  Blushetta: That much a man frightens me. I don’t think I can handle it.

  Hot Shot: You don’t have to. But I will.

  Enviola: Those other bitches better stay away from him. He’s miiiine.

  My lips, half an inch away from his, give off the illusion that we will kiss at any moment now. I badly want to, but for the sake of adhering to the house rules, I stick to just enjoying every second of the internal itch that yearns to be scratched.

  Romy (drifting on a cloud of fluffy cotton candy): I’m in love.

  I hear the disk jockey call me to the stage again. My lover boy and I hold each other tight for a few seconds.

  Romy: I wish I were a free woman. He feels sooo good. Why can’t I be married to HIM, damned?

  Trevor reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a business card.

  “Call me soon,” he grins while handing it to me. I watch the masses swallow him on his way out.

  Romy: What else can possibly matter now?

  ~~~

  I am running a fever, a “love” fever. Because in a few moments, I will be meeting the hottest guy I’ve encountered since I lived in Los Angeles. My heart beats fast, seeing Trevor get out of his silver Mercedes that he parks in the lot at the Santa Monica Pier. I fling my arms around his teddy bear physique. Alibi in place, thanks to my girlfriend Sandra who promised she would vouch for me should Raymond happen to interrogate her, I board his ride. A romantic lunch at the Chinese restaurant near the ocean follows. Trev shares with me that he lives with a woman who just had his baby.

  “But I don’t love her,” he says with compelling emphasis when he notices me getting quiet. “She knows that I’m not happy.”

  Pretender Babe: Well, well. It’s not like I’m Miss Unattached, or anything.

  We finish the meal. Irresistible Trevor brings me to a motel on Main Street. Our lips fasten for the first time once the door closes behind us.

  Hot Shot: He kisses as well as he looks.

  His cut, strong arms scoop me up with the ease of someone lifting a mouse off the ground. He sets me down on top of the quality white sheets that cover the king size bed. We stay busy for a good two hours.

  Hot Shot: Can’t say I feel much, but certainly more than with the last few fellows.

  Miss Vanity: Don’t think of ending it. He makes such a nice show-off piece.

  Romy: I like his presence. Something about him tells me he adores me.

  Lustania: Hmmmh.

  Trev and I meet roughly six more times in the following weeks. Home alone this morning, Fantasia serves me the rosy image of him leaving his woman and child behind after which he comes rushing towards me on a white horse to pick me up to become bound by holy matrimony.

  Doubt Cloud: That’s absurd…impossible.

  Buried in deep thought, weighing out every aspect of my ability to keep memorizing all my lies to Raymond, I decide to tell Trevor that I need to take a break. Standing in front of him this afternoon by “The Stairs” on Fifth Street in Santa Monica, he hands me a nicely-wrapped gift box.

  “Open it,” he insists with love in his voice.

  Romy: You can’t tell him it’s over. Not nooww.

  I open the lid of the thoughtfully decorated present. A beautiful necklace with a golden heart that has small blue stones outlining it comes to light. I sense tears welling up inside the corner of my eyes.

  Romy: No one has ever given me anything this nice. I think he really cares about me.

  Largely touched by his sweetness, I spend the rest of the evening with him in a romantic interlude.

  One week passes. I call up Trevor this morning to tell him that I can no longer see him. He acts disappointed, but eventually and grudgingly, accepts the request. One thing is for certain: Fairy tales do not come true by meeting people in strip joints. Sorry to burst anyone’s bubble.

  Back at bumping and grinding for the mighty dollar, I perform a couch dance for a woman while her husband watches from the adjacent chair.

  Ragelina: Fucking pervert.

  Albeit the fact that I am highly repulsed by his request, I am struck by the awareness that it not at all matters who sits in front of me, that I would dance for a scarecrow for all I care, granted it could afford my fee.

  At around 8:00 p.m., a highly-celebrated ‘Shall Remain Nameless’ strolls in, one whose talents and sex appeal have graced the movie screens for years. A couple of bodyguards are closely following behind him.

  Scaredy Cat: That much fame frightens me.

  Doubt Cloud: Yeah. What if he wants to sit with me? Nooo way.

  Blushetta: I could never be enough for a guy like that. Let’s hide.

  Hot Shot: I can spark his interest for sure. It’s keeping it that’s the tricky part. He’s too much work for my taste; way too spoiled by life. Let the vultures have him.

  I successfully dodge the hunk for the rest of my shift.

  Tonight, a day after I saw that famous fellow, I hear through the grapevine that the V.I.P. left with a handpicked fleet of dancers for continuing fun at his house last night. I could have sworn that over the years he was said to have a wife or, at least, a steady girlfriend. Okay then.

  Doubt Cloud: Oh, well. I’m just glad that I’m not one of the women that escorted him.

  Starlight: I bet great things could have come from it; I mean for my career, and all.

  Another week goes by. Early this evening, a recognizable professional athlete walks through the front door of the club.

  Hot Shot: That’s so cool.

  Blushetta: It’s maddening. I’m tired of hiding out.

  The cat-and-mouse game starts over again as I stay clear of the icon until the end of my shift. About to leave the club, I nearly trade doorknobs with another big-timer, one of Hollywood’s elite.

  Romy: He’s even more gorgeous in person than on the big screen.

  Scaredy Cat: I bet he, too, is here to recruit gals for private residential orgies and drug parties.

  Doubt Cloud: Yeah…I’m glad
I’m outta here.

  I set course for my house.

  How ironic that as much as I conceal myself from encountering famous folks this week, I come across a well-established musician, not having a clue who he is at first. Romy has me dote on the smooth talker, but when he mentions his association to a popular group whose music I happen to love, I sense my hormones leap around wildly. “Mister Musician” asks me out by the end of his visit.

  We meet this afternoon. Bells ring and birds chirp as he wines and dines me, and we stroll hand in hand through Beverly fucking Hills.

  Big Shot Mama: How do ya’ like me now?

  Hot Shot: Always knew I had pull, but this… Wow.

  Back at the club tonight, I unexpectedly run into Preston, the guy that manages the massage parlor I worked for last. I happen to mention Mr. Musician’s name during our conversation. He starts laughing. It turns out they know each other personally. Preston alarms me to handle that fellow with care because he is said to be notorious for playing the field.

  Romy: That jerk. I am just glad we never went further than kissing.

  Before Preston leaves tonight, he drops his business card into my purse.

  “You gotta come visit me at the new house sometime,” he says.

  “You betcha I will, if I’m ever in the area.”

  Hurt that “Mister Musician” turned out to be such a deceitful character, I give him the cold shoulder from here on forward.

  Almost Superstar

  Many of the girls at the Butterfly Club brag about the money that can be made in Vegas.

  Hot Shot: If I can get hired at one of the elite clubs, no one can ever again deny that I’m the shit.

  Big Shot Mama: Precisely.

  Blushetta: Well, if you truly decide to shake your heiney for the desert crowd, I may as well make something of myself by studying design out there.

  Scaredy Cat: I can’t wait to get out of the sleaze biz and have something fun and respectable to fall back on.

  Romy: You speak my mind.

  When coinciding with Raymond regarding my epiphanies, he irately votes the motion down. A few hours go by.

  “This Vegas thing might after all be the best thing for both of us,” he mumbles.

  “When are you planning on moving?” His voice bears a strange undertone.

  “A couple of weeks from now…or something.”

  Romy: Yeeesss.

  ~~~

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Ray helps me to get set up in the small studio apartment near the strip. Once all is in place, he retreats back to Los Angeles.

  Romy: Woohooohhh. I’m as free as a bird.

  Scaredy Cat: What have you gotten me into? All alone in the desert in this terrifying town…yikes.

  Tough Gal: Be chill…be chill. Like I said before, don’t blow the cover on your apprehensions. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.

  Stomach in knots, I show up at the Troubadour, one of the elite strip clubs in town.

  Tough Gal: Act like a pro, and don’t give anyone personal information unless you know them well.

  The manager hires me without requesting an audition, something that most clubs require as standard procedure.

  Hot Shot: I must be reeeally special.

  Whip Cracker: Impressive. You’ve come such a long way from being an overweight ‘macaroni and cheese’ eating nanny to holding the title of ‘Exotic Entertainer’ in one of the most erotic towns in the world.

  Miss Vanity: I’d say.

  The Troubadour offers a true “Candy Land” for the connoisseur of fantasy and beyond. Every time I’m on the floor, I maintain tunnel vision as much as possible. The main reason for that is to stay clear of accidentally encountering disturbing scenarios inside some of the dark nooks, but also not to come across like “Miss Friendly Chick” to the other girls or they’ll eat me alive.

  It’s the morning after my first week of work in Sin City. Intense loneliness chokes me upon awakening.

  Hot Shot: I’d give the world for some good loving from a sexy man right about now.

  Fantasia: I wonder where all the hot guys hang out in this doggone town?

  Lustania: Tough luck, unless, of course, you are into male strippers?

  Romy: Ew. Those guys could never win my heart.

  Hot Shot: I see your point. Wouldn’t trust them either.

  Romy: I think you should invite Trevor. Who knows, without Raymond nearby, sparks may fly again?

  Hot Shot: I know he still pines for me.

  One phone call and my darling cop rushes to see me. I pick him up from Henderson Airport this afternoon. We settle into his plush suite inside one of the fancy hotels on the strip.

  Romy: He sure looks more appealing than ever.

  After he gets freshened up, he joins me on the bed. Two hours pass.

  Hot Shot: Hate to say it, but I still don’t feel a whole lot when he’s inside me.

  Lustania: I sure hope I’m not frigid.

  Hot Shot: I doubt it. Don’t worry.

  We get dressed and step outside onto the glittery billboard-laden boulevard. A warm desert wind blows around us as we stroll arm in arm, like a couple “in love” down the lively road headed for downtown. I sense my esteem rise now that nearly everyone seems to be staring at us.

  Forty-eight hours of uninterrupted fun reach an end with dropping Trevor off at the airport. “So long,” I wave, feeling nothing at all as I see him disappear inside the terminal.

  Romy: Don’t get me wrong – he’s a darling and all…sweet, affectionate, generous and super attractive, but there can never be an ‘us’ unless he ditches his baggage so I can safely dispose of mine.

  Scaredy Cat: You should leave the door open for someone with true rescuing capabilities.

  I spend the next few hours trying to pick the gentlest approach to giving Trevor the ax again. Although I can’t come up with one, I phone him anyway, ending up dumping a highly emotionless message of a final goodbye onto his machine. He responds a day later with the threat of telling Raymond everything.

  Romy: He must have liked me a lot more, than I thought he did. Otherwise, why would he want to resort to such extreme measures?

  Scaredy Cat: There gotta be a way to appease him? Something needs to be done.

  Tough Gal: I wouldn’t give it any more brain space. I’m sure he’ll snap back in.

  Doubt Cloud: Hope you’re right.

  ~~~

  Star light, star bright… I am back at the Troubadour.

  Hot Shot: I do believe in my external giftedness, but why is it that these perfect-looking triple x-rated queens with their voluptuous, tanned, fantasy bodies and hair extensions simply get so much more out of their vehicles than I do?

  Big Shot Mama: I thought this place was supposed to be a gold mine?

  Whip Cracker: Not if you keep adhering to protocol, it isn’t. To bring in some real dough, you gotta loosen up, girl. Hang with the high rollers, or drunken patrons who are too inebriated to grasp how much money they fork out. I don’t have to tell you how to access fringe benefits, do I? Talk dirty or something, simulate intercourse while sitting on the guys, or assume other compromising positions, let ‘em touch you, touch them, allow them to suck your nipple or suck theirs, while you both hide inside some dimly lit booth during a couch dance. If ya’ conceal things pretentiously behind your walling mane, you can even French kiss the fellows? Of course, there is the option of meeting men after hours in their hotels, or wherever it’s convenient. No news to you, I’m sure. And it also pays to quickly pull your bikini bottom aside when performing on stage, letting them have a ‘peek-a-boo’ at your treasure chest. In this business, having kinky written all over you, being open to anything, getting surgically enhanced, carrying adult star repertoire, drinking, drugging, or indulging in two-girl lesbian action even if simulated, goes a very long way.

  Pretender Babe: Nice try. But although I know how to fake it, I’m not going to break the rules just to earn more.

  Hot Shot
: It’s not that I haven’t been propositioned for most of the things on the list.

  Romy: You promised to never go there again. That surely would be the death of me.

  Blushetta: I rather be a party pooper and leave with less.

  Whip Cracker: Like I said, a tame couch dance with innocent conversation is not going to rake in the big bucks, not even in Las Vegas, my dear, unless it merely happens to be your lucky day. Men come to see freaks, not saints. They don’t want what a significant other can perform at home.

  Blushetta: I am tired of hustling sooo much harder. Did I mention that I hate sales?

  Ragelina: Especially, when having to deal with hordes of arrogant seasoned club goers who are used to being spoiled rotten by blood sucking gold diggers with no boundaries.

  Hot Shot: Let me not complain. After all, I do go home with five hundred on the average weekend night.

  Starlight: And freak show or not, I’m a star, no matter what stage I walk on; not necessarily the kind of ‘Hollywood’ star I’ve always dreamt of becoming, but I sparkle alright.

  ~~~

  Greeted by a debilitating fatigue that engulfs my whole being, I squint my eyes just long enough to take in the fuzzy picture of the clock on the nightstand. “Noon,” it says, if I am not mistaken.

  I snuggle up against the mattress as tightly as I can, sensing the sheet’s smoothness against my skin, at the same time making every effort to keep my listless distressed anatomy from being revived further. What I’m experiencing must be what they call “stripper burn out.”

  Because just like yesterday and many mornings before that, I feel like a partially deflated air mattress—limp, wobbly, and sluggish to a point of inability to fathom that in just hours from now, I get to put on that man-eating glitter queen suit once again for more body contortion and seductive stage crawling.

  Starlight: Don’t get me wrong. I like performing and wearing different hats, but not at this price.

  Scaredy Cat: Can I go home?

  Romy: And where do you think that is, fool? Find me a place where the love is. Otherwise, shoot me.

  The thought of me being solely responsible for my livelihood activates uncomfortable reactions inside my stomach. Topped by the monotony of the daily regimen of leaving my room to get food, go to work, go to sleep, leave my room to get food, go to work, go to sleep, and so on, I obsess on only one thing this instant…TIME…time alone…lots of it…to do nothing, be nothing, veg, dream, dream and dream some more.