Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  I don’t need an $800 coffee table. But I kind of want it.

  “You really want to buy me this table.”

  He shrugs. “If you want it.”

  I think about how it would look sitting at the foot of my bed. It would make my bedroom look like a castle. “I think I do.” I look at him carefully. I want to make sure there are no strings attached. His expression is the same as always: gentle and benign.

  “It’s a neat table,” he says. “I think you should have it.”

  “Okay,” I finally agree. “I’ve never had anyone buy me a table before.”

  He smiles. “First time for everything.”

  Inside, he pays in cash. He always pays in cash. I’m not even sure he has a bank account. When the clerk asks how we plan to take the table I look at him, startled.

  “That won’t fit in the car,” I say, surprised that this detail hasn’t occurred to me.

  “We can deliver it,” the clerk says helpfully.

  Alo nods. “We’ll do that. Give them your address and you can work out the details.”

  I hesitate as the thought crosses my mind that he’s about to learn where I live.

  “I’ll be down looking at shirts,” he says, smiling at me. “Meet me there?”

  I don’t know if he’s anticipated my concern or if he really is interested in getting to his shirts. Either way, it solves my problem.

  “Sure thing,” I reply. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  I make the arrangements and then go help him buy shirts. He’s picky about the fabric and fit but less so about the color and pattern. I help with this detail, advising him on things that will bring out the golden hue of his complexion.

  Afterward, on the way back to the car, he hands me the car keys. I like to drive, the acceleration, the control. This car is so responsive it’s like it can read my mind. I take the keys eagerly.

  The coffee table is delivered two days later. I position it at the foot of my bed and stand back to admire the effect. I’d thought about returning it and taking the cash. It comes with the receipt and he’d paid in cash. I could have gotten the money.

  But I’m right: at the foot of my black iron bedframe it looks awesome. I arrange ivory candles in black holders along it and light them, filling the room with flickering light. I decide to keep the table.

  Chapter Five

  Body Property

  I’m on stage two and the club is packed. It’s about 11 p.m. on a Saturday and we’re all making good money. There’s a hum of laughter and conversation below the pounding music, and the air conditioner can barely keep up with the heat from active bodies. A light sheen of sweat covers my body.

  At my stage every seat is taken. My G-string overflows with dollar bills. The corner seats are occupied by four men out celebrating something, a birthday maybe. I haven’t yet been able to ascertain the nature of their visit, but they keep pushing one of their party forward, piling the ones in front of him.

  I press into the mirror, slowly bending forward so that the V of fabric between my legs becomes visible. I’ve stripped to my shoes and underwear by this point in the set. I cross my legs at the ankles and sit suddenly, twisting so that now I’m facing my audience, knees up, legs crossed demurely. The crowd hollers.

  Silkily I crawl across the stage toward the man with the pile of money before him. When I get to him I brace my knees on the padded lip that runs around the stage and kneel before him, breasts lifted, stomach taut. Slowly, I lift one leg until my toes rest on the pad, rotating my knee outward so that the fabric of my underwear pulls tight across my pubis. It’s a move I’ve done hundreds of times and it gives the illusion that they’re seeing more than they actually are. When I wear a black G-string over a bright one that catches the black lights the illusion is made stronger by the flash of brilliant, glowing color between my legs.

  I can usually tell when someone is going to make a grab for me, but this dude moves too fast for me to catch. His hand darts between my legs and suddenly his fingers press into me, his thumb shoving into my flesh.

  The only thing I’m aware of feeling is a blinding flash of rage that drowns out the music and the conversation. I react without thinking. I pick up the foot that rests against the pad edging the stage and stomp it down on his other hand, the non-offending one, that he’s braced against the drink rail along the stage. I’m wearing my favorite shoes, the ones with the metal heels, and the thin spike slides through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger like butter.

  I have not made a sound but he screams. I lean forward and grab his throat. I feel the tough flesh of his larynx cutting off his cry and I pull his face to mine. The hand between my legs is gone and I feel his fingers scrabbling around where my shoe has impaled him.

  “Do not touch me!” I roar into his face. He whimpers and I look up, across the club, to where the bouncer is leaning casually against the bar. He hasn’t yet noticed that anything is wrong.

  “Paul!” I howl his name and my voice rises above the music.

  He starts and then races toward me.

  I feel a hand on my arm and I look down into the face of one of the other men, one of the friends. “Get your fucking hands off of me!” I snarl into his face and snap my teeth shut centimeters in front of his nose. He recoils.

  “You bitch,” the wounded man says weakly.

  “You call me a bitch? You dare to touch me.” I am so angry that I’m starting to shake and I twist my heel. He cries out again.

  Now other people are finally starting to notice that something is awry. The other men at the stage gape and one of them starts to laugh, elbowing the man sitting next to him who starts to grin as well. The customers sitting along stage one begin to turn in their chairs, craning their necks to see. The dancer on stage one comes over to the edge of the stage and, from her elevated position, sees what’s happening. She starts to laugh.

  Paul reaches us. “Oh, my god,” he says. Blood has begun to seep up around where my heel has the man pinned.

  “He grabbed me,” I explain in a growl. I still have him by the throat and now I push his head sharply backwards.

  Paul grabs some napkins from a pile sitting next to the drinks that line the rail. He presses them around my heel. “Lift,” he instructs me.

  For a moment I do not comply, only stare at the man who assaulted me. There are tears in his eyes. I want to leap from the stage and tear into his face. One of his friends reaches for me again and this time it’s Paul who slaps the man’s hand.

  “Don’t touch her,” he commands and at that I shift my weight back. I lift my shoe and Paul slides the man’s hand down, off of my heel, pressing the napkins against the wound. “Hold that,” he orders, and the man weakly wraps his uninjured hand around the pool of blood that darkens the napkins.

  “What did he do?” Paul barks at me. Across the club I see the manager come around the bar and make his way toward us.

  “He grabbed my crotch,” I say to Paul, not taking my eyes off the face of the man. Mostly I see pain in his expression but there’s anger as well. I’m not letting him out of my sight.

  “What?” Paul exclaims.

  Now it’s not me but a man sitting farther along the stage who jumps in. “I saw it! He grabbed her, just like she said. His whole hand between her legs.”

  The whole club is watching now, but the DJ valiantly keeps up the schedule and announces the next dancer to stage. Sunny, the girl on stage one, leaves reluctantly, peering back over her shoulder the whole time.

  Steve, the manager, reaches us. “Oh, my god!” he exclaims upon seeing the blood welling up around the napkins pressed to the man’s hand. Turning on me, he demands, “What did you do?”

  “He grabbed me so I put my heel through his hand,” I explain. It seems rational to me.

  “What?” Steve screams at me. It doesn’t seem rational to him.

  I feel his spittle spray on my face and I wipe my hand across my cheeks grimly. For some reason, every club I worked
had some slimy little dude as the general manager. Their job is to make money but that often means treating the employees, especially the naked ones, as a means to an end. “Do not spit on me,” I snarl at him.

  Paul smoothly takes charge. He puts his arm between me and Steve and pushes the GM back. He’s gentle but firm. “You,” he addresses me. “Get dressed and meet me in the entrance. You,” this is to Steve. “Get back behind the bar and let me handle this.” He turns to the offending customer. “And you come with me.” He hauls the man, much less gently, to his feet. His friends straggle along after.

  The next girl to my stage stands on the steps watching. We’re halfway into what should have been her first song. “Sorry,” I say to her, gathering up my clothes and money.

  She shrugs, grinning. “No worries.”

  “Thank you. I owe you.” I pull on my top and skirt and hurry across to the entrance. It’s a small alcove between the exterior and interior doors and consists of a small space with a cashier, a pay phone, and an ATM.

  Mr Grabbypants is now yelling in Paul’s face. “Call the cops! I’m gonna sue that bitch!” One of his friends takes a step toward the phone and another reaches toward his pocket where the top of a cell phone protrudes.

  Paul is used to a variety of conflict situations and he never raises his voice. He merely reaches out and touches the wedding ring on the man’s finger. “You want your wife finding out about this?” he asks in a soft, smooth voice.

  “You call the cops and I’ll have you charged with assault,” I add.

  “Assault,” Paul repeats softly.

  The two friends stop reaching for phones.

  Mr Grabbypants will not be mollified. “You’re just a whore, bitch!” he screams at me. “Cops gonna believe you?”

  The anger rushes back and I take a step forward. He flinches and I laugh. “You have no idea who I am,” I tell him, my voice soft. He’s lucid enough to hear the rage in my tone. “Yes, I am a stripper but I am a lot more than that. If you would like to find out more about who I am we can call the police right now. I have friends on the force.” This is not a lie. The off-duty officers from the local precinct often drop by the club and I’ve become friendly with several of them. They patrol the streets around the club at closing time to make sure we’re not followed when we leave the parking lot.

  Paul lets go of his arm. “It’s your call, man.”

  One of the friends steps forward. “Let’s just go,” he suggests.

  “I recommend the hospital,” I offer helpfully. “You need a te tanus shot.”

  Mr Grabbypants lets his friends lead him away. As the door closes he yells back over his shoulder, “You probably get off on hurting men. Perverted cunt.”

  I look at Paul. He smiles at me and I smile back. “What does that even mean?” I ask him. “Perverted?”

  “It means whatever he wants it to mean.” He opens the interior door, and the music and roar of conversation wash over us. “Let’s go back inside.”

  Chapter Six

  Fetish

  I have pretty feet. They are thin and highly arched with long toes and even nails. The tendons ripple under the skin and the stripper shoes I wear make the vessels pulse. Unlike many of the girls, I mostly do not wear platforms. I prefer stilettos with 5-inch heels that reveal the top of my foot. I have the metal heels and bought the same pair in white. I have patent heels with an ankle strap, heels made of Lucite, and heels in red leather. Sometimes I wear boots as well. I own boots crisscrossed with silver buckles that come up over my ankles, knee-high go-go boots, and thigh-high vinyl boots with silver studs. Footwear is important because it’s often the only thing on my body other than underwear. Strippers spend a lot on thongs and shoes.

  The man is in his sixties, nicely dressed in tan pants and a striped dress shirt. He places a dollar on the stage and I squat before him, opening my knees provocatively. It is the first song of the set and I wear pleather pants that zip apart at the crotch, a tantalizing strip of silver teeth running between my legs. On top I wear a complicated vest of straps, a wide band across my breasts. I have paired the ensemble with the metal heels. His eyes never leave my feet.

  The dollar secured in the elastic of my G-string, I move on to the next customer. It is early in the night but already six or seven men crowd my stage and the dollars pile up.

  The older gentleman places a five on the stage. In reward for this generosity I stand with my back to him and slowly unzip the pants, revealing a neon green G-string that catches the black lights in an electric glow. He glances up appreciatively and then his gaze returns to my feet.

  I spin to sit with my ankles crossed and slowly extend my legs toward him. The pants, now detached in the middle, sag toward my knees and I push them down so that the cuffs cover my feet. He reaches out and pulls the garment off, caressing my ankle lightly as it is revealed.

  This is technically a breach of etiquette. Customers are never allowed to touch us, though we can touch them as we wish. But I let it slide, putting one foot on either of his shoulders. Of course, this puts my glowing crotch directly in front of him but he turns his head to keep my foot in sight. He puts down another five-dollar bill.

  Over the course of two songs, he’s given me $30. With other tips I make almost $50 in less than ten minutes.

  After my set I stop by his chair to thank him. Destiny is on stage, wearing silver heels with a 3-inch clear platform. He looks away from her and his eyes travel down my body.

  “I’m Star,” I say, holding my hand out to him.

  His eyes travel back up to my face. “Gary. Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Let me know if you want to have a drink with me later.”

  He glances dismissively at Destiny. “How about now?”

  I lead him to a table against the wall, conveniently located next to the private dance area. I catch the eye of a waitress and she makes her way over.

  Some clubs pay dancers on the number of drinks they can sell, and the girls collect drink straws that they cash out at the end of the night. Some clubs dilute dancer drinks to keep their girls from getting too drunk. This club doesn’t engage in either practice. Our drinks are served full strength and it’s easy to have too many. So we have developed a system whereby the dancers signal to a waitress to bring them an alcohol-free drink while seeming to order one with booze.

  “I’ll have a Kim’s Special,” I tell her.

  “What’s that?” Gary asks.

  “It’s created by the bartender,” I reply. “Very fruity. Tropical.”

  “What kind of alcohol?”

  “Vodka.”

  If a customer orders one it actually does come with vodka.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” he tells the waitress.

  I place my feet casually into his line of sight, crossing my ankles. “So, Gary. What brings you in tonight?”

  “I’m in town for a conference,” he replies. “It’s a once-a-year type of thing. I didn’t see you here last year.”

  “I just moved here a few months ago.”

  “You have beautiful feet,” he says.

  I arch my foot, pointing the toe. The tendons leap beneath my skin. “Thank you.”

  “May I?” He holds out a hand.

  “Sure.” I put my right foot into his palm. Gently he unclasps the buckle at my ankle and rubs his thumb across the line left by the strap. He does not remove my shoe. His hands are firm and dry and he handles me carefully, almost reverently.

  “What size do you wear?”

  “Nine,” I tell him, hoping that he won’t think this is too big.

  He doesn’t appear to react at all. “Will you give me a private dance?” he asks. “I’d like you to go barefoot.”

  “Of course.” The possibility of taking off my shoes is actually delightful. My feet are used to heels but it still feels good to take them off.

  Our drinks arrive and he takes a small sip.

  “Shall we adjourn?” I ask, standing. We carry our
drinks to the private dance area.

  The private area consists of low, square stages about four by four. The customers sit in cushy armchairs. Each stage—there are four—is partitioned off by fake potted trees, creating small oases of privacy. Sometimes we drag up another chair for couples.

  I set my drink on the corner of the stage and unbuckle the straps of my shoes, taking my time, making it part of the strip. Gary’s eyes never leave my feet.

  I pull off my outfit slowly until I stand nude except for the tiny G-string I wear. He doesn’t even glance at the rest of my body.

  “It’s $20 a song,” I tell him.

  He lays four twenties on the edge of the stage.

  It’s a little disconcerting to dance naked for someone who is so focused on one body part. I’m used to having men stare; in fact, part of the point of clubs like this is allowing people to really look. Our society is puritanical with regard to sex, which is probably why we’re so obsessed with it. Having the freedom to really look, see one another’s bodies, can be profoundly liberating.

  And titillating.

  The other side of looking is being looked at. This is different than being seen: my friends and parents and lovers see me, who I am. My customers have my permission to look at me but sometimes they see me and sometimes they do not. Mostly, this is the service I sell: the freedom to look at my body, my breasts, my ass, my crotch, my skin, my hair.

  And now my feet.

  At the end of the four songs, Gary says, “If I bring you shoes, will you wear them?”

  “Of course!” I say. “I love shoes.”

  “Don’t all women love shoes?” he laughs.

  I laugh as well.

  “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “See you soon, then!”

  I wonder where he plans to get shoes in my size at nine o’clock at night. There is an adult store in town but I’m not sure of the hours. Part of me wonders if I will see him again at all.

  He’s back an hour later with a box under his arm. I’m sitting chatting with a regular when he walks in. I catch his eye and he smiles. I smile back.