Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  A smile lights up his face. “Of course. Yes! Please.” He leaps up and pulls the chair out for me.

  I sit and hold out my hand. “I’m Natasha. I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”

  “Keith. I’m very pleased that you came over.”

  Waitresses are programmed to approach a table anytime a dancer sits down with a customer. We generate a huge profit for the club by getting customers to buy us drinks. Lela walks up and asks if we would like anything.

  Keith tips his beer bottle, which is mostly full. “I’m fine for now.”

  Lela looks pointedly at me.

  “Oh!” Keith stutters. “Of course. Would you like anything?”

  I smile at him. “Thank you, I’ll have a seven-and-seven.”

  Lela heads off toward the bar. “Thank you,” I tell Keith again.

  “My pleasure,” he says.

  He’s young, probably around 30, with a boyishly pleasing face. He wears a white shirt with narrow blue pinstripes, jeans, and loafers. He looks like he got off work from somewhere that has cubicles.

  “So, Keith.” I lean toward him slightly, resting my elbows on the table. The pose pushes my breasts up provocatively. If he looks it’s peripherally. “You know what I do for a living. What do you do?”

  “I work as an accountant for a brewery.” He names one of the local microbreweries.

  I almost smile. Of course he’s an accountant. “Well, I’m glad there are people in the world who are accountants so that the rest of us don’t have to be.”

  He laughs. “You have to do stuff besides this.” His gesture encompasses the stages, the bar, the shadowed corners where men lean toward glittering women with shining exposed skin. “Who else are you?”

  “I’m a college student,” I say.

  “What do you study?”

  “Religion.”

  He gapes at me. My answer usually takes people off guard. “And you work here?”

  “Why not?” I ask. “The money is good and I have plenty of time to study.”

  “But …” He searches for words. “How can you be religious and work here?”

  I laugh. “I didn’t say that I’m religious. I said that I study religion. Not to mention the fact that sexuality and religion don’t have to be contradictions.”

  Now he’s intrigued. “My Catholic upbringing taught me that sex is the vehicle of original sin.”

  “Well, that’s one interpretation. Christianity in all its forms often conflates sex with sin. And I think that’s a shame. Sex doesn’t have to be shameful. Plus,” I gesture at Kris on stage one. “She’s not having sex with anyone.” I glance pointedly around the club. “No one here is having sex. We’re just being sexy.” I grin at him.

  He smiles back. “You are sexy.”

  I stretch one tan leg out and run my hand down it. “Yes, I am.”

  He snorts. “And modest.”

  Now I laugh out loud. “Not a bit.”

  “So … I take it that you’re not Christian?”

  I glance at him from beneath my lashes. “Is that a problem?”

  “No. It just makes you more intriguing.”

  “You’re easy to impress.”

  He takes a swallow of beer. “I don’t think so. You caught my eye because you really know how to dance.”

  “Thank you.” I sip from the drink Lela sets before me. “I like to dance. Always have.”

  “Have you thought about working someplace like Vegas?” He hands Lela a bill and waves her away, signaling that he doesn’t need change.

  “I have. But I’m really just doing this to put myself through school. I don’t think I have what it takes to be a career stripper.”

  “What does it take to be a career stripper?”

  “Well, girls who really want to make money work a seasonal circuit. It includes Vegas but also the east coast and places like Alaska. They hit all the rallies like Sturgis in North Dakota. Bike week. The car shows and races.”

  “So you’d have to travel a lot.”

  “Yes. I have thought about it. But I need to finish school first.”

  “That makes sense.”

  I shift the conversation back to him. “How long have you been coming here? I’ve seen you a few times.”

  “Just a few months. It gets me out of the house.”

  “Is that a problem for you?” I make my voice light, teasing. “Getting out of the house?”

  He looks down. “I’m going through some things right now.”

  I sober immediately. “I’m sorry to hear that. We can certainly offer distraction here!”

  He smiles but isn’t quite ready to meet my eyes. I wonder if it’s divorce, a breakup, or something else. There is an earnest, sad quality to him.

  “My cousin and I grew up really close,” he tells me. “Like brothers. We’re the same age, just a week apart. We live together.” He hesitates. “Lived together.”

  I think very quickly. He’s about to divulge something to me and I have to figure out, in the space of about two seconds, if I should let him. If I choose incorrectly, I will embarrass and isolate him. I make my decision based on the slight quiver in his voice and his vulnerability. I decide that what he really needs is someone to listen.

  I lean across the table and place my hand on his arm, just above his wrist. His shirtsleeve is pulled down and so I make contact without actually touching his skin. It’s reassuring without being too intimate. “What happened?” I ask.

  He looks up at me and I meet his gaze unflinchingly. His eyes gleam a little but his voice is steady. “He passed away recently.”

  I do not look away or change expression. “I’m so sorry.” I apply a slight, gentle pressure to his arm. “How did it happen?”

  He looks down. “Cancer.”

  “Ugh.” I make a disgusted noise. “That bitch.”

  There are definitely tears in his eyes now but he smiles a bit at my words. “Yes, that nasty bitch.”

  “Was it fast at least?”

  “Yes. Relatively.”

  “What kind of cancer?”

  “Lung cancer.” He swipes his eyes and makes a sound of grim humor. “Never smoked a day in his life.”

  I sigh audibly. “That really and truly sucks. I’m so sorry, Keith. I get why you need to get out of the house.”

  I hear my name called as the next dancer to stage. It’s bad timing; I need to sit with him for a few more minutes to make sure that he isn’t about to get uncomfortable with opening up to me. I lean close to him, so he can feel my breath in his ear and against his neck. “I know what loss is like.”

  He glances up at me very quickly and then away again. “You do?”

  “I do.” I hold close to him for a second longer and then sit back. “I have to go to stage. But I’d like to continue this conversation when I’m done. Is that okay?”

  His eyes are dry again when he smiles at me. He has no difficulty meeting my gaze. “I’d like that a lot.”

  I get up and walk to stage one, setting my purse and drink on the top step. It’s in the sight line of the DJ, who makes sure that nothing gets stolen and no one spikes our drinks.

  I wait until the girl on stage collects the bills littering the stage and then take her place. I climb the pole at the corner of the stage and spin lazily down as the opening strains of my first song sound through the speakers. There are several men at the stage and the dollars start to appear. For the moment I ignore them and slither off the pole onto my back, flipping into a somersault that leaves me on my hands and knees. I straighten up, staying on my knees, and move into a backbend, feeling my belly narrow and tighten, my hips jutting forward. I let my head touch the stage and slide all the way down, knees bent tight on either side. This is why I don’t like platform shoes: gripping with my toes, I slide up the stage and straighten my legs, ending up lying flat on my back. I lift both legs straight overhead, clapping my shoes together sharply and then opening my legs all the way, banging my heels on the stage on either
side. Sitting up I am in full splits. It’s a neat, flexible, sensuous show and the audience claps. I see Keith has come to stage.

  I work my way around, performing for each man for a minute before collecting their dollars. I push each bill down in my G-string to create a little fan of money on each hip. When I get to Keith I kneel before him and put my arms around his shoulders, leaning in, covering him with my hair. It’s more intimate than I’ve been with the other customers, but he has a five in front of him and I’m happy to see him at stage. It means that he’s not embarrassed that he opened up to me. He has promise.

  Keith comes in to see me every couple of weeks. He’s not a big spender but he’s worth a bill each visit. And I like him. He’s painfully shy and I learn that he’s never really had a girlfriend. I wonder if he’s a virgin.

  “I can’t talk to women,” he confides in me.

  “You’re talking to me,” I point out.

  “But I’m paying you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Well, that is true. But I’m not the sort of person to talk to someone I don’t like.” I grin. “Even if they pay me.”

  He looks at me like he doesn’t really believe me.

  “Would I lie to you?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

  He smiles his shy smile. “I don’t think so.”

  I know him well enough now to take his hand. I’m close enough to slide my knee between his. He always blushes when I get so close to him. I blow on his red cheeks, teasingly. “Cool you off.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” He turns redder.

  I stand up abruptly, pulling him up with me. “Time for your private dance.”

  He flushes even more alarmingly but allows me to lead him into the private area. I plant him in a reclining chair and climb into his lap. He keeps his hands obediently at his sides.

  Putting a knee on either arm of the chair and my hands on his shoulders I purr into his ear. “You shouldn’t be afraid of women.” My breasts push into his chest. “You’re nice, you’re cute, you have a good job.”

  His eyes slip closed. The flush drains from his cheeks and his breath comes faster.

  I take one leg and then the other off the arms of the chair and brace my toes against the floor. Holding my weight steady with my arms I slide down. I never actually touch any part of him between his chest and his knees but I’m close enough to feel the heat from his body on my skin. It’s all about the tease, the artifice, the fantasy. It’s about seeming to do so much more than I actually am.

  “I’m cute?” he asks, his eyes still closed.

  I laugh throatily. “Yes. You’re cute.”

  He opens his eyes and I see it: he’s in love with me. Or thinks he is. He’s in love with the idea of me, the projection of me.

  “Maybe I should be giving you the private dance,” he says.

  I grip his knees and stand up, spinning so that my back is to him. I hook my thumbs through the waistband of the skintight red velvet pants I’m wearing and bend forward oh, so slowly, revealing the matching G-string underneath.

  Keith sighs.

  “But I am much better at teasing than you are,” I tell him.

  “Yes,” he breathes.

  Six months later he tells me that he’s met a woman.

  “That’s wonderful!” I say. I mean it. He’s a sweet guy. “Who is she? What does she do? Tell me everything!”

  He gazes at me pensively. I have time to wonder what he’s thinking and then he says, “You’re not jealous.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.

  I lost him, I think. “No,” I reply softly. “Of course not. I’m delighted for you.”

  He reflects on this for a moment. Then he says, “She’s a temp at the office where I work. I think she likes me.”

  “Why do you think she likes you?”

  He looks up at me shyly. “She told me.”

  “That’s great!” I crow. “I like her. I love it when women just say what they mean. She actually said, ‘I like you’?”

  “She asked me out.”

  I laugh, delighted. “What did you say?”

  “I said that I would. But I set the date out a bit. It’s in ten days.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Well …” he hesitates. “Because of you.”

  Shit. I think quickly but he beats me to the punch.

  “Don’t say anything. I know how it is. This.” His gesture encompasses the club. “This isn’t real. And I know that. I just … wanted to be sure. And …” He rushes to continue. “And I’m nervous.”

  “About what?”

  “The last time I went on a date was ten years ago.”

  “Okay, let’s think about this. What do you plan to do on this date?”

  “Dinner and a movie?”

  I nod. “Sure, that’s certainly an option. But I’d recommend something a little more memorable.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s warm. Why not a picnic?”

  He looks at me doubtfully.

  I laugh. “Hear me out. It’s less formal than a restaurant. You don’t have to worry about etiquette or tipping the waiter. You can scope the location out ahead of time. It will give you both the entirety of the great outdoors to look at if you get nervous or the conversation stalls.”

  His doubt starts to shift into interest.

  “Afterwards you can take a walk and that will give you a break from looking at one another. Walking lets you take a breather from conversation and you can talk about what you see.”

  He starts to nod.

  “Just plan really well.” I shake my finger under his nose. “Do your homework.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to find out if she has any food allergies and what she likes to drink. The last thing you want to do is serve beer only to find out that she doesn’t drink alcohol.”

  He looks dismayed.

  “Don’t buy messy food. Plan on something that’s easy to eat off a plate in your lap. Don’t bring a blanket, that’s too intimate. Bring two nice folding chairs.” I look sternly at him. “And make sure they’re clean.”

  “I feel like I should be taking notes!”

  “You’ll do fine. Check movie schedules ahead of time. I’d recommend checking to see if there are any movies in the park coming up. Give her two or three choices and then let her choose.”

  He grins at me. “You give good dating advice.”

  I pat his hand. “Let me know how it goes.”

  The next time I see him is when he tells me that his date went perfectly. He describes his new amore as fun and talkative. I hug him and tell him, again, how happy I am for him.

  “But I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

  “What?” I’m surprised. “Why not? You seem like you really hit it off!”

  He shrugs. “I can’t really explain it.”

  I look at him sternly. “Try.”

  He looks away from me. “I guess I’m not really the dating type.”

  “So what are you? The lifelong bachelor type?”

  He grins. “Maybe so, yeah.”

  “But you seemed like you really liked this woman. You were really excited. What happened?”

  He finally looks back and meets my eyes. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

  I wonder again if he’s a virgin. “You mean that you’re not attracted to her?”

  “Oh, I am. But I won’t be if I have sex with her.”

  I’m baffled. “What on earth do you mean?”

  He makes a small moue of disgust. “I can never stay attracted to a woman once I’ve had sex with her.”

  I’m so astonished that I can’t think what to say. There’s a much bigger pathology here than I had realized. “Is that why you come to strip clubs? Because you can pay women to be sexual and not have to fuck them?”

  He shrugs. “I guess so. It’s also why I only have sex with prostitutes.”

  Nope, not a virgin. “Oh,” I manage. In the sp
ace of a few minutes my perception of him has shifted entirely. I had pegged him as a shy guy who gets tongue-tied around women. Now, I’m realizing that he can’t respect women if he knows that they have sex. He needs to be able to believe that we’re Madonnas even while he pays us to play the whore.

  “Would you fuck me for money?”

  He’s never spoken to me like this before and at first I can only gape at him. “NO. Of course not!” I snarl finally.

  He nods with a small smile of satisfaction. “I thought not. You’re one of the good ones.”

  “Good what?” I’m struggling to keep up with this sudden turn of events.

  “Good girls. You’re one of the good girls.”

  I wonder what he would do if I told him that I have sex. That I enjoy sex. That sexual play with a partner I’m into is fun and pleasurable. I would become the whore. Simply for admitting that I enjoy sex would transform me from the sexually desirable but untouchable ideal into the dirty and undesirable.

  He pushes back from the table. “I’m ready for my private dance.”

  I stand up abruptly. “In just a minute. Let me run to the dressing room for a second.”

  He shoots me a dark look. Suddenly, he’s all orders and demands.

  I place my hand on his shoulder, mollifying. “I’ll be right back.” I feel him relax beneath my hand.

  It’s all I can do not to run across the floor to get away from him. He’s making my skin crawl.

  In the dressing room Savannah sees the expression on my face. “What’s up?” she asks.

  I throw the metal purse I carry my money in onto the dressing room counter with a clatter. “One of my regulars just went total creep show on me.”

  “Ugh,” she says. “The worst. What did he do?”

  “I just found out that he only has sex with prostitutes because he can’t respect women who have sex with him.”

  “What?” she laughs.

  “That’s exactly what I said!” I exclaim. “I mean, I think he’s seriously screwed up.”

  She shrugs. “Aren’t most of the men who come in here?”

  Are they? Is she right? I lean on the counter and take a deep breath, looking into my eyes in the mirror. Lined with thick black shadow they are very blue in the bright lights.