by Andrew Binks
Suzette was waiting for me after the spell was broken. “Just remember, you have to like your songs, because you’ll have to listen to them a thousand times.”
“Thank you for that one.”
“It used to be mine, but I don’t know, it got too personal. I want you to have it.”
When I went back downstairs, Guy, Steve’s Guy, was in the dressing room. The girls loved him. Unlike the buff muscle-head who had done us a big favour with his uptight visit between bench presses the week before, Guy was everyone’s friend. Guy had a face like a lion—big-boned, big-muscled; the only thing fake was his perfect tan. Even though he didn’t have much to say, he had a huge, open, I-won’t-hurt-you smile. He even tried to speak English. He got a kick out of me watching him get naked and getting a load of his goods. That’s what men do at urinals, in showers, change rooms and anywhere we can have a look and compare. It was circumcised, and if only one word described it that would be heavy, with one pronounced blue vein along the shaft. I stared because he clipped something on, around the base of the shaft. I thought it was a decoration or an ornament, but it was a leather band that held everything up and out.
And later when Guy was dancing up on his box, this thing did the job. Don’t stare at Guy, I told myself. Staring was bad for business—I was supposed to be interested in the female clientele (though they like it if you stare at their dates).
I was a better dancer, but he had the moves. Really, you only need to dance so well… dance any better and it’s the law of diminishing returns: people wonder what the hell you’re doing. He didn’t spin around or do anything fancy; he just worked it. And he had that Lou Rawls heavy balls energy. He had personality, too, which you can never have too much of. As a club favourite, he didn’t have to drum up any business. He just kept his regulars happy going from table to table and making some good money. Although the business went to him, my tips were always great on a night he worked.
Steve took advantage of the fact that his boyfriend was busy, and made his move when Guy was up on the stage for his three dances. I was on my way downstairs for our first feathers show of the night, our 9:30, when Steve caught up and nudged me into the wall on the landing. He took my hand and led me down to the bathroom. I figured he was going to ask me to smoke with him or try something more daring, which I would have declined, already deciding I would tell him it didn’t react well with me. But he shut the door, pushed me up against the wall and started kissing me with his cigarette-and-mint-gum flavoured lips and tongue. He pushed his palm into my crotch and yes, I responded. It was the first real reaction I’d had since I started working there; too many things on my mind: when to dance, when to sleep, who to please. Even the calm bartender-granddaddy of the place, Hubert, without a mean bone in his body, had me on edge on busy nights, like he was surveying the horizon for inadequate phalluses. The noise stopped for me for maybe a minute—Steve had a secure grip on me. He stroked through my pants. He spit out his gum, got down on his knees and unzipped me, then himself. He squeezed himself with one hand, me with the other. “Nice.”
There was that feeling of giving over that finally comes with knowing that you are on your way into some guy’s mouth. He pulled on my balls until they hurt, before he pressed me to the back of his throat. Then he got into a slow rhythm that matched my own and I got closer to exploding each time he went deeper. I was on the verge and the top of his head was bobbing up and down, slurping—the noises he made fed the feeling—eyes peering up, me so hard I felt as if I could barely fit in his mouth. I was on my toes, calves cramping, and I held on tight. I was in some kind of eyes-rolled-back-in-my-head-this-is-ecstasy kind of place. I didn’t care if anyone banged down the door; I was beyond the point of no return. And he loved it. He knew how to hold me, when to pull back, let go, and how to make the most of the explosion. Now, here in the stairwell thinking of him hungry for it, still makes me hard. How could I have ever let guilt get in the way of something so good?
“You ’ave to wear this now—” he said, “a cock ring like Guy has.”
“This?” I held out my wrist with the bracelet Kent had given me. Sweat covered my arms, dripped off my nose.
“Yes. Put it on.” I unsnapped it and looped it around everything, the way Guy had. “Now it will stay nice and big, like my boyfriend’s.” The strap had a row of snaps all along it. “Dat’s how you keep busy all night. I can’t believe no one told you” We both looked at it.
“I guess I needed the demo.” I couldn’t believe it took this long to figure it out. Now I was one of the guys. I had to tuck strategically to get it all into the g-string and even then I could barely zip up my pants.
“You jerk off if I’m not here.” He leaned over the sink and rinsed his face. My quest to find true love had been temporarily delayed. Of course Patrice was right there outside the door, drooping flower on his fedora—trés blasé—and it was obvious. I hoped it wouldn’t tarnish our rides home.
After that it was a fast change into tits-and-ass attire and upstairs for some walk-walk-walk-turn and repeat. Steve was back in his booth waving. I looked at the others, then back at Steve and he was pointing for me to look down at my crotch. Was he trying to tell everyone in the whole place what had just happened by pointing to his own? But it was Suzette’s dramatic glance at my crotch—I thought she was marvelling at the bulge—that gave it away. There was a wet spot on my pants; the pipes weren’t empty when I dressed and it had soaked through my spandex pants and was glowing under the black lights like radioactive goo.
Later I danced for some English exchange girls from Laval University—blouses buttoned to the throat, hair perfect, house wine. I wanted to show my new toy off to the room—co-workers included. Off came the vest, down came the pants, I unclipped the g-string, felt myself flop out. Now, I was friendly competition for Guy, thanks to his boyfriend. But when I searched for amazed stares at the wonder between my legs, the exchange students didn’t care; they wanted to have a talk after I was dressed. It may have looked like I was going to be getting a few more dances, since spontaneous conversations usually meant just that, but the conversation turned awkward.
“Was it a wise choice to be in a place like this?” A fresh brunette asked me. She could have made some good money here. Her friend advised me, “Never turn gay,” and another, “How can you work in such a hole and not have a life plan?” then said, “You’re a beautiful man.” I tried to laugh it off: unless they were ready to offer me food and rent money, this was where I’d be staying for the time being. True though, they did almost get to me, as in What am I doing in a dump like this? Having others’ pity can be like a drug. But that night, I didn’t care. With my cock ring I had finally graduated and was giving the competition a run for the money.
Patrice drove me home without a word. I think he and Steve shared something themselves in the can, either sex or coke. When I got home I gave Patrice a peck on the cheek to secure a few more rides at least, and the feeling that my good fortune was wearing thin disappeared when I saw a reluctant and dirty grin flash across his face.
I put Kent’s bracelet beside the bed, and wondered when he would have used it.
The next four hours barely helped, and my new bad habits—too many push-ups, chin-ups, curls, trays of booze held high—and sleeping on a cold floor at night, left my spine lopsided for the first thirty minutes of any day. My body was a battleground between Madame’s masochism and my job. Class wasn’t going to happen that day. I couldn’t let Madame see me so exhausted. I rolled over, fondled the cock ring, remembering the night before, and thought of my new magical powers before falling back to sleep.
At noon, I stepped out onto Sainte-Ursule with a pocket full of tips to get some leather or latex, a vest, pants, anything that could pass as sexy. But in the touristy Old Town, not one place specialized even remotely in sleaze, other than your basic tacky gift shop with edible panties, booby beer mugs and whoopee cushions.
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I went back home to bed and didn’t wake up until six—fortunately my back came around just in time. The sleep had done me some good. I put on the cock ring and called Kent to come over. I answered the door with my new prize. “Steve blew me yesterday and then I…”
“Blew you?”
“Said the man who’s had ten thousand.”
“Two thousand. Don’t take this thing too seriously.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“You’re serious?”
“It’s your fault. You gave me the magic amulet. You, more than anyone, know its hidden powers.” He touched his lips to quiet me. “Look I don’t have time to be guilty. Will you give me a quick massage?”
“As in…”
“My back is in knots, lots of small ones compared to just one big one, that’s all. I almost feel normal.”
“You almost look normal. You’ve been working out?”
“As much as I can.”
“You took the pickle out of your ass.”
“You did.”
You could say I had something new to put in my dance bag.
Several nights, on the way to the Chez Moritz, I sat diagonally from a guy with a weak chin and a perfect rim of hair like a monk’s, but obviously dyed a colour that had turned yellow. We’d done this ride before. He was built; the sleeves of his jacket were tight on him. On one of those rides we played peek-a-boo through the suburbs and into the dark, until the glow from the Chez Moritz came up on the right. When I got up he frowned, but that’s life. I remember so wanting anonymous warmth.
As I walked the last hundred yards of freezing highway and watched the bus disappear, I thought about all of us, connected by a place where there was absolutely nothing but a small paycheque and tips. And then we all leave at 3 a.m. Again I wondered what the hell I was doing. Each week I was getting further and further away from a technique that I had been so privileged to acquire, and to acquire so rapidly. At 9 p.m. I should have been getting ready for bed with a cup of warm milk and a biography of Diaghilev or Nijinsky, maybe stretching my hamstrings while I waited for the news to come on, or stepping onto a real stage with a real audience, where the show ends at eleven. But now I felt like I had the flexibility of a quarterback and gait of a thug, out on a fucking highway to nowhere.
Did anyone, other than Kent, know where the hell I was at that moment? My parents believed, as had I, that I was working with a small independent company that paid me real money. They’d figure out something respectable to tell their friends as they guzzled their rye and Cokes. If a truck or car clipped me right then and turfed me into the ditch, sometime during the following spring people would have wondered how the hell I got there. They might see the club a half a mile away and put the pieces together. But they would never know it was where I found the spotlight, money, costumes, great music, eye candy and easy sex.
But the thrill of easy sex had risks, like losing my ride home with Patrice. I couldn’t get beyond the hand touching, kiss-on-the-cheek stage that he was forcing on me. Like me, he wanted capital-L love and I just wasn’t interested. He could tell, and made me wait longer and longer for my ride—he’d have a nightcap, laugh with the bartender, or get into a deep conversation of palm reading with one of the girls—as a punishment. Lucky him, he had nothing to do all day but sleep.
One night after he’d had many drinks, he read my palm and told me that I had to “embrace my stardom.” He said most people have to leave it behind, forget their ego, learn humility, but he said I had to take hold of my star and soar. He said I had to stop hiding within myself. He told me not to give up. I was too young to throw it all away on the circus. Then he placed his hands over mine.
The next day, freezing rain turned into hard snow whipping down Sainte-Ursule. Kent and I sat by my window at the hookers’ wrought-iron dining ensemble. Recently Kent never seemed at ease—as if he couldn’t sit completely still—until he was in the dark corner of a club and he’d had a beer or two.
“I have tea.” I wondered if his agitation was because sex with me was on his mind. It was on my mind: I finally felt ready to have some fun and easy sex, but I wasn’t good with advances.
“Tea would be great.” We stared out the window. I told Kent about Louise throwing herself at me. He told me I was too concerned about them. But I went on. I told him everything was getting to me: Madame’s moods, the tight-lipped ballerinas, Bertrand’s wackiness, then about the club and Patrice’s cold shoulder, pre-show blow jobs, drinks, drunkenness, the cock rings…
“No one likes advice, but you know…”
“Shoot.”
“You seem disconnected. It’s kind of weird, I mean, you, your language, you said penis when I first met you and now it’s all cock and ass. What the fuck? Everything about you is changing.”
“I’ve only said cock once.”
“That’s one hundred percent more than you did before.”
“And that’s not good? Didn’t you say I should grow up? I mean I have to say ass. Behind sounds like a jelly dessert or something.”
“I did not say you should grow up. Your innocence is endearing. Was.”
“Well, I’m sure you thought it. I mean, my God, penis sounds like it should be wearing a doily, a periwig and a ruffled collar, a tutu or something.”
“It’s not even in your nature to grow up.”
“You want to keep me naive?”
“Forget it. You could at least use the word, tool.”
“Tool’s loaded. I’m a tool. I feel like I’ve been a tool for years, in someone else’s ballet. I’ve been useful to others. That’s tool to me.”
“Fine, you’ve made your point, had your rant.”
There was nothing but silence and the wind whistling forlornly at the window.
“I’m bringing my bosses, Brigitte and her husband Alex tonight. They’re driving me. They’ve been before. Don’t worry. They know what it’s like. You’ll be a celebrity yet.”
“Don’t forget your opera glasses.”
“I won’t need them if you wear that cock ring.”
That night, because of the weather, the place was almost empty. We did our show and Kent’s bosses, Brigitte and Alex, loved meeting a real live étoile de spectacle star as much as Kent liked introducing me. He smiled like a proud parent.
I danced a string of songs for them. Alex had no reservations about staring at me, while Brigitte seemed preoccupied with women dancing at neighbouring tables. We chatted while I squatted and rubbed my thighs. Kent related my company gossip to them, told them about the hopeful Louise, the narcissistic Madame. I’m not sure what he said when I wasn’t there, but I had the feeling he was bragging.
They left after midnight and Kent took up a seat in the dark against the wall. He didn’t mind staying until the end of my shift, and I was glad to have him there. He smoked, drank a lot, was quiet and watched me. I danced for him a few times and each time he gave me a different compliment; he mentioned my innocent allure, my Ivy League persona, my strengths, good proportions, my weaknesses, a tendency to retreat into myself… He called me Doc Sauvage. Flash Gordon.
“What about the you-know-what?”
“Cock looks formidable,” he told me.
“Penis, please.”
He touched me in the dark, whispered, “Shit, I’m getting turned on.” Girls were fired for less.
“I confess, I gave it a pre-show workout.” But he knew I was lying; Steve had been the one to do that. I continued, “I just make sure it’s not illegally hard. But you know, ballet leaves way more to the imagination, though it is hard to ignore the Bluebird in Sleeping Beauty, flying through the air, all gold leaf and blue feathers, checking to see if it’s a pickle or a sausage in his codpiece.”
“Ballet it ain’t,” he said. But his mood had changed.
That night Kent paid for our cab
ride home. I didn’t have to think about Patrice’s silence and the debt I owed him. Kent was silent. The roads were being cleared of snow—orange and yellow flashed through the cab, across the snowbanks, out into the darkness, and the streetlights reflected off the clouds above, making it an eerily yellow early morning—as we sat staring in opposite directions.
Finally he broke the silence. “It’s not exactly the New York City Ballet. You can’t do it forever,” he said.
“You’re not impressed?”
“It’s stripping.”
“And for once it’s good enough, even if it is a little side-show shit attraction.” I went on; his attitude had provoked me. “Fuck, it is like some idea of perfection has hounded me all my life. I couldn’t please my father so what do I do? Go headfirst into an art form that is all about perfection, all of the time. It was my escape. I’m not perfect—not for the Company or Daniel. Now I’m stuck trying to please you, a stranger, mere months ago. What is going on?” I was drunk, tired and my guard was down. Those were the facts. “I can run, but I can’t fucking hide.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Kent said.
“Well it seems I’ve never pleased anyone.”
“You poor thing.”
“I’ll disappoint you, too.” At this point I had slowed down.
“You won’t.”
“Other than a swollen dick and a fake blond swoosh, there’s not much to me. I have all the attention I want. No one to say I’m so much better than this, other than those self-righteous bitches, or that I’m above it. Truth is that I am no better than this.”