It was exactly what I was doing. The ridiculous thing was, I was blowing it all out of proportion. I knew Luis probably just wanted to fuck me, and there was nothing wrong with that. I wanted to fuck him too. But even without the extra Landon baggage, I had no idea if I casual sex was something I was capable of anymore. I couldn’t even find a guy attractive without sniping at him viciously. Who knew how I’d act if we touched dicks?
“Ugh, I need a drink,” I moaned. “Did Ashton get a bottle yet?”
Stephanie patted my shoulder again and stood to find out about the bottle situation. While she was gone, I cast a look around and realized I was the only freak hunched in my chair wearing a jacket with my hood up. The place had somehow become packed in the ten minutes since we’d settled in. There were to large clusters of women wearing bride and bridesmaids gear, and another table with a group of dudes in similar outfits.
Other than them, the clientele seemed to consist mostly of guys—seventy-five percent of them were older guys. And about fifty percent of the older guys reminded me of Duffy Costigan from Hot Bagels. The good ole Staten Island boys with the old school deze-and-doze accent. It really was another world from the clubs I’d been to in the gayborhoods of Brooklyn and Manhattan.
As I studied the people around us, the first dancer pulled one of the brides-to-be on the stage and sat her in a chair in the center. She honestly looked terrified, and I wondered whether she’d paid for this extra or whether her bridesmaids had put her up to it. Either way, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe as he did a whole Ginuwine pony thing behind her before stripping his pants off and gyrating in her face.
“That would not be me,” Mere said loudly from the other side of the stage. “Seriously.”
Tonya pinched her side. “Yeah, ‘cause we’re never getting married.”
Mere surprisingly made an affronted face, which led to Tonya winking and pulling her in for a kiss. It was cute. Sickeningly cute. And I wondered whether all of my friends would be married by the end of the year. They’d be settled down with their jobs and significant others while I continued hustling my way across the city angsting every time I found a guy attractive. Ugh. What a mess.
The bride-to-be finally left the stage, looking a little shell shocked even as she laughed, and the man with the kilt left after collecting the money that littering the stage. He’d made a killing, and I could see why this would be a lucrative part-time or even full-time job for someone with a good following.
There was a brief lull in activity and during that time, several of the younger people came up to take pictures with Ashton. He loudly told them to tag the club on their social media pages and to mention his friend Lou, a dancer at the club. I smiled behind my drink. He was not subtle about his aims. I had a moment of wondering whether “Lou” was really Luis’ stripper name, but that was solved when a voice boomed out of the speakers to announce he was next.
Nerves soared through me. I downed my drink and frantically asked Mere to pour me another. My voice was hushed, and she looked at me like I’d lost my only remaining wit, but I didn’t care. This whole thing had me on edge. I felt so much fucking safer beneath my scarf and jacket. It was hot as hell in the club, but it was basically armor.
I was on the edge of my seat until Luis stepped out onto the stage with a pair of boxing gloves tied at the back and hanging around his neck, and wearing a pair of low slung sweatpants and a skintight T-shirt that said Cadet’s. The idea of him wearing his old boxing gym’s gear during his strip routine struck me as the height of passive aggression, and I loved every minute of it. There was no way he’d left that club on good terms judging by the way he’d acted when Ashton had inquired. For some reason, that minor act of rebellion soothed me just enough for me to turn and watch his act.
Stephanie refilled my glass as Luis took his place in the center of the stage, arms up to hold onto the gloves and head down. Wolf whistles exploded all over the room, and I wondered whether he would also give a show to one of the brides, or grooms, to be. I instantly didn’t want it to be so, and what a red flag that was.
When the music started, I immediately recognized it as the same reggaetón song that had been blasting the day I’d watched him practice. My nervousness went out the window, and excitement soared through me. The last quarter of his routine had been pure fire. I’d spent days wondering about the rest of the routine and mentally trying to write my own choreography, but nothing had felt right. Now, I could see for myself. And when Luis started moving, I almost forgot that he would be stripping. He wasn’t just shaking his ass and getting naked, it was fucking dancing.
He started low key, one hand thrust out in front of him as he moved his hips the music, causing those oversized sweatpants to already slide down his hips. Someone from the groom-to-be’s table screamed, and I shot a glare over my shoulder. Like, could he shut the fuck up and let me study these moves? For fuck’s sake.
Luis had twisted to the side so his back was to the audience, and he was winding low, hips thrusting and pants dipping low to tease the jockstrap he was wearing beneath. If I said my dick didn’t throb at the sight of the curve of his ass cheeks, I’d be a liar. But the sight of him suddenly launching backwards into a backflip as the beat picked up was more exhilarating than seeing his ass.
He transitioned into a series of steps that I tried to ingrain in my mind. Every twist, lunge, and moment of him grinding against the air before dragging his hands down his chest with a naughty grin. He took a surprisingly long time to derobe, but the gloves came off first. He danced his way over to Ashton, writhing and grinning knowingly as Ashton cat called, then whipped off the gloves to drape around Ashton’s neck. There was literally nothing sexy about it, but Ashton fanned himself as if he was going to die, and promptly took a selfie. The boy knew how to promo.
The stage was covered in dollar bills before Luis took off his shirt, so when he did in the middle of a complicated series of steps that I needed to record to study, everyone went wild. I’d already seen his shirtless, ripped, and tattooed self so at first I continued to focus on his footwork. But once the hip thrusting began without a flap of fabric to cover his crotch, my body was aflame. His dick was clearly outlined in his sweatpants. The combination of the size and his deliciously tantalizing hip movements? I was finished.
I finally let my gaze wander up to his face and further died due to his unabashed naughtiness. The groom-to-be had been hauled to the side of the stage in the hopes of getting the full treatment, but Luis wagged his finger no while smiling his filthiest smile. The smile I wanted aimed at me, and not some desperate getting married fuckboy. I watched with hatred as Luis threaded his fingers behind his head and gave the guy the pleasure of sliding those sweatpants off Luis’ hips. When they caught at his knees, the guy yanked them down further… with his teeth.
“Thirsty bitch,” I muttered.
Stephanie choked on her drink and fell to pieces from laughing. Her loud infectious giggle drew Luis’ attention, and then I was caught. His grin widened even further at the sight of my likely exasperated expression. Once he was free of his sweatpants, and had a couple of hundreds tucked into his jockstrap, Luis danced over to me.
Stephanie did the sign of the cross, probably in case I died of my own lust, but there was no lap dance to be had. Instead of grinding his balls in my face like the other guy had done to the bride-to-be, Luis launched the last part of his dance. The one I’d caught him practicing and had creepily watched through his window.
I was entranced by the sequence of steps, the way he lunged to each side while raunching it up by humping the air, and that teasing smile he wore the entire time. He could have been half the dancer and still put on a helluva show just based on his charm.
Luis ended his dance with a back flip and, just like in his living room, he balanced on his hands while thrusting his hips in that poor almost-married bastard’s face. The guy looked ready to pass out, or touch the merchandise, but Luis slid into a split that left him
facing me again.
He arched an eyebrow. “You like it?” he asked over the music.
I swear to God, everyone’s head whipped over to me in my giant knitted scarf and army jacket. Blushing should not have been a thing I was capable of, but I felt one warming my face. Even so, I raised my chin and said, “I’d like it better if you taught me.”
Luis’ eyes widened, and the smile that crossed his face far outshone any that he’d thrown at his audience.
North Shore ch 9
Chapter Nine
Luis
“You were great tonight!”
The exclamation from a man who was usually as expressive as a Key Food coupon caught me off guard. I looked over my shoulder in the dressing room, half-in and half-out of my costume, as I hurriedly shoved everything in my duffel bag.
Riley was standing right behind me, a big smile on his face. He looked like he’d just seen Jesus in the whipped cream of his latte.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a grin. “For the compliment and for calling me in tonight. I’ve never been here for the party bookings.”
“I knew you could handle it.”
It was some bullshit, but I grinned wider. He had his favorites who he scheduled for party days, most of whom were straight dudes who’d been working at the club for years. Basically, before the owner had decided to switch tactics and begin marketing to the queer population as well as the straight women wanting a show.
My main issue with that was that a lot of those dudes couldn’t dance worth a damn, and usually just did the shove-my-crotch-in-faces routine instead of putting on a real show. Apparently, straight men had it in their heads that a person about to get married really needed some sweaty balls all up in their nose right before the big day. Meanwhile, me and the few other queer dudes who made the effort to entertain were often scheduled on days without a real peak. Why? Because we were new. And not straight.
In Riley’s mind, it was okay to take money from gay dudes but he didn’t want other gay or bi dudes benefitting from that paper. I’d be pissed about it if it wasn’t so typical. But I wasn’t trying to work at Male Revue for long, so I wasn’t about to march in and try to change the order of things. Riley could kiss my big ass.
“Does that mean I’ll get scheduled for another bachelorette party?” I winked, turning the question into a tease just in case I came off too assertive and frightened him back to his faves.
“If you keep bringing celebrities in, you will.”
Yeah, fat chance of that. Hollywood coming through had been a total random accident. If I asked Ashton another favor, it would be to take him up on his offer to be my first client. Or to pimp my gym on his social media if I ever opened it.
“I guess we’ll see,” I said vaguely. “But… I also had an idea about another event since you said you were considering taking one of the dance nights off the schedule due to low numbers?”
Riley’s eyes immediately glazed over. He wanted me naked and doing salsatón, not thinking and having big ideas. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I was thinking you could offer dance lessons with some of us on the night you were planning to close.” I yanked my T-shirt over my head. “You’d be surprised by how many people in these wedding parties comment on how they wish I could teach them or whatever. If anything, people would sign up just to get lessons by hot sweaty dudes.”
Riley nodded slowly, but nothing about his body language or expression gave away a vibe that he was interested in my suggestion. I had no time for ignorant pendejos with no biz savvy, so I threw my duffel bag over my shoulder and glanced at my watch. My shift was over, and I was hoping to catch Charles before he took off with his friends.
“All right, well I’m taking off,” I said, nodding at Riley. “Take it easy, man. I’ll see you on Friday.”
He was just dying to ask me if I had any more famous friends, I could tell, so I speed walked out of the dank locker room. I’d made a ton of fucking money tonight so I didn’t want to burn the bridge with him, but there was only so much irritating conversation I could take. It would be different if I could bullshit a little better, but I had too much of my mother in me to face off with a fake person with a smile.
I jogged up the stairs from the basement, taking them two at a time, but Charles was already gone by the time I got to the main floor. Disappointment hit me hard, and my heart sunk. My own dramatic reaction irritated me a little, because I really needed to dead this infatuation, but I couldn’t help it. Even though I logically knew I was starting to look pathetic for chasing a boy who was more hot-and-cold than the shower in our busted house, I wanted him. Badly. And not just for fucking.
I dragged my feet on my way out of the club, sulking my way down the block. A number of guests waved to me or reached out to me as I left, but I ducked them all and thought about the way Charles had watched me dance. His attention had flicked all over me, yeah, but I could tell he’d been fascinated by the choreography. Did I want him to be attracted to me? Yes. Had I been hoping he’d been overcome by lust after seeing my sexy ass half naked and gyrating? Fuck yes. But was it his obsession with performance and the unconscious way he’d moved his shoulders and head to the beat what had made my heart pound? Yup.
I loved how exciting dancing was. And Charles got it. It wasn’t the dancer who was necessarily beautiful or thrilling—it was the dance itself. The rhythm, the movement, the way a dancer’s body flowed seamlessly with a song… that was the best part of a performance. Not many people got it. Even my cousins and my friends who’d known about my love of dance, and my stripping, back in the Bronx hadn’t gotten it. So many times I’d sent them a YouTube clip of one of Yoandy Villaurrutia’s dance classes, excited about what I planned to practice, and they’d hit me back with “he’s hot as fuck”.
Not. The. Point.
With bummed out not beginning to describe my state of mind, I waited forever to catch the 74 bus to Richmond Avenue, where I then waited for the 44 to the North Shore of the island. Traveling at night in Staten Island usually wasn’t a problem, but the commute always made me a little tense. Maybe it was because the bus stops were so deserted at the hour I got out of work, or because I was leery of cops stopping me for some bullshit reason, but I usually needed a beer by the time I got home. Now wasn’t any different. Between my disappointment in not getting to talk to Charles—who was probably gonna go back to ignoring me like a punk—and my leeriness, I was on edge by the time I got off the bus and walked up the hill to the house.
Times like these, I replayed my mother’s worried and somewhat dramatic yelling about my decision to move to Staten Island. She’d said it wasn’t like the Bronx, and I would be surrounded by racist conservatives and shady cops who would fuck with me. Of course, I’d pointed out the shady cops who literally roved our neighborhood along with the shady ass homophobes wanting to whoop my ass, and had sold it to her with acknowledgement that the rent was cheap. And it was a fresh start.
Still, she’d worried. And nights like these, when I was on my guard and feeling discouraged, I thought she was right. It wasn’t just the wariness I felt about working down on Arthur Kill in a largely white neighborhood, it was how isolated I felt in general. Besides Duffy Costigan, and the handful of dancers I’d loosely befriended and who came over to practice sometimes, I was isolated here. It was nothing like the concentrated bunch of family I’d grown up with near the Grand Concourse. Not having my people nearby was so fucking odd. People always asked me if I missed boxing, but it was my family and friends that I missed. Too bad, except for my mother and handful of cousins, they weren’t missing me in return.
“Why so serious?”
I jumped, putting a hand on my heart, and looked up from the sidewalk to find Charles sprawled on the front steps. All my morose brooding melting away as I took him in. There was something about how Charles carried himself that was gorgeous. His face was striking, and I would never stop wanting to play with that hair, but seeing is long elegant body gracefully sprawled or a
rranged was what stirred me.
The first word that came to mind was dancer. The other? Flexible.
Clearing my throat, I walked to the edge of the stairs. “What are you doing down here, papa?”
Charles shifted from his lazy sprawl to hunch forward, hands shoved into his pockets. “It’s a nice night.”
I snorted. “Yeah right.”
He glared at me. “Fine. I was waiting for you.”
“What for?”
Charles gave me another of those distrustful glares. The guy was always ready for a fight. Even when we were being low key nice to each other (or obviously horny), there was something grudging about how he graced me with his attention. It was that, more than anything else, that had been one of my indicators to consider backing off if we couldn’t find a way to functionally get along. My plan for post-show conversation had been to test the waters for the last tme.”
“I wanted to know who did your choreography,” he admitted. “It was amazing.”
The grin I aimed his way was probably bright enough to light up our block despite the flickering street lights. People used to say my grin was “infectious”, and Charles proved that little tidbit by smiling in return. It was still reserved, just a tiny flicker at the sides of his mouth, but it was there. I was claiming that tiny bit of happiness or amusement, damn it. That smile was for me.
“I did it,” I said. “It took a lot of practice and watching YouTube videos, but it paid off, no?”
“It paid off a fuck ton. You have more talent in your left foot than in the entire entertainment crew on the cruise I was working on.” Charles’ voice was blunt and flat, but it was still a goddamn compliment. And the way his eyes ran over me as he spoke made it even better one. “Which videos did you watch?”
“A lot of them,” I admitted. “It’s mostly borrowed moves put together into a new thing.”
North Shore Page 9