Skye Blue, page 6
part #6 of Firsts and Forever Series
*****
BoxerBoy and I ended up chatting for hours, mostly about his failed relationship. We didn’t say goodbye until the sun started to come up. After I finally closed my laptop and stuck it under the bed, I put my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling.
I really liked this guy. Okay, sure, I didn’t know much about him, including what he looked like, but I liked him anyway. He was kind and sincere, and he’d really opened up to me, which made me feel close to him. It totally figured that he had zero interest in starting any sort of relationship.
My entire love life was a study in bad timing.
Chapter Three
By the time I woke up the next day, I had less than an hour before I had to be at my new job. After throwing myself in the shower, finding clean clothes to wear, and riding the bus to the Castro, I burst into my new place of employment with about thirty seconds to spare.
The club didn’t open for another hour, so it was empty aside from the cute brunet from yesterday’s auditions, the one who’d been wearing a Berkeley t-shirt and who’d done a pretty amazing routine on the stripper pole. Today he was wearing a pair of thick, black-framed glasses and fidgeting nervously near the main stage, but he smiled when he saw me. “Hey,” he said as I came up to him. “I remember you. Did you get the job?”
“Yup. You too, I assume?” He nodded and I said, “Good, you were awesome. You must have a lot of experience as a club dancer.”
“None at all, actually. I’m pretty sure they’re going to figure that out and fire me about five minutes into the start of our shift.”
“Then how’d you know what to do with that thing?” I gestured toward the tall, silver pole jutting out of the stage.
“I studied gymnastics for more than half my life.” He grinned and added, “Not that there’s a whole lot of pole dancing in gymnastics, but it was easy enough to apply my skills to this. When it comes to just dancing though, I’m not sure I’m going to cut it.”
“You’ll do fine. I’m Skye, by the way.”
“Preston. Nice to meet you.”
The club owner came out of his office and said, “Welcome. You two go and get changed, the dressing room is through those doors.” He pointed off to the right. “Whenever Dare, my featured dancer, shows up he’s going to give you some pointers since you’re both pretty green.”
In the dressing room, we found our names written on pieces of masking tape and struck to two of the long, blue lockers that lined one wall. Inside the lockers were little pairs of white shorts made out of some sort of shiny, stretchy material. Preston’s brown eyes went wide as he held his pair up with two fingers. “This can’t be all we’re wearing, can it?”
“Probably. Go-go dancers aren’t usually in jeans and turtleneck sweaters you know.”
He looked fairly panic stricken. “Yeah, but these are really skimpy. I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Sure you can, it’s just like wearing a bathing suit. Pretend you’re at the beach.” I was undressing as we were talking and sticking the clothes in my locker.
“My swim trunks are baggy and reach my knees.” He was still holding the shorts by two fingers. A faint sheen of perspiration had broken out across his brow.
“Well, whether or not you go through with this is your call, of course. But I for one really need this job, so I’m going for it.”
“I do too, I’m totally broke.”
“In that case, here’s my one piece of advice based on my limited experience doing this: just have fun with it. You’re getting paid to dance and have a good time. It’s a pretty sweet gig.” By now, I’d stripped down to just a jock strap. I’d learned to wear them under my costume during my brief stint at that other club.
“That’s true.”
“It seems scary at first, but you’ll get over that quickly. Just watch, by the end of the night it’ll seem perfectly normal to be up there shaking your ass in front of a bunch of strangers.” He looked at me, and I shot him a bright smile. “You can do this, I swear. I’ll help you in any way I can. The flaming douche nozzle will probably help you, too, assuming he ever gets his tardy ass in here.”
A voice behind me said, “Thanks for reminding me why I hate you so much.”
“And thank you for keeping us waiting,” I shot back.
I turned to look at my new coworker, the aforementioned douche nozzle. Dare was dressed in a t-shirt, sweats, and dark sunglasses, his brows knit above them. He spun the padlock on one of the lockers, then opened it and stuffed in a backpack before quickly shucking his clothes. Underneath the sweats, he was already dressed in a pair of the little white shorts. After he tossed his things in the locker and slammed it shut, he smirked at me and said, “Now you’re the one that’s keeping me waiting. Get your ass in gear, Smurfette.” With that, he left the locker room.
“Do you two know each other?” Preston asked as he quickly stripped out of his t-shirt and jeans.
“No.” I shimmied into the tight shorts, then went over to the full-length mirror on the wall to my left as I said, “I had a brief run-in with him out in the neighborhood right before the auditions. He thought my friend and I were tourists and made a rude comment, which led to some general hurling of insults. That guy’s a real piece of work.” I took a look at myself in the outfit. The shorts weren’t bad, actually. The material was fairly thick, so it didn’t look like a total sausagefest.
“Damn, I didn’t think things through,” Preston said. He’d stripped down to just his underwear, and was again eyeing the little Lycra costume. “How are my baggy boxers going to fit inside those little shorts? It’s going to look like I’m wearing a diaper.”
“Well, you could always go commando,” I suggested.
He shook his head vigorously. “Oh no. No way. This is all bad enough without also running the risk of my nuts falling out of my pant leg in the middle of the club.”
I thought about his predicament for a moment, then said, “You can tuck the boxers in so they won’t show, and if you sort of smooth out the wrinkles, it won’t look like a diaper.”
Preston pulled on the shorts quickly, then got to work tucking the boxers. It wasn’t going very well. There was definite bunching. “I’ll help you if you want,” I told him, “though in order to do so, I’m totally going to have to get in your personal space.”
He was becoming more panicked with each passing moment. “Please, just do whatever it takes. I really don’t want to get fired on my first day, and I just can’t freeball it.”
“Well, okay. Sorry if this gets a bit...invasive.”
While he worked on the front view before the big mirror, tugging and tucking the boxers as best he could, I concentrated on the rear view. I pulled the boxers from both his waistband and the legs of his shorts, but there were still a couple big wrinkles right across his butt cheeks. “We’re almost there,” I told him. “Um, I kind of need to feel you up for this last part.”
“Do whatever it takes. Seriously, anything!”
“Alright. Brace yourself, I’m going in.” With that, I plunged both my hands into the stretchy waistband of his shorts, palms cupping his butt, and ran them toward his hips to smooth the wrinkles out. It was a really tight fit, but I worked my way toward the center again to go for one more pass.
I was wrists-deep in my coworker’s shorts and he was adjusting his package in the mirror when Dare returned to the dressing room. He came to an abrupt stop in the doorway and stared at the scene before him. “It’s not what it looks like,” I told him. “I’m just helping Preston smooth his ass out.” Dare’s gaze shifted from my hands to my face and he raised an eyebrow at me. I tried to pull out of the tight shorts and said, “I think I’m stuck.”
He sighed and left the dressing room.
I slid my hands around to Preston’s hips, being careful not to get his shorts in a bunch (heh), then carefully eased one hand out of its Lycra confines. Once I did that, it was easy to remove the other. I said, “Sorry about getting so up-close and personal, but it actually does look a lot better now.”
“I really appreciate your help,” he told me as he took his glasses off. He then very nearly fell over the bench in the center of the room.
“Can you see without those?”
“Not really, but I think that’s a plus. If I can’t see the crowd, maybe this will be less terrifying.”
“You might want to keep them on long enough to get out there,” I suggested, and he stuck them back on his face.
Out in the club, Dare was sitting on the main stage with his legs spread wide, reaching toward his left foot in a deep stretch. He raised his head and watched us approach, then said, “About time. Okay Smurfette and Nerd Alert, pay close attention. I’m only going to go over this once. If you fuck up and hurt yourself, it’s on you, not me.”
“You know,” I said as he got to his feet and did one more stretch, bending over at the waist and pressing his palms to the floor, “Smurfette’s actually a blonde. Her body’s the only thing that’s blue, so your attempt at mocking my hair is all kinds of wrong.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Smurfette. Now get up here and let’s get this shit over with.” When he straightened up, I noticed a pretty heavy duty elastic brace on his right knee. It was the same color as his skin and probably meant to blend in, but it was far from unnoticeable. This guy was too much of an ass to earn any sympathy points, though.
I vaulted easily onto the stage and said, “I’m here, S.E. Now what?” Preston followed me and adjusted his glasses.
“S.E.?” Dare asked.
“Short for Summer’s Eve.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a douche.”
Dare rolled his eyes and muttered a few choice obscenities under his breath as he went over to the pole and wrapped one hand around it. “Lesson begins now. It’s really common for newbies to get carried away when they first get their hands on a pole—”
I snickered at that and he sighed dramatically. Then I said, “Out of curiosity, are there going to be many more wiener innuendos in your speech? If so, I will prepare a full complement of truly juvenile responses.”
He started to march off the stage and I called after him, “Oh come on, don’t leave in a huff. I’ll be good. I promise not to giggle, even if you make repeated references to working the big hard pole until you whip yourself into a frenzied climax.”
Dare dragged a hand over his face, then came to stand right in front of me, annoyance crackling in his green eyes. He was my height, but packed the muscle mass of a professional athlete. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” I asked. “Because it’s not working.”
“No, I’m not trying to intimidate you! I’m trying to get you to focus. But since you clearly have the attention span of a five-year-old hopped up on a sack of Halloween candy, I really feel I should just give up and let you fail epically at this.”
I grinned at him and quipped, “You said sack.”
“Kill me now,” he muttered, and started to leave again.
“That one was totally on purpose,” I called after him. “If you compare me to a five-year-old, I’ll gladly meet your expectations.”
“Please don’t go,” Preston called after him. “I have no freaking idea what I’m doing and I really could use a few pointers.”
Dare pushed his dark brown hair out of his eyes and turned to look at Preston, then me, then Preston again. Finally he said to my coworker, “You I’ll teach. But the Blue Menace has to sit down and shut up, or the lesson’s off.”
I went to retrieve a folding chair in the wings as I called, “I’m sitting. Now teach Preston a few tricks before he runs away in terror.”
As I set up the chair a few feet away and sat down, Dare gave my new friend some pointers. The basic gist of it was: be careful. Okay, it was slightly more involved than that. He explained that a lot of newbies started to become overconfident, attempting tricks way beyond their skill level, and that this could lead to falls, broken bones, concussions, yada yada yada. He then demonstrated a few basic moves with the pole and Preston took a turn, emulating him perfectly.
“The club will be really slow when we open at six,” Dare told him, “so you’ll have plenty of time to practice and build some confidence. Normally, things don’t really get going around here until ten or so. Sandberg wants to ease you in, so you’ll probably be working an earlier shift. That is, unless I see you doing something stupid. In that case, I’m pulling you and explaining to our employer that you’re an insurance liability and need to be fired immediately.”
“Define stupid,” I called from my observation post.
“Were you not listening?” he asked me.
“To the stuff about breaking bones by falling off the pole? Yeah, I got that part. But how do we know if a maneuver’s too risky unless we give it a shot and then realize it’s beyond our capabilities?”
Dare said, “Just use your best judgment. In other words, listen to the tiny, usually overlooked part of your brain that was screaming, no, don’t do it when you picked out that hair color.”
I fake-laughed and slapped my thigh. “Good one, S.E.”
He proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the lesson, showing Preston different moves and combinations. By the time the club opened, the music came on, and a few people started trickling in, my fellow greenhorn had built up a decent little repertoire.
Preston stashed his glasses behind the bar, then went to work on one of the platforms toward the back of the room. I chose a platform across from him, both of us flanking the huge dance floor. His brows were knit in concentration and the concept of having fun totally eluded him, but his athletic moves on the pole were impressive. And apparently he was so focused on what he was doing that he forgot to be nervous about his skimpy outfit.
Meanwhile, I just cut loose and had a good time. When I felt like it, I did a few dips and spins on the pole, but mostly I just danced. Some of the club patrons started filtering onto the dance floor. For an early Tuesday evening there were a decent number of people, so I assumed the club must be packed on the weekends. At about seven p.m., three more dancers climbed up on podiums, all dressed in the same little white shorts. Two of them didn’t even bother to glance at me, but a cute blond returned my wave.
I’d been purposely ignoring Dare all evening, angling myself away from the big stage to my far left. The very thought of him made me prickle with annoyance, and that distracted me from dancing. When a spin around the pole ended with me facing the main stage, I stopped short and blinked in amazement.
Dare was transformed when he danced. The annoying jock fell away, replaced with the most graceful, agile performer I’d ever seen. I was so enthralled with what he was doing that I actually jumped off my platform and joined a group of club-goers that had gathered in front of the stage to watch him.
He spent a lot of time on the pole, and I had to marvel at the upper body strength it took to pull off what he was doing. I realized after a while that he was heavily favoring his right leg, the one with the brace on it, and that just made what he was doing all the more remarkable. To be that incredibly graceful while dealing with some sort of challenge was awe-inspiring.
But when the music stopped, he went right back to being a total asshat. He left the stage and frowned when he noticed me standing there. “Did you get confused about your job description?” he asked. “Let me recap it for you: dance.”
“Can you teach me that?” Then I amended, “Not how to be an asshat, I could never hope to achieve that level of asshat mastery. I mean, could you teach me to dance like that?”
“No.”
He started to walk back to the dressing room and I trailed after him. “Please? I want to know how you did that thing where you held on to the pole with one leg, then flipped upside down and caught yourself with your hands, and then you did that thing....” I waved my hands around to demonstrate.
He stopped walking and turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Is it your life’s ambition to become a pole dancer?”
“Well no, but—”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re a bored college kid who thought it’d be fun to get paid to dance in a club, right? Did Mommy and Daddy say you had to get a job because they’re trying to teach you to be a man, and this seemed the least like working?”
I glared at him and said, “You don’t know me, so don’t pretend that you do.”
“You’re not a bored college kid?”
“I’m a starving art student.”
“Oh, fabulous. Good luck with that.” He pushed the door to the locker room open and I followed him in.
“Wow, dismissive much?”
“What do you want me to say, Smurfette? You’re in art school, good for you. I’ll be sure to say hi when I see you working the Burger King drive through in a couple years.”
That really ticked me off. “Thank you for automatically assuming I’m going to fail.”
As he spun the dial on his padlock he said, “Do you know how many aspiring artists graduate from S.F. State every year? And do you know how many actually end up working in that field? I hate to break it to you, but they don’t all go on to become the next Keith Haring.”
“First of all, I go to Sutherlin College, not S.F. State, and—”
He turned his head to look at me. “So you are a spoiled little rich kid, just like I thought!”
“I’m there on a full scholarship, doucheberry. My parents don’t even have enough money to pay attention!”
“Whatever.”
“Secondly, do you think I don’t know the odds of actually making a living as an artist? I’m not delusional, I know my chances of succeeding in the art world are one in a million. But what do you suggest I do? Give up before I even get started? Abandon all my hopes and dreams? Resign myself to a lifetime of minimum wage jobs and drop out of school?”
