Like a Virgin, page 13
‘Ah, if it isn’t Rihanna in the flesh,’ my guy says. His accent is Dutch, and I’m pleased. I’ve had it with Americans already.
‘Come, we go to the library, Willem. Is not so loud there, and I want to show you something special,’ Christina says to her guy, and he follows her out the booth like a puppy. She furrows her brow and hisses something at me as she passes, but I don’t catch what she’s saying between the music and her accent.
‘Pliss, sit,’ the man offers. And suddenly I feel really nervous. ‘So what’s an international superstar like you doing in a dive like this?’ he asks with a teasing smile.
‘Oh, you know, slumming it,’ I say. I hover, not wanting to sit down in this jumpsuit, not trusting the Velcro to hold.
‘Can I buy you a drink, slumming-it-Rihanna? You must be thirsty after putting on such an … energetic show,’ he says, as he reaches for the intercom buzzer on the wall. A waitress appears in seconds. Without asking what I want, he orders a bottle of champagne, and hands her a hundred-euro note.
‘You seem nervous,’ he says when the waitress leaves.
‘To be honest, I’ve never really done this before,’ I say, my mouth dry. What was I thinking, coming up here?
‘Oh, that old chestnut,’ he laughs.
‘No, really,’ I say, ‘this is only my fourth night doing this.’
‘It is, is it?’ he says. His eyes crease as he smiles. ‘You wouldn’t say it to see you up there.’
‘You should have been here three nights ago,’ I say.
‘So you’re all sweet and innocent?’
‘Yes. No. Probably,’ I say, confused. I need to take back control of this situation. I came up here to make some money, not to tell this guy my deepest darkest feelings. It’s time to toughen up and channel Natalie: what would she do? I clear my throat. I know Nat, she would get him to give her some money.
‘Sweet yes, innocent no,’ I say, popping out my other hip now, and wondering at what point someone I don’t recognise inhabited my body. ‘Would you like me to dance for you?’ I blurt out, and then wonder if there’s etiquette for this kind of situation. A language I should use, or code words. Like extra anchovies, which I saw in a movie once as code for something dodgy. Or does one come out with it blatantly, like I just did? I missed the day at school when they gave lap-dance-etiquette classes.
‘Slow down, slow down,’ the man says, patting the chair beside him. He obviously wants some foreplay. ‘Join me, we have a drink.’
The waitress reappears with a bottle of champagne and one glass, and another short glass filled with something treacly – whisky or cognac, maybe. I sit down very carefully, holding my breath. The Velcro heaves, but sticks together for now, thank goodness. The waitress hands him his drink and pours me a glass of champagne, then leaves the bottle in the bucket beside us. He declines his change, and she slips out, not making eye contact with me once. I’m obviously not the one that matters in this equation.
‘Cheers,’ he says. I take a big sip from the icy glass of bubbles, grateful for both the prop and the crutch. I hiccup as the bubbles sting my nose, then giggle in embarrassment.
A new song starts, the lights go low, and as the beat of a classic track pulses through the speakers, Angelo welcomes Marilyn onto the stage. This should be interesting, I haven’t watched her perform before and she’s such a perfect replica, I’m curious to see what she does. For a moment we both watch as Marilyn steps out in the famous white halter-neck dress, strappy white shoes and perfect blonde Marilyn hair. The crowd loves her.
‘I like this song. How about that dance now?’ he says.
I suppress a burp, then put my glass down and stand carefully, and as Marilyn catches her cue perfectly and begins the opening lyrics to ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’, I move in front of him, masking his view of the stage. He puts both hands on my waist and shifts me to the left, so he can watch the stage and me at the same time. I rebalance myself and start to sway my hips, nerves billowing.
‘Wait. Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a wad of notes, and peels off a hundred for me.
Shoot, the money, I forgot. Again! I’m a terrible stripper. Lap dances up here are forty if I recall correctly, so I owe him sixty. ‘I don’t have any change,’ I say, patting at my pockets.
He laughs. ‘And you say you’re new at this. Keep it.’
He must think I’m trying to scam him. ‘Really, I don’t,’ I say, ‘you can check my pockets.’
‘Maybe later,’ he says. ‘Now dance.’
He’s bossy, but I kind of like it. I take the note from him before he changes his mind, hoping he can’t see my fingers trembling. Then I start swaying my hips again. He leans back with his drink, his eyes moving between me and Marilyn on the stage behind me.
I can feel the bass of the track vibrating up through the floor, and moving through my body. I trail my hand through my hair, letting it fall over my face, my fingers running over my mouth. I leave my body here in the present, but let the music transport my mind somewhere else. I stop off at home via the Bahamas, consider visiting Lucas, but then block him out and return to this new person I’ve become, a spliced form of myself and Natalie; a third sister I don’t recognise.
I get to work on the buttons down the front of the jumpsuit and they disintegrate under my fingertips. I step closer to the man and let the front of my jumpsuit fall to my waist, then I reach behind my back and unsnap my purple lacy bra, relieved that it comes undone smoothly. I pull it off in an exaggerated way and then drop it on the arm of the chair beside him. I hold one arm over my breasts. Outside the fishbowl of the moment I’m caught up in, I feel the atmosphere change and realise the song has come to an end. But I keep going. As the next song starts, I drop my hands to show my breasts, which sway against my ribcage. His eyes zone in on them, following their movement. I feel like a snake charmer. I turn around slowly – it takes as much guts to show my butt in a G-string as it does to take my top off. I shake and shimmy for what feels like ages, and then pull off the rest of my jumpsuit in one smooth maneuvre. I shut my eyes, waiting for him to exclaim in horror at the size of my butt, but he doesn’t, and it’s such a relief that I reward him with a twerk. I waver between a head swish and a shimmy, then turn back to face him.
My jaw drops. His fly is open and he has his penis out. It’s erect, but something looks different. I realise it’s because he has no pubic hair. Does he shave his scrotum? He looks between his penis and me with lascivious anticipation. I cover my mouth with my hand and step back with a yelp. There aren’t enough little pink pills in the galaxy … I’ve only ever touched one penis before.
He must take my wide-eyed shock as a compliment, because he smiles. ‘All yours,’ he says, nodding at it proudly.
This wasn’t the kind of tip I was hoping for. I cover my breasts with my arm. ‘I’m not touching that!’ I exclaim.
‘Why? She does all the time,’ he says, indicating Marilyn on the stage. I glance over my shoulder, she’s in the final stages of her last song. Naked from the waist up, she stands at the front of the stage, places her hands on her thighs, and assumes the classic Marilyn pose as a fan below blows her skirt up around her ears. She lip-syncs the final lyrics, then effortlessly pulls the skirt from her hips and drops it to the stage, striking a pose in satin knickers. Wild applause rains down on her. She glances my way and catches my eye for a split second, and the look on her face shifts from coquettish and sexy to a flash of sheer blistering rage. My stomach knots as I remember Christina mouthing something at me. Was she warning me about this? What have I done wrong?
Angelo introduces Lady Gaga and a new song starts.
‘That’s my cue,’ I say. ‘I have to go dance now.’
The man grabs my wrist: ‘What about this?’ he says, indicating his shiny pink penis, which is slowly starting to dip to one side, as if hypoglycaemic.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble, twisting my arm out of his grip and bending to snatch up my bra and jumpsuit. I blindly flail around in the curtains, struggling to find the gap. I finally barrel out of the box in only my G-string, clutching my clothes in front of me. Customers in the mezzanine area stare at me and I only just avoid cannoning into a waitress carrying a tray of shooters. I stumble backwards, then crab-walk around the perimeter of the mezzanine, not wanting to show my ginormous G-stringed bottom to the world. I stop at a high-backed chair to pull on my jumpsuit.
On the upside, I’ve made club fee, so anything else I make tonight can go towards paying off some of what I owe Paris and Dania. But on the downside, I have a funny feeling that I’ve done something to really upset Marilyn, and if she didn’t hate me before, she definitely does now.
€58.30
A hundred and twenty-seven euros made tonight. Mostly thanks to the little pink pill. I smooth the bills out on my lap and do the conversion: that’s about fifteen hundred rand back home. It’s a lot of money for one night’s work, especially if you compare it to a junior teacher’s salary. But then the average teacher doesn’t have to strip naked in front of hundreds of people and navigate her way around a random stranger’s penis and shaved genital area.
I hadn’t worked up the courage to go back up to the mezzanine level after Penisgate, and spent the rest of the night hiding from Marilyn. But there had been a few tips after my three stage shows, which means it’s the first night I’ve made a profit. Not enough to pay Paris or Dania back what I owe them, but it still feels exhilarating. Like in a trail of spectacular defeat, I’ve finally done something right. I can even sort of see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sort of.
But I can’t stop thinking about that pink penis. Is it cheating if you’re engaged to one man and look at another man’s penis? It must be, even if you didn’t want to see it in the first place. Lucas would have the freak-out to end all freak-outs, and I can hardly blame him. I wonder if that penis business is the norm? If I try make money giving lap dances, will I be faced with another thingy every time? I can’t deal with that.
I sit on the middle bench in the dressing-room, along with all the other women as we wait for Dania to come and collect the club fee. Madonna joins me on the bench in a bra and panties, and counts out an impressive pile of cash.
‘Madonna, can I ask you something?’ I say.
‘Si?’ she says.
‘I was doing a lap dance tonight …’ My voice peters out.
‘Si?’ she says again, looking up from her counting.
‘And, well … I … he …’ I stutter. ‘He wanted …’ I can’t say it.
‘Sex?’ she asks.
‘No!’ I exclaim, a little too loudly. ‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe. He … he took it out.’
‘Eet?’ she says. Ohhh “EEET”.’ Then she bursts out laughing. ‘Say hello to my leeetle friend,’ she jokes, holding out her pinkie finger and wiggling the tip of it up and down.
I rub my eyes with my palms. ‘It wasn’t that small. I think he wanted me to … to touch it.’
‘He must pay more for that,’ Madonna says, her tone businesslike as she licks a finger and returns to counting her money.
I nod. ‘But do they always do that?’
‘Sometimes. But jhoo don’t have to say jes. Not yet. But soon I think Junior will make eet a thing we have to do in the club, then … so maybe not so bad to get use to eet now.’
‘So you do it?’ I ask.
She looks at the not insubstantial stack of money in her lap, then raises a questioning eyebrow at me as if to say, What do you think?
‘But do you ever just do a plain lap dance, no touching, no um … leetle friend … just dancing?’ I ask.
‘Si, on a bad night,’ she says. ‘Is not so good.’
A little flurry of hope springs in my chest. Maybe I will get away without having to do any touching. I won’t earn as much, but that’s okay, I’ll just have to dance more, work harder. Paris joins us, licking a bright red lollipop, her hair now in two low ponytails on either side of her head.
‘What about you, Paris?’ I ask. ‘Do you always … you know … give extra services with lap dances?’
Paris looks at me, then at Madonna. ‘Scote ban din piatrǎ,’ she says.
I roll my eyes. More Romanian wisdom.
‘All is fish that comes to the net,’ she translates.
I sigh. This isn’t looking good. I can’t wait to get back to the house, climb into bed and pull the duvet over my head to make the world disappear. My body clock isn’t used to working the night shift, and the gruelling physical element is also taking its toll. My feet are bruised, blistered and aching, and I feel bone weary.
I hear Marilyn’s clacking stilettos before I see her, but it’s too late to hide. As she walks past my dressing-table, she swipes her arm across the surface, knocking my things onto the floor. I get it, she’s angry. This is the outburst I’ve been dreading since I left the mezzanine level.
‘What is her problem?’ Madonna asks.
‘I think she’s really angry with me,’ I say softly. ‘And I’m not sure why.’
‘You steal her reg,’ Amy Winehouse says from her dressing-table.
‘Reg?’ I say.
‘Regular,’ Amy says.
‘What does that even mean?’ I ask.
‘Reg? Regular. Some we have regulars. Clients who come back to the club to seeing us,’ Amy explains.
‘Once I have a reg at a club in Brazil and he give me jewellery, he even took me away on a business trip one weekend to the beach. He thought he was my boyfriend. I broke him off when he said he would leave his wife if I leave club to be with him. Too creepy,’ Madonna says with a shiver.
‘Regs guarantee the money,’ Amy adds. ‘Best tips.’
‘But I didn’t know that he was her reg. How was I supposed to know? It’s not like I went after him on purpose!’ I say. ‘He was looking at me and everything. I swear. He winked at me!’
‘Jhoo should tell her that,’ Madonna says.
I hobble over to Marilyn, who’s sitting stiffly at her dressing-table, removing her make-up with a cotton swab.
‘Hi,’ I say quietly. This woman terrifies me. I clear my throat before I speak again. ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry for earlier. I didn’t know he was your um … reg. Things work differently where I come from. I had no idea.’
Marilyn ignores me and looks over at Amy Winehouse and Madonna. ‘Please would someone tell Rihanna I’m not talking to her,’ she says in her little-girl voice.
‘Marilyn says she’s not talking to you,’ Amy says to me.
‘I can hear her,’ I say to Amy, and then I appeal to Marilyn again. ‘I really didn’t do it on purpose, I swear. I’m genuinely sorry. I won’t do it again.’
‘Someone tell Rihanna that I’m not interested in her bullshit!’ Marilyn hisses, still not looking at me.
‘Marilyn says she’s not interested in your bullsheet,’ Amy tells me.
‘Thanks, but I’m standing right here, Amy. I can hear her,’ I say. ‘What do you want? What can I do to make it up to you?’ I say to Marilyn.
She continues actively ignoring me.
‘Seriously!’ I say, and then I snap. ‘Look, Marilyn, I’m exhausted and overwhelmed and I don’t know what I ever did to you to make you hate me so much. I’ve said I’m sorry and I am. I don’t know what else you want from me. Crikey! A kidney? My firstborn child?’ Marilyn looks at me through her mirror impassively.
‘What?’ I say again. ‘Do you want the money I made from him? Is that it? Will that make you forgive me?’
‘Tell Rihanna it would be a good start,’ Marilyn says to Amy.
Amy Winehouse opens her mouth, but I silence her with a glare as I stalk back to my dressing-table, reach for my cash, pull out the hundred-euro note, and hand it to Marilyn. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Quits?’
She takes the money, then returns to her mirror and continues removing her make-up as Dania comes in with her moneybox and invoice book. So much for my first profit.
- €208.30
Rihanna is the last name Dania calls tonight, of course, and by the time I get back to the house, I’m so exhausted and homesick I want to cry. I’m surprised to find the door to our bedroom unlocked. I open it tentatively. I know I locked it before I left for the club. A robbery is the last thing I need, although what would they take? A Velcro-lined purple jumpsuit stretched at the seams? A bunch of sweaty Rihanna rip-off outfits? The room is dark, but the light from the corridor illuminates it enough for me to see that instead of the unmade, unoccupied bed I’m so used to, there’s a body underneath the single duvet. It’s the first time Marilyn has come home from the club after our shift. I tiptoe in, shuck off my sneakers and slump down on my bed to rub my feet. The cupboard door is wide open and the clothes have been shifted to one side, leaving a small gap and three empty hangers. Marilyn is facing the wall, but I’m pretty sure she’s awake because I can’t hear the telltale even breathing of sleep.
I quickly hang up the Oscar dress, my blouse and the jumpsuit, then crawl into bed, every muscle aching. As I pull the covers up to my chin I whisper, ‘night, Marilyn.’ There’s no response, but that doesn’t matter. First this was a good night, then the worst night and now a good night again. That might have been the best hundred euros I’ve ever spent.
*
> soooooo howd it go last nite?
> Nat, you would have been so proud of me, I finally made money sort of.
> Sort of??? Huh?
> Long story. But point is, I made money.
> That’s gr8 – c I said its easy
> Well I don’t know about easy. How much do you usually make in a night, Nat?
> a couple grand on a gud nite. How much u make?
> Couple grand!!! Wow. I only made 127 euros – but that’s a lot for me.
> How many lap dances is that?
> Well just one, but he gave me a huge tip.
> One lap dance? The whole night? What were you doing?
> Nat, do you ever have to give a hand-job?
