I guess I’ll be taking you out, kid,” I offer Sweet Sixteen—a consolation prize. He shuffles up dust at the bus stop, grumbles under his breath.
“‘If someone’s going to buy me a drink, I like them to know my name,’” he mocks.
“Don’t blame me if you lack the good sense to introduce yourself.” I stop him in his angry tracks, thrust my right hand at him. His handshake is slack, lazy-like. He tells me his name is Wendel. The name suits his Nordic looks—white-blond, icy eyes. “Wendel, tell me, which local joints don’t check ID these days? Is Hot Diggity’s still open?”
“Uh, that place closed like two years ago.”
I shrug, and Wendel and I stare silently into the direction the bus should be coming. I don’t bother suggesting another pub—it’s like playing bankruptcy roulette around here.
“Let’s go to Pure Platinum,” says Wendel.
“The strip club!” I balk. He’s still trying to win some immature battle between us. I recover with, “I doubt they’re open this early.”
“Two-for-one Caesar brunch, you in?”
I’ve got no other place to be, and it’s not as if I have a problem with strippers. Two of my U of T classmates were strippers, or at least that’s what they said they did to pay tuition. Is being seen at Pure Platinum a risk for a girl like me? Small-town gossip. A sore sliver of my youth digs in. This memory sounds like the syncopated clang clang clang of combination locks against lockers. This memory shows me the word “pervert” written across my own locker, not penned in black marker, but scratched permanently into the metal. In my freshman year, I made a habit of arriving either well before the first bell rang or late for class, hoping not to be seen at my locker. Although it hardly mattered how well I perfected invisibility, day after day I had no choice but to return to “pervert.” Sure, I wore my jeans ripped in the butt, like every other teenager. Yes, I had made it to third base. At thirteen that was only slightly earlier than other girls, and at the time, I was dropping my pants for boys. Pussy came later. Nonetheless, my peers had already determined that I was that fledgling deviant, a queer, queer girl. I was the one who firmly faced the changing room wall for fear of being accused of gawking at other girls. The one who received prank telephone calls at dinnertime. Whose childhood friends would, one by one, turn on her as pubescent anxieties ballooned up in our collective teenage minds. I can’t pinpoint a specific occasion that started it all—no crushes on English teachers or sleep-over party indiscretions. I only know small-town women aren’t supposed to look at other women in that way, weren’t allowed to touch their female friends in that way. No matter how many handjobs I performed on quasi-popular jocks, I never jerked away my reputation as the village queer. Maybe getting it on with boys never redeemed my credit because even in high school I liked my sex no-strings. I lied to and cheated on my only real boyfriend. Self-sabotage. This drove Barbara nuts. I can still picture her waving the phone receiver at me, “No, I won’t tell him you’re not home. Don’t be rude. This is the third time he’s called.”
To piss off numerous boys, it turns out, creates collective teenage concern. I was marked to serve as a “what not to be” message. I believe this normalizes the rest of the group.
Now, at twenty-three years old, I ought to be safe from pack mentality. “Why not?” I say. “You’re an under-aged kid playing hooky and I’m the adult daughter of the town librarian. Why shouldn’t we watch naked ladies and get drunk on a Tuesday morning?”
As we ride the bus, I hope Wendel will chicken out. When we stand in Pure Platinum’s parking lot, I am ready for him to excuse himself and go back to school—there is still plenty of time for him to catch his afternoon classes. Instead, he heaves the black-painted door open for me. Entering is like walking into a fun house, a dark place that my eyes could never adjust to, and so many reflective surfaces that there is no denying I’m here. Automatically, I fix my hair. My teeth glow ghoulish white under the black fluorescent bulbs. Wendel places his hand on my back to lead me inside. He might be showing off, except that there is hardly anyone to show off for. Three men in brown UPS uniforms sit in the front row. The blonde perched at the edge of the stage collects their US dollar bills between her breasts. One holds a bill between his teeth, and the blonde presses her tits into his face for a second before snatching the bill in her cleavage. The other two men eagerly copycat—filling their own mouths with money to be taken. There’s a messy pile of cash onstage beside the blonde’s discarded bikini. My heartbeat quickens, faster than the tempo of Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” that plays loud enough to ensure that real conversation cannot be made between any of the patrons.
Wendel pulls me over to a table in the shadows but still close enough to the stage to see the tiny red rose tattooed on the blonde’s left ankle.
“She kissed me once. I swear to god,” he punches my arm, nodding toward the stage. “I smoked a joint with her and she made out with me. True story. Her mouth tasted like baby powder.”
Wendel waves for the waitress, and an hourglass silhouette takes shape in the burlesque light. She sways over. Her unreasonably green eyes don’t settle on us. Her gaze drifts slightly above our heads. Her eyes remind me of the painted ones on my Laugh in the Dark stunt. Cartoon eyes—probably contact lenses.
“Welcome to Pure Platinum. We have two-for-one Caesars, Irish coffee, and lap dances before noon,” she recites. “What can I get you?”
Wendel rapidly changes his mind back and forth before ordering us a round of Irish coffee. “With whipped cream,” he adds, as the waitress makes her way back to the bar. “She’s the best pole dancer you’ll ever see. We nicknamed her The Flying Fish.”
I roll my eyes.
“Ah, come on, it’s a joke. She don’t care. She’s been working here forever,” the boy huffs. “She hardly ever gets on stage anymore, so who cares.”
“Forever?” I snap. “You start coming here when you were still in your diapers?”
“My dad’s one of the owners,” admits Wendel. For a moment I’m tempted to ask if he can get me a job here, my breasts would also like to collect piles of American money. I’ll dance, get that stripper money, then write a memoir and get more money. Unfortunately, my breasts aren’t anything like the set on the blonde. Barbara’s big-boob gene was not passed on to me, and besides, I already have a job at The Point starting in less than a week, I remind myself. A job that the kid nags me about as we drink our boozy coffees topped with globs of glowing whipped cream. I barely listen to him whine about how I stole that graveyard shift as I sip the sugary, lukewarm drink. By the next round, he’s complaining about his old man, who apparently is the type of asshole who believes a boy should buy his first car with his own hard-earned money. By the third round, Wendel’s grievances have grown sloppy and sentimental and the tale of his ex-girlfriend, Sarah, starts to dribble from his loose lips. What am I, his new school counsellor? I nod along with him in feigned agreement. Yes, they are still totally in love. Yes, she will come crawling back. Yes, I one-hundred-percent agree, Sarah’s new boyfriend can bite it. It occurs to me that perhaps this kid has known something closer to love than I have—how he moons and carries on.
When the aroma of burgers and fries wafts from the kitchen, my stomach rumbles. I wish we were drinking Caesars so I at least had a stick of celery to munch on. The room spins when I stand. Where did all these men come from? Suddenly they are lining the bar and sitting alone with sandwich platters and whole pitchers of beer at their solitary tables. Men wave their dollars at the stage. All of them clearly see I am the only woman in the audience. Crooked grins—so many black-lit teeth I have to squint as I stumble to the women’s washroom.
I fling my bag onto the counter and rifle through it for change. I have thirty dollars in my wallet, but I’m saving it. It is my last thirty dollars until whenever I get a first paycheque. Maybe I can scrape together enough loonies and quarters to order some chicken wings.
“Wanna make some quick cash?” I look up to see the waitress’s reflection in the mirror. She stands so close behind me I don’t dare turn around. Her green eyes have turned turquoise in the florescent bathroom lighting—definitely coloured contacts. Her bubblegum, talon-long nails have to be press-ons. Her bottle-black hair is starting to grow out light brown at the roots like a trashy halo. “I got a couple of regulars who want a duo act. They pay $100 for three songs, that’s fifteen minutes. Problem is the only other girl who bothered to show up for the lunch shift is Tiffany, and every time I introduce her to my regulars, she steals them.”
“What … steals them … um …” I clutch my loose change in my hand like a stooge.
“Whatcha gotta do?” The waitress finishes my question. “Seriously, you can sit on your ass the whole time. Topless. Keep your bottoms on if you want. What are you wearing for panties?” She flips my dress up. My white cotton briefs glare at me in the mirror. I flinch away from her, but there’s no space to recoil. My stomach is already pressed against the counter. “Oh, geez. You’re for sure not a dancer.”
“They’re comfortable,” I explain. “It’s hot outside.”
“Wear a pair of mine.”
The waitress takes off a patent leather high heel; a tiny key hangs from the ankle strap. She opens a padlocked bathroom stall. “Voilà,” she shows me. “My personal closet.” Spandex costumes hang across a wire line. A Rubbermaid bin full of shoes and boots sits on the toilet seat. “All the girls smoke in the dressing room upstairs. I keep my stuff down here or else I end up smelling like an ashtray.” She hands me neon green underwear with a yellow lightning bolt down the centre. “Put these on.”
“R-really?” I stammer.
“Really,” she confirms. “And if your bra is as ugly as your panties, take it off and leave it here.”
Wearing the waitress’s lightning panties makes everything speed up. She hurries me across the club toward a row of numbered doors. Two men leap from their table and tail behind us. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Wendel and a middle-aged blond man gesturing apishly at one another at the back of the room. Father and son argument? Doesn’t matter to me as long as the kid doesn’t see where I’m headed.
In the cubicle-sized room, the waitress sits me down on a red velvet chaise. The two men sit side by side on bench seating, their backs rigid against the wall. The pair’s faces barely take shape. I—like them—am too focused on the waitress. “Fellas, this is Jessica,” she says. “Jessica and I just met in the ladies room, didn’t we, Jessica?”
“Uh-huh,” I agree. I could never make my voice squeak like hers.
“This is Jessica’s very first time here, isn’t that right?” The waitress strokes my hair like I’m her pet. I think she’s the same age as me. I wonder.
“I have no idea what to expect,” I play along. In unison, both men pull out billfolds. Each frees a red fifty, which the waitress scoops up and tucks into some hidden pocket in her skimpy costume. The billfolds remain displayed on the tiny ashtray table between them. I’m a natural at playing dumb, but any fool would get this hint. These men are willing to pay more. I’m not exactly sure what they’ll pay more for—but four drinks in, I’m feeling pretty willing to go with any flow.
The waitress rolls out of her spandex tube dress. Of course her nipples point upward. Of course they are valentine pink. Maybe she stains them with rouge? She leans over one of the men, paddles him gently in the face with both breasts. The other lets his mouth hang open, waiting for his turn like a baby bird. I hear the breathing in the room slow as their pulses quicken.
“Jessica wants to show off her titties too, but she’s shy,” says the waitress. “A round of shooters will loosen her up.” On cue, a tray of tequila shots arrives. A lemon wedge is popped in my mouth. Salt sprinkled on the back of my hand. The waitress coos as she licks my fingers. She is familiar, I think. She unbuttons all five buttons of my baby-doll dress. I’d forgotten about being braless until she scoops up my small breasts with her hands. She bounces them in her palms for the men to see. I hear myself sigh, then promptly follow it with a coquettish giggle—attempting to imitate the put-on girlish sounds the waitress makes. This routine is not so hard. I could totally work here.
The waitress returns her attention to the men, takes turns grinding her ass between their legs. “Line up another couple of shooters for us, Jessica.” She winks. Sticks out her tongue a little when the men can’t see. My dress falls around my waist as I reach for our drinks. I’m sloppy drunk, but these guys don’t care. I rub a lemon wedge on my right nipple, salt my left. The waitress takes her time lapping up the juice, the salt. She tilts her head back as she empties the shot glass. She spits tequila into my mouth. “You’re nasty, Jessica,” she says as she passes me to the men. I imitate her movements—slow, slow motion, mashing my torso into their faces, bouncing between their splayed legs. The song “Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before” plays and I’m so taken aback to hear Morrissey’s voice in a small-town strip club that I barely notice that one man is gingerly tracing his finger especially close to my ass crack.
“Do you want to see my pussy, Jessica?” the waitress tugs me away from him. I stumble into her, then try to cover my clumsiness by dropping to my knees to remove the waitress’s panties. An egg timer rings from an unseen hiding spot. “You want to extend?” she asks the men, her voice steady and certain again. This time she tucks their crisp fifties inside the lightning bolt panties I’m wearing before laying me down on the chaise lounge.
What I think about as she is on top of me:
There is a cigarette burn in the red velvet of this chaise. Where can I touch her? This red velvet chaise smells like feet. Where can’t I touch her? She’s so familiar. She’s so beautiful, it must be a burden. I’ve always considered the female body to be sacred. Smells like feet stink and mothballs. The men totally have boners. If I had a cock, would I have a chub right now? I have one hundred fucking dollars between my legs. I hope that spoiled brat Wendel thinks I left the club. Are my hips grinding involuntarily? Keep your hips still. Breathe through your nose. Arch your back. Am I a failed female? What’s wrong with my body? I wonder what Radclyffe and Una did in bed. Only touch her on the places she touches you. Hair. Cheeks. Lips. I bet we went to school together. Amaretto. Irish Coffee. Tequila shooters. Do I have the word “lesbo” written on my forehead or something? How much have I had to drink today? The word “pervert.” There go her panties flying through the air. Men yip like backwoods coyotes. The word “sodomite.” Her pussy is only a slit, an innie. Don’t stare at it even if it’s perfect. If I had a cock, I’d skewer her right now, one upward thrust. Only touch her shoulders. Neck. Breasts. June absolutely must have penetrated Anaïs—muses hit the G-spot, right? Muse means wet mess. She can be my muse. What time is it anyway? I wonder if I’ll ever go back to university. I bet I could pay for an MFA in Creative Writing with stripper money. One man is wearing her panties on his head. Those coyotes. Her thighs. We were in the same grade together, the same homeroom. Her thighs. What is wrong with my body? Wait a second, I know her.
“For another fifty bucks, I’ll pretend to not see what you’re doing,” she says. The men have undone their pants. Tentatively they wax the heads of their cocks in uncanny unison. “We’ll just close our eyes, won’t we, Jessica?” Tamara Matveev closes her eyes and kisses me.
Afterwards, the buttons on my baby doll dress are done up crooked. Tamara tells me I can keep the money that’s between my legs—my cut. “Maybe I can call you if I ever get private shows? Bachelor parties, easy gigs.” I’m working up the courage to interrupt her, to tell her I know who she is. “Oh, and can I have my panties back, Starla?”
My name stops me like a swift kick. I feel the sticky dried lemon and saliva itch my chest. Another Aerosmith hit from the Toys in the Attic album thumps at the back of my head. Tamara’s unnatural green eyes widen. “Unless you’ve gotten them all wet?” She motions toward me like she’s going to grab my crotch. I run.
I push through the heavy door and run directionless in the dazzling sunlight. Tamara Matveev’s panties are indeed wet between my legs. The two fifty-dollar bills scratch me with each humiliated stride. None of this was anonymous. I know her. She knows me.