16

F rom our fishbowl, men’s faces wobbled and bobbed. Their blurry eyes darted in the darkness as they watched us dance behind the glass. When the money ran out, the black, rickety partitions slid down with a crash. Hot light bounced against the mirrored walls as I slid down the single brass pole one more time before stepping off the main stage.

My knees creaked from bending over in seven-inch stilettos, and my thighs burned from lifting them above my hips and pushing my pussy against the glass.

It was time for my shift in Private Pleasures. Through the satin red curtain was the bright white dressing room where I snatched my backpack out of my metal locker and filled it with dildos, lube, and a thin, black boa. I inhaled cum and bleach as I approached the cage, using a flashlight to guide me to the Private Pleasures booth. I dodged crumpled Kleenex scattered in corners of the hallway, but one caught on my shoe, and I scraped my heel across the floor to free it. The cage was near the front entrance to The Lusty Lady, where the shock of sunlight clobbered me the same way it would walking out of a matinee into daylight. I squinted and unlocked the employee entrance door, hung my turquoise robe on a gold hook, and crawled into the cage where it was always night. It wasn’t big enough to stand up, just big enough to wiggle around on all fours on scratchy red carpet.

Inside Private Pleasures, I could speak with customers through a microphone from my side of the wall by pushing a silver button. They could talk too, but they had to feed the cash machine or else the wobbly window fell down, separating us by a thick wooden wall. I sprayed Windex on the windows until they were streak free. I arranged my three little dildos on the ledge from small to large and felt sorry for myself for having such an asshole for a girlfriend.

That morning, Marya and I were sitting in her Pepto-Bismol-pink kitchen drinking tea when she saw me shove the dildos into my backpack for work, which meant I intended to use them for my Private Pleasures gig.

“Why ours?” Marya asked. The steam from her tea wilted her green Mohawk. It slid over to one side.

“I make better tips if I show variety.” She lunged for a toasted poppy seed bagel, and her monkey tattoo bulged. She dipped a knife into the gob of fake butter between us. Our knees touched. Our dildo was a thick, bright dong with pin, marbled stripes—almost the same color as her greasy walls. What kind of person chooses that color for walls?

“Is it for Herbert?” she sneered.

“No. Herbert’s a Morning Missile.” Herbert was also known as Zucchini Man. He was slim and brown with luxurious black, wavy hair, and he always wore one silver feather earring that dripped gracefully down his neck. He liked to contort himself like Gumby in a corner booth and balance on his shoulders so he could suck his own dick. After applauding him, we dancers watched him lift a zucchini the size of a body builder’s forearm from a plastic bag and lower himself onto it. He showed up at 9:00 a.m., right when The Lusty Lady opened; and the 9:00 a.m. clients were called Morning Missiles. I envied him for knowing exactly what he needed to feel desired and seen. His desire was a pure, direct arrow hitting my bisexual gut as I drifted from boys to women and back.

“Throw it away,” Marya said. A collection of poppy seeds gathered in her big teeth. She wanted to keep me to herself—or at least the cocks she fucked me with—but, like the last stick of bubblegum in a pack, I always came back wrinkled and soggy.

“What?” I munched the other half of her bagel.

“I bought it. Toss it.”

“I’ll replace it.” I stood to leave and was halfway down the stairs when cold water soaked the back of my faded Pat Benatar shirt and mangled peonies splattered my platform boots. I turned around. Marya, the mellow, soft butch with deep dimples and bloodshot eyes—a lifeguard at an Elementary school—was shaking with rage. I slammed her front door shut, rattling the stained glass tulips, and vowed to do whatever the fuck I wanted with whomever the fuck I wanted—girlfriend be damned.

In Private Pleasures, I pushed the silver button which signaled to clients “I’m here,” but no one was waiting for me. Might as well masturbate. Then again, I could be paid to masturbate. When men watched me do dildo shows in the cage, I felt like I had a purpose.

Just as I pulled the oily cabbage rolls from their white takeout box, I heard the steady click of money being counted by the machine. The red digital display showed twenty-five bucks: my tip was five bucks on the twenty. The curtain lifted and a tall man with a wide forehead and noble nose stood in front of me. He waved delicately.

“Hi handsome. On your lunch break?” I said. The tall man wore a suit and a beige fedora. He stood in front of me but didn’t speak. He had a rolling black suitcase next to him. Must be staying at the Hilton, I thought. He removed his clothes with care like Mister Rogers. He hung his pressed shirt on a fancy wooden hanger and placed it on the door handle. He got naked except for the hat. I could see his busy fingertips moving in the dark. He held scissors and a couple of large black garbage bags that he lifted out of his suitcase, and he began to cut the bags until he had one big flat piece of plastic. He taped the flat pieces together with tape and attached the whole thing to the wall behind him, like a tarp.

He bent over again then popped up holding an enema bag. He held it close to the window and dangled it like infomercial ladies do with porcelain kittens. I placed my hands on my cheeks with feigned surprise. The red digital clock buzzed, alerting the end of our time and the window slid down with its raspy crash. “Oh no,” I said. I heard an elbow smacking the door and the rustle of legs hit the wall. He put more money in and the window rose. Our eyes were glued together again.

He showed me that his enema bag was filled with water and he held it up with chalky white gloves. He placed his water bottle down onto the floor. I smiled politely at him. He smiled back with the same smile he gave his five-year-old son on mornings when he’d slice a ripe banana and toss it on top of his Rice Krispies. The same smile he gave his wife after a kiss on the forehead—the same smile I gave Marya that morning.

He inserted the enema bag into his behind and began pumping in the water. I could tell that he was getting full because his expression changed from thrilled to relieved to nirvana, then he cringed. “Oh my!” I said, trying to sound repulsed instead of delighted. I leaned back onto my elbows to watch him from my cramped glass box, cold and slim as a coffin. I opened my chilly legs and turned my rug-burned knees towards him. His eyes were closed. From the cage, my only requirement was to watch him—but I doubted my every gesture. I reached for the lube, wet my fingers with it, and moved them towards my pussy.

“Do you want me to play with myself?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

His expression moved to bliss again, and his forehead bumped against the glass. He vibrated and jerked with peppy violence—as if he were a dancing vessel to be filled up and emptied. His hat tipped and fell off, and his left hand held his cock. He bit the trial size packet of lube with his teeth and set it down on the ledge in front of us. I placed my palm on the glass for a half second, but he kept pulling away from the window—stretching the membrane between us.

Moments later, he came with his hand on his cock and his eyes to the ceiling, water and shit sprayed behind him—raining all over his tarp. He reached into his luggage for a roll of paper towels and wiped his ass. He threw the garbage bags into the trash can and cleaned his hands and legs with antibacterial wipes. He zipped his slacks, buttoned his shirt, and put on his coat and hat. He opened the door and knocked on my window with his clean knuckles. Then he walked towards the pure and silent sunlight.