“You want to know why I really don’t do the relationship thing?”
“Sure.”
“It protects me from what you’re dealing with right now. Having someone get close to you and then losing them is a battle I’m not prepared to fight—no offense.”
“No offense taken.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, I glance down and my heart jumps seeing that it’s Melody. I reread the name and double check the number to confirm that, yes, a woman texted me back.
Sorry I took so long to respond, my other job is crazy tonight.
I don’t know how to respond, so I opt to take the nice guy route.
It’s ok, I understand.
I feel like an idiot as soon as I hit send, but soon after, three dots appear, and we’re back at it.
What are you up to right now?
Shit. There’s no way I can explain to her why I’m in a strip club without coming off like a pervert, but I also don’t wanna lie. I decide to try both.
My sister lured me to a strip club under the pretense of fish tacos, so I’m trying to get out of it.
Somehow my explanation looks more idiotic in text that it sounds. Her response is empathetic.
I’ve been there. You should stay near the main stage if you can, dancers don’t like that. I gotta go but come by the shop tomorrow, I’m working the morning shift.
I tell her I will and, afterward, I can only sit there stuck in a place between fear and excitement. I wanna celebrate with Lily but, when I look up, her face is shoved into a stripper’s breasts so forcefully that her drink is spilling down her arm.
So much for celebrating.
The other dancers comes back with our drinks as the DJ announces over the loud speaker that Harmony will be coming to the stage next. Lily says I shouldn’t miss it, but her tone is more of an order than a suggestion. The two dancers sit in her lap and take turns nibbling on her neck. I take both shots of vodka and feel them burn through my chest before settling warmly in my stomach.
“You’re gonna be alright Miles, we’ll talk about this later.” I’m struck by her tone; on the surface it’s an empathetic and caring sister committing to help her struggling brother. However, allow me to translate what she was really trying to say:
“I’m close to having the very threesome we just talked about, and your sour demeanor is killing the vibe. Please move the fuck away and we can continue this conversation at a more convenient time.”
After taking another shot, I make my way toward the stage. There’s roughly nine seats lining the stage and half of them are full. Mostly old guys ready to throw—what I assume is—social security money at Harmony.
The acoustic guitar of T-Pain’s I’m in Love with a Stripper comes booming through the speaker as the lights dim throughout the place, and a pink, neon spotlight settles on the stage like an erotic 007 entrance. Harmony appears from the side of the stage, walking slowly to the pace of the bass intro. She knows the crowd is there for her and she plays to them. Turning her back and gyrating slowly while removing her lace top, she approaches the front of the stage, dragging her top seductively beside her.
As the auto tuned vocals begin she climbs to the top of the pole, eliciting whoops and hollers from the crowd as the dollars begin raining down like ashes. She times her summit to the top with a bass drop and splits her legs while spinning like a gymnast. She’s got this song mastered like she wrote it herself. I find myself taking one of the seats lining the stage, mesmerized as she slides down the pole upside down, her legs wrapped around securely enough to regulate the speed of her descent. After landing on her palms she stays there, shaking her ass as the catcalls and hollers rises to the same decibel as the music. She walks slowly toward every guy in the front row, collecting every dollar, while rewarding each one with a full frontal view of her ass for their contribution.
She makes eye contact with me and drops to all fours, crawling slowly but deliberately—like a predator moving in on a kill. For a second, I swear I can feel the dollar bills start to crawl out of my jeans like they’re being summoned by their true master. But it’s just my subconscious unlocking the sexual instinct that has been dormant for so long. She whips her hair back in front of me and shakes her ass before curving her back to the ground, like a kitty when you run your hand from head to spine; it’s not the kind of kitty I’m interested in at the moment.
She reaches over the stage and places her hands on the arms of my seat, and now we’re face to face—or mask to face. I don’t know who this woman is, but in this club it doesn’t matter and that’s the point. Harmony runs her face up my thigh, her nose tapping on different spots of my body, and soon I feel the plastic of the mask on my cheek.
“Hi, Miles,” she whispers. But based on how quickly I’m pulling cash out of my pocket, she might’ve told me it was a holdup.
I volunteer my bill fold like a sinner that’s been touched at his first church service, but she presses my hand with the cash back. “No thanks, first ones free.” She runs her hand behind my ear for good measure and heads off stage.
I’m left next to the stage with an erection, a heavy buzz and, miraculously, the same amount of money as when she started her show. The lights on stage descend into darkness—a metaphor for how confused I am entering a this new stage of the grieving process.
Nine
You Don't Look Like Hulk Hogan
Last night was a movie.
I heard some kid on the street tell another kid that; I assumed he meant it was unforgettable. That’s what last night was, at least what I remember of it. I’ll give you the rundown.
After Harmony left the stage, I found myself with nothing to do—which, in a strip club, is an oxymoron. I sat at a table alone and was approached by a dancer named Gloria, but I secretly named her Glue. Glue was short for glue factory, because that’s where she was headed due to her being past her prime. I told her she reminded me of my mom, which was true. She found it funny, which made me find it funny, and I bought several lap dances from her. She used my version of Freud’s Oedipal Complex theory—which is the one about having sex with your mother—and turned it into two hundred bucks. I’m remember thinking that maybe she wasn’t past her prime. Nevertheless, grinding my erection on a woman that reminded me of my mother was enough for me to order another round of shots.
I stumbled back to our section and Lily asked me for $300 so she could visit the “Champagne Room” with her two dancer friends. I was confused because they’d been more than happy to bring our drinks to the table. Maybe the champagne stains the carpet or something; either way, I acquiesced and they took off without saying thank you. I ended up sitting next to a random customer, and apparently a satisfied one because he’s asleep with one hand in his pants. Don’t judge him, the tacos were definitely heavy enough to give you The Itis. At some point, Harmony found me sitting alone and stopped to chat. I was determined to not make her a therapist like Lily did, but I failed.
I unloaded on her with everything I’d been dealing with; from losing my family all the way to Melody, I spilled my guts. Then I went to the bathroom to literally spill them before I returned to talk some more. I told her how I was conflicted about calling Melody because of my past, then she pointed out that I had talked more about Melody than Sara. Harmony said I was cute, unlike the other perverts that frequented the establishment. I thanked her, but I told her that it wasn’t fair to Melody if I tried seeing someone else. She laughed.