antiseptic. Crisp lighting, air-conditioning cold enough to nearly freeze my summer-sweaty T-shirt to me, a bouncer’s alert/disinterested eyes robotically watching, all combined to make the climate feel—what? Fake? Contrived? You mean those beautiful buxom babes aren’t dancing up there strictly for my enjoyment? They ... they just work here? You mean this isn’t real?
Pornography is as pornography does.
The patrons crowded the seats nearest the one occupied stage—frat-boy cretins that could be the same ones who’d hassled Nicki at the restaurant earlier, and maybe were, along with middle-aged and much, much older men. Their voices slavered and cheered above the soulless, bass-heavy music pounding the air. I didn’t know the girl twirling around the pole on the stage, and didn’t study her long enough to figure out if her bare, gravity-defying breasts were real.
Hardly a turn-on. I didn’t join in the ogling, didn’t want to be mistaken for one of the simps down front. Stayed instead back by the bar, ordered a shockingly expensive rummincoke from the tall female bartender, and tipped good anyway. That’s ingrained. I’ve had quite a few years now in this industry, having no other marketable talents, and very quickly tipping becomes sacred. (If you’ve got no education and no prospects, go wait tables.) It works both ways, as do most things in the Quarter. When I wait on bartenders and fellow wait-folk at the restaurant, I can expect generous gratuities.
I watched the spike-haired waitress work the customers by the stage, noting and recognizing her naturally sensual movements. She came up beside me to set her tray on the bartop and place her order with the bartender.
“Bone,” she acknowledged me. I saw raw eyes in her heavily made-up face.
“Chanel.” I’d served her at the restaurant often enough that we knew each other’s names.
“If you’re looking for a job, we don’t hire male dancers.”
It was standard smartass banter. But her voice sounded scraped and quivery. She was just barely holding herself together; so was I. And we both were wearing our tough fronts.
I wasn’t about to make it a contest. “I came to ask about Sunshine.”
I said it quietly, under the music, so the bartender didn’t hear as she set glasses and beers onto Chanel’s tray. Chanel heard, and her painted features went still.
Finally she said, “What ... do you want to know, Bone? We only heard a little while ago. I only know she’s dead. Stabbed .” A shrill note of anger, one I recognized, punctuated her last word. Her bare eyes drilled me.
“That’s all I know too. Chanel ... please . Sunshine was ... she was special to me. We go back. I just want to know ... ” And here my breath was suddenly gone. I locked gazes with her; and perhaps there was something to be read in my eyes.
“Who did it,” she finished for me.
“Yeah, who did it.” My lungs restarted. My heart beat slow and hard.
“I don’t know that.” Chanel took up her tray.
I nodded. “But I want to find out. I want to know who killed Sunshine.” I realized the club’s management might be watching, and I didn’t want Chanel getting any flak for loitering to talk to me.
She stood there a moment. “Look, I’m out of here in fifteen. Okay?” And without waiting for me to say anything, headed back toward the stage where the grandly-endowed girl was mock-humping the face of a man who looked old enough to have stormed the beaches at Normandy.
I drank off my drink, too fast, feeling it in the bones around my eyes. I hadn’t eaten dinner tonight—didn’t like eating on-shift—and tried to remember a meal before that. Nothing came.
The dancer finished her set, and a new one appeared on the second stage, causing the college kids and old men to migrate over. While I don’t knock the stripping profession, per se, I don’t know if it attracts self-damaging individuals or creates them. I’ve known two dancers in my life who have
Pornography is as pornography does.
The patrons crowded the seats nearest the one occupied stage—frat-boy cretins that could be the same ones who’d hassled Nicki at the restaurant earlier, and maybe were, along with middle-aged and much, much older men. Their voices slavered and cheered above the soulless, bass-heavy music pounding the air. I didn’t know the girl twirling around the pole on the stage, and didn’t study her long enough to figure out if her bare, gravity-defying breasts were real.
Hardly a turn-on. I didn’t join in the ogling, didn’t want to be mistaken for one of the simps down front. Stayed instead back by the bar, ordered a shockingly expensive rummincoke from the tall female bartender, and tipped good anyway. That’s ingrained. I’ve had quite a few years now in this industry, having no other marketable talents, and very quickly tipping becomes sacred. (If you’ve got no education and no prospects, go wait tables.) It works both ways, as do most things in the Quarter. When I wait on bartenders and fellow wait-folk at the restaurant, I can expect generous gratuities.
I watched the spike-haired waitress work the customers by the stage, noting and recognizing her naturally sensual movements. She came up beside me to set her tray on the bartop and place her order with the bartender.
“Bone,” she acknowledged me. I saw raw eyes in her heavily made-up face.
“Chanel.” I’d served her at the restaurant often enough that we knew each other’s names.
“If you’re looking for a job, we don’t hire male dancers.”
It was standard smartass banter. But her voice sounded scraped and quivery. She was just barely holding herself together; so was I. And we both were wearing our tough fronts.
I wasn’t about to make it a contest. “I came to ask about Sunshine.”
I said it quietly, under the music, so the bartender didn’t hear as she set glasses and beers onto Chanel’s tray. Chanel heard, and her painted features went still.
Finally she said, “What ... do you want to know, Bone? We only heard a little while ago. I only know she’s dead. Stabbed .” A shrill note of anger, one I recognized, punctuated her last word. Her bare eyes drilled me.
“That’s all I know too. Chanel ... please . Sunshine was ... she was special to me. We go back. I just want to know ... ” And here my breath was suddenly gone. I locked gazes with her; and perhaps there was something to be read in my eyes.
“Who did it,” she finished for me.
“Yeah, who did it.” My lungs restarted. My heart beat slow and hard.
“I don’t know that.” Chanel took up her tray.
I nodded. “But I want to find out. I want to know who killed Sunshine.” I realized the club’s management might be watching, and I didn’t want Chanel getting any flak for loitering to talk to me.
She stood there a moment. “Look, I’m out of here in fifteen. Okay?” And without waiting for me to say anything, headed back toward the stage where the grandly-endowed girl was mock-humping the face of a man who looked old enough to have stormed the beaches at Normandy.
I drank off my drink, too fast, feeling it in the bones around my eyes. I hadn’t eaten dinner tonight—didn’t like eating on-shift—and tried to remember a meal before that. Nothing came.
The dancer finished her set, and a new one appeared on the second stage, causing the college kids and old men to migrate over. While I don’t knock the stripping profession, per se, I don’t know if it attracts self-damaging individuals or creates them. I’ve known two dancers in my life who have
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