Like a virgin, p.10
Like a Virgin, page 10
I’m going to have to take an item of clothing off soon, but what? Is a watch considered clothing? At least it will buy me some time. At this stage surely any movement can only be a good thing. I extend my arm and slip the strap of the watch out of its loops as seductively as possible, hands shaking violently. I swing it over my head and spot a few bemused faces in the front row. I know my watch isn’t going to cut it; I’m going to have to give them more skin. I lower the watch to the stage floor gently, so it doesn’t break, and go back to gyrating my hips. I take a deep breath, then struggle to slip my top button out of its eye. I do a turn and another head swing, which leaves silverfish spots dancing in front of my eyes. I have to remember to breathe. When the spots clear I go for the next button until all five are done, or rather undone. I turn and shake my backside at the audience as I slowly undo my belt, dangle and then drop that on the stage. Then I unzip Natalie’s too-short shorts and let those drop to the floor too.
Finally I turn to face the music in my new white bikini top and matching briefs. There’s another trickle of applause, as the crowd gets more of what they want, and even though my arse is ginormous, I’m reassured by their approval. Maybe Paris is right and they don’t care if I have cellulite. Grasping at straws, I walk like an Egyptian. Then I put my hands above my head and wave them around like I just don’t care. I suddenly can’t remember when last I shaved my armpits, so I clamp my arms back at my sides and rotate my shoulders until my blouse slips off and drops to the floor next to my shorts. As the song ends I stand on stage in just my bottoms, bikini top and shoes, embarrassed by the limp, scattered applause from the crowd.
The intro to ‘Umbrella’ begins, and I grab the pole for moral support and revert to the good old hip sway. There’s still an entire song, and I have very few moves, and even fewer clothes left to take off. I bop across the stage and miss the first few words again, but manage to catch up. A memory hits me: Lucas and I in a nightclub with friends a few years ago, re-enacting simple daily actions on the dance floor. I do ‘the sprinkler’ as I lip-sync ‘umbrella … ella … ella’, then mime opening an umbrella and checking for rain with my palm open. Then I transition seamlessly into a mime of ‘packing the shopping’, then ‘the robot’, which is a classic. Then I ‘walk the dog’, ‘roll the dice’, ‘go bowling’, and then ‘go fishing’. But there’s still tons of time left in this song, so I raise a knee to my chest, struggling to keep my balance. I pull one wedge off and drop it on the stage with a clunk. Shoot, that really wasn’t very sexy. I try to recover my balance and hop as seductively as possible on my bare foot over to the pole and grab it for balance as I remove the other shoe. The crowd has gone quiet, unsure whether or not this is a joke, or possibly scared that I might be having a seizure.
So I do the only thing I can think of that will bring them back over to my side. It was inevitable. I reach behind my back and untie the top, holding it against my breasts with both hands, unwilling to let it go. Then I squeeze my eyes shut (if I can’t see them, maybe they can’t see me?) and let the top drop onto the stage. The crowd whoops as I bare my breasts at last; it’s what they’ve been waiting for. My cheeks flame with what should be a new lipstick colour: humiliation red. Why won’t this flipping song finish? I don’t remember it being this effing long. I hold my arms out at my sides and do the snake, walk like an Egyptian again, and at last the song finally finishes. There’s a smattering of unconvinced applause as I snatch up my clothes, shoes and watch, and a five-euro note, which I doubt is actually for me – I have a feeling Cher may have left it on the stage by accident. I hold my clothes in a bundle in front of me, covering my chest, and dart off as fast as I can, wearing nothing but my knickers and mortification. Next time I’ll do better. I have to. I certainly couldn’t do any worse.
- €189.30
‘But I don’t understand what you were doing out there, dahlink?’ Dania whispers, her face impassive only thanks to the Botox. Without it, she’d be frowning at me like a Shar Pei.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, hanging my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You make a joke maybe, ja?’ she says. Over her shoulder I can see Pink strutting out onto the stage. She has a couple of wet wipes, which she uses to wipe down the pole before she starts working through her moves. In seconds her legs are wrapped around the pole, and she flips upside down. How? Is she not familiar with gravity? These women all make it look so easy out there.
‘No, I wasn’t joking at all, I swear,’ I sputter. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the jet lag, or the nausea, I’m still struggling, or the change of altitude, something in the water.’ I hammer out a barrage of excuses, fishing around for one that sounds even vaguely legitimate. ‘I’m sorry, Dania. I do take this job seriously. I’ll do better next time, I promise,’ I say as sincerely as I can.
‘The dancing, it was … I don’t know … and the watch routine, it’s … out of the ordinary. Is that how you do it at home, in South Africa?’ she asks in disbelief.
‘It was a mistake. Just something new I was trying out,’ I venture. ‘I won’t do it again.’
‘Maybe we keep the new moves for practice time instead, kära,’ she says with a tight smile. ‘Or maybe you want us to make you go home, ja? You are homesick, is this it? You don’t like it here and change your mind?’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Miss your fiancé too much?’
I hold my breath. Yes, no, but yes, but no. They can’t send me home yet. How would I pay them back? How would I even get home? The hole I’m in is too deep. I open and close my mouth like a fish.
‘Is okay, this happens. I remember when David and I were touring in Russia in ’85, I never want to go home so bad in my life. But you learn, the show it must go on.’
‘Please don’t send me home,’ I whisper, and I can’t believe I’m begging to stay.
‘David and David Junior and I, we want for you to be successful here, to thrive, to smile, to flourish, to be success, ja, dahlink?’ Dania says.
‘I want that too, I swear,’ I choke out.
‘So then you don’t make us send you home,’ she says. She’s missing Pink’s act, and I can tell she’s desperate to get back to her spot in the wings, so she pats me on the shoulder. ‘We do better next time, ja?’ she says.
I exhale. How quickly things change. A day ago, I was devastated to find out I had to stay; today I’d be completely messed up if I was forced to leave.
*
‘Make down.’ Paris thrusts a shot glass into my hand.
‘I don’t have any money. I can’t pay for this,’ I say, returning it to the bar. I feel like a complete failure.
‘No problem. Is from me. Gifting. Birthday present for you, Christmas present from me. Make down,’ she says and pushes it back to me.
‘But it’s not my birthday,’ I say.
‘Not today, but one day for sure,’ she says. ‘Make drink.’
The shot glass is icy-cold to the touch and slick with condensation. My hand is still shaking as I hold it up to my nose and take a tentative sniff of the clear liquid.
‘Noroc,’ Paris says loudly, so I can hear her over the sound of Dolly’s set. She throws hers back, then slams the empty glass back onto the counter. ‘Bad day at the office?’ she asks as she holds out two fingers to the barman, who pours another two shots of vodka.
‘You could say that.’
‘I could say what?’ Paris says.
‘I mean yes, bad day at the office. Extremely bad,’ I say.
‘Is that special South African dancing moves you make?’ Paris asks.
‘No offence, but do you mind if we talk about something else?’ I say.
‘Yes, we talk about this,’ Paris says, holding the second shot up in front of her, waiting for me this time. ‘Come, tonight we drink ourselves beautifuls,’ she says.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I say. My body feels rigid. Every muscle is tense, except for my knees, which are marshmallow. I ting my glass against Paris’s and take a sip as she throws her head back and does her second shot in one gulp. I scrunch up my face as the vodka burns down my throat and settles, glowing in the pit of my stomach.
My muscles loosen instantly. I blink and there’s another glass in front of me. I shake my head, and then pick it up anyway. We clink glasses and Paris downs hers in one swallow. My second shot goes down more easily. I suck in the air around my teeth at the sharp taste. Then I turn and lean against the bar, and look out at the crowd. I’m still miserable, despite the vodka.
‘How long have you been doing this, Paris?’
‘Three year,’ she says, offering me another shot. I’ve already lost count of how many she’s had, and there’s no way I’m trying to keep up.
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Money good. President job already taken.’
‘And how do you do it?’ I ask her.
She holds out another two fingers to the barman, who fills the empty shot glasses in front of us instead of getting fresh glasses. Paris nods at the shot glass as if it’s the answer to my question. Then picks up hers and holds it out to mine.
‘You do it like this?’ I ask, picking up the shot glass and downing it in one go, feeling everything loosen up and blur a little more around me.
‘Exactly like so,’ Paris says, downing hers too.
‘Ah yes, I see,’ I say as the liquor slides home. ‘Why are these men here?’ I ask, noticing that my tongue has gone thick and there’s a slur to my words. ‘What do they want?’ We watch a group of men in suits lope through the door, all brandy swagger and bravado.
‘Lonely. Horny. Curious. Drunk. Stupid. Just men. You have only one job here,’ Paris says, tapping her empty shot glass on the bar before sliding it back to the barman. ‘Make them think you give fuck.’
‘Give a fuck or give them a fuck?’
‘Both,’ she says with a wink.
‘Hello, ladies.’ I hadn’t noticed the guy approaching us, and he startles me. My first thought is that he’s super young. I wonder if he’s even old enough to be in here, legally. I mumble an awkward hello.
‘Hello, sailor,’ Paris says with a big, confident smile.
‘So who are you supposed to be then, darling?’ he asks her.
‘Paris Hilton,’ she says, doing a twirl for him.
‘Who’s that?’ the boy-man asks.
‘Come, I make show you,’ she says, then loops her arm through his and pulls him away towards the opposite bar. As she sashays off into the crowd with him, her perfect arse only just covered by her short cocktail dress, she turns and gives me a quick wink.
Alone at the bar I feel vulnerable and suddenly aware of how drunk I am. I’m nervous of being approached, so I slip into a dark corner behind a pillar.
On stage, Christina Aguilera is naked from the waist up. I watch her whip off her chaps as she lip-syncs to ‘Dirrty’, then she clutches the pole with both arms and lifts her body sideways, as if being blown by a gale-force wind. Even from the back of the club I can see the definition in her washboard abs, taut and glistening with sweat. Off the pole, she goes into a handstand, then brings her feet down onto the ground in a neat backbend. Next she gyrates her crotch, the pole strategically placed between her legs. Subtle, I think. Whistles from the crowd mock my cynicism. Fans roar even louder as she stands, executes another perfect handstand, and then splits her legs wide over her head. Finally she lands and does the splits again as the song ends, holding her arms above her head. Applause drowns out the final notes of music.
I shudder at the memory of my earlier performance. Granted, it was my first attempt, but still, it was pathetic: wooden and amateur. The open disappointment on Dania’s face replays in my head. Next set I’ll do better, I think. I’m going to have to up my game if I want to make more than five euros a night. The sooner I come to terms with where I am right now and start making money, the sooner I can go home and help Nat. Nobody ever made any money hiding in the dark.
Maybe it’s the Dutch courage in those shots, but I put my hands on my hips, jut out my chin and step out of the darkness. I’ll just cross to the other bar and see what happens, I think, focusing on walking in a straight line.
‘Rihanna, right?’
I turn and find myself face to face with a lanky blond guy, early twenties. Where’d he come from? I try answer him, but my voice comes out squeaky. I clear my throat and try again. ‘That’s me,’ I manage to squeeze out. I feel like I’m operating heavy machinery while on flu medication – without having read the manual.
‘What’s your real name?’ he asks, as his eyes travel briefly over my shoulder, snagging on Lady Gaga who’s sliding down a nearby pole, one leg wrapped around it, the other extended elegantly, wearing a sheath of what looks like cling film over a nude-coloured G-string.
‘Candy,’ I say over the music, offended that he’s looking at another woman so blatantly. I have to remind myself that this is not an ordinary club, and I’m not being picked up by an ordinary guy. After all, I’m not wearing very much and he’s probably already seen my boobs. I’m glad I made something up; there’s no way I’m telling this creep my real name.
‘I’m … John,’ he says, taking a slug of his beer. He sounds American. Probably a student here on holiday with a bunch of mates, looking for trouble.
‘Candy and John. Aren’t we an original pair,’ I say with a tipsy giggle, looping my arm through his, mimicking what I saw Paris do earlier. I wonder if a guy like him would show any interest in a woman like me in a normal bar. Would he come up to me like this and ask my name if I wasn’t standing around, up for sale? And would I be interested in him if he did? There’s something obnoxious about this guy, but it’s not his looks. He has short, thick blond hair in a crew cut. He’s wearing a Polo golf shirt, chinos and what I think they call deck shoes. Preppy to the extreme.
‘So I like your bush,’ he says with a cocky smile.
His directness takes me by surprise. I cough and then fake-giggle it away. I need to somehow remain in control of this conversation.
‘How do you know I have a bush?’ I say.
‘I was in the front row when you were dancing earlier. I could see it through your underwear.’
I want to die, but I try not to let it show. ‘Thank you,’ I say, deciding to treat it as a compliment, and then I fake-giggle some more, resisting the urge to slap him in the face. There’s no way I’m giving this guy the satisfaction of knowing he’s managed to embarrass me.
‘I’ve never seen one before,’ he says.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘A bush.’
‘Never?’ I say, surprised.
‘Nope.’
‘Surely you’ve seen your mother’s or a girlfriend’s?’ I slur, aware that bringing up his mother might be a mood killer. I need to work on my small talk. I can’t blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, or I’ll never make any money. But what kind of guy has never seen a woman’s pubic hair before? Maybe he’s a virgin. Everyone’s heard about guys who go to Amsterdam for their first time. But he seems too confident to be a virgin.
‘Girls don’t do hair any more where I come from. It’s all Brazilians or Hollywoods these days.’
‘Is this your first time at a strip club?’
He looks at me oddly. ‘No. But I’ve never seen a woman at a strip club with a bush before either.’
‘What can I say, I’m an original. One of a kind.’
‘How about an original, one-of-a-kind lap dance then?’
I gulp. Suddenly I wish I was even drunker. I’ve known this moment was coming, and I don’t know what I was expecting out here, but I don’t feel prepared. I’ll never feel prepared. I also don’t have the luxury of turning down his offer – cash is officially an issue. I’m going to have to lose my lap-dance virginity sooner or later.
‘I think I need a drink first,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ he says, not pleased.
‘I’ll have a shot of vodka,’ I say.
He doesn’t move for a moment.
‘Shall we?’ I say, pulling him with me towards the bar. When the barman comes over, I stand my ground. If I’m going to dance for this idiot, I’m going to need a drink, and I’m not buying it. Well, I can’t, I don’t have any money.
After an awkward pause, he orders a beer and a shot of vodka.
‘Better make it a double,’ I say. I’m learning cheek quickly.
The barman places two shots on the bar. I pick one up and down it in one swallow. Dutch courage indeed, I think. Isn’t vodka Russian? They should call it Russian courage.
‘Come on, then,’ I say, picking up my second shot, sloshing it a little as I walk. ‘Let’s do this thing.’
I take John’s hand as I’ve seen the other girls do, and we weave through the tables towards the back stairs, as the lights from the stage strobe and flash on Taylor Swift lip-syncing to ‘Shake It Off’. He follows me up the stairs to the VIP mezzanine level, and I can feel his eyes burning holes in my backside. When we get to the top of the stairs, he shows the bouncer a stamp on the inside of his wrist, and we’re through. The thought crosses my mind that he’s already been up here tonight, and I wonder how many other women have danced for him. I push on towards one of the high-backed chairs, which has been strategically turned to face the back wall, protecting it from prying eyes.
