Baring Souls

I was dressed casually that day, and had not even bothered to shave. I ordered a Guinness on tap from my waitress and lit up a cigarette as I watched the girls on the stages. In a basic, male way, I could acknowledge that most were pretty, and some were even porn-model quality. But they didn't interest me.

"Okay, gents, how 'bout a round of applause for Fallon!" urged the deejay in his hidden booth. Scattered clapping greeted his words as the dyed blonde on the stage climbed down, clutching a pitiable amount of ones in her fist.

"Now let's hear it for our very own golden girl, but you ain't gonna see her in a nursing home any time soon . . . he-e-ere's Candace!"

There was some applause at the deejay's introduction, but I did not join in. Instead, I fixed my attention on the main stage as the shimmering curtain shifted and fluttered. Amid the squeal of guitars from a classic glam-rock song from the eighties, the curtain was flung open wide.

Strutting like she was the Queen of the Nile, 'Candace' took the stage, moving perfectly in time with a venerable Poison song. She wore a purple teddy and matching thong, the muscles of her legs tensing and rippling as she balanced herself on glass platform shoes. Michelle moved energetically according to the cadence of the song, barely looking out at her audience; she danced more for her benefit than for those who ogled her with lustful eyes.

I smiled. At least for the moment, Michelle looked like she was enjoying herself. Doing something she loved. Not teasing, not being the sex kitten, just . . . dancing, and loving it. The men watching her could have been cardboard cutouts for all she cared.

I watched, rooted to my chair, as Michelle commanded the stage. She was sensuous and playful, sexy and energetic, matching every movement, from the flip of a wrist to the toss of her head, to the beat of the song. A few men approached to tip her, and she gave them professional, almost predatory, smiles. She would touch their face or chest, lay on her back and spread her legs to provide a 'look but don't touch' view of her minimally-covered crotch. Then she would let them slip a dollar bill or two into her tiny G-string before whirling away.

I did not notice at first, but at one point, as the light hit her just so while she moved, I saw a tiny bandage on her neck, nearly matching the tone of her skin. And in that same moment, her eyes found me.

It really was one of 'those moments,' the kind you hear about and see in Hollywood movies, but never really think would happen to you. But it did, to me, right then. Michelle looked at me, her eyes widening a bit, revealing a brief flash of gorgeous amber illuminated in the strobe lights. I stared back. Everything else seemed drowned out, as if the rest of the world momentarily ceased to exist.

I felt drawn, compelled. Leaving my table, I stepped to the stage, feeling like I was gliding across the floor. I stood at the head of the broad, glossy runway, looking up at her. Michelle hesitated briefly, her hand reflexively touching her neck. I felt a quick surge of guilt that, strangely enough, vanished as soon as I felt it. Michelle's eyes dipped for a moment. Was it reticence, I wondered, or regret?

Then she was there, before me, squatting down, touching my chin with her fingers. "Hi."

I took in a breath. Jesus, she's beautiful. "Hi."

Her eyes studied mine a moment, her expression unreadable. "I'll be down in a minute," she finally said, and with that simple statement, she swiveled a slender hip toward me, pulling out her G-string. I slipped a couple of bills beneath the elastic, watched her dance away. I turned robotically and headed back to my table.

I drummed my fingers, smoked another cigarette, sipped on my second beer as I waited for Michelle. I felt foolish, stupid, intrusive. I was aware that . . . something had happened between us, but I had no real idea as to what that was, nor what it meant.

"Want some company?"

I lifted my eyes, momentarily startled that Michelle had so suddenly appeared before me, standing across the little round table. I got the immediate feeling she wanted to keep her distance, at least for the moment.

I pushed up to my feet quickly, indicated the chair across from me. "Please."

Michelle gave me a funny smile and slid into the seat, setting a little black purse on the table. She already had her pack of cigarettes out, and lit up quickly. "Buy a girl a drink?"

"Of course," I said, settling back down across from her.

Michelle looked amused by my mannerisms, but said nothing as the waitress approached and asked what 'Candace' wanted. I didn't take my eyes of Michelle. "Anything the lady wants," I said.

"Grey Goose and tonic," Michelle ordered, keeping her eyes trained on my face.

"Be right back," the waitress quipped, and headed off.

Michelle blew a plume of smoke. "What do you want, Will?" she asked.

I frowned. "Did I . . . do something wrong?" I asked hesitantly in return.

Michelle looked like she was about to berate me a moment, then blushed and looked down. "No, I guess not."

"You guess?"

Her head snapped back up. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked belligerently, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I mean, why are you even in this place?"

I felt defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Michelle sighed. "Look around, dude," she said. "Guys that come in here . . . they're fucking mechanics and dock workers and waiters and bartenders . . . blue-collar guys. And then there's you."

I bristled slightly at her tone. And then there's you . . . she'd said it like I was an unwelcome foreigner. "What about me?"

"Yeah, that's what I wanna know," she said, leaning aggressively on the table, her eyes glaring. "Guys like you and your friend . . . you come in here every once in a while, like you're slumming or some shit. What, make you feel fucking superior or something to come in here, see how the lower half lives?"

Defensive anger spiked through me. "Hey, unless I'm wrong, you invited me to come see you, with that 'first dance is on me' line," I snapped.

Michelle held my gaze a moment, then dropped her eyes abruptly. She tapped some ash off her cigarette, pulled on it, tapped again. "Yeah, I guess I did," she said in a small voice that I barely heard over the music.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Look, what happened last time? What was that about?"

Michelle was quiet a long moment. She took her drink when the waitress arrived with it, sucked down half of it right away and sighed heavily. She didn't look at me, just smoked her cigarette, holding it with mildly shaking fingers. I waited for her to speak.

"You know, most of the time, I think I've got it so good," she said, speaking as if talking to herself. "Got a nice place, some nice shit . . . I make a fuckload of money. I don't need nobody."

Her amber eyes finally drifted up, glowing with an inner light. "The guys I meet here, they're all like me. Simple. Half these dudes . . . they dropped out'a high school, just like I did. Maybe got a GED, like me. The other half . . . maybe they went all the way, went to tech school and shit. But they're still just like me."

She ground out her cigarette, immediately lit another one. "Then there's guys like you. High-rollers. Guys with money and a real life. And you come in here, slumming with the trailer-trash girls, looking to get your rocks off—"

"What makes you think I'm like that?"

Michelle faltered, blinked, gave me a confused look. "Because you are."

I suddenly laughed. "Do you really have that low an opinion of me?"

Michelle's eyes flickered as she tried to read me. I wasn't sure what my eyes or expression were telling her. "Then, why did you come in? I mean . . . you came to see me, right?"

I couldn't suppress my amused smile. "No, I didn't," I said. "Ramon – the guy I was with – it was his idea to come here."

She almost looked insulted. "So you didn't want to—"

"I did," I said hurriedly, and automatically reached out to settle my hand on her wrist. "I just . . . I didn't want it to happen that way."

Michelle didn't pull her arm back, although I felt a momentary tensing of her muscles beneath my hand. "How did you want it to happen?" she asked.

I stared, trying to form my thoughts. "If I had my way, it wouldn't have been . . . like that," I said, thinking about the events in that little booth.

Her gaze was unwavering. "So how would it have been? Roses? Dinner? Limo?" Her questions rolled out on an air of skepticism and insult.

"Yes," I said simply.

Her jaw quivered slightly. "What do you want from me?" she asked in a quivering voice.

"What do you want from me?" I asked back.

She swallowed nervously. "I don't know."

"I don't, either."

She barked out a laugh. "But you still wanna fuck me."

I read her face, and the tiredness there, the pain. "No," I said after a moment, and pushed back, trailing my fingers away from her arm. "I don't want to fuck you."

I stood, taking up my cigarettes. Michelle gave me a confused, startled look as she watched me rise. I took a last gulp of my beer, then left the table. A sour taste formed in my mouth and only intensified as I headed to the door. By the time I was halfway down the street to the apartment building, I felt like I was going to throw up.

***

I took a long bath, soaking in the hot water and letting the beer seep out through my pores. I stepped out onto the balcony in my bathrobe, thankful for the relatively warm February air in my new southwestern home. The same time of year in Ohio was cause for parkas and long-johns. But here, it was almost tropical in comparison.

I listened to the traffic and distant police sirens, the wordless jumble of faintly-shouted conversations seven stories below. There were a few stores on the street below, most of them loudly decorated in red and pink, broad windows gaudily advertising the imminent Valentine's Day. I soured; I had all but forgotten about the romantic holiday. The sky overhead glowed orange as streetlights reflected off cloud cover. The moon was a vague, glowing disc through the atmospheric mist.

Knock, knock.

My ears perked, and I looked back through the balcony door, into the shadows of my apartment. I didn't have a single light on. I sometimes felt comfort in the darkness, but not because of any sense of morbidity. The world just seemed smaller when it was swallowed up in shadow. Less hectic. Simple.

Knock, knock.

I pushed away from the railing, heading inside. A single lamp on the end table beside my couch bathed the room in a soft golden glow. I flipped the latch on the door, withdrew the chain, turned the knob.

"Hi."

I started, a little surprised to see Michelle on my doorstep. It had been a few hours, I figured, since she had come home from work. She had obviously showered; the clean aroma of soap and jasmine bath oil surrounded her like an invisible mist. She wore clothes I had never seen upon her before: a denim skirt that came to mid-thigh, and a tan-colored peasant blouse that tied up the front. Gone was the sparkle and glitter from her face, and her wheat-colored hair looked loose, relaxed, soft and clean.

"Hi," I said back.

Michelle looked sheepish, almost timid. "I'm in pretty good with Mrs. Dobbs," she said, invoking the name of our landlady.

I nodded shortly, still half-hiding behind the door. "She told you where I am, huh?"

Michelle nodded, smiled embarrassingly. "All this time, and you're right on top of me," she said.

I wasn't sure if her statement was double-entendre, innuendo, or what. "Yeah. Imagine that."

Michelle fidgeted, picking at her nails, biting her lip. She didn't look at me, not directly. "Um . . . I wanna apologize."

That surprised me. "For what?"

She laughed sharply. "For being a bitch," she said bluntly.

I smiled. "You're not a bitch," I said.

She inhaled deeply, let it out with a huff. "No, I'm just a white-trash topless dancer," she said.

"I don't see you that way."

Michelle raised her eyes slowly. They were a little red, a little swollen. "So, how do you see me?" she asked, pushing her words out. "Or how do you wanna see me?"

I suddenly heard Ramon's voice in my head: You go back there, find that skinny little blonde you like. Then ask her how much it takes to buy her out. Guarantee she'll give you a price. "I hope this isn't what I'm afraid it is," I said.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

I shifted on my feet. "I mean, you show up out of nowhere, and . . . after what happened . . . ."

Michelle frowned. She was silent as she searched my face, then finally sputtered out a rude laugh. "Holy fuck," she said under her breath. She looked back to me with an angry expression. "You think that's what I am? You think I'm a fucking whore?"

I sighed, realizing I had said the wrong words. "No, I—"

"Yeah, I bet," she snapped. She straightened, gave me a haughty, angry look. "Look, asshole. I dance topless, I shove my tits and twat in a guy's face to make my money. Maybe I get freaky sometimes. But if you think I'm gonna strip it off and spread it for you just 'cause you got money—"

"Look, I didn't—"

She scoffed harshly. "Oh, yeah? Then why'd say that?"

I stared at her, trying to respond, trying to find a delicate way of explaining myself . . . but I couldn't find the words.

Michelle shook her head in disgust. "Just like every other fucking guy in the world," she said derisively. "Fuck you. And that's not a God damned invite."

I looked after her hopelessly as she strode back along the hallway. This time, the sexy wiggle in her hips was painful to watch.

***

It took me half an hour and a beer to get up the courage to head down to her apartment. I paused before her door, fingers curled in my raised hand, ready to knock. Over a dozen different speeches had been prepared in my head, ranging from the humble to the confrontational. Every one of them floated away like ashes on a stiff breeze as I stared at Michelle's apartment door.

I almost knocked, then hesitated. My knuckles brushed the surface of her door, barely hard enough to evoke a noise. I lowered my hand. You're an idiot, Will, I told myself. She'll just get mad at you again. She's already made up her mind about you, and there's not a damn thing you can do to change it.

I took a step away, then stopped and turned back. My hand lifted again, paused. A frustrated huff left my lips. Either you do it, and get slapped, or you don't and spend the night staring at the ceiling. You know how you are. For better or for worse, you gotta know.

I sighed. God damn it . . . .

Knock knock knock.

I almost ran back to my apartment after rapping on the door. It was a childish impulse, but a powerful one nonetheless. Michelle represented what I both did and didn't want from life. She was a woman who could give me more trouble than I wanted . . . at the same time, she might possibly be the sort of woman to give me what I needed. My thoughts were admittedly selfish, but with the dichotomy Michelle had shown me thus far concerning her own personality, I did not know what to think of her . . . or what I might be able to do to please and satisfy her.

As it was, I waited for nearly a minute, glancing to the tiny aperture of the spyhole in the door now and then. I thought I heard some shuffling behind the door, perhaps the whisper of slender fingers on the other side. I chalked that up to imagination and wishful thinking, and was just turning away when I heard the locks disengage.

The door jerked open, just a few inches. I only saw half of Michelle's glowering face. "What."

I sighed, then took a breath. "I want to apologize," I said.

The one eye I could see flickered. "It's no big deal," she said with some disdain. "Guess I come off that way, huh? Strippers and whores, no big difference, right?"

I frowned. "Don't you ever get tired of feeling sorry for yourself?"

Michelle jerked open the door wide, revealing that she wore only a long white T-shirt. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you," I shot back. "And that's not an invite, either."

She sputtered a moment, gesturing chaotically with her hands. "What the fuck do you want, Will?" she asked me. "Look, I get enough psycho guys at work, I don't need another one, especially where I live."

I made an effort to remain calm. "I'm not psycho," I said. "And I don't think you're a . . . ."

"I'm a what?" she asked, still being confrontational.

I took a moment, considering my words, then met her eyes. "I don't think you're anything but a woman who just wants to be appreciated for who she is."

Michelle stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes with a rueful shake of her head. "I ain't got time for lines," she said, and started to close her door.

"It's not a line," I said quickly. My hand slapped to the door before I knew what I was doing. Michelle stared at me, looking both frightened and angry. "I just want to know who you are," I finished.

She set her jaw. "No you don't," she said. "You just wanna fuck me. Just like every guy in the whole fucking world I ever met—"

"God damn it!" I shouted, making her flinch. I forced myself to be calm once more. "Look, you want the truth? Yeah, I want you. I think that's pretty obvious. But not . . . like that."

Michelle blinked, looking away. "I don't wanna go through this shit again," she said.

"Go through what?" I asked.

Michelle stared at me for a long moment, her shoulders falling. "There was a guy," she said heavily. "He used to live in the building. In your apartment, as a matter of fact."

Dread flowed through me. My intuition was filling in some of the gaps already. "Was he your—"

Michelle laughed sharply. "No. But that's what he wanted. And he . . . he knew so much about me, it fucking freaked me out! It's like he was watching me somehow!"

I nodded, looking away as shame welled up within me like the pressure behind a boiler. "I don't want you to think I'm like that, Michelle," I said. I let my eyes trail back toward her face. "I really don't know much about you." I felt that my words were at least partly true; I knew some things about her life, from her simple affectations to what kind of beer she preferred. But beyond that, I knew little, I realized.

Her lips quivered a moment. She looked like she was torn between telling me off and inviting me in. "Then why'd you think I was a fucking whore?"

"I didn't." I sighed, then laughed sharply to myself. You fucking asshole, Ramon. "You were right about me, Michelle. I don't hang out in strip clubs. I don't know girls like you. The only women I ever dated were the nice, normal, go-to-church-on-Sundays girls. My ex was everything you're not: refined, educated, wore dresses all the time and blushed at every swear word. The way I grew up, that was the kind of woman I was supposed to be with."

Michelle gave me a spiteful look, crossing her arms defensively. "Then why don't you go back to her?"

I met her gaze boldly. "Because there was one thing she didn't do," I said.

Michelle scoffed. "What? Suck your dick?" she asked rudely.

I stared. "She didn't turn me on," I said.

She regarded me dubiously. "And . . . I do?"

"Yes."

Michelle looked away, massaging her arms as if she was cold. "That still doesn't tell me why . . . why you thought I was—"

I sighed. "You know that guy I was with, the first time I went in?"

Michelle frowned. "Yeah. I've seen him," she said, then laughed softly. "I hear he can't keep his hands to himself."

I nodded. "I made the mistake of believing him when he said that dancers can be . . . bought out." I watched her face carefully.