The Bachelor Party

It's just after eleven and I still have four hours on the clock.

I'm working a bachelor party and I am not feeling it at all. Half the serving staff didn't show up at my restaurant job, I was locked out of cosmetology class, and I got a $200 speeding ticket on the way to the club.

To top it all off, the party is full of coked-up prep school douchebags who keep grabbing my ass and "pretending" to spill drinks on me. The last straw was when some drunk shitbag boxed me in a corner and said he wouldn't let me go until I kissed him. I slipped out but I was so sick of mingling and pretending to like these morons that I volunteered to work the pole just so I wouldn't have to smile.

Stripping would be a pretty great gig if were just the dancing. I love to perform but I can't stand customers. Everyone wants something for free and it gets pretty dehumanizing. I'm not big on socializing in the first place so I have a pretty low tolerance for bullshit.

I hit my first pose and wait for my music to begin. I'm wearing a silver bikini top, matching boy shorts, and eight-inch Lucite platforms. Robby puts on some Black Keys for me and I swing around with one hand to start off. I twirl, do splits, hand stands.

I lose myself in the music for a while. I block out the room. I love any kind of dancing but there's something about hanging upside down from one leg that makes me feel like a magical creature. On the right night it even gets me off.

I'm doing a music box when I see him across the room. He's sitting on a couch as far from the activity as possible. He's hot in a nerdy way and wearing red flannel shirt, with thick dark hair and a five-o'clock shadow. Most importantly, he's reading Slaughterhouse-Five. I watch him for the rest of the song but he's engrossed in his book.

I ask Ariel to take over for me when the song is done and nervously walk over. He doesn't notice me until I'm standing in front of him. I put my hand on my hip.

"'How nice, to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.'"

He looks up, surprised, and smiles. "'You seem older than the rest,'" he quotes back at me. "Is that your favorite?"

"It's my current mood." He laughs, loud and genuine. I feel at ease. "No, this is my favorite line, because I am a giant cliché."

I turn around to show him the small text spanning my shoulder blade: 'Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.'

"I don't think it's a cliché, I love it. In fact..." He props his foot on a chair and pulls up his pant leg to show me a nearly identical tattoo. "Or maybe I just proved that it is actually a cliché. I'm not sure."

"Ha!" I clasp my hands in delight. "Amazing! Did you get that freshman year to show the girls how deep you are?"

"Actually, I did, pretty much. One girl in particular. It came free with my Che Guevara T-shirt."

"Oh, you were one of those guys, huh? Too bad. I would've been too cool to hang with you in college. I was a real radical."

"I think you're still too cool for me." He puts his book on the table. "So why do you like Slaughterhouse-Five?"

"I always related to feeling unstuck in time. And it's a beautiful book. Why are you quizzing me?"

"I'm sorry, it's habit. I'm an English teacher. We're doing a unit on antiwar literature in a few weeks so I'm brushing up." He pauses. "Don't turn around but there's a guy in a black shirt staring at you. He looks pissed."

"Oh, that's my boss. This is weird but would you mind if I pretended to be trying to sell you a lap dance? I'm not giving you one, I'm just not ready to go back out there yet."

"No, totally. I get it. What do you think I'm doing back here?"

"Ugh, thank you."

I sit next to him and drape one leg over his lap. I rest my bent knee against his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to con you into buying a dance or anything. It's been one of those days where everything goes wrong, and this is a uniquely terrible event. I'm just trying to get through the night without going HAM on someone and losing my job."

"No, I get it. The only reason I'm here is because it's my brother's thing. Sooner or later he'll get alcohol poisoning, his asshole friends will move on to the next strip club, and I'll have to clean him up. I'm Elijah, by the way."

He offers his hand. I shake it.

"I'm Harper. But that's my actual, real-life name so don't tell anyone. Top secret information."

"Your secret's safe with me." He clears his throat. "Um, I know you're working, and you're getting paid to be nice to me, but would you like to go out sometime? I have an extra ticket for this David Lynch film festival next weekend. If you're interested it can be as friends or a date, whatever you'd like. I'm sorry if that's creepy, I promise I won't be upset if you say no."

"No, I'd love to go on a date with you. Really." I say. "That sounds awesome, I love David Lynch."

"Awesome! It should be a really good time. There's this..."

I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"I hate to break this up," Yvonne says. "But Shayla, we're on in fifteen."

"Gotcha, girl." I stand up. "Well, gotta go get champagne sprayed on my tits. Will you still be here when I get back?"

"Definitely." He grins.

Yvonne and I walk to the dressing room to change into our white T-shirts.

"Can you believe this shit?" I say. "They're spending three months of my rent on this one show. I've never even drank champagne that nice before."

"Just think of it this way," she says. "The more money they spend here, the less money they give to the Koch brothers. We should be bleeding them dry."

"True," I say. "You know that guy I was talking to? I'm kind of embarrassed for him to see this. I don't know. I just met him and his first impression is going to be me doing a sex show."

"If he's a snob, then fuck him," Yvonne says. "He's here too, so it's not like he's all high and mighty."

"You're right. You're always right." I knot the hem of my shirt. "Let's ho it up!"

The music starts. Yvonne and I giggle and spray each other with $300 bottles of Dom Perignon. The wet fabric clings to our naked breasts and the crowd cheers. I catch Elijah's eye. He's making faces in the back to get me to break character. I smile and feel my confidence return.

Terri and Ava douse us in champagne as we touch ourselves over our clothing and shake our asses. I do splits and back bends and make shapes in the air with my legs. We lightly make out and roll around together on the floor. I get on all fours and lick champagne out of Yvonne's belly button. We're soaked. I arch my back and flip my hair, but I'm dancing for an audience of one.

I straddle Yvonne while she's lying on her back and ride her like a cowgirl, invisible lariat and all. She rips my shirt open and the crowd roars. She sits up and I tear hers too. Her tits spill out. We press our wet, sticky breasts together and make out with lots of visible tongue. I can't help but notice what a great kisser she is.

Ten minutes and we're done. We only get seven dollars in tips.

"Fucking Republicans," Yvonne mutters. "I am never doing one of these parties again."

We shower in the dressing room and help each other get champagne out of the hard-to-reach places. I change back into my bikini, grab a bite to eat, and go find Elijah.

The main floor is a gauntlet of assholes. Everyone's blackout drunk and they're getting handsy. I weave through the crowd and spot Elijah at the bar.

"Hey!" He waves his arm at me. "Sorry to leave the table, I was getting a drink. You were incredible! How did you learn how to do all those flips and stuff?"

"Many years of gymnastics and dance. You could say I've been training all my life to be a stripper."

"Well, it shows. You looked like a ballerina when you were dancing earlier."

"I always imagine myself as that little pink ballerina from the jewelry boxes. You know, because she has a pole on her feet. And she's so dainty."

"That was my exact reference point. I even heard the music in my head."

A bloated, sweaty man bumps into Elijah and throws his arm around his shoulders. Elijah winces.

"Dude," he slurs. "You are such a fucking loser. All these fucking strippers in here and you pick the flattest one!"

Elijah shoves him off roughly.

"Get fucked, Dalton."

Dalton slaps him on the back of his head and leaves, presumably to get fucked.

"Let's go to the back, I don't want to be out here anymore. I'll give you a fake dance. I would gladly eat $80 to get away from this shitshow."

"I'll split it with you," he says. "Let's get out of here."

We sneak into Room 4, which is the cleanest but still pretty shabby. He sits down. I straddle him with my legs under me. I put my arms around his neck.

"They have cameras in here. I have to look like I'm working."

"Creepy." He laces his hands behind the small of my back. "You really are an amazing dancer. Do you dance anywhere else?"

"I'm actually developing a one-woman burlesque show," I say. "I'm doing the choreography, costumes, makeup, sets, promotion, you name it. It's a tribute to Gypsy Rose Lee. It's been stressful, but it's so close to being done."

"I used to watch 'Gypsy' all the time with my grandmother, so this is bringing up some complicated feelings for me. I had the biggest crush on Natalie Wood."

"Oh, you would love it. I made a replica of that orange dress she wears."

"Sign me up!" He rests his hands behind his head. "What's the show going to be like?"

"It's awesome. I do some of this." I extend my leg against his chest. "Some of this." I bring up my other leg. "This." I bend backwards so my head brushes the floor. "And this." Side split. I sit back up and put my arms around his neck.

"Very Fosse. What else?"

I slightly, barely, rotate my hips in circles on his lap.

"The thing about Gypsy Rose," I say. "Is that she wasn't the best dancer, she wasn't the most beautiful, she wasn't the most naked, she wasn't the raunchiest. But she was smart. She was quick. She had witty repartee woven in with the striptease. She knew that the best way to turn on an audience is to engage their minds and their intellects as well as their dicks."

I continue to grind against his crotch as I talk. I speed up. I feel him get hard underneath me.

"I think you're the most beautiful." He looks up at me. "I want to kiss you so bad."

I look around.

"Give me a sec."

I casually walk across the room and disarm the camera when I'm out of sight. It's a pretty common occurrence back here.

He picks me up by my waist and spins me around. We kiss and it feels something like fireworks. He has full, soft lips and a nimble tongue.

We fall back onto the couch and make out like teenagers. I lie on top of him, my belly against his. I gently lick and suck every part of his ear. He hugs me tight and presses his face into the curve of my neck. He touches my hair. I put my hand under his shirt and run my nails down his chest. He places his on my covered breast.

Elijah flips me over a in a sudden move of aggression. He leans down and kisses me.

"I really like you. A lot. I need you to know that."

I kiss him back.

"I know. I like you too."

He pushes aside the metallic fabric of my bathing suit bottom and fingers me until I'm wet. He slides his cock into me and I tighten my pussy around him. I touch his hair and kiss his cheek. He fucks me like he means it. Our legs intertwine and we're totally in sync.

The door bursts open and light floods in. Elijah pulls out and we scramble to cover ourselves.

"Shayla, what the fuck?!" Joe screams. "You pick tonight of all nights to start hooking? At the goddamn governor's son's party? You girls are fucking killing me tonight!"

"Hooking?!" I stand up incredulously. "I am not a prostitute, thank you very much."

"That's even worse! You're fucking fired. Fired! Clear your shit, get the fuck out, bye."

"Okay." I shrug. I extend my hand to Elijah and help him to his feet.

"You have been a royal pain in my ass since day one. Fuck you, don't you even think about coming back."

Joe slams the door on his way out. I turn to Elijah.

"The governor? Doyle is your father?"

"You don't have to say it, I hate him too." Elijah takes my face in his hands and kisses me. "You want to put a couple bottles on the party tab and get out of here?"

I smile.

"Absolutely."

*

Originally published in "Stories To Bang By, Vol. 10: Sex Work"