Chapter 2
ZAK
“You’re on rubbish duty this week, big man. The bathroom bin is fucking gross too; Josh’s girlfriend left all her used period shit in there.”
I cringe — not at the sanitary items, but at the teenage immaturity — as Heath grins at me.
He’s the youngest of my flatmates, only nineteen, and it shows.
He’s studying sports science, but to be honest, I get the feeling he’ll be dropping out before the year is done.
He doesn’t seem cut out for study — at least not yet.
Give the kid a few more years to live life first and figure out what he really wants to do.
“It’s fine.” Dragging the bins from the backyard out to the footpath is something I’ve been avoiding all evening, but it needs to be done.
I just don’t want to walk past that house again.
I’ve been opting to catch public transport the last few days, telling myself I was saving money I’d otherwise spend on parking in the inner city, but the reality is that I’ve been too afraid to go near my car.
I’ve played it over in my mind a hundred times since the other night.
The way I’d had a sense that something was there, watching me.
The face — definitely feminine from what I could see, maybe even pretty, and one hundred percent see-through — glowing softly.
They hadn’t looked sinister, but the situation had scared the shit out of me. Especially when the door had opened.
But ghosts aren’t real.
There are still a lot of species that humans don’t know exist. Hell, there’s a lot that I don’t know about; I’ve never been to the First Realm myself, and I’ve got no fuckin’ clue about what goes on there.
My family — on both sides — have lived in New Zealand for generations, and before that my ancestors had emigrated from Scotland, where there’s still a large orc population.
I may not know much, but I do know that ghosts are not on any list of supernatural, paranormal, non-human, or monstrous beings — whatever people want to call us — anywhere. Ghosts are a myth. Ghosts aren’t real.
But I know what I saw.
I empty the rubbish in the house, my nose scrunched against the smell of rotting food, and carry it all outside to the big wheely bin out back. It’s another freezing night, and the waxing moon lights a halo around it in the clouds.
Ghosts aren’t real, I remind myself as I drag the bin down the path that runs between the house and the fence. That place isn’t haunted.
As I set the bin on the footpath, that same cold, creeping feeling settles on my neck. I freeze, too scared to turn around, until the loud bark of a dog makes me jump.
“Fuck.”
I’m pretty sure I’m the biggest guy that lives on this street. I’m also the biggest coward, too scared to even glance at an empty house.
At some point I’m going to need to use my car again.
I keep my head down as I walk — quickly — to the back door.
On Friday night I finally use my ute again to drive to the strip club. I manage to jump in and pull out of the driveway without any creepy ghost women looking at me, and I feel both relieved and strangely disappointed after working myself up for six days straight.
The club is less of a club and more of a small theatre.
There’s only a small bar to one side, a raised stage with a runway extending halfway into the room, and many circular tables, all squeezed together.
I can imagine it feels pretty crowded in here when the show is on.
Right now it’s dead quiet, with not a soul in sight.
It looks neat, tidy, and clean. There’s posters on the walls with rules — decorated in cutesy pink sparkles — about having fun respectfully and keeping hands where instructed, and others with information on taxis and rideshares, and the free sanitary items available in the bathrooms. I can’t quite read the other display at the back, except for the words EMPOWERMENT and TAKE CONTROL, but I do know what I’m looking at once I spot the pictures underneath, the variety of dildos and vibrators adding to the impression that it’s one big advertisement for sex toys.
I can see why Kayla likes this place.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping further into the space. The instructions, texted from Kayla’s cousin earlier today, were to “come right in,” so here I am, walking around the Auckland Men headquarters, feeling a little out of place, but more relaxed than I have been all day.
“Hey! You must be Zak! I’m Leigh!”
I turn at the sound and find the tiniest orc I’ve ever met standing on stage. She can’t be more than five and a half feet tall, her skin a paler green than mine, and her tusks less pronounced than Kayla’s. She must be a halfling. Kayla didn’t mention that.
“Hey, yeah, it’s nice to meet you.” I walk up to the edge of the stage, shaking her hand, looking up just a little in order to meet her eye. She grins, and the family resemblance to her cousin is uncanny.
“Kayla said you’d be a great fit here, so I’m glad you’ve come along.
We’re always looking for new guys to join our team, and diversifying is important to us.
” She tucks her hands into the pockets of the coat she’s currently wearing.
“It’s almost time for me to do hair and makeup, but I thought I could show you around the space first, introduce you to the guys, and then get you set up at a table here at the front.
You’ll be sitting with some of our regulars tonight.
They’re excited to have a man sitting with them at the table.
They’re a great bunch — really respectful — so you’ve got nothing to worry about. ”
I nod. “Sounds good.” I’ve tried my best to have very little expectations coming into tonight — there’s only so much information on their website — but everything so far has seemed reasonable. I climb the stairs leading onto the stage, asking, “So you get regulars?” as I reach the top.
“Yep. Not weekly, but monthly. They’re a spicy book club, actually. A bunch of romance readers and a couple of authors, too. Like I said, they’re harmless.”
I can’t help but grin, taking another look around the place. It feels cosy, almost. Safe.
I think I can do this.
I watch the guy on stage — a handsome werewolf in nothing but a g-string thong — gyrate above a woman lying on the dark floor, his crotch hovering over her face, coming so close to touching her each time his hips roll in a simulation of sex.
I can’t do this.
Around me the room is filled with the delighted squeals of a hundred people — mainly women — with wads of cash waving in the air.
The rest of the guys, all stripped down to their thongs after the main group performance, stalk around the room, choosing people at random for lap dances.
I haven’t known where to look all night because there’s been so much going on, but now a movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I stare open-mouthed as a minotaur picks up the entire chair a human woman is sitting on.
She’s dressed in a very adult version of a princess costume and I see a flash of her underwear as he presses the chair back against the wall, before doing some sort of jiggling/thrusting move that looks good but borderline boundary-breaking between her spread legs.
The squeals from her table are deafening, and when he sets her down once more she’s wearing the biggest grin on her face, her Bride to Be sash slipping off her shoulder.
“Isn’t it fantastic!”
I nod, wide-eyed, at the woman next to me. She’s one of the authors and, it turns out, a vampire, her grin showing off her two large fangs. Her pale skin is flushed a soft pink around her cheeks and chest — a sign she fed recently — and she laughs, patting me on the back.
“I know it’s a lot at first, but really, this is just a wonderfully empowering show. Look how happy everyone is! And I think you’d do amazing up there. You’ve got the body for it, that’s for sure.”
I shake my head.
“You’ve got rhythm too,” she continues, ignoring the expression on my face. “I saw the way you were bopping along in your seat to the dance before.”
“I just —”
“I am going to be so disappointed if you’re not up there when I come back here next month,” she says insistently, staring at me with her blood-red eyes. “You should do it.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I’m interrupted by the dragon shifter — I think his name was Axel — who suddenly drags back my vampire buddy’s chair.
She lets out a whoop of surprise, fangs practically glowing in the UV blacklight that fills the room.
He starts performing a lap dance over the vampire, taking her hands and gently placing them on his abs as he moves over her.
He’s smiling, but I recognise the look on his face. It’s totally professional, and just aloof enough to say this is all an act.
He’s acting. I, an actor myself, feel like an idiot for forgetting this fact.
This guy is working. He’s convincing — they all are — but it’s work, they’re professionals, it’s no different to any sex scene I’ve had to act out in front of cameras.
And yeah, sometimes I did get a boner when I had to fake having sex with a beautiful woman.
So what? It was work, we were professionals, she was all good about it.
There were intimacy coordinators involved every step of the way.
I don’t know why I’ve been weird about male entertainment — the correct term, according to Leigh — now that I frame it in that light. It’s a dance and drama show, and sure, the show is very sexualised, but so what?
There’s nothing wrong with it. The word empowering seems to be the one every woman I’ve spoken to has used regarding this. I look around the room again, watching everyone in the audience, all comfortable in their sexuality and their sexual desires, not a hint of embarrassment from anyone present.
I don’t see how this could be a bad thing. I can act. I can dance. The pay is better, the place is warm. It beats being a zombie outdoors in the middle of winter.