Nudge 16 The Sex Club That Isn’t a Sex Club #2
‘South London.’ My voice comes out as a squeak, bordering on a whisper.
Even with the mic shoved in my face, I don’t know who would have heard that.
Honestly, I’m shocked anything came out at all.
My mouth’s gone dry, hands shaking more than I can control.
I shove them into my pockets before anyone in the crowd can notice.
I don’t get shy on stage – I’m a three-time junior debate champion for God’s sake, but I get to prep for those; I get to know what’s coming. Being shoved in front of complete strangers with no real explanation is a completely different ballgame. Plus, I’m in dungarees. Dungarees! In a nightclub!
‘Well, Maddy C from south London, you ready to take on the challenge?’ he asks, trying his best to soothe me with his grin.
How can I take on a challenge when I don’t know what it is? Or where I am? Or what I’m doing up here?
Everyone’s beaming at me in excitement and I couldn’t tell you a thing about what I could possibly be doing next, but one thing is for certain. I cannot be bad vibes. My outfit has already left me with so much to prove.
‘Right, who wants to go up against our dazzling contender?’ the man yells out to the crowd, realising a response from me is a lost cause.
The crowd swells and cheers as arms fly in the air, pointing and waving in every direction possible.
He scans the crowd for the next victim – someone far more willing than I was and clearly eager to take on whatever hell I’ve committed to.
I watch his hand point somewhere in the crowd as a guy burrows through to the stage, a large grin on his face as he banters with our host. I can’t register one word he’s saying.
I can barely hear. My brain is fixed on whatever ordeal lies ahead of us.
‘Let’s get you two dressed, shall we?’ the host asks, voice cutting through my thoughts and bringing me back to the stage.
I hear a rustle behind me as a stagehand runs from the wings and hands me a plastic anorak.
It’s flimsy and weak, practically dissolving in my sweaty fingers, but her smile is so sweet and encouraging that I have to partake.
I smile back nervously as I pull it over my head, shimmying into the overgrown sleeves.
‘You both look wonderful!’ our host says. ‘So, the game is on! Are you ready to . . .’
‘PAINT THAT MATE!’ the crowd screams again.
The words are meaningless to me – foreign jumbles to my ears – but the certainty of the audience only makes whatever they are saying sound scarier.
My competition is loving it – playing to the crowd and strutting around in his plastic poncho.
They yelp and cheer as he makes the stage his runway, goading him into various poses and turns.
I know I should do something equally fun, but my feet are stuck to the ground beneath me.
Aiden Edwards will perish if I make it out of this alive. Perish.
‘Right, I will explain this for any newbies in the audience one time and one time only,’ our host says.
‘Right now, our willing participants are being handed an envelope with their magic word. When the buzzer sounds, they must open their envelope and start painting that object on their canvases. First to have their word guessed correctly by all of you wins a coveted ‘Paint That Mate’ T-shirt, and a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bar tab.’
The prizes elicit a ‘wooo!’ from the audience, all eager for the competition to start. It sounds easy enough – a high-stakes, drunken drawing game. Not my strong suit, but not the world’s most distressing challenge.
‘The paint can be found in the barrels at the other end of the stage and our contestants have ten minutes to get their masterpiece together.’ He looks back at us to check we’re OK. ‘But can they paint with brushes?’
‘NO!’ the crowd screams in joyful unison.
‘Can they paint with their fingers?’
‘No!’
‘What can they paint with? Everybody at once!’
‘Their bodies!’
‘That’s right! The fastest, and most creative body part, wins!’ The host sends the crowd into an ecstatic frenzy.
My smile fades into panic, cheeks losing the ability to even nervously fake some joy as it all dawns on me.
Suddenly the anoraks make sense, as does the reason Aiden sent me here in the first place.
He wanted me to sweat under this spotlight, shy away from the challenge and immediately default my future happiness to him.
But I will not let him win. I cannot. Even if it means embarrassing myself in front of this room full of strangers.
I suppose when you think about it, that’s all they are – strangers.
People who don’t know me, what I stand for or what I am like.
I am a nobody – a blank slate in dungarees who is standing on this stage eager and up for the challenge.
I can’t be predictable to them; they don’t know me or my next move.
I can be a girl who dives.
‘Are you two ready?’ he asks, grinning at both of us.
It’s now or never.
‘Hell, yeah!’ I yell into his mic.
The crowd roars, the sound helping to steady my stomach. They’re on my side. They like me. I will be OK.
‘Well, then, let’s get this started, shall we?’ the host’s voice booms. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to . . .’
‘PAINT THAT MATE!’
The klaxon blares almost immediately, the sound jolting through my body and pumping my blood round at two times its normal speed. My heart leaps at the challenge, the deafening screams of the crowd spurring me on as I switch into game mode with no time to lose.
I tear open the envelope, the animosity in my grip almost ripping the paper inside with it.
But it survives well enough for me to make out the word plane, typed out in clear, unmistakable font.
An aeroplane? How I’m meant to draw a plane when I can’t use my hands is beyond me, but I need to figure it out asap if I want to even stand a chance.
I rush across the stage to the paint, almost skidding as I leg it to the sound of cheers. Four large barrels stand before me, coming up to the height of my ribs, filled with red, yellow, blue and black paint.
‘Mix it! Mix it!’
The screams increase as my opponent gains on me, throwing his full arm into the red paint elbow-first before doing the same with the blue.
He is covered. These anoraks may have come with ‘sleeves’, but they’re wide open and billowy, and as fake as can be.
He doesn’t seem to care, scurrying back to his canvas and throwing his arm at the slate like a windmill.
That’s what I need to do. Throw caution to the wind and, for once, just get out of my head.
So I do.
The noise level soars as I turn my back to the first barrel, using my arms to prop me over it so I can dunk myself in.
I sink into the paint slowly, the sensation dense and vaguely off-putting as I drop further in.
There’s no stopping me now – I am quite literally in too deep.
I wiggle emphatically, ensuring that the colour will stick before repeating the same with the yellow and blue.
Then I sprint for my canvas, throwing my entire back into it before smearing the canvas in the muddled blackish browny grey I’ve created.
I need the body of the plane to take up as much space as possible – once I have the foundation, the wings should be easy.
It’s going to take at least three or four trips to those barrels, but I will make it work.
I should be embarrassed, ashamed, mortified, even – this goes against every fibre of my being.
But the undying support from the crowd echoes around the room, blocking my thoughts and filling my head with a strong, fiery delusion.
I let their cheers guide me, consume my being as I play to their smiles, ducking and weaving and grinding up on my canvas in time to the music.
They want a show and I’m giving it to them, much to their glee.
‘A PLANE!’ They shout out the answer in unison as I smear a blue sky on my canvas with a swipe of my arm.
‘We have a winner!’ The host bounds over to me.
I can barely hear. My head’s pounding with unabashed jubilation.
His hand grabs my own, launching it into the air as the audience hollers louder than humanly possible.
Then he smiles widely, handing me a T-shirt and gift card, and gesturing for me to bow for my adoring fans.
I do so somehow, my body on autopilot, powered purely by the screams of the people before me.
I’m led backstage to remove the anorak and wipe off any excess paint.
With shaky legs, I make my way back to my friends, who don’t release me from a squished, euphoric group hug until we have returned to the dance floor.
‘That was unbelievable! You are unbelievable!’ Raina yells as they cling to me for the fourth consecutive minute.
‘And incredibly hot. Seriously, you were on fire up there. Devi got it all on camera,’ Kimi adds.
‘Yeah, we knew you could move, but not like that. I don’t know what came over you up there, but you should keep it,’ Devi says.
She flashes the screen in my face and I watch myself come to life, owning that stage like I was born to be there. The girl in the video is confident and sexy, almost ethereal. She’s the girl in the dress from the La La Lounge.
‘Send me that,’ I say and Devi obliges immediately, the video pinging through to my phone in its grainy glory.
Free drinks aside, there’s only one thing on my mind.
I slam my thumb on the forward button, leaving it caption-free.
The video speaks for itself – there’s no need to say more.
Less than a minute later, my phone buzzes and a smile forces its way across my cheeks as I read his words once, twice, three times over.
It’s two messages – simple, but all that I needed to pave over a dip in my gut that I’ve only just realised was still there.
Not bad, Maddy.
Now that’s what I call unpredictable.