Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Jackson
M y brother closes the limo door with a smirk, leaving Daphne and me alone in the strange space.
Outside, he says something to the driver. A moment later, the limo moves. Back to the Strip. To the strip club on the Strip.
Zack's idea of clever.
"I guess I can borrow his dare. You can knock out both in one shot." Daphne settles into her seat across from me. She smooths her denim shorts and uncrosses and recrosses her legs. "This is the one idea of Las Vegas fun we haven't touched."
"We haven't gone on a roller coaster," I say.
"That's not Las Vegas specific." She brushes a dark strand behind her ear. "But I won't hold you to it." She smiles in a teasing way,
But I still hear you're no fun echoing through the space.
Every girlfriend I've ever had said the same thing. I'm a great guy. On paper, a perfect partner. In reality, I'm just not ready to give fifty percent of my heart, time, thoughts, effort, life.
But damn, you're great in bed .
Sometimes, they try to stay because of that. Sometimes, they do what Maddie did, and they try to maintain only that part of our relationship.
We could just have fun .
But that doesn't work either. I'm missing something.
With Daphne—
I don't want to miss anything. I want to experience everything.
I shouldn't, I know. I should go home. Back to LA. Far, far away from the furry handcuffs in the hotel room and the desire in her eyes and the smell of her shampoo.
But I don't.
I can't.
I need to be near her. I need it in a way I haven't needed anything in a long, long time.
At least we're in public here.
Sort of.
"Let's do it," I say. And fast. The limo is too private. My view is too good.
Those long legs spread over the leather—
I want wrapped around me.
"You sure?" she asks.
I nod yes .
She watches me carefully, deciding if she believes my change to party-guy. I'm not sure if she does or she doesn't, but she nods in agreement, and she sits up straight. "Can we stop at the hotel though?" she asks. "I want to change first."
Fuck me. No. I can work with this. "I'll wait in the car."
She frowns, but it's a quick thing. Short-lived. "Sure. No problem." She gives instructions to the driver.
He turns around and heads to the hotel. When we arrive, she nearly runs out the door.
I try not to watch her hips sway as she moves, but I fail.
And when she returns, fifteen minutes later, in a tight, short, low-cut, low-back white dress, I try not to imagine the silky fabric on the floor.
I fail at that too.
For the fifteen-minute drive, I fail to make intelligent conversation, to laugh, to joke, to do anything but play out scenes of Daphne in my lap.
The gentleman's club is back in downtown Las Vegas, near Freemont Street. We only pay twenty dollars to enter the dark room (a bargain, apparently).
The place is straight out of a cop show from the nineties. Dark lights, blue leather, mirrored walls.
Men in dark clothes gather around the stages in the middle of the room. Each house two poles and two dancers, in various states of undress.
The school girl in a pink plaid skirt and pigtails thrusts her pelvis against the pole in time with a hair metal song. She looks exactly like my image of a stripper or a porn star. Bleach blonde hair, tan skin, huge fake breasts, slim waist.
The dancer sharing the stage is her opposite. A slim woman with small breasts in all black. A leather bodysuit, thigh-high fishnets, stiletto boots. A cropped bob, black lipstick, thick eye makeup. The picture of a Domme. She even has a whip in her hand.
On the other stage, a woman in all red and a woman in blue harem pants dance their respective poles. The first is a short, athletic Black woman. The other is a curvy Asian woman. They seem to move together, doing matching inversions.
"Fuck. That's amazing." Daphne's jaw drops as the woman in red cops an upside-down pose, back arched, legs spread, tight curls falling toward the plastic. "How does she do that?"
"Practice," I say. That's the way anyone does anything.
The place is more crowded than clubs are on cop shows, but it's not rowdy. The guys sitting upfront toss bills onto the stage with little passion. The men in back share the same mellow vibe.
There are a few female customers, all half a couple, with a boyfriend probably.
That's how people see us. An open-minded woman with her lucky boyfriend.
A cocktail waitress in bridal lingerie stops in front of us. "We match." She smiles at Daphne.
Daphne struggles not to stare at her huge fake breasts. They're barely hidden by her white and blue baby doll.
"Sit wherever you like," the waitress says.
"My friend wants a lap dance." Daphne's eyes stay on the woman's breasts.
"Your friend, huh?" The waitress smiles. "Just your friend or the two of you?" Her voice drops to an even flirtier tone. A put-on, of course, but who can fault her in this particular venue?
"The two of us," I say.
"What a fun bachelor-bachelorette." She smiles. "Do you have a dancer in mind?"
"You're not…" Daphne stares at her.
"Sorry, honey, no, not tonight. Long story." She shrugs, apologetic. "Take a look. Find someone you like. The stage changes every three songs." She puts a hand over her mouth and stage whispers, "Mercy is my personal favorite. But I do love Aphrodite too."
Mercy must be the woman in bondage. But which dancer is claiming the name of the Greek goddess of love?
The waitress doesn't point it out. She jumps straight to her job. "A drink while you wait?"
Daphne nods. "A Moscow mule, please."
That sounds reasonable. "Two."
The waitress struts to the bar.
"How does her top stay on?" Daphne looks around the room with wide-eyed wonder. "There's so much here… why do men come here as a social bond? The appeal of a naked woman is obvious. The appeal of a naked woman in your lap too. But the rest… you're a man."
It's not a good idea to continue this line of conversation, but I say, "I am," anyway.
She laughs at her own questions. "Sorry. I know you're a man. It's not up for debate. I just…"
She's fascinated.
She can't help it.
That's Daphne. She wants to know everything about everything, especially about sex.
We're here as friends to have a good time together. And I'm still on a mission to get her laid.
I need to help her relax. No, she is relaxed. I need to help her with something else, with teasing out her questions and finding her own answers.
What does she like? How? Who? Where? When?
I want to know, yes, but she needs to know.
"Is this your first time at a"—I struggle for a euphemism— "erotic show?"
"An erotic show? No. I've been to burlesque before. But this is my first strip club." Of course, she calls it what it is.
And I think of myself as direct and open.
Daphne pulls her eyes from the stage to look at me. She studies my expression with the same level of interest and curiosity. "You've done this before?"
"A few times," I tell her the truth. I try to stay as open as she is, but it's hard. She's more open than most people. At least she is with me.
Curiosity fills her eyes. "By choice?"
That depends on how you define choice. Most people have a flexible definition. They see intent in others' actions but not their own.
I didn't suggest the strip club. I didn't want to visit the strip club. The first time, I had enough curiosity, that I didn't resist the idea. I thought why not and why are we going to watch naked women together to celebrate someone's birthday?
The other times, I didn't want to go, but I did anyway. I still chose to attend. I could have opted out. It's not as if I would have ruined my reputation as a party animal.
Why did I go though?
I wasn't trying to prove anything. I wasn't excited about the idea. I wasn't horrified by it either.
I was doing what I always do at work. Trying to make the smartest move, to do what others expected of me.
"It wasn't my preference," I say. "But I could have left." I didn't. I choose to stay. But then, who am I arguing with?
There's no judgment in Daphne's eyes. Only that same interest. "When was this?"
I rack my brain to remember the details. After the first trip, the others ran together. "A few times in law school. Then after. A few work celebrations and a bachelor party."
"Isn't that weird, bringing sex into work?"
"Very." But it's common in all these once all-male, still male-dominated industries.
She nods of course and continues her questions. "Did you enjoy the experience?"
"No," I say.
"Why not?" she asks. "You don't enjoy looking at naked women?"
"When you put it that way, of course." There are beautiful women here on display. There's a visual pleasure. It's wide open for me. And for everyone else in the room.
"But not in this context?" she asks.
"It's hard to explain." My eyes go to the stage. To a blonde dancer in all pink. She pulls off her tiny top to the cheers of a few guys on stage, and then she grabs the pole and thrusts against it. The move is supposed to be sensual, but it looks awkward and forced.
"Try," she says.
I owe her that. Only I don't know how. The falseness is part of it. Not all of it. The awkward social dynamic too. "I don't mind a little pretense. A game or a role-play. That can be fu, if we both know what we're getting. I don't mind a party where we all hint at sex. But this is too much of both."
"You don't like attending clubs with friends and coworkers?"
I nod.
"Would you like it on your own? Or with a lover?"
Lover. It's an old-timey word. It doesn't fit any of my relationships. I don't love anyone. I fuck, I care, I try, but I never love. "That would be better, but it's still not for me."
"Why?"
I say the rest without thinking. "I don't mind watching the dance itself, especially with a skilled performer, who enjoys her work." My eyes go to the stage, to the woman next to the blonde. A brunette in red, spinning around the pole with athletic prowess.
Not exactly my idea of sexy, but I can still enjoy a topless woman with acrobatic skills.
"It's everything else," I continue. "The crowd work, the fake smile, the attempt at extracting money."
She nods.
"Men come to clubs to look at naked women. Women work here to make money. It's a fair trade. Everyone knows what they're getting. But I don't like feeling hustled."
"You want an equal trade?" she asks.
"Something like that." It's not just that I don't want to pay for sex. It's not just ego. It's more. Something else lacking from an exchange of sex for money.
"And you don't see it as equal, if you have to pay for a woman's attention?"
"Is it equal?" I ask.
"That's a tough question." She looks to the stage, watching the woman in red launch into a series of upside-down poses. "Women spend a lot of time faking interest in men. They're not usually paid for it."
That's not an angle I've considered. "Do you do that?"
She shoots me a really look. It's good-humored. It fades quickly to curiosity.
But I still feel it.
I know less than I think. I'm more oblivious than I realize.
"All women do," she says. "It's not a choice. If I go to a bar, and a guy offers to buy me a drink, I have to say yes or laugh it off. I can't ignore him or roll my eyes or leave. Not if I want to go on with the rest of my night without interruption. And at work—I had a supervisor at my internship. He was annoying and had terrible B.O. He didn't notice when men didn't smile at him, but he noticed when I frowned. I had to laugh at his jokes and ignore his lack of hygiene if I wanted a good letter of recommendation."
"That's fucked."
"It's every day."
Cassie talks about stuff like that. Maddie did too. I thought I listened. I thought I got it. But I missed a lot. Too much.
She continues, "It happens everywhere. Men talk at women. They expect us to listen and laugh and understand without any objection, without any real concern toward our inner life. I don't think it's even conscious necessarily. It just… is."
Do I do that?
"So I guess I see it that way," she says. "I see the appeal of paying someone to entertain you, pretend you're the most interesting person on the planet, so you can stop trying for once. And, yeah, maybe it's an exchange, but does that mean it's fake? You work hard for your clients. Does that mean you hate them?"
"Some of them," I say.
"So you like some?"
I nod.
"Do you ever show interest in their emotional lives?"
"What do you mean?"
"Say you have one of those interview things—"
"A deposition," I offer.
She nods exactly . "And they're nervous. What would you say?"
"I would tell them we've practiced and they're prepared. If that wasn't enough, I'd ask questions, keep them distracted."
"You care," she says. "Or at least, you seem like you do."
"I do." Usually.
"Is that fake, because they pay you?"
"That's a good question."
She smiles. "Sorry… I'm going past sex research, into sociology. Cass and I talk about it a lot. We started a non-fiction book club, you know."
"Cassie reads now?" I try to latch on to the subject of my sister. A strange distraction in a room of half-naked women and horny men, but it's what I've got.
Daphne does the same. Or it's easy for her. I can't tell. "She's a writer!" she exclaims.
"A songwriter," I tease, the way I tease Cass when she's here.
"I'm going to tell her you said that." She smiles. "And, yeah, she reads more than she did. But not as much as you'd expect for a writer…" Her eyes go to the stage. She watches as the woman in black leather rolls her body suit to her waist.
Daphne's eyes go wide.
Her breath hitches.
She tries to look somewhere else, but everything in the room points to women's bodies.
"So, uh, you don't like it, because it feels fake," she says. "Is that all? I mean, you must enjoy looking at naked women, right?"
Of course. Women are beautiful. I understand that appeal. I just don't enjoy it in this context. Not in particular. "I prefer when I can look and touch."
She bites her lip. She tries to hold on to intelligent conversation. "Is it a hard line? It's only fun if you can touch? Or is the tease fun too. And can't you touch a little? I thought most lap dances were pretty handsy these days."
How in the world does she know that?
"I've read a few books. Memories by sex workers," she says. "Usually, the guys are touching the dancers everywhere except between the legs. And the opposite too."
Is that what she wants here? For a dancer to touch her?
To watch a dancer touch me.
Or watch me touch a dancer.
She came along for a reason. I thought I knew what it was. At the moment, it's hard to concentrate on anything.
"Is that it?" Her voice drops to a low tone. All curiosity, only different. Deeper. A physical, emotional curiosity, not an intellectual one. "Is that it? It's no fun unless someone comes?"
"No. It's fun to draw it out sometimes."
Her eyes go wide.
I should stop, but I don't. "But it's more fun if it's a contest of will." Words pour from my mouth without stopping in my brain. It's the music, the lights, the topless women.
No. It's my desire to connect with Daphne.
Here.
There.
Everywhere.
"I don't want to play a game with an unwilling participant," I say.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Say you're right. Lap dancers are anything goes except the—"
"Fun zone?" she offers.
My lips curl into a smile. It eases five percent of the sexual tension. Brings me three percent closer to my senses. Then my eyes dip to her cheeks, and I lose all sense of progress. "Let's say anything goes except the fun zone."
She smiles.
I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "That's what she's willing to do. I could test myself, by trying not to touch at all. But I can't test myself to see if I can resist going for the gold. And even if I try to, say, avoid touching her breasts."
Her chest heaves.
My eyes go to the neckline of her shiny white dress. "I'm playing the game by myself. She doesn't know. That might be fun if we're consenting partners, but in this situation, it's…" I struggle to find a word. "Off."
"Is that what you usually do?" she asks. "Do you usually play games?"
"Sometimes."
"So, your coworker had it right?" Her gaze goes to the dancer in black leather. "You're a Dom?"
The waitress arrives before I can answer. She hands us our drinks, takes my credit card, disappears.
Daphne's eyes go to me, but she doesn't ask me to answer the question. She sees it in my eyes. "Do you play games like that? To see how long a tease can last?"
"Sometimes."
"Can we play?"
I should say no, of course, but I don't. "Name the terms."
She doesn't hesitate. "We're going to do a lap dance, right."
I nod.
"Let's see who can resist touching the dancer."
"You don't like women."
She shrugs. "So?"
"Won't it be easier for you to resist?"
"How do you suggest we play?"
How about you take off that dress, and we see if you can resist coming. No. I like her idea. "You're right. This works." I have more practice. And I need an option that doesn't involve me making her come.
Daphne bites her lip. "Good. Yeah. Perfect." She brings the copper mug to her lips and takes a long sip. "Who do you like here? Of our options." She looks to the four dancers on stage. Then, through the crowd, at the dancers talking to customers.
Mostly white, thin women with big fake tits. A curvy Black woman. A short Asian woman. A tall Latina.
All playing into stereotypes.
What would she say about this?
Desire isn't politically correct, maybe.
She takes her time surveying her options. And she points to the dancer in leather, as she picks up her tips and rights her top. "I want her."
"You like a Domme?"
"I do," she says. "That's what I want to try tonight. I want to be tied to someone's bed."
Fuck me.