8. CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
brADY
But, no. It wasn’t her. That was some girl named Summer. With the same color hair, and the same exact fishnet-clad apple-bottom booty.
Big Mike drives me home in my car. I’m so grateful that we carpooled over to that wretched place.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I don’t know, dude. That was… something.”
“You did a good job, though. Those girls were about you.”
“I felt like an idiot. Also, like a cheap piece of meat. And thongs are so uncomfortable. I don’t know how women do it.”
“There’s a thought you should never share in mixed company.” Big Mike guffaws.
I breathe deeply, trying to relax. “So, is that what it’s like every time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. Basically. That was a smaller party than usual, though.”
“It felt like an out-of-body experience.”
“I’m sure. I mean, for real? It was a little weird for me, too. I’m trying to reconcile the fact that I’ve seen your bare ass now. And not, like, locker room ass. Stripper thong-ass. It’s a whole new level of friendship for us.”
“Please, don’t remind me.”
“Seriously, though? You did good, Brady. I’ve seen way worse. You got moves.”
“I used to dance when I was young.”
“Not like that , I’m sure.”
“No,” I concede, smiling. “Not like that.”
“It’s just a shame you flipped at the end. That probably lost you some street cred.”
“It’s fine. I’m not trying to make this, like, a regular thing.”
“You say that now. Wait till you count what’s in that envelope.”
I shake my head. “It was just a one-time thing, to help with my bills this month.”
“You mean to tell me that you can’t spare another hour of your life for $800?”
“Is that how much you think it is?”
“Ballpark, yeah.”
I pick up the envelope from my center console. It’s very fat. “All in singles?” I laugh. “That’ll look classy when I go to the grocery store.”
“That’s why you just take it straight to the bank and deposit it.”
“Great. So the ladies at TD can all make fun of me.”
“They don’t care. Money’s money,” Big Mike assures me.
“And how much do you get?”
“Oh, I’m flat rate - $200. Steve pays me direct.”
“I think I’d be happy doing what you do. That’s decent money. And you get to keep all your clothes on.”
“Sorry, my man. You’re too scrawny to protect the talent.”
“Scrawny?” I echo, feigning offense. “How dare you?”
Big Mike laughs, patting his belly. “I’ve got easily a hundred pounds on your little Slim Jim ass.”
“Rude,” I announce – but he’s right, and we both know it. “I’m solid muscle,” I reply. “And I’m almost as tall as you.”
“That’s true, but you weigh like a buck ninety-five soaking wet. I’d kill you if I sat on you.”
“Well, then, how about don’t sit on me?” I grin.
He shakes his head, and we remain silent as the still summer air blows in through the cracked front windows.
The words “sit on me” call to mind a moment, frozen in time – me, facing the shot girl who I swear to God is a doppleganger for Gretchen Andrews, the feeling of my fingers wrapped around hers, the fever from her body merging with the heat from mine to create a blazing chemical reaction that still stirs my lower half, even thinking about it now.
“You good?” Big Mike asks.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, shaking the memory out of my head. “I still can’t believe that I ran out into a parking lot in a fucking thong.”
“Not your finest moment.”
“What exactly should I have done?”
“Well, typically, the night ends with you excusing yourself into the back office. I bring you your clothes and you get dressed, and then I get our money from Arrow and we slip out the back door. The ladies always have food delivered right after the stripper leaves – it’s like if they’re not going to get laid, they need to satiate themselves somehow – so they’re usually too caught up with tacos or sandwiches or whatever to even really notice the talent heading out. ”
“Stop calling me the talent,” I say. “That sounds weird.”
Big Mike pulls us into the Villages at Diamond Excelsior and drives down the road toward the Tidewater. I spot his truck in the parking lot, sticking out like the behemoth it is, and he parks my car next to it.
“Thanks for driving, man,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Well, you were certainly in no kind of state to do it yourself.”
He hands me the envelope of cash, and I shove it in my drawstring bag. “Talk to you tomorrow?”
“You got it.”
“Get home safe, bro.”
We leave my car and I head inside. At Gretchen’s door, I pause to listen. It’s quiet. Maybe she’s sleeping, I think. A normal person would be asleep on a Friday night at – what time is it, even? I check my phone. Midnight.
But I’m wired. I go into my apartment and count my cash.
It’s $883. That’s a fucking lot of money for one night.
Definitely enough to cover the next month of groceries, hands down.
And so what if it cost me my dignity? I don’t have to do it again if I don’t want to.
This was only supposed to be a trial run, anyway.
At least that’s what Steve, the guy who owns the company, told me on Zoom last week.
“Good audition video,” he’d said. “You dance often?”
“Not really,” I replied. I’d watched the movie Magic Mike and learned the steps to the It’s Raining Men number Channing Tatum does with the umbrella.
Luis had a golf umbrella like that in his dining room, so I used that – though it wasn’t black like the ones in Magic Mike.
Instead, it was white with Diamond Excelsior Golf Club written on it in royal blue block print.
But I digress. I stood my bedframe and mattress up against the wall and pushed back all of the other furniture in the living room to make space, then set my cell phone up against the television to record myself doing the dance.
The moves were pretty easy to learn – just lots of hip stuff.
The guys in the movie crawled around on the floor a lot, I noticed.
The women liked that – yes, I know they’re actresses, but I don’t know.
It felt convincing, as if real women might enjoy it, so I snaked around on Luis’ Pergo floors for my audition, too.
Also, I didn’t have the right outfit – a trench coat and a rain hat – so I improvised with a zip up hoodie and a baseball cap.
For the part where Channing jumps off the stage and starts grinding on the ladies in the audience, I just improvised using poor Luis’ kitchen chair.
I cut the filming after that, since I didn’t have a pair of tearaway pants or anything like that.
“You ever strip before?” Steve had asked.
“No, but I’m a quick study,” I assured him.
“And how do you know Mike?”
“Oh, me and Big Mike have been friends since grammar school. We grew up together.”
“He’s good people,” Steve said.
“The best,” I agreed.
“And you’re cool with keeping this… discreet?” Steve asked.
“Um, yes. Absolutely. I definitely wouldn’t want anyone to find out about it.”
“Okay. Then we’ll try it out. I’ve got a small gig next Friday.
Mike will be there. It’s all cash. You just need the clothes.
They’re doing a masquerade themed thing – so I was thinking you could wear a Zorro costume.
It’s one of our easy go-to costumes anyway.
The pants snap down the sides. Make sure you practice with them at home so you know how hard to pull in order to get them off quickly.
There’s also the mask, the hat, and the cape.
And a vest. Also with snaps. Oh, and we use a whip instead of a fencing sword. You know – for safety.”
“Right. Um. What about… well, for under the pants?”
“Oh, yeah. So, you’re going to need a dance belt.
It’s like the male dancer’s equivalent to a jock strap.
It’s got some padding and support, gives you some lift, and fits nice and snug around your junk so nothing falls out when you’re dancing.
You need to wear it under your G-string.
The G-string for the Zorro costume is black with some bedazzling on it. ”
“Where do I get that?”
“We’ll issue it to you. It’s the only part of the costume we don’t want back.”
“So, hold up.” I lowered my voice. “I have to wear a thong… over a thong?”
“Trust me, you’ll be glad you did. It makes everything look bigger, keeps an extra layer between you and the partygoers, and tucks it all up in there.”
“And I can buy these things from you?”
“Yep,” Steve says. “It’s $50 for the dance belt and $30 for the G-string.”
Fuck, I thought. That’s a pretty big investment for some tiny pieces of cloth I’ll never want to wear again.
“Trust me, if you perform half as good as you did in your audition video, you’ll make ten times that amount back next Friday.”
I nodded. “You take Venmo?” I asked.
“Uh huh. I’m at Steve the Skeeve.”
I grimaced. Not wanting to be offensive, I didn’t respond.
“Old college nickname,” he added.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll send it over once we get off this call.”
“Good. I’ll get your gear to Big Mike.”
“Okay. Is there any, like, paperwork you need me to fill out?”
“Nope. We’re entirely off-the-books. Next Friday will be your trial. If you like it, and the girls like you, great. We’ll add you to the lineup. If not, we part ways, no hard feelings. Fair?”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“Stripping’s not for everyone,” he told me.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I laughed. “But if it pays the bills…” my voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” the Skeeve agreed.
With that, we ended the Zoom call. I sent over the cash from my (dwindling) bank account and called Big Mike.
“You in?” he asked.
“I’m in,” I said.
“It’s easy money, dude. You’ll be fine.”
“You never told me the guy’s name was Steve the Skeeve. What the hell is that all about?”
“Oh, you know. Just jokes.”
“He said you’ll get me my clothes in advance.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll save you the trip of having to go meet up with him. What’s the character? Fireman? Pizza delivery guy?”
“Oh my God, gross. Is that actually a thing?”
Big Mike laughed. “You’d be surprised.”