The Language of Men (21 page)

"What's the market like these days?" T.J. asked, leaning back in his chair. Misty stared at him.

"What's your friend talkin' bout?" she asked me.

I shook my head.

"You know what I'm talkin' 'bout." Misty stared at T.J. "Twenty for twenty."

T.J. exhaled. "In this economy? That's steep, don't you think? Don't you think that's steep, fellas?"

"Seems fair," I said.

T.J. shook his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out several twenties. He peeled one off and waved it at Misty.

"Not me, darling." She flicked her boa at the bronzed man across the stage.

T.J. squinted. "Why? He gonna dance for me, too?"

Misty laughed. "House rules."

T.J. looked at her. Me. Jim.

"Well, we wouldn't want to break any rules. Heavens, no. Not here." He sipped his juice. "Not in this fine establishment."

"Shut the fuck up." Misty stood, lassoed T.J.'s neck with her boa, and guided him out of his seat and across the club. T.J. looked back and smiled.

Jim and I watched T.J. pay the bronzed man. The man nodded and pointed to the balcony. Misty led T.J. up the stairs. The last few steps she turned and walked backwards, until they reached an empty leather chair. She shoved him, and he disappeared.

My ears felt numb from the bass pumping out of the speakers. The dark red light made Club Inferno look like a giant submarine, walls covered in posters advertising new porn movies or upcoming appearances by porn stars, most of whom I knew by their first names. We traded porno movies like baseball cards.
Got 'em, got 'em, need, 'em, got 'em.
Once, I found a porno in the back of my closet, one that had been passed around Team Destructo so many times that we could recite entire scenes. I must have hid it so well that I'd forgotten about it. I emptied my entire closet and was in the middle of rearranging my clothes when my father came into my room and saw the tape. He grinned.

"Hey, boy. Whatchu got there?"

"Um. You know. Just a little homework for my Film Studies class," I said.

"Yeah, I bet you been workin' at home."

I shook my head and pulled out more clothes and sneakers from the bottom of my closet.

"You tossin' all this?" he asked.

"Yeah," I lied.

"Well, then. Don't mind if I do." He bent down, picked up the tape, and walked out.

Months later, I was looking through my father's closet for a tie and saw the tape on the top shelf, hidden behind a few shoe boxes. What struck me first was that my father had hidden the tape the same way I did. He was almost fifty-five years old; who was he hiding it from? Why couldn't he just go out and buy his own? I wanted answers to these questions, but still, I was grateful. I didn't want to imagine how the situation would have been different if my mother had walked into the room.

Jim and I split a nip of vodka, mixing it into our orange juice. At first my drink gave me the chills, but I soon warmed up.

"Okay, you horny fuckers, we got fresh meat coming to the stage right now. Put yo' dicks together for the wild, the ferocious, the sexiest cat this side ofthe Nile—give it up, for Chee-tah!"

A club remix of Jethro Tull's "Bungle in the Jungle" blasted out of the speakers. A quick flash: my father's puzzled face listening to this mutilated version of a classic tune. But his expression, our expression, changed once Cheetah, a pale redhead in a leopard thong, crawled onto the stage.

"Holy shit," Jim said. "That's her, man."

"That's who?"

"Her. The chick from the whack booth."

Jim's eyes locked on Cheetah.

"Guess they let her out of her cage," I said, waiting for Jim to smile. He didn't.

Cheetah moved across the stage, performing a routine of sharp-nailed swipes and well-timed growls. She licked her boot. She bit singles out of the Asian men's waistbands. She crawled off the stage and roamed the audience. Jim took out a single and flapped it like a distress flag.

"What are you doing?"

"I gotta talk to her."

"Relax, man. She's not your girlfriend. She's a stripper."

"Fuck you."

He waved his dollar until it caught her eye. She grinned, and made her way to our table, scrunching her nose as she got closer, sniffing us out. When she reached Jim's feet, she put her hands on his thighs and pushed back onto her knees.

"Hey there, drummer boy." She smiled, revealing yellow and black rubber bands in her braces.

Jim leaned in and whispered to her. I had never seen Jim talk this much to a girl. I knew Jim as the kid in the basement hosting
Wrestle-mania
parties in middle school, hopped up on Dr. Pepper and Ellio's Pizza, pretending to lick the screen as Jake the Snake's girlfriend bent over in jean shorts. This was different. Jim wasn't playing for laughs. He was serious.

As Cheetah whispered to Jim, I noticed the other men in the room, staring. The stage was empty, but the Auto-Tuned version of "Bungle in the Jungle" kept playing. One of the Asian guys stood up and held out his arms. The young one waved a single, trying to get Cheetah's attention. Jim leaned in closer.

"Hey buddy, this ain't a confessional." The bronzed man had a squeaky voice.

"It's okay, Chuck," Cheetah said.

Chuck looked at her. "Oh, it is? Guess I didn't get the memo." Cheetah looked back at him. "Less talkin'. More shakin'. Got me?"

Chuck stared at Cheetah. Then Jim. Jim handed Cheetah a dollar, and she tucked it into her waistband. Chuck grinned and walked away. Jim leaned back in his chair and watched Cheetah snarl and growl toward the stage. She got down on all fours, stalking around the chairs, then squatted and leapt onto the runway. A few more swipes, a few more growls, and then Cheetah crawled offstage.

"Top notch, my friends. Top fucking notch," T.J. said, settling back into his chair. I wondered when and where he had all these lap dances to compare to Misty's, but I didn't ask.

"Good shit?" I asked.

"Phenomenal. She works hard for the money," he said, snapping his fingers.

I laughed and shook my head.

"Where's Jim?"

"Said he was feeling sick. I think he's outside yacking." T.J. laughed. "Figures."

The DJ blasted a song I'd never heard before. The blonde returned to the stage.

"Her again?" T.J. said. "Guess they don't have that many girls on tonight." He leaned back and sipped his juice. The Asian girl moved from table to table, whispering into the men's ears, but they all shook their heads.

T.J. reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Hey, sweetie!"

"Dude."

"Fuck it. Round two." T.J. stood up, hooked arms with her and led her to the bronzed man.

Alone. In a room full of muscle men and naked women, DJ blasting music, bartenders pouring juice, bouncers sweating beneath their tight shirts, I was alone. Alone in dark, shallow water. Night swimming.
I want to be here. I do. Just not right now.

I saw the word
Adult
all over Sin-derella's. Flashing in red neon above the juice bar or printed in bold on movie and magazine posters.
Adults Only. Intended for Mature Audiences.
These words reminded me of the warning labels on cigarettes or beer:
Smoking is hazardous to your health. Pregnant women should not consume alcohol.
The labels made sense to me because they protected people. Why did I need protection against a movie or a woman?

Adults told us to act mature, that if we wanted to be treated like adults, we should behave like adults. I looked around Club Inferno. The guys laughing and shouting were around my age or a few years older. The men, the ones who I considered adults, sat alone. Some looked like they were sitting in a quiet restaurant, waiting for a meal. Others leaned over the stage and whispered in a woman's ear, tipping her again and again.

"Where's Jimmy?"

I turned to see Cheetah, slightly more clothed, hands on her hips.

"Oh, he went to the car. He should be back soon, probably. He just had to get something from his car."

She nodded. Then looked around the club and sat beside me.

"What's your story?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's your story? Got plans for the evening?"

Her eyes seemed far away, as if she were asking her questions to someone on the other side of the club. She smiled.

"I think this is the last stop for us. Probably just go home."

"Aw," she pursed her lips.

"I know. Not too exciting."

"You gotta make time for excitement. We only go around once."

"That's true," I said. "Very true."

I wondered how many times she'd done this. Our conversation so thick with cliches it was like we were yelling obscenities and speaking in code at the same time.

"Twenty for twenty?" she asked.

I looked around the club for T.J., for Jim. Then reached deep into my pocket, fished out a mess of singles and flipped through them like a gas station attendant.

"Deal."

Cheetah led me down the line of grinding bodies: bare, smooth backs; thick-knuckled hands; tangled legs. Brief eye contact with several men, their expressions a mix of confusion and pleasure. Some closer to pain: Gritted teeth. Mouths shaped to whistle.

She guided me by my wrist, stopped, turned me to face her and gently shoved me into a leather seat. She kicked her leg up, stabbing the heel of her shoe into the arm rest. The man beside me moaned; his body smothered by a gyrating black woman in pink lingerie. Cheetah touched the side of my face.

"Right here," she said, pointing to her eyes, index and middle finger forming a split.

I nodded, but I couldn't see her eyes. She was an apparition, a figure in shadow, the outline of her body bleeding into darkness. A flash of leopard print. The whiff of cheap perfume. Body glitter glinting like stars. Her fiery hair flowed over my legs, onto the leather seat. She quickly shook her head, then brought her face up below my waist. Stomach. Chest. My collarbone. My ear. Her nose brushing mine; warm minty breath. Back down. Down. A wake of baby powder, a scent I thought was Misty's. Perhaps powder is the final preparation, the last detail before the women crawl into the crowd. Perhaps most of it had rubbed off of Cheetah, but now her movements revealed another layer—chalky residue in the crook of her elbow. Her underarms. Beneath her spotted waistband. She rubbed the length of her body against me and whimpered.

"Are you okay?"

I didn't answer. She pressed herself into me. As she moved, her thighs stuck briefly to the leather then ripped away. Stick. Rip. Stick. Rip. Until her legs began to sweat, and her skin glided slick on the cushion.

She reached down and grabbed hard, adjusting me. The top of her chest to her lower stomach—she flowed over me like warm water. Powerful, controlled movements, steady as the tide. Crashing. Crashing. Crashing. Blood ripped through my head, and I tried to stop myself—too late, too far. My body broke.

Cheetah's movements slowed. Slowed. She exhaled. The light hit her braces. A smile? She pushed back and looked down at her body.

"Thanks," I said quietly, and left.

I tied my flannel shirt around my waist before heading back down into the Inferno.

"Where you going, a fucking Pearl Jam concert?" T.J. said, leaning against the lit edge of the stage.

"Kiss off, dude."

"You missed it, man. This new black chick came out. In-sane ass. Doing that booty shake, that fuckin' ass seizure thing. I was foaming at the mouth. No joke."

"Sorry I missed it."

"Yeah, you should be." He sipped a tall glass of water.

We sat in silence. Rather, the club spoke for us, telling us to
give it up
and
show the girls some love.
New packs of guys arrived, red-faced, serious. A few men showed up alone. One man walked in clenching a twenty: right up to the bronzed man, a girl bounced down the steps, the man smiled, she smiled, disappeared into the balcony. I watched the bronzed man wrap the twenty around a thick roll of bills and tuck it into his suit pocket.

I moved in my seat, searching for a comfortable position.

"What do you say, T.J. Call it a night?"

He took a long gulp of what I now smelled to be vodka. Misty was back on stage. He gave her a two-fingered salute. She returned it with a tight-lipped smile. The Asian bachelor party was gone, perhaps off to another club: Blush or The Tender Trap further down the service road.

"Dude?"

"I heard you."

He finished his drink.

"Well?"

"Yeah. We can go. Get your shit, Pearl Jam."

We drove to Candlelight Diner—my eyes wide, hands at ten and two. The road was damp and several garbage trucks roared by en route to their morning pick-ups. I turned on the wipers.

"Let's go, Miss Daisy. I be hungry," T.J. said.

"Miss Daisy didn't drive, you dumbass. Morgan Freeman did." I shook my head. "The movie's called
Driving Miss Daisy."

T.J. frowned and looked out the window. "Speaking of
Driving Miss Daisy
, I wonder if this pansy in the backseat is ever gonna wake up."

"I'm up," Jim said. "I've been up."

We crashed down in the red vinyl booth and pulled the menus out from behind the mini jukebox, even though we already knew what we wanted. Jim drummed his fingers on the table, browsing the music.

"Misty was fucking amazing." T.J. pressed his nose to his sleeve and inhaled deeply. "Seriously. That girl is talented. And judging by D'Aries' outfit, Cheetah was damn good, too."

Jim turned. "Cheetah? She danced for you?"

"Yeah. I mean, she came looking for you and then, I don't know. We got to talking."

Jim nodded and flipped a page in the jukebox. I made eye contact with T.J. and shook my head.

"What?" T.J. said. "You're
supposed to
jizz your shorts. Fuck. You paid twenty bucks, right?"

I looked down at the menu.

T.J. looked at Jim. "Oh," he said. "What's the big deal, Jim? Did you think she was your fucking girlfriend?"

"No, it's not that."

"Talk to her for two minutes and she's your soul mate. You two gonna write songs together? Did you tell her you're in marching band? How you get to wear a hat with a big fucking pipe-cleaner on it?"