Strip (17 page)

Every night before heading off I had a strong coffee and one of Kent's magic diet pills, and then used my own weights, some killer sets of push-ups, chin-ups on the door frame, sit-ups with arches stretched under the radiator and curls to get me warmed up for what was to come.

That weekend, like most of them, the crowd was couples: Monsieur and Madame Suburbia. Heavy smoking everywhere. In the audience they didn't have to worry, smoke can't stain your dentures, and backstage the counter in the dressing room was one long line of burnt edging. More strippers showed up on weekends, too, like fruit flies, and my instincts told me to stand back and let them have their way. I still managed to fuck up about half my drink orders, mistaking rum and Coke for Ricard to not understanding
sur glace
, which in those moments when I could hear, Hubert the bartender hollered, “Wit' ice?”

Heavy trays full of drinks, cocktails, bottles of beer and empties teetered above our heads. Waitresses used their
t
and
a
to push between customers and get up to the bar. They made great money. Two hundred was a bad night if you were female. What I could have done with some real cash. Most of theirs supported bad habits.

There was also another male stripper on the floor that night. The guy was a useless phobic fuck, pardon my French, but he didn't have the decency to look my way, as if he might catch something. Not a team player. He was a muscle-bound no-neck, all shoulders—just my type. I saw some penis action during his official strip and figured the steroids had done their damage, which may have been why he wouldn't look my way. But he had the oafish strut. He kept his ass cheeks squeezed and his pelvis tucked and crotch shoved forward, putting the goods out front. Textbook. He kept his shoulders forward and down, not up and back, and tightened his six-pack. No wonder Kent thought I had a pickle up my ass. And like Patrice said, it was all about cock: put the goods there as if you were serving someone dinner, or trying to suck yourself off.

Marcel was propped at the bar, hoping to be noticed by everyone and anyone. He introduced me to Fran
ç
ois, who worked as an extra bartender. Fran
ç
ois was Marcel's guy—news to me. I wondered if Fran
ç
ois knew that Marcel took special measurements during interviews? Did they have an agreement? Could I partake? Did I have “naive” tattooed in both official languages on my forehead? Fran
ç
ois, with his brown curls, heavy eyelids, and face like the sweetest, smoothest
crème caramel
, slipped a nice strong Scotch and Coke my way.

That was the night I did my first official strip. I should have looked at the song list on the jukebox earlier. Steve didn't deejay for anyone's official strip. He just got his thrills watching. And, discovering how much of an exhibitionist I really was, I got a thrill knowing he was watching me. Since “Maneater” had that great beat, I chose it for my first song, but on the opening beats Suzette—box parked between two tables and the stage—gave me the finger because it was her song. It didn't matter; it bombed. It was a lady's song. I hoped she wasn't going to take this into the dressing room. I hated to be on anyone's bad side, especially when they had a shellacked French manicure.

I walked across the stage, untied my shirt, put my hands on my hips, relaxed my shoulders, ground a little. Then a thrust. Hands on thighs. Then ass. I took off my shirt and rocked it between my legs like I was towel-drying my crotch. I ran it side to side across my behind. Then I fell to my knees for some women at the side of the stage. I lay back, stared at the lights revolving in the ceiling, and pressed my pelvis into the air until the song ended.

Things could only get better with the next two songs: Laura Branigan's “Gloria,” and Phil Collins' “In the Air Tonight.” I got up and spun (in ballet lingo
chêné
) from one side of the stage to the other to “Gloria.” I felt like I had to shake off my straitjacket. It was time to have some fun. Kent's medicine, and my Scotch cocktail, kicked in. “Gloria” took over. My head and hips whipped and I didn't care that my hair was stinging my eyes and blinding me. I could see wave after wave of sweat-spray fly away from me as it caught the light. I forced some tight quick turns in a low
a la seconde
, with no idea what that was in strip-dancing lingo. I sped up my pirouettes, kept my legs low and tight. My heart pounded. The room was spinning with streamers of neon and mirror ball pinpoints. I finished by carelessly slamming a not-bad Russian-splits onto the stage.

Then it was time for “In the Air Tonight.”

I was already down so all I had to do was unzip and lean back with a slow easy grind, my hips gyrating. My hair was stuck to my forehead. I couldn't see for the sweat, and tears now, too—they caught me by surprise—my gasps were mixed with something else. I was outside of myself. I was indulging in a moment of self-pity. I needed to cry, but not with an audience. All I could see was a room of swollen stars. But something pushed at me to go on; what mattered to me was that I had to be good, even here. I lay on the floor and kicked off my shoes. I snaked out of my pants leaving only my scalloped
g
-string between me and the audience—and me and the floor. Steve changed the lights until I was washed in a cool blue. Everything got quiet—the audience, other strippers—and I became the focal point in a hypnotic tantric ceremony. I stayed low, undid the
g
-string and tugged at the sides. I pressed my hips into the cold, hard stage—made sure everyone got a nice long look at this dancer's behind. I ground my pelvis into the floor until I felt arousal. I rolled over, reached for the ceiling, rocked up and down, up and down, and then I stood, running my hands over my torso, my thighs. I shoved and it was Kent's mouth I saw in front of me. Just as I relaxed into the blue light, the music ended.

I grabbed my stuff off the stage and made a quick exit. The next dancer ground her cigarette into the carpet, sneered at me as I passed her at the foot of the steps.

Steve was by the jukebox. “You can dance. That
will
get you far.”

I was still trying to catch my breath, wipe the sweat out of my eyes. “That was the idea.”

“Louis won't care, though. He'll want to see even more of you. You have a nice one. You don't usually find cut ones in these parts. Total turn-on. It looks great like that, you know soft and fat, and those balls, too, man they're full, but Louis thinks the women want you almost hard.” It sounded like he was talking about how to boil an egg, the way he went on. “You know.
Gonflé. Grossir
. Swollen. Inflamed. Louis's willing to take a chance.
Hard
might be against the law but not
almost
hard. Guy, my Guy, he's coming from Montreal to dance next week. Says Montreal is getting to him. You watch what he does and I'll help you, too.”

 

Sunday morning after five
more hours of sleep I rolled onto the floor. My mind wouldn't shut up from seven crazy hours in the club. I kept seeing women stuffed around the bar like piglets breastfeeding with their pink behinds wagging, and the blood vesselled faces of old men smiling, sweating and drinking
un Ricard
or
un whisky sur glaçe
. When I finally woke I kept going over my strip. Was it good? Where could it have been better? It went over and over and over in my head. I needed to move, to talk to someone, to shake it off or maybe brag a little. Opening nights were like that—you needed to bask in it for a while. But at Kent's there was no answer when I rang.

I had a few hours of sanity before going to meet Madame and the group for our Sunday afternoon
Pinocchio
. I looked for an open coffee shop but even with my extra hour of sleep I was up earlier than anyone in town. The search for I-don't-know-what led me into a cobblestone square. It was there I followed organ music up the steps of a grey, stone church. Would my evil body go up in flames if I went in? Was my survival a sin? I'd thought about it and came to the conclusion that everyone solicits different parts of themselves: minds, muscles, talent, knowledge and skills. (I seemed to be repeating that to myself frequently.) My skill set was specific, that's all. I leaned against the door and it gave way.

It was strange; the minister spoke English to a small congregation—a secret society of Protestants in a land where people build bathtub shrines to the Virgin Mary, in front of their fuchsia and lime-green shacks. Strathcona Baptist was about just showing up. The grey flannels. The little navy blazer with a crest on the pocket. The tartan tie and everyone patting my head with their swollen hands smelling of Aqua Velva and Shalimar. I had no idea what I had ever gained from those Sunday mornings other than a sense of guilt.

That Sunday morning, there was something right about wearing tight jeans, no underwear and a bomber jacket in the holy place. It was what I was becoming—a projection upon which the audience could unload their sexual fantasies. We were all so much more entwined than we chose to believe. A member of last night's audience could have been there in the congregation. I placed a fistful of tip money in the collection plate; it wasn't mine to keep. I scuttled out before the service ended. My real church was somewhere in the back pew of the city bus: that is where I had time to examine my reflection. I didn't lack faith. Faith was all around me now: I had a home, a job and a neighbour.

After the warmth of several hotel lobbies where I lingered, some cheap coffee and a freezing stroll along the promenade above the St. Lawrence, I met Kent on the street on his way home. He was silent and looking wounded, but I kissed him on the cheek. We went into our café downstairs and I bought him sugar pie and a café au lait. Kent usually reported on his sexual scores. And he wasn't really emotional about his tricks. He might occasionally claim to be in love—but never in a way that knocked him off his feet for more than a week. I got the feeling there had been a break-up, but then Kent always looked like his nights-before had been harder on him than mine were on me. I figured he just wasn't a morning person.

He finally broke the silence. “Have you tried the leather shorts?”

“My ass is too big.”

“Don't whine. How about the cock ring?”

“Cock ring? I thought it was a bracelet.”

“Get someone at the club to show you how to use it. Oh God, I can't believe no one has showed you how to use a cock ring. I'll show you. You are so naive I can't believe it.”

“It's been touched upon. I guess the competition just isn't interested in showing me.”

“It works wonders. Put it on while you're soft…”

“I'm sure I can figure it out.”

“…play with yourself or jerk off, whatever, leave it on, it will stay swollen until you take it off. You'll bowl them over.”

There wasn't much more time for chat. By early afternoon Madame had us performing
Pinocchio
in some theatre an hour from town. We stuffed ourselves—parkas, scarves, mitts and toques—into the freezing van jammed to the top with sets, costumes and props. It was our first chance to feel like we were dancers on tour—different from life with the Company where we used big warm coaches on non-stop night drives north of Superior, through the Rockies or criss-crossing south of the border along Route 66. If we were lucky we flew, while trucks carried our sets to meet us. But now we schlepped huge, badly painted panels, tables, chairs and cots through the first freezing days of winter.

Our destination was an old movie palace. Our route was of interest because it took us along rue Lévesque and right past the Chez Moritz. I stared straight ahead but there was an odd silence in the van and Jean-Marc jabbed me in the ribs, raised his eyebrows and winked as we passed the deserted compound, its light flickering
en vedette
.

Madame had booked us into an empty—as in no audience—theatre. Not that the dates were wrong, but the publicity machine hadn't been well oiled. I didn't bother to ask what it was or who our audience would be. On the stage, behind the curtain, Madame took us through a warm-up and my Achilles tendons stung from the cold van ride. The maple floor was too hard—maybe concrete underneath—and varnished to a high gloss that made the girls skid on their pointe shoes. My thighs swelled like two water balloons as I pliéd.

“Monsieur Muscle,” she said and then pretended she was a bodybuilder posing. To a regular human this would be a compliment, but to a dancer it was as bad as saying you were fat. I had already started to fill out after only a few weeks of my stripper regimen. My shoulders were building up, and though it might have been pleasing in a tank top at a strip bar, in ballet it was limiting and distracting.

My body, once a supple lengthening rubber band, was nothing but volume. Madame continued her rare cocky mood and joined in our warm-up instead of barking out orders. The training that had given her a deep-seated strength and technique was always there for her—she could hold
developpé
en pointe
forever, which she wanted us to know. She could out-turn, out-extend, out-jump and out-dance any of us. But this forced emphasis on strength was destroying my line. Yes, I could jump; yes, I could
retiré en pointe
for ages now. I was stronger, but the added bulk worked against me when I was tired: I continued to lose my axis, my balance, and like she said, I was starting to look more like a bodybuilder. The girls at the club said I had
cuisses de grenouille
. But on the good side, I could jump higher than I ever had and I didn't look bad naked.

After our warm-up I burned my mouth on
chocolat chaud instantanée
prepared by Madame. It seemed like a peace offering. I guess she wanted some good feeling on our debut.