Strip (22 page)

Downstairs, Brittany was trying to stay upright in her chair. There were tears in her eyes. Her head shook when she spoke. “Never let them say you can't. Don't let them take it away from you. You can't keep it to yourself anymore.” I knew what she meant but I feared it was a one-shot deal. How could I ever bring it all together like that again?

I got dressed and went back upstairs. Steve rushed out of his booth, took his gum out of his mouth and gave me a big wet congratulatory kiss. Guy gripped my ass and I'm still not sure if he was pissed or pleased. Marcel said I shone. For a few minutes everyone loved me. Had I been that bland before? Later Brittany was up on the stage. Perfect. It seemed the only thing that fed her were the lights and the attention of the crowd.

 

That night I dreamt
about the little boy with soapstone cheeks running through the backyard as a bloodstained cowboy. The best-dressed only child on the street. Falling through the hedge. No one but me cared if it was real rawhide. No one had time for my chrome-plated pistols. As a sharpshooter, I lied my way into friendships. Showed up unannounced, saying we had promised to play Cowboys and Indians. No kid liked dentists, or this dentist kid. Real chaps and fringe couldn't compete with imagination.

One Easter, I wore that cowboy outfit into the ravine near our house. The puddles were still deep from spring runoff. Some boys stood in a group, some I thought were friends. The pug-faced leader said I'd stolen Benjamin Weinstein's girlfriend. But Benjamin Weinstein never had a girlfriend. I did. Rebecca Lefebvre—blonde hair, Chiclet teeth. We spent Saturday afternoon matinees holding hands. They said I'd stolen her from Benjamin. When I figured out that the ravine wasn't a safe place to be and tried to run, it was obvious that running in cowboy gear wasn't easy. A horse would have come in handy.

The thuggish guy from the nearby Catholic school pushed me face down into my two-gallon hat. He leapt on my back and punched until I was numb. The others pulled off my chaps, my vest, my pants, my underwear and threw everything in a tree. The oaf on my back grabbed my head; when one of his fingers popped into my mouth, I chomped down with every last bit of cowboy energy, right though to the fucking bone. He was off me in a flash, his band of no-goods trailing after him like little lemmings. I climbed the tree ripping my cold skin, tugging at the authentic leather piece by piece. Dressed. Told no one. That outfit was worth everything to me.

 

She must have left
the next day, Sunday. On Monday Steve said he had something for me. Brittany had left the costume behind.

 

 

Seven

The three heads of
deltoid shape a dancer's shoulder into one thick orb of strength. No matter the power of the arms, the shoulders have to bear the burden and support the arms. You see the shape there, distracting if overdeveloped and hindering the line if overlooked. It is fragile and essential for the
danseur
to make the ballerina appear to float through a supported
grand jété
, suspended about his head in a
pressage
or lifted throughout a
pas de chat
or any of a million moments the hands touch the body. A shoulder is there to fall upon, swing from, roll on or cry upon.

 

First it was love
I sought, then I settled for admiration, then some attention and as a result, soon I wanted anyone. Some are fulfilled on the stage, even in the wings, but I carried my needs, kicking and screaming, out the stage door. I was dying for something. You've seen my type in the cafés, eyes searching, saying,
Notice
me for Christ's sake
. Unfortunately, this kind of behaviour snagged me an English-French transplant student from Winnipeg living in the Old Town, who saw me strip and then days later followed me home from the bus stop. He was angry and into my pants because no one wanted him—he shoved his pelvis at me, ground me, kneaded my ass with a bruising enthusiasm. I shut my eyes against his conquest. Maybe he thought I was falling in love, but I was falling asleep in the lukewarmness of the moment. I'm sure I hoped Daniel could have loved me with as much zeal. I don't remember. I do remember this one had the face of a hungry monk, thinning hair and a bony body lean where there was flesh. Just get it over with for God's sake and let me sleep. But sex was air to him. And I was in his lungs, as a real live dancer who stripped. The idea fed his arrogance, and I had little to do with that high. How did he make those aerobics happen—get our hips to the ceiling, our nuts banging their numb way into each other? How did he do it—it couldn't have been that much fun—but oh no, he was frothing at my buffet, high on sex and ended up unloading himself onto the nape of my neck and across my shoulders. And why, after a too-long smoky Saturday night, was he once again breaking down my door and my back on Sunday morning with a well-meaning café au lait and
pain au chocolat
fresh from downstairs when all I wanted was to sleep right through to eternity? “I am Jonathan,” he said.

I was beside myself with fatigue. I broke down and bragged a little. Told him I had been with the Company.

“Really?” he said. “But I'm from Winnipeg. When did you leave?”

“Less than a year ago.”

“I remember you! I saw you in lots of things. I thought you were familiar.
Études
, my God your ass in those white tights—what the hell are you stripping for?”

“Well I'm just doing some research for a new ballet. I've decided to go it alone.”

He didn't believe that for a moment.

And after two more hours of pelvis slapping, I sent him on his way. I hoped he registered my indifference and irritation and would get the message. I collapsed, but the café au lait turned it into a troubled sleep. I wanted rest, and love that didn't come with sex attached like an oversized game-show price tag. Look what you win! Sex! With a stripper!

In the early afternoon I crept, unnoticed I hoped, to my watering hole Belle Époque, where I drank alone and stared at the wall. It was a luxury to afford beer and have a moment to feel sorry for myself and feel as important as “Gloria,” my song. Poor me. But I couldn't bear anyone pulling at my leg or grinding his bony pelvis into me for a desperate one-off, locked in his own bubble of ecstasy. When I got home, I phoned Kent to share a delivered pizza.

Before pizza we hugged and he pressed hard against my crotch with his own. Even though it excited me—just being next to him and his hands, and all that his hands could do—I needed to be held. “They're dying in New York,” he said.

“Who?”

“Gay men are dying.”

“Why?”

“No idea. You're not planning a trip to New York?”

“Not anymore. Can we relax for a minute? Maybe change the subject?”

“Are you okay?”

“I just need to connect, right now, with more than my cock.”

“I've created a monster?”

“The cock ring works fine if that's what you want to know.”

“What about the big, friendly stripper, the one whose boyfriend keeps blowing you? He sounds nice. Why don't you connect with him?” All of this said with heavily weighted stresses of sarcasm, driven into the conversation like the jabs of a conductor's baton during the key change denoting betrayal in
Swan Lake
.

“You're jealous.”

“Don't flatter yourself.” And with his tone of voice I knew someone was hurt. “I'm just curious about your principles. But in the meantime, if you don't meet anyone, you can stay at my place whenever you want, you know, for whatever, to be close, cuddle, get your rocks off. It won't destroy your principles.” Kent held the pizza in trembling fingers, and I wanted to hug him. I don't know why. I wasn't sure if he was nervous or upset, if he'd had too much coffee, or if he found the pizza too hot. “So much for holding out for true love.”

“Is it worth it?”

“I'm starting to think most people try
not
to be in love. It's terrifying. It requires energy. They get hitched and they get mean.”

“You sound pretty jaded for someone with so little experience.”

“Do you think that once you create love you can never destroy it? It won't go away? That's what I believe. Call me naive.”

I told Kent about the Winnipeg guy who wouldn't quit bugging me, but he'd already had him, it turned out. I suppose he was working his way up the street. I was learning not to show my surprise. “I didn't really like him.”

“You'll have to learn to say no. You can't mercy fuck everyone.”

“Are you implying something here?”

“I don't need your mercy.”

“You won't get any.” I hated myself. The more I wanted to hold him, the harder I seemed to get.

“I was there, you know—had my pick of the National Ballet, was Zaitsev's bumboy for months until he found out that other celebs were dipping into his candy bowl.” Kent licked his fingers. Looked up at me. Wanted to see how I'd take the news. “I was like you, couldn't say yes, couldn't say no.”

“Zaitsev? He's a legend—my hero for a while. God, I am a dope.”

“You're young.”

“You've come down in the world and I've never even gotten up.”

“Maybe I'm the sorry one, not believing there are genuinely good people in the world, like you.”

“Good isn't a word that I would use right now. It's all
formidable
,
trés
sexy,
beau
…”

“Let's go find true love.”

“I'll be your escort, but I'm through with the love crap, for today anyway.” Kent licked his fingers, and then I licked them, too. He leaned across and we kissed and then laughed. We decided to go to Le Cirque. Kent had wanted me to go. Get picked up. Sleaze around. He said it would be good for me to have some dirty, rough sex and up my total. We walked through the stone archway out of the Old Town and along the battlements to a door. Our breath hung in clouds; more snow was definitely on the way. I could smell it.

We had gotten there way too early—the dance floor was empty—so I ordered a beer and Kent bought a chaser of some syrupy liqueur with gold flecks in it. Patrice was doing the weekly magic act he performed every Sunday night at Le Cirque while lone men stood in the shadows. They could have been the straight ones, the daddies, as Kent called them. No one clapped for Patrice except me. He shrugged, said something to us as if no one else could hear. I didn't understand him. I figure he was pissed off to see I had come with a friend.

My eye was drawn to a well-built guy, something I've never gone after because I figured I didn't stand a chance. This one was in jeans with a faded crotch, a shirt and pullover probably knitted by his wife. I imagined him in a penthouse overlooking the St. Lawrence—a big bed for me. He definitely spent time at a gym. He was aloof. So what? It was probably his first time there. That, we had in common. “I think I've found true love.”

“Go for it.” Kent delivered another shooter and then went into the shadows.

I made eye contact. I figured everyone was watching to see how this would play out. I felt bad for the ones who weren't as lucky. I got my coat from the coat check, enough done, enough said, I didn't have to wait all night. It was obvious he was interested. He would follow. I walked by and he leaned into the wall. I went down the stairs and opened the door onto the square. It had started to snow. Other than that, it was empty and quiet. I listened for him to follow. I waited, but no one came out the door.

I couldn't go back. Everyone in that meagre crowd would know. After a few more minutes the wind had changed and the snow started blowing in from the river. I wondered why, with all this beauty—the wind, the crisp air, the snow blowing past the streetlamps—I was trying to drag a stranger home from a smoky club. Was it the idea of another lonely night with nothing to look forward to but a bad ballet class in the morning?

But a touch on my shoulder stopped that chatter: a light tap, and a startled, hopeful, ready-for-it look. He had to be a local. He was small, with a face like pudding. You know: pale skin, dark eyes. A soft nose and an upper lip twisted slightly in the middle. “I'm Philippe,” he said.

He wasn't what I had been looking for. I remember purposely ignoring him in the bar. Making sure not to catch his eye. He'd seen whom I was in pursuit of, but wasn't going to give up. I wondered how people in that position had the perseverance. I failed to realize that I was no different.

There is a kind of thrill of going to a place like Le Cirque and not knowing what grab bag you will come out with, if any, and I suppose it is that thrill of the unknown that drove Kent, and that finally pushed me to invite this guy back to my place. In my kitchen we unscrewed a gallon bottle of wine and talked in French, English and Franglais, mostly short sentences about the weather. We both loved snowfalls, before Christmas especially—not in April specifically, or any later than April—bad or good wine, candles, softness, holding, hungry sex throughout the night and sleep. Thank God Philippe loved to sleep. He got on his knees, hands on my thighs, not to do anything other than to woo. He was gentle and a better bet than what I'd hoped for.

Most of the time I stayed over at his place. He said he just wanted to love me, but I couldn't love him back. He spoiled me, and I pitied him. He wanted what we all want and what I wanted so badly. I gave over to being an object of his affection, and the one to later break his heart. I often thought of Kent. Who was he with? Was he thinking about me? Missing him started to feel like homesickness.

 

I used to wonder
why adults said Christmas was a hard season. How could presents be unpleasant, or the ballet, and the pantomime, and a million other distractions until Santa arrived? But soon Christmas stirred up a sore stomach because of its quiet brevity. Christmas would have been better in my absence, for two people with nothing much to say. My parents performed their own pantomime at every Christmas party and I had a supporting role that involved a lot of smiling. During university years, excuses were easy to come by, and welcomed with well-rehearsed concern. And then, with the Company, well, it was our busy season.

 

As Christmas approached, the
crowds grew until every night was like a busy Saturday. I thrived at the club, and wilted at the ballet studio. One day my moonlighting was no longer a secret.

“It's good you have these other talents…” said Madame Talegdi. I felt a rush of embarrassment. Of course she knew. And she was right; anything to pay the rent, after lifting Bertrand (who was starting to thicken around the middle by the way) as Pinocchio for free, for her psychotic ego. As long as the pre-showtime booze and painkillers kicked in by 9
P.M.
, I'd be fine. I found comfort in knowing that my tight muscles looked great, naked, on a box, in perpetual twilight, even if they were worth shit to me as a dancer. Of course I was of no use in that studio. My toe was blue from
The Nutcracker
choreography she was setting on us. “…because,” she continued her subtle assault in the flat matter-of-fact way she used when delivering an insult, “you will never be a really great dancer,” while we all sat in our warm-ups eating our lunch in the kitchen off the studio. Bertrand picked up on her digs and asked me how my job was going with a nudge and a wink, but with Madame's nasty comment, I helped fill in the blanks.

“The job is a bitch,” I said. “Une beetch. Chienne. Travailler comme un stripper c'est difficile, toujour les femmes essayent de me touché.” I didn't know how bad my French was, but I tried to hit all the key words. “Les femmes aiment les gars comme moi. You must come and watch some night. Le spectacle est fun avec les filles et gars semi-nudes, tits and ass, poitrines est derrières.” Madame turned about fifteen shades of blueberry while Bertrand bent over and pretended to adjust his ballet shoes. He trembled with laughter. Louise clenched her jaw; the corners of her mouth turned up.

Chantal and Maryse stopped eating their celery and carrots and looked into their Tupperware. I had nothing to lose. I could smack my head on Madame's wall for the rest of my life, but I had learned from Kharkov when to play and when to give in. It was time to use the secret weapon. The truth. “Of course I will never really become une étoile comme Jean-Marc, even though, like Jean-Marc I have les relations avec la directeur de Chez Moritz, et what do you know, Jean-Marc fait la meme chose avec vous, Madame. Jean-Marc est comme une amant pour vous. Je ne peux pas gagner ici. No one can, personne non plus, pas comme Jean-Marc. But no one loves me like you love Jean-Marc, Madame. Tu dois aimer la sex avec lui. I would. He's very sexy. Trés sexy, Jean-Marc. Yes Madame Jean-Marc this and Jean-Marc that. Jean-Marc is the end of the fucking world. Three cheers for Jean-Marc, the second fucking coming. Fucking merci Jean-Marc!” And Jean-Marc looked like a stunned horse, as usual. I went on: “He'd make a great stripper, with that bulge.”