Sin City (32 page)

“You girls can get your dollars out and stick them down his g-string. Some of these guys can even give you change without using their hands.” He shakes with laughter. “And they all accept Mastercharge or Visa cards.”

There are titters from the girls who begin fumbling for their purses, taking out wads of dollar bills and stuffing them down the scarlet shorts and boots. I watch, astonished. What's he done, for heaven's sake, to earn that sort of cash? He can't dance and he hasn't even stripped yet. He's just a hulk of sweat and muscle, getting girls to fawn on him. He swaggers up to another giggling pair, orders each of them to unlace a scarlet boot, preens and prances while they grovel at his feet. Beads of sweat are falling from his face onto their expensive lacquered hairdos.

He's now standing in his socks and shorts. He drapes himself against a table, pulls a sock off, wiggling his whole body. He's copying the female strippers again; except when
they
removed their seamed black fishnet stockings, at least it looked provocative, whereas he just looks plain daft, especially when he flings his sock into the audience. Net stockings turn men on, but why should a sweaty sock in navy wool and nylon make any woman slaver? Socks are dirty washing, a woman's chore. I used to get mad with Jon because when he moved out into lodgings he expected me to take on his doting mother's role and supply a laundry service.

Hell! I'm ranting on like a full-fledged Women's Libber and Mr Universe is marching right towards our table. The fat man yells encouragement. “That's it, girls. I wanna see everyone out there gettin' into the act. We're gonna have a grab-bag here tonight. Just grab him, girls, grab him where it counts. Wow! Those underpants are tight. They're like a cheap hotel – no ball-room. Ha ha ha. Go on, girls, give the guy a break – drag his shorts down.”

Angelique obliges, cheered on by the rest.

“What's your name?” the fat man keeps repeating. I look round. Who's he asking?
Me
, for heaven's sake!

“Carole,” I blurt out.

“Go on, Carole. Untie that g-string. Help yourself.”

My cheeks are really flaming. Everybody's watching me, men as well as girls. Arms are jostling mine as females wave their dollar bills. “Stop!” I want to shout. “Keep your rotten money.” I force a smile instead, pull at one side of the g-string, clumsy with embarrassment. You can almost hear the tension. What will be revealed? Will I have to touch it? Wrap it round with bank notes?

Nothing is revealed. Mr Nude Universe isn't nude – not yet. He's wearing a second g-string snug beneath the first. He looks quite small, in fact, hasn't built his muscle-tone in that particular spot. No one else appears to mind. His second g-string is already fringed with dollar bills, and he's collecting up still more from all along the catwalk. He disappears a moment to stow them somewhere safe, returns to pluck a woman from the audience, carries her on stage, pretends to have it off with her, jerking his whole body, making thrusting movements. The audience goes mad, clapping, stamping, yelling. This girl isn't even shy, is joining in, moving under him, shrieking with excitement, echoed by the fat man's.

“Go on, Tarzan, give it to her. She's really hot for it. Kiss her on the lips, kiss her right on the lips.”

Mr Universe turns her upside down, kisses her on the crotch. The laughter gets wilder and more vulgar. “What's your favourite position, hon? Wow! She likes it from behind, folks. It's okay, darlin' – you can swallow it. It's very low on calories.”

The audience fall about. The girl is overweight, great fat arms and thighs. At least the two are matched for size. I can hardly bear to watch, though. They're making sex so crude and rude and animal. They're
all
sex objects – guys as well as girls. And it's almost prostitution, the way that fat man keeps touting for more money. I expect he gets a cut.

“Now, I want everyone here to give this marvellous guy a dollar. It's still Christmas, still the giving season, so everybody give. That's right – just throw your money on the stage.”

When Mr Universe finally bows out, he's clutching rolls of dollars in both hands, can't even wave goodbye. There's another burst of fireworks from the music, another exploding rainbow from the lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our next amazing guy – a real fantastic dancer – Guiseppo, the Italian Stallion.”

I doubt if he's Italian. He looks more Mexican with his black eyes and oily skin, his agile wiry body. He's dressed in a pure white suit and shirt with a cream straw hat and natty little gloves. At least he can dance a bit, does high kicks and pirouettes while the band plays “Arrivederci Roma”. When at last he braves the catwalk, the girls mob him quite spontaneously, clambering out of their seats to unbuckle his belt, unlace his two-tone shoes.

“Take ' em off. Take ' em off,” encourages the fat man. “How many girls wanna see this guy really strip down to basic Adam?”

Guiseppo shrugs off his jacket, copying Cheryl and the girls again in all his sexy poses. That's what bugs me, somehow. Why can't the men work out something different, something more suited to their gender and physique, instead of just imitating women? Female strippers have spent years and years perfecting their techniques, then men come along and do just the same routines, when they've got completely different bodies and equipment. Don't they realise they look comic and embarrassing, wiggling their non-existent hips like that? Those gestures all shout “female” while their muscles and their body-hair shout “male”. Guiseppo is exceptionally hairy. He's taken off his trousers now and is gyrating round and round. Even his buttocks are covered with dark hairs and his chest is like an unmown lawn. He still has on his gloves and when he does get round to removing them, it's just a take-off of Alexis. There he is, stroking each butch and hirsute finger and expecting us to drool. Most of the females do, in fact, but I feel just pissed off.

His underpants are shaped like a miniature dress-shirt front, with a row of little buttons, two black lapels and a tiny red bow-tie to match the one he was wearing higher up. There isn't any back, just two thin strings to hold the thing in place. He goes around the audience pushing this white shirt front into female faces, or sidling his bare and hairy buttocks onto laps. He doesn't even smile, just looks sullen, even bored, though he's pretty quick to gather up the loot – dollar bills stuffed right inside his pants. He can't have much else down there if there's room for so much cash. I'm beginning to wonder if these guys have pricks at all. You can hardly call it stripping if they won't take off their g-strings. Another con, I suppose. You can see bare male chests or hairy legs on any boring beach, without paying a twenty-dollar entrance fee, plus all those bribes and tips.

I'm going to call their bluff. If this is called a strip show, then the men should strip. After all, the females did. Okay, I admit I recoiled a bit at seeing all those Abigails really flaunted and exposed (and pubic hair trimmed and shaped like hedges), but at least they had the guts to go the whole hog. Why should it be different for the men? When Guiseppo comes this way, I'll do what the fat man told us, have a grab. He's coming now, shimmying his hips. He stops by Angelique, takes her hand, strokes it up and down his nipples. I grab, while he's still busy, have a feel. There's nothing there – well, almost nothing. The stallion is a gelding.

“Watch out!” the fat man shrieks. “Young Carole's goin' wild. Didja see what she just did? I can hardly believe my eyes. Okay, get the lights down and let her do her thing. Give the guy a dollar, Carole. He deserves it. Yeah, just push it down.”

I can't give him anything. I'm paralysed. He's sitting on my lap, pressed up right against me. I can smell his sweat and hair-oil, and his greasy hair is dangling in my face, as he pretends to grind his pelvis into mine. It's all pretence. He doesn't like me – I'm pretty sure of that – and
I
feel almost sick. Yet the audience is cheering us on, shouting out “Bravo”, “Encore”, and other ruder things. Now he's including Angelique, doing the splits across both our laps, his naked sweaty legs sticking to our skirts.

“That's right! Two at a time. Goodness gracious, those girls are hungry for it! They've been waitin' all their lives for a real hot Latin lover.”

The Latin lover is rocking backwards and forwards on our laps, kissing us in turn, fat wet lips smearing all our make-up. His breath smells of cumin seeds, overlaid with mouthwash. I can't stand any more. I push him off. Angelique is reaching for her purse, extracting dollar bills, paying for our pleasure. I'm so hopping mad, I hardly notice the next stripper coming on – Mr Fantasy. He's black. Dressed in a lilac spangled boilersuit which he eventually strips off to reveal a g-string trimmed with fur. “Real mink,” shouts the fat man. “The most expensive cock in the house.”

The white-haired birthday girl is straining out of her seat, darts on to the catwalk, throws herself between the two black legs.

“Oh my goodness, Grandma's goin' down on the man! This is more fun than cookies and milk, isn't it, Grandma?”

Grandma doesn't answer. Mr Fantasy has scooped her from the floor, rushed off through the curtains with her. We can only hear her squeals.

“They're going off to make chocolate chip cookies together. No! they're back already. That was quick, Eunice. Eunice likes it black and quick.”

I'm getting bored. Yes, really. It's just vulgar jokes and sham. Okay, so all the acts are different – Tiny Tim with his thumb stuck in his mouth and cuddling a teddy bear, which I suppose is meant to appeal to our maternal instincts, and Dr Probe with his Master's degree in Sexology, who enters wearing nothing but a jockstrap and a mortar-board; Dangerous Dave who snarls on stage looking really frightening, dressed like a punk in studded black leather with lots of zips and chains, and one final guy got up like an airline pilot who looked better in his braid than in his pale white flesh.

I'm actually longing for my bed, alone, without any man at all. Perhaps I'm still hung over from Milton's sleeping pills. Or there's something basic wrong with me – the only female in the whole packed room not having fun. The airline pilot is squeezing between the tables, picking out the girls, pawing, snogging, smooching, aiming his pelvic thrusts at every female lap. One girl has snatched his hat off and is stuffing it with cash; another is stroking dollar bills down the whole length of his damp and sticky body, inching them slowly and provocatively past his throat, chest, belly, until she finally secures them in his g-string.

I'm still amazed at all the contact. I never thought that strippers would actually get that close, let themselves be groped, touch and grab themselves – and all with total strangers. Everyone else accepts it, even revels in it, but I can't help being shocked. I mean, if one of those men had VD or AIDS or something, or hadn't washed after what Norah calls going number two, he could spread his germs, pass on his infection. After all, their buttocks are completely bare and they've been grinding them into any willing crotch, or slipping their hands down inside their g-strings, then fondling female faces. I'm not normally obssessed with germs – that's Norah's thing. Perhaps she's influencing me without my realising. God! I hope not, or I'll end up celibate or carrying Dettol in my bag instead of scent. Funny, though, I miss her. She'd loathe it here, of course, but I feel better when she's with me. I can be myself with Norah, whereas with girls like Angelique, however nice they are, I somehow feel I'm not enough, have to make an effort, put an act on.

She's turning to me now, offering me a Virginia Slim. She would smoke those – they're elegant and skinny like she is herself. “Are you all right, hon?”

“Yeah, fine.” Well, what else can I say? I don't want her to label me a prude.

She reaches for her lighter. Every time I see her hands, I want to hide my own. Her nails aren't just painted, they're works of art – each one transformed into a glossy golden heart with a tiny A nestling in its centre. They do that over here: sculpture nails, reshape you toe to finger. The lighter, too, is gold and monogrammed. She lights both cigarettes.

“It's the finalé next,” she tells me, pausing for a drag. “All the guys at once and all completely starkers. No more g-strings. It's quite a sight.”

I stop griping and sit up. I'm intrigued, despite myself. I haven't seen that many pricks – hardly any, really, if I'm honest, and I must admit I am quite curious. The band is playing expectant trills and fanfares, the fat man almost choking with excitement.

“Stand back, girls. Don't all rush at once. This is the moment you've been waitin' for. Sit down, Grandma, you'll need all the strength you've got.”

The curtains open and out rush the seven strippers – all well and truly stripped now, right down to the skin, though sporting various minor props such as hats and gloves and sweatbands. I ignore the props, glance lower. I don't know quite what I expected, but after all that build-up, the excitement and the foreplay, the simulated fucking, the thrusts and heaves and gasps, I'm primed for an erection – seven erections.

I keep staring at the seven dangling droops. Tiny Tim's doesn't even droop. It's too small for that, just a little bud, hardly visible at all between his thighs. The airline pilot's is pointed at the end, pointing down. Mr Fantasy's is large, but just as limp. Mr Nude Universe has bigger bulges higher up. The seven men strut and plume, rippling their muscles, puffing out their chests. It's only now I understand why I've been feeling so cheated and resentful. A soft prick is a put-down, the clinching proof that the man is feeling nothing, limp and dangling nothing. These seven guys have spent the last two hours panting and frothing with a desire which isn't there. They probably just despise us girls, see us as a source of easy cash.