A stripclub saga
1.
“I think I’m feeling trapped in my relationship.”
Aimee leans forward on the table, brown eyes intent. She’s wearing a purple silk shirt and a black denim skirt. Her black hair is tied in a ponytail.
“Why did I know this would happen?”
Oliver, sitting opposite Aimee, has never had a great love for Aimee’s boyfriend who he calls ‘white bread.’
They’re in a side booth at Enigma, their favourite café. It’s Friday afternoon and neither of them wants to study anymore.
“I’m serious!” Aimee rolls her eyes. “Like, I don’t know if I can continue only sleeping with one person. Tate’s great, but I don’t know if I’m feeling emotionally or sexually fulfilled.”
“Break up with him then. Go get another dick. Or pussy. Make an Only Fans. You keep talking about that. And besides,” he winks, “you know I’m always here.”
“Stop that,” Aimee swats Oliver on the arm. “You know perfectly well that is never happening again. I was drunk.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“And you were terrible anyway,” she adds.
“Ouch. Now you’ve hurt my fragile feelings,” Oliver presses the back of his hand to his forehead for dramatic effect. “I think you’ve just broken me.”
“That’s not my problem. Listen to me, I’m like, actually looking for advice right now.”
Oliver sighs.
“Look, Aimes, I can’t tell you what to do. If you’re not happy with your relationship you need to talk to Tate about it.”
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“You’re going to hurt them even more if you say nothing. You’ll start resenting him and that’ll leak into the relationship.”
“I know,” Aimee huffs. She rests her head in her hands. She hasn’t touched her chai latte or their shared bowl of chips for the last fifteen minutes and both are cold now.
“There’s no easy way out,” Oliver reminds her.
They sit in silence for a while. They’ve been friends for nearly ten years.
Alone in her room, Aimee lies in bed and scrolls through her messages with Tate. They’re sweet and genuine, long-term relationship messages which say things like ‘I miss you even though it’s only been an hour,’ and ‘you’re my number one.’
They make her stomach squirm.
When did this happen?
When did she start feeling trapped by the person she used to love so much?
Aimee groans, a long, low sound that feels hollow and purposeless in the cold room.
All her flatmates are out so there’s nobody to stop her doing stupid things.
What if she set the place on fire? For a moment, she considers it but decides against it because she’d lose her bond.
There’s a knock at the door. Everything inside Aimee resists getting up and answering it but she does it anyway. It might be her mother, and leaving her in the corridor would mean a lot of ass-kissing later to make up for it. Being out isn’t an excuse with Aimee’s mother, who believes the universe and all its children revolve around her.
The flat is cramped and mouldy, a three-person villa in Aro Valley that never gets any sun. On her way to the door, Aimee flinches as her bare feet touch the freezing floorboards. Finally, she opens the door and is swept up in a bear hug and kissed on the forehead.
“Hey you.”
It’s Tate. Tall, floppy-haired Tate with hazel eyes, freckles, a kind smile. Tate is a primary school teacher and plays bass in a punk-rock band. He’s a good listener, good with kids, thoughtful.
Aimee looks at him and realises that she just isn’t attracted to him anymore.
“Hey,” she mumbles. Her mouth is against his shoulder so she speaks into his blue knit jumper.
“Thought I’d surprise you!” He produces an Uber eats bag with a flourish. She peers inside. It’s chicken katsu, from the Japanese restaurant they went to on their very first date. Her heart twists up.
“Tate, we need to talk.”
*
Oliver lies on her bed smoking a joint, one arm tucked beneath his head. He looks relaxed, eyes hazy, black hair curled against Aimee’s white pillows.
Aimee paces back and forth in her bedroom, face contorted.
“Am I heartless Oliver? I’m beginning to worry that I genuinely am.”
“You’re not heartless. You just weren’t ready to settle down. Honestly Aimes, you’re a lot of things, but heartless is not one of them.”
Aimee throws herself on the bed next to him and he offers her the joint.
“Thanks.” She takes a puff, inhaling the smoke into her lungs, feeling it sink into her and slow her down.
“You’re only 24 for goodness sake. You don’t have to pick the one just because he’s perfect in basically every respect.”
“He really was perfect.” A hint of wistfulness creeps into Aimee’s voice. “I’ve never met anyone as lovely as him.”
“But you ended it.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, do you want a rebound?”
Aimee stares at him.
“You’re not bringing that up again are you?”
He stares at her.
“What do you . . . oh. God no. Don’t worry I was joking earlier. We’re never sleeping together again. I meant with someone else you fuckwit.”
She starts laughing, this sugary, off-key sound bubbling from her lips.
“I don’t know if it’s sex I want.”
“What do you want? Are you actually going to set up an Only Fans?”
She thinks about the open-tabs on her laptop at home, ‘Work in Heaven’ in big letters at the top of the page, the descriptions of the perks. ‘Stop dancing in your shower, start making BIG money’ the page promises.
Before breaking up with Tate, she’d watched a million stripping videos. She’d always admired the confident, glamorous sexuality the dancers exuded. She’d thought about trying it out but it would have upset Tate too much.
That’s no longer her problem.
2
Neon lights stick to the lace lingerie, the curve of girls’ bodies. The floor is black, the walls are mirrored, and strobes slide across the room. It’s crowded and the air is thick with nicotine, spirits, and desire.
Aimee’s eyes dart around. The words WELCOME TO HEAVEN are lit up gold above one of the stages. The rainy streets of Auckland feel a lifetime away.
“Do you want a drink?” Kate, the manager, offers. She looks like any manager anywhere, wearing a black shirt and trousers. “We let all our girls drink for free.”
“A gin, thanks.”
The bartender, a shirtless guy with a bowtie, slides it across the bar to her.
“Good luck tonight,” he winks at her and she feels herself flush.
Determined not to seem nervous, she tilts her head back and downs her glass in one go. She feels the gin washing through her body like a prayer, making her lighter, stronger. Her normal job in the university library feels like another life.
“The dressing room door is by that stage over there,” Kate says, gesturing. “Head there now and ask one of our girls to show you what to do.”
“That’s . . . it?”
“Yeah. You’ll learn as you go.”
Heaven’s a vast space but it’s scummy.
Aimee can feel the floor, soft and gummy beneath her heels.
She begins to wonder if maybe she wanted the wrong thing, but it’s too late now.
*
Walking towards the dressing room, Aimee glances at herself in the wide mirrors on the walls, noting the thickly lined eyes, the glittery cheekbones. A thrill spins through her. She has the strong desire to mess up her life.
On stage, a tall, curvy girl with olive skin sways with the music, rotating her hips, arching her back, curling herself around the pole then dropping to the floor. She glides her back across the stage, Pleaser heels in the air, legs darting and twirling in neat patterns. As Aimee goes past, the girl notices her, blowing her a kiss with full red lips.
Aimee feels a rush of elation.
Suddenly, she can’t wait to be on the stage, men rushing to shower her with praise and cash. Even now, men stare at her body as she walks across the club floor. Their drunken looks make her body feel louder somehow, more important.
“Going to strip for us?” a faceless male hoots at her. She twists her neck to look at him but he’s already swallowed up by the club. It’s like the club’s a living, breathing creature.
“Do you want my drink?”
Another faceless male.
She accepts even though she gets free drinks, taking the glass and then a sip. It’s whisky and coke. She continues moving through the throng of men.
She sees the dressing room door and pushes through it, finding herself in a narrow space, the mirrors glowing like small planets.
Her reflection follows her like a shadow.
*
“Hey, are you new?”
Aimee turns. This girl is tall and curvy, dressed in a sheer camisole. Her eyes are black holes, her eyelids explosive.
Aimee’s never seen anyone more beautiful.
“Yes. Hi!”
“What’s your name? Your stripper name, I don’t need to know your real one.”
Aimee hasn’t decided yet, but she decides then and there.
“Iris.”
It’s Tate’s mother’s name.
“What’s yours?”
“Hayley. So is today your first day then?”
“Yeah. Can you show me what to do?”
“Sure. You’ve talked to Kate, the manager?”
“She said I should ask you,” Aimee says.
“Alright. Do you have heels or do you need to borrow some?”
“I need to borrow some.”
*
Five minutes later, Iris stands in her performer clothes for the first time.
Baby-doll pink lingerie with garters and a black choker, borrowed Pleaser boots with three inch platforms and seven inch heels.
They’re made of black latex and climb halfway up her thighs. Her make-up is thick and perfect, false lashes glued to her eyes, her lips dark and full.
“How do I look?” she asks, posing self-consciously in the mirror.
She’d thought she had amazing body confidence but this is something else.
“You look incredible,” Hayley assures her.
Iris can’t believe she’s doing this. She can but she can’t. This is what she wanted. This is how she wanted to look. Why doesn’t any of this feel real?
“Are you going to dance?” Hayley asks.
“I don’t know how to use the pole.”
“It’s fine. Just like, walk around it and grind on it. And do stuff on the floor. Just watch the other girls and copy them. You’ll learn quickly enough.”
Behind the door of the dressing room, Iris feels self-conscious, even though the men don’t know she’s new. To them, she’s more meat.
For a second, Iris waivers and Aimee is standing in her underwear in a room full of strangers. For a second, she wants to turn around and run, leave, return home and watch Disney movies with her flatmates and pretend this was all a fleeting dream. Instead, she takes a deep breath and goes through the door.
3.
On stage, Iris smiles at the sea of men. They stare at her, hungry, waiting for a show. She’s happy to give it to them.
Leisurely, she starts circling the pole. She pauses often, letting the spectators drink her in, curling her body and unfurling it, twisting to give the best view.
Now, three months since she started stripping, she’s got a few new tricks even if the novelty’s worn off.
On the whole it’s a good gig. She loves the dancing, the comradery with the other girls, the cash, the high energy, the free drinks, the validation of being desired.
But there are also moments of exhaustion. Moments when she feels like she’s disappearing beneath Iris, this beautiful woman that men never really get to know.
Moments when men heckle her, touch her, drunk-yell at her, spit on her. Moments when she wonders if the money is worth it. Moments when there’s hardly any money at all. Heaven’s drying up, Hayley jokes in the changing room, a spliff tucked between her lips. Hayley’s taught Iris almost everything she knows. They spent hours before shifts practising, Hayley’s hands on Iris’s legs, teaching her where to tense, how to move.
Now, she carousels to her knees, she thrusts her chest out and flips her hair. She climbs the pole and moves into bird and then a cocoon, her moves neat and confident. When she slides to the floor, men stuff tips down her bra and into the elastic of her thong.
One man in particular catches her eye. He’s dressed in black trousers and a white shirt and has a thinning crown. He must be at least forty. She swears he never blinks. Every time she sees him, he’s watching her so intently his gaze could pierce skin.
Finishing her routine, she pulls her thong and bra back on and steps off the stage. The man approaches her almost immediately.
“Hey babe,” he purrs at her. “Aren’t you sexy?”
He seems like he’s acting. He’s probably never been to a strip club before and thinks he’s meant to be a certain way. To be fair, most of them are like that, they just seem more natural about it.
Iris laughs, a bell-like tinkle, and smiles at him.
“How are you doing tonight sir?”
“Better now.”
His voice is slightly hoarse. Maybe she’ll make a lot of money off him.
Another girl climbs onto the stage, her silver heels like skyscrapers.
‘What’s your name?’ the man asks.
“Iris. What’s yours?”
“Adam.”
“Hey Adam.”
She says it like she’s love with him.
His eyes rove over and down her body. “Turn around for me will you?”
She does, slowly rotating her hips.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
It feels a bit empty.
Of course, she’s used to all sorts of compliments. Sexy. Incredible. Amazing. Gorgeous. Beautiful seems a little too genuine for Heaven. Beautiful is what she expects boyfriends to say, and she gave hers up for a reason.
She sucks in her stomach, sticking out her butt, moving it in little circles. The man gives a little sigh and she’s sure she’s got him.
“Why don’t you let me give you a private dance?” Her voice is honeyed, her body angled so he can smell her perfume.
Hayley told her that private dances were the real way to earn money. A regular private dance costs $70 for 15 minutes, a VIP dance costs $100 for 15 minutes and lets the patrons touch the dancers from the waist up.
Iris is happy to do anything. The money’s just a perk.
“Oh go on then,” he says.
She leads him towards the back, to where Hayley showed Aimee the private booths for private dances.
He settles himself in the cushy one-person sofa and she positions herself next to the pole.
“How long have you been doing this?” Adam asks, eyes boring into Iris’s ass.
“A few months.”
“I bet most of your patrons aren’t as good looking as me.”
“Not at all,” she winks, bending at the waist.
“Wow,” Adam murmurs.
“Do you come here often?”
“No. Only when I need to.”
She arches upward, stroking her chest as she starts to remove her bra.
“When do you need to?”
The pink garment falls to the floor.
“When I’m lonely.”
His face darkens slightly.
“Stand up will you? You can put your top back on too. Just talk to me.”
Iris gets up, wobbling on her heels. Pulling the bra back on she slowly fastens it behind her back.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything.”
He says it like a confession. He says it in a voice that’s already dead.
Iris tries to maintain her performance.
“Tell me about your life,’ he pleads. ‘I just want someone to think about that isn’t me.”
There’s something pitiful about him. Something almost embarrassing.
Iris bites her tongue and prepares a lie. Aimee feels guilty. 4.
Adam becomes a regular part of Iris’s night.
She smokes out the back with Hayley, ready, gets naked for men, and talks to Adam.
Her 15-minute slots with him are strangely refreshing. It’s not even like he’s her only regular. There’s Blake, James, Jeremy, Martin, Neil. James wants to draw her naked, but the rest of them want lap-dances. When she’s tired, she catches Adam’s eye and they head to the private booths.
After the first few nights, he said he wanted them both to sit on the floor. They felt more equal that way, even though they both knew she wasn’t there for free.
“Is that weird?” she asked Hayley.
“It’s not common but it happens. I had a guy like that for a while. I hated it. Used all my emotional energy. Honestly, stripping uses less energy.”
Hayley’s not an open person, preferring to get high than talk.
It makes sense that Hayley would prefer to dance.
*
Adam’s there the night Hayley gets assaulted.
It happens during a private dance, while Iris is on stage. She’s halfway up the pole when Hayley sprints out the backroom, lunging for the changing room door. Iris only catches a glimpse of her face, but she knows something’s wrong. She slips down the pole, her heels clunking on the stage. The men murmur, their smiles dropping from their faces.
“Hayley?”
Iris pushes through the door to find Hayley sitting on a stool, face pale.
“What happened?”
Hayley has her hands pressed hard into her knees, nails digging into her skin.
“A guy assaulted me.”
Her voice is toneless, hard.
“Who?”
“He was new, I don’t know him.”
“We have to tell Kate.”
“No.” Hayley grabs Iris’s hands. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. Just leave it.”
“We can’t let him get away with this!” Iris is frantic, furious.
“You think the police are going to do something about this? Forget it.”
She pulls a joint out of her bag and lights up, her face loose like it’s about to fall apart. Iris sits on the stool next to her and slings an arm around Hayley’s shoulders.
“Do you want me to do anything?” she offers, but Hayley shrugs her off.
“Go back out there. I just want to sit here.”
*
Back on the floor, Iris can’t keep her emotions off her face. They must emanate off of her because men steered clear of her, shuddering away like she’s contagious.
All of them except Adam, who takes her hand.
“Are you okay?”
His voice is gentle and it’s enough to make tears stab at her eyes.
“Come with me.”
He leads her to one of the backrooms and settles her on the sofa.
“What happened?”
She tells him.
4.
Hayley quits the next day.
She says she just needs a break from it all.
Iris kisses her on both cheeks and makes her promise to keep it touch, even though they both know she won’t.
They don’t even know each other’s real names.
That night, everything feels sunken, like the world has lost a dimension. Her false lashes stick in the wrong places, her hand slips when applying lipstick.
On stage, she feels like a wind up doll, barely noticing how many hands are reaching for her, how many tips are attaching themselves to her body.
The men fade into the strobe lights.
*
“Aimes?”
Oliver’s voice is wild with disbelief. He saw Aimee just that week. Iris turns around, her eyes wide black pools.
“Oliver?” Her voice is low.
“What are you doing here?”
He looks her up and down, her green lingerie and garters, the shiny platform boots, the red lipstick and false lashes. He’s wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt and Adidas shoes.
She feels suddenly naked. She shifts her weight and forces herself to give her flashiest smile.
“What do you think I’m doing here Oliver? What are you doing here?”
“My cousin from out of town dragged me along. . ." he tails off. "How long have you been working here?”
“Two months.”
“And . . . do you like it?”
She’s not sure anymore.
She thinks about dancing, the camaraderie with the other girls, the cash, the neon high energy, the free drinks, the validation of being desired.
But then she thinks about how tiring it is being Iris all the time. The moments when men heckle her, touch her, drunk-yell at her, spit on her. The nights when there’s hardly any money. Last night.
“Yes,” she says. “I love it.”
He doesn’t believe her. It’s written on his face.
“I should get back to work,” she adds.
He looks disappointed and her heart clenches.
“Oh also,” she starts, and he looks at her hopefully.
She knows he wants them to get out of here, to go back to his house and play scrabble and watch Netflix like they always do.
“It’s Iris.” Next week's short story is by Patricia Dunmore, taken from the anthology This Town, featuring writers from a group of authors in the Manawatu, centred in Feilding.
