Page 134 of Lessons in Chemistry

We reach the end of the line, where a huge bouncer dressed in black asks to see our ID and looks in Casey’s swimming bag.

“First time?” he asks as he checks my driving licence and their student ID cards.

“Yes,” I reply.

He taps a poster on the wall with the club rules printed on it. “Read that.”

I skim over the rules. I’ve never been to a strip club before, but I’d guess that the ‘look but don’t touch’ rule is pretty standard. From what I can gather from the rules, we won’t see any full-frontal nudity unless we pay for private dances. If we want those, we have to buy tokens at the bar. No putting folded notes in G-strings, then. That would violate the no-touching rule.

He gives us our ID back. I pay for us, and the bouncer stamps the backs of our hands with a pair of horns with a halo hanging off one of them and ushers us inside.

The club is dark with sultry red lighting. A staircase with an amazing view of the raised stage leads down into the club. The stage has three poles, which are being worked by a trio of muscly men in red leather hot pants, cropped waistcoats, and black collars studded with crystals. Fuck, the dancers are sexy. Most of the seating is arranged facing the stage. Some are grouped around small round tables. As we walk down the stairs, I notice a long bar at the back of the club with red neon lighting, staffed by men and women in black T-shirts and jeans. The two long walls are lined by individual booths that can have thick curtains pulled across them. Is that where the private dances happen? Big guys dressed in smart black suits stand around, keeping an eye on things. The music is loud, with a heavy bass that thrums through my body, but not too noisy that we won’t be able to talk.

We find three seats around a table towards the back of the club. While Emory and I make ourselves comfortable, Casey goes to the bar. Emory’s eyes are wide as he stares at the dancers on the stage. His cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink.

I nudge his arm. “Like what you see?”

“Uh-huh.” He claps his hand over his mouth. “Am I allowed to say that?”

“Why wouldn’t you be.”

“Because I’m here with my boyfriends,” he hisses. Then he smiles, and his eyes get dreamy. “Boyfriends.”

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

A twinky dancer in his mid-twenties approaches us. He has light brown curls on top of his head, while the back and sides have been shaved short. His piercings catch the light, drawing my attention to them. He stands between our chairs, puts his hands on the back of them, and leans between us.

“Fancy a dance?” He has a strong Cockney accent. “Bring your friend.” He smirks as Casey joins us, drinks in hand. “Friends,” he amends with a wink. “All three of you can come and watch for the price of two.”

Emory’s sweet pink blush has turned vibrant scarlet.

“Maybe later,” I say.

The dancer tuts and stands tall. “I might not be available later. Trust me, I’m the best dancer here.”

“Then I look forward to seeing you dance on the stage.”

“You won’t be able to miss me, darling.” The cute dancer gives us a finger wave and then saunters to the next table, swaying his hips.

“I don’t know where to look,” Emory admits.

“I think we’re meant to be watching the dancers,” Casey says.

“That’s—” Emory shakes his head. “Never mind. Oh, god, they’re taking their clothes off.” He covers his face with his hands and peeks through his fingers.

“They’ll only strip to their underwear. We have to pay extra if we want to see cock,” I say.

Emory chokes. Casey pats him on the back and hands him a pint of beer.

“I didn’t pick you as a beer drinker,” I say.

Emory sips the beer, getting froth on his upper lip. Once he’s stopped choking, he peers at me. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t.”

“Well, now you know something new about me.”