Page 2 of Up In Smoke
He looks at me stricken. “She was trying to touch…um…I didn’t want to…”
I sigh and squeeze his shoulder. The poor kid is probably only nineteen. It’s not like anyone gets all buddy buddy around here, so I haven’t asked about his situation. But I get the impression he’s one of those gays who flees the house the moment they turn eighteen, never looking back at his dumb homophobic family or the small town that was trying to suffocate him. But big dreams die fast here in the big city, and a place like Four By Four can seem like an alluring way to pay your bills, fast.
Something I know from experience.
“It’s cool, dude,” I assure Fen, giving him a cocky smile that I hope conveys some confidence. “Let me handle it.”
“B-but they specifically asked for me,” he says uncertainly.
Of course they did. Patrons often think they can bully the baby-faced innocent ones.
I smirk. “Well, if they don’t treat you right, they don’t get you, do they? Go find someone nicer whose lap needs warming. You’re adorable. You’ll make twice what you’d get in there in the same time, I bet.”
Fen sags under my touch, offering me a weak smile. “Thanks, Jay. I owe you one.”
I shrug. “Buy me a drink later and we’ll call it even. Now get.”
He nods then scampers, and just in time, too. The purple curtain is yanked aside, and a middle-aged woman in a flowery blouse and jeans pouts at me. “Where’d our lil’ cutie go?” she whines. “We were only just getting started!”
Oy vey. Why is it the suburban mom types who always turn out to be the worst predators around here?
I flash her my most Hollywood smile. I might not be a teenager anymore…okay, I might not even be in my twenties.And I’ve never really been innocent. But I’ve still got that boyish charm going for me thanks to the last few good genes my body is clinging onto despite the amount of abuse I put it through. If this woman wants a baby boy to mother, I’ll have to do.
“Ladies!” I bellow, spreading out my arms. There are three more of them sitting inside the booth behind this one. I get pretty good at reading folks in this place. My gut instinct tells me their spokeswoman is the cougar and those are her back-up mice. “I’m afraid Fen had to leave, but don’t fret! Cowboy Jay is here to take you to the rodeo!”
The cougar looks like she’s going to protest for a second, but then she looks down at my abs and changes her mind. Like I said, my genes are kind of assholes. So long as I haul my ass to the gym a couple of times a week, I can still stay in shape. By any rights, I should look like a slug. But seeing as this is how I make my living, I can’t bring myself to feel guilty about it.
“Yeehaw!” the cougar cries, grabbing me by the wrist and tugging me inside the booth, making sure to close the curtain behind us. “Saddle up, cowboy!”
That reminds me to pull my hat up from where it’s resting on my shoulders. It might not be much of a costume, but it at least gives me something of a persona to hide behind, like the world’s flimsiest armor. Cowboy Jay can handle anything these gals throw at him. Jesse doesn’t have to bring that crap home with him.
I quickly move over to the interactive sound system, picking a favorite tune in order to seduce my captive audience to. So what if the ground is a little unstable under my feet or if it takes me a couple of attempts to jab the play icon? Being drunk and high is the only way to get through what I’m sure is going to be quite the ordeal. However, as I look over at all the singles the ladies have clutched eagerly in their manicured hands, I tell myself I can deal with whatever they’ve got in store for me.
It’s not just rent I have to cover tonight. I need enough to score some blow to pay TJ back. I might be many disappointing things, but a freeloader isn’t one of them.
“Let’s get this party started!” I yell as the beat drops. Thanks to the reasonably good insulation in these booths, our music mostly drowns out the noise from the main club area. But that does mean anything we say in here needs to be hollered if we want to be heard.
The group seems to catch my drift regardless. Cougar grabs an almost full bottle of Champagne from the ice bucket and raises it up as she screams. Her friends all lift their glasses and join in, like they’re in some kind of primal ritual.
I get the uneasy feeling that makes me the sacrificial lamb.
It’s also pretty obvious from their empty glasses that this party started way before I arrived. Now, I’m the last person to judge anyone’s life choices or how they have fun. There’s just a difference between people who are out for a good time and to let loose, and those who are trying to prove something, maybe even attempting to make themselves feel powerful for a night by making someone else feel small.
Sadly, I’m pretty sure I know which category Cougar falls into. But I know I can handle her a thousand times better than Fen would have been able to, and all I really care about is parting her from her money.
My mission helps focus my chemical-fueled brain.
I picked a popular song from back in the nineties that women of a certain generation tend to respond to. Sure enough, by the chorus they’re singing along at the top of their lungs about how sexy they feel, throwing money all over the place. It’s undignified, but once they leave, there’s a dustpan and brush hidden behind the sofa that I’ll retrieve so I can sweep up all my earnings. Of course, these are just fake paper bills the club provides. I have to turn them over in the back office, thenonce Jerry the accountant tallies it all up, he gives me back a percentage.
That’s why we all really appreciate customers who slip us actual twenties, fifties, or even hundreds. We’re supposed to declare all that as well, but no one ever does. It’s the only way any of us make ends meet most weeks.
According to the display screen, these ladies have only paid for another ten minutes. That’s roughly three more songs, so I pick a sultry one next so I can really lean over them one at a time and roll my hips, getting them all hot and bothered. Flustered, tipsy customers are generous customers, after all. For the next track I give them some decent choreography (or at least Ithinkit’s okay). Then I get them all up to dance with me for the finale.
This is always a bit risky, as it encourages patrons to put their hands on me. I don’t mind if they keep it PG-13, but I really should have known better with Cougar here in charge tonight. After being hugged, stroked, pinched and poked for over three minutes, I’m very grateful when the song ends and the booth goes as quiet as it can with the other music blasting from in the main area.
“Okay, darlin’s!” I holler, keeping up my cowboy act. I step away and wave my hands at them. “That’s all we’ve got time for, I’m afraid. Y’all have a nice night!”
“What! No!” Cougar predictably pouts and grabs for my hips. “We’re having so much fun! I’ll pay for extra!”