Everything I Left Unsaid(51)

“Whoa there,” a man said, reaching out to grab me before I fell. He was big, with a round belly and a long beard.

“Knocking women over again?” asked another guy coming out behind him. They both wore black leather vests over their shirts. A third man came out, younger than the other two, and taller. Bigger seeming, though he was actually kind of thin. He had dark hair and his eyes, when they ran over me, made me wish I had on a bunch more clothes. Like a snowsuit.

Bad news. That’s what my gut said. That man was the worst kind of news.

“Let’s go,” he said, dismissing me the moment after he saw me.

“You all right?” the bearded guy asked and I nodded, and the men got on three of the bikes and roared away.

Shit, I thought. This was ridiculous. I would tell Dylan that he had to come up with something else. Something less…extreme. I could go skinny-dipping again. Or watch some porn—I’m not sure where, the library? Could I do that at the library?

Anything would be easier than this.

But you want this, I thought. And you like that it’s hard.

“You coming in?” a giant black man standing on the other side of the open door asked me. “It’s Ladies’ Night.”

“Ladies’ Night?” I stammered.

“You get in free and drinks are half off.”

“Are there…other women in there?”

The man’s face broke into a smile. “Yeah. You ain’t alone, you little perv.”

He said it with such easygoing affection that I laughed.

Oh Lord, I thought, stepping into the club. If my mother could see me now.

—

The music was loud.

So loud that it actually kind of emptied my head of some of the noise I was producing. Some of the fear. The rug under my feet was threadbare and shabby and the lights were low. Some of them fluorescent.

Nice big chairs were gathered around small round tables and most of them were full. The stage was lined with men watching the act and girls walked in and around the tables, flirting and smiling, selling drinks. Selling sex.

I don’t know what I expected. Something shabby, and yes, it was shabby. Lewd, too.

I totally expected something degrading. I expected women with soul-dead eyes to be pawed at by men with cigars clamped between their teeth and a kind of awful shaming lust in their eyes.

And maybe the women dancing and walking around in G-strings and sitting on men’s laps and leading them into dark and shadowy corners, maybe they felt degraded, but they were hiding it really well. Lying about it.

And the whole place was in on the lie.

I was in on the lie. I needed to believe these women were all right. So…I just did.

One thing was for sure: they had amazing bodies. Like truly…lush and feminine, but strong, too. The woman onstage did some kind of crazy maneuver where she grabbed the pole and somehow turned herself upside down and then, from the top of the pole, using only her legs, slid down in slow circles.

Her breasts—they had to be fake—didn’t even twitch.

And I wondered what I would do if I had a body like that. If I could do that. Would I choose to shovel disgusting torn-up dirty diapers out of a bed of garbage and weeds, gagging the whole time, making far less than minimum wage? Or would I do something like this?

A man in the front row, a young man in a backwards cap sitting with some of his friends, held out a twenty-dollar bill, and the girl crawled over on her hands and knees and took it from him with her teeth.

Her eyes and her smile were inviting and flirty. Sexy.

Layla would have done something like this. For sure.

The thought of Layla, the persona of her, slipped over me, and the screaming of my raw nerves and terrible misgivings became muted. There, but in the background. Something I would worry about tomorrow, maybe.

I stepped to the left of the entryway and took it all in.

The women were putting on a show. And again, I bought it. I don’t know what that said about me. But I bought it and the carnality of it all, the sheer sexual suggestiveness of it, seeped into my skin and turned me on.

Like holy hell it turned me on.

“You want a drink?” A woman came up to my elbow, wearing a sheer black tank top that had been torn in half, the ragged hem of it just barely covering the bottoms of her nipples. She wore neon-yellow underwear and thigh-high fishnets that had been ripped in places. She looked like the sexy survivor of an apocalypse. “Hon’?”

“A pi?a colada?” I wish I could say that that was the first thing I could think of, but the truth was, if my reaction to Bucket-o-Colada was any indication, I loved pi?a coladas.

“Sure thing.”

She walked away, stopping at tables as she went. I expected guys to grab her ass or something, yank on her. But no one did. They looked. And they leered. But it seemed pretty hands-off.

There were giant guys without necks standing in the shadows, keeping an eye on all things.

“What the f*ck are you doing here?” Suddenly Joan was in front of me in a red push-up bra and black ruffled panties. She was more covered up than any other woman working in the bar, but somehow the sexiest.

And she was furious.

“Hey, Joan,” I said lamely.

“I repeat, what the f*ck are you doing here?”





She pulled me out of the spot I’d claimed and past a few groups of men who watched us as we went.