I stare at my reflection in the dressing room mirror, taking in the bags under my eyes and the stubble on my cheeks. Half-naked men wander around me, chatting, spraying deodorant, lifting dumbbells. The walls are practically vibrating with the music they’re playing on the club floor—some sort of electro-pop song that’s getting the crowd riled up for us.
Normally, I’d be buzzing by now. Fixing up my costume, or tossing back a shot, or oiling myself up. But right now, I just can’t be bothered. I feel like shit. My thoughts keep floating back to Beth.
I feel like I’ve lied to her.
I mean, technically, I have, even if it’s just a lie by omission; I’ve made her think that I’m not a stripper. And now I can’t shake the feeling that I tricked her into having sex with me last night.
It didn’t really cross my mind at the time, but when I woke up this morning and saw her curled up with Jack, the realisation hit me over the head like a fucking sledgehammer. The two of them looked so cute together, spooning, their heads on the same pillow. The computer nerd and the girl-next-door. They both just fit. Neither of them strips off for money, or swings their genitalia around in other peoples’ faces to get bank notes shoved down their underwear. Some of the guys here might not agree with me, but I feel like what we do here is a kind of sex work. Would Beth, our sweet, gentle, child-loving, apple-pie-scented nanny really want to sleep with a sex worker? She probably wouldn’t want to touch me with a barge pole if she knew the truth.
I should have just left her and Jack alone when I saw them kissing on the sofa yesterday, but of course, I had to crowbar myself between them. Because I’m a selfish prick.
I groan internally, rubbing my eyes. I have to do it. I have to tell her about my job. And then she’s probably going to hate me, and she’s never going to come back to the flat again, and Cami will be heartbroken, and Jack will be crushed, and—
A hand slaps onto my shoulder. “You alright, Romeo?” Someone calls over my head. I glance up to see Harrison, aka Hunky Harry, checking himself out in my dressing room mirror. He’s already ready for the performance, dressed in baggy firefighter pants and fluorescent orange suspenders. His naked chest is shimmering with glitter.
I turn back to my reflection. “Shut up.”
He laughs, slumping down in the folding chair next to mine. “Real talk. How much more body glitter do you reckon I can get away with?”
“None. Buy a bottle of baby oil like the rest of us.”
“Why do you think Twilight got so big, man?” He insists. “Girls love this shit.”
There’s a muffled scream from the club floor. I can hear people stamping and shouting over the thudding house music.
“What’s the crowd like today?” I ask, reaching for some hair gel. “Sounds excited.”
“We’ve got five hen dos. Apparently security has already had to yank a couple girls off the stage. They decided to put on their own bicurious show for the club.”
“Jesus.” I run my fingers through my hair, slicking it back so it won’t fall in my face while I’m dancing.
My phone buzzes on my dressing table, and I glance across at it. My little sister, Lucy, just sent me a photo message. I swipe to open it, and am confronted with a picture of my giant extended family crowded around my parents’ dinner table. Everybody is there: all of my siblings, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents. My mum is sitting at the head of the table, smiling widely. A birthday cake is set in front of her, decorated with lit candles.
Lucy follows up the picture with a text.
L: Help. She’s making us watch all the family baby videos again.
L: U were a hideous toddler omg
L: You look like a brown shrek
I snort, tapping back a reply.
C: did mum get my flowers okay?
There’s a long pause.
L: She sent them back 🙁
L: told the delivery guy she didn’t want them
I rub the back of my neck, heat climbing up my face. Seriously? She’s that disgusted with me, she won’t even accept a bunch of damn flowers?
C: she defiantly thinks they’ll give her herpes
L: oh, defiantly
C: piss off. definitely
L: Wish you were here 🙁
L: R u working tonight
L: Pls give Hunky Harry my number, I am literally begging you
L: i will do ANYTHING for that man
C: no
C: its for your own good, hes a nitemare
C: Shows starting, ive got 2 go
C tell mum happy bday from me
C: love you
L: Awwww I love you TOO <3 <3 <3
L: give Harry my number or i’ll defiantly fight you
I roll my eyes and jump out of my seat. We have a pull-up bar installed in one corner of the room, and I hop up onto it, doing a couple reps. In my experience, there’s a very obvious correlation between tips, and how pumped I get before the show. It’s why I spend so much time in the gym. These biceps pay my rent.
Harry watches me, his eyes narrowed. “Seriously, man. You good? You look like shit.”
“Lot of weird stuff going on at home,” I mutter.
“Well, perk up.” He looks meaningfully at my boxers. “We’re on in five.”
There’s a knock on the dressing room door, and the show’s announcer, Seth, comes into the room. He’s wearing a shiny silver jacket and sunglasses. He looks like an absolute wanker.
“Alright, boys,” he shouts, flashing a Crest-white grin around the room. “Line up. The girls look hungry tonight. Give them a good show, okay?”
I sigh, dropping off the pull-up bar and taking my spot at the end of the line. Seth opens the door, and we all file through the corridor, heading out backstage. It’s dark here, and the music is pounding unbelievably loudly, shaking the walls. The crowd is chanting for us to come out. Harry claps me on the back and gives my navy-blue policeman’s trousers a pointed look before stepping out of the wings.
We get into position, posing across the dark stage. Before the lights come up, I reach under my boxers, grab the end of my dick, and give it a tug. The last thing I’m thinking about when I’m onstage is sex, so it helps to wake the little guy up.
That’s a weird misconception about male strippers—that we’re horny while we’re performing. When I’m dancing, I’m not thinking about sex. I’m thinking about the performance. The music. Giving the audience what they want. Even when we bring girls up to the stage for lap dances, I never get turned on. I’m not humping these women, I’m essentially using them as props to dance with. I don’t think anyone expects a female dancer to be getting wet while she’s swinging around a pole, but when it’s a guy, people assume we’re just sex-crazed nymphos who picked this job because we want to fuck everything that moves. I have girls propositioning me every single night, trying to pay me to go home with them. I never have, though. I never sleep with clients. That’s a hard line.
Seth starts introducing the dancers. One by one, spotlights flash down over each of us, illuminating us to the audience.
“Next up, ladies, we have Hunky Harry!” he bellows. “Raise your hand if you find yourself getting hot tonight, and this strapping fireman will be sure to hose you down until you’re nice and wet!”
The audience screams as a spotlight shines down over Harry. He grins, winking at the crowd, then unravels a length of rubber hose from around his waist. He holds it suggestively between his legs and squeezes a hidden pump attached to one end. Water comes spurting out, showering the first few rows of guests, and the squeals reach a new crescendo.
I can’t help the dumb grin that swipes over my face. Despite my shitty mood, the adrenaline in the room is infectious. This is why I like stripping, more than ballet or hip-hop or all the other kinds of dance I used to do. Stripping doesn’t take itself too seriously. It’s a laugh; campy and cheesy and just freaking fun.
Harry tosses one last wink at the crowd, and Seth comes to stand by me. “And last, but definitely not least: you’ve seen him around town. Maybe you’ve spotted him on one of our fliers. Perhaps you’ve stared at one of his Underground billboards on your 7AM commute. Well, now’s your chance to turn your wildest fantasies into reality. He’s the Magic Nights Poster Boy, the sexy stud you all know and love: give it up for Randy Romeo!”
The final spotlight cracks down over my head, and I grin, grabbing my shirt and ripping it open. Buttons scatter across the stage floor. The screams get even louder as I do a backflip in time with the music, then skid across the floor on my knees, landing right on the very edge of the stage. A girl in the front row ends up with my crotch about two inches from her face. Her eyelashes flutter, and I vaguely wonder if she’s about to pass out as I wrap my arms around her waist, tugging her up onto my lap. I start grinding my hips into her, keeping beat with the music, and she moans loudly, clinging to me and giggling. Her friends cheer and whoop as I flip us both over, rolling her onto her back and sliding my body over hers, thrusting into her missionary-style.
Seth laughs. “Okay, boys, get back in line, we’re just getting started.”
I wrap my arms around the girl again and gently slide her back off the stage. She grabs a handful of Magic Dollars from her seat, shoving them down my pants.
I laugh. “Thanks, babe,” I call over the music. She grabs at me as I pull away, pawing at my waistband. I kiss her hand, then jog back into formation. Seth is still talking as all of the guys get into position for our first dance.
“Remember—those Magic Dollars are your key to getting lucky tonight, so keep them raining on the stage.” Seth pauses for effect. “Oh. And one more thing. If you girls are really nice tonight, and you shout really loud, these young men will probably take their pants off.”
As one, we all grab the legs of our velcro rip-away pants and tear them away from our bodies, revealing identical Union Jack-patterned jockstraps.
The crowd loses it. Money starts showering the stage. Women jump out of their seats. Red, white and blue strobes flash across the stage, cutting through the plumes of dry ice streaming from the fog machines.
Steve waves the crowd down, laughing. “Okay, okay, enough introductions. Boys, take it away!”
The first few beats of ‘Pump it’ start beating through the speakers, and the lights above the audience flash on, illuminating the girls’ faces. Immediately, my eyes focus on a mess of bright red curls, and I stumble over my own feet.
It’s Beth. She looks unbelievable, in a tight red dress that clings to her curves. She’s here, at one of the guest tables, holding hands with a hot black guy I’ve never seen before, a drink raised halfway to her mouth.
And she’s staring right at me, her red-painted lips parted in horror.
Well, shit.
