“Josh-o, you faggot. Whatcha doing out here? Dyke show’s about to start.” He made a V with his index and middle finger and waggled his tongue in between.
Josh raised his beer. “Just having a quiet—”
“Lap dance!” I interjected, slipping my own fifty out of my wallet, waving it around, then sliding it back in, making out like Josh had just paid me.
I don’t know what had given me the urge to save Josh from his brother. Maybe it was because the brother had tried to stick his fingers in when I’d bent over in front of him during my show. Or maybe it’s because strippers are like cats. You know how if you love cats, and you’re all, Here, kitty-kitty-kitty, they’ll ignore you? And if you hate them, or are allergic, that fucking cat is gonna be all over you? Well, that’s what was happening here, I guess. The brother wasn’t looking entirely convinced so I swigged the last of my pink drink, strode over to Josh, planted my legs on either side of his, and held on to the back of the chair. I expected him to flinch, but he was good, hamming it up, saluting his brother with the beer bottle.
Baldy stood there, arms crossed.
“Bit of privacy?” Josh asked. “You watching is uncomfortably close to incest.”
The brother snorted and walked back out the door.
“Thanks for that,” Josh said. When I didn’t move away, he continued, “Uh, you don’t actually have to do it, he’s gone.”
“But what if he comes back? We need to keep up the act. One song. Sit back and think of Camoo.”
We didn’t have any music, so I grabbed his earbuds, stuck one in his ear and the other in mine. A Nick Cave song started playing — “Are You the One That I’ve Been Waiting For.” It wasn’t exactly Lil Wayne, but it would have to do. Then, because there were no pesky bouncers to uphold no-contact laws, I sat on his lap, and the instant the backs of my thighs touched the front of his, the weirdest thing happened. My skin burned with a fierce, inexplicable heat, and buzzed like I was touching a live electrical wire. I jumped up, startled, and as soon as I wasn’t touching him my flesh went cold. Too cold. I couldn’t bear it so I sat back down and the warmth returned. As Nick sang, “You’ve been moving surely toward me,” I leaned in and slowly rested my lower abdomen, rib cage, then boobs against his torso, and it was the same thing as with the legs: a flood of warmth and tingling that made my heart pound. Sure, I was a little high, but I’m a little high most of the time and nothing like that had ever happened before.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Do you feel that?”
“Ye-es,” he said hesitantly.
I couldn’t help it, I leaned in and kissed him. Just a short kiss, more than a peck, less than a porn tonguing, but oh my god. It was like sparks flew between our lips, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed full of Pop Rocks and Wizz Fizz and my brain buzzed like I’d just done an enormous line of the purest cocaine in all Bolivia, even though the stuff I had in the baggie was actually total shit.
Then the song finished and his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. He fished it out and looked at it, then back at me. He smiled ruefully and said, “My Uber’s here.”
I walked with him to the front door, the other guys so engrossed in the double show they didn’t notice us.
“Well, thanks for that,” he said. “It was quite an experience.”
I stared at him, desperately trying to commit his face to memory, though it was difficult because he was just an ordinary-looking guy. Average height, dark-brown hair, not ugly, but not even as good-looking as my boyfriend Matt, who had chicks literally flinging their slimy G-strings at him on stage.
A voice in my head screamed, Kiss me, touch me, don’t go! but all I said was. “No problem, nice to meet you,” and then he was gone, and I would never see him again.
Kailee found me in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, grabbing at my stomach which felt like it was being pierced by metal barbecue skewers. She told me later I’d gone deathly pale under my spray tan and she was convinced I’d been raped.
“I feel like I’m going to vomit,” I told her. “I think I’m in love.”
The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur. I made my five hundred bucks, and when I got home to Lidcombe there was a party going on, like most weekends. I stood at the rusted sink, piled with the usual dirty dishes, and looked out the window. Matt was off his chops, staggering around in the overgrown backyard, attempting to play Rugby League with a couple of friends.
“What’s he on?” I asked Dave, who’d sidled up behind me.
“GHB,” he said. “Want some?”
“The date-rape drug? No thanks.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the Telegraph. The sex on G is amazing.”
He pushed his groin into my arse and I turned and swatted him away. “Fuck off Dave, seriously.”
“You know, Matt plays up when he’s on tour. A lot.”
I knew, and it didn’t worry me. Probably because I met up with the occasional club punter after work, but only if the money was very, very good.
Dave moved in close. He was my height, with shaggy auburn hair and dry lips that collected white stuff in the corners. “It’s not fair if you don’t get to have some fun of your own.”
I pushed him away, took my iPhone into the bedroom, and locked the door. I had research to do.
“So, how’s your crush going?” Kailee said. We were in the girls’ room at the Playhouse, putting on makeup.
“It’s not a crush. This is serious.” I wasn’t lying. I’d tried to put Josh out of my mind, chalk the whole episode up to a combination of cocaine, Nick Cave, and alcopops, but it hadn’t worked. For the last four days he’d been the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and the last before I went to sleep. And then I dreamed about the motherfucker. I was spending more time staring at photos of him on Google Images than I was planning my financial future. I was losing my mind.
“Have you seen him again?”
“No, but I’ve been checking him out on the Internet. His full name is Joshua Atherton, born October 13, 1979. He’s a part-time lecturer at the University of Western Sydney teaching literature and philosophy — “The Ethical Life” and “Philosophies of Love and Death.” Lives in a flat in Ashfield he’s bought with his fiancée, Kelly Marshall, an academic at Sydney Uni.” I turned my phone to show her the picture of Josh and Kelly posted on Facebook a few months earlier, where she was holding out her ring finger to display a vintage rose-gold engagement ring inlaid with, to my mind, a pathetically small diamond. Comments underneath included: About time, guys! and, Nice work Kel — you finally made an honest man out of him!
“Oh, hon,” Kailee said, her mouth turning down and eyes drooping like a sad cow.
“What?”
“I’ve known you for three years and I’ve never seen you go nuts about any guy, even Matt. You’re usually so practical. Probably because you’re a Capricorn. You know what you want, go and get it, and don’t let silly emotions stand in your way. Not like the rest of the girls, always in love, breaking up, getting obsessed, being betrayed. But now you are and it’s sweet to see. You’re just like the rest of us!”
I doubted that. I was nothing like Kailee with her Tree of Life cushion covers, married boyfriends, and Deepak Chopra books.
“But I’m worried,” she continued. “If it doesn’t work out,” she pointed at my phone, “I’m afraid you’re going to take it hard.”