A husky dude drinks a double "sex on the beach" cocktail at the far end of the U-shaped bar—he’s one of three customers in the small strip club. He hides in the back corner, but his spotless white sneakers glow in the black light and draw attention to him.
Sneaker Pimp lingers in the bar for hours, often until close. Once in a while, a dancer approaches him and they go to the private dance area for a song, but not so much today. He’s glued to the bar stool farthest from the stage. He drinks and stares into the nothingness that suffocates the club and everyone in it, until the night rush pops off in a welcomed chaos—but, that won’t be for another couple of hours.
Dancer after dancer approaches Sneaker Pimp, but he silently shakes his head at them until they move on, to the two blue-collar guys suckling bottles of Budweiser. The buds don’t buy dances. Don’t have much money. Won’t offer to buy a drink.
One after one, the dancers flock to the video poker machines and their kaleidoscopic barrage of dopamine-inducing lights and beeps. Purses empty when the strippers whine to each other in the dressing room and text every regular customer in town, but they won’t show up to the club for hours, if at all.
"PayPal me a deposit?" One of the strippers texts to a regular. Instantly, she’s $50 richer. She leans back in the nicked side chair and tells the other dancers behind her about her score, through a scratched mirror.
"Good for you," Rose says and straps on the nine-inch heels that almost broke her ankle when they snagged the carpet an hour ago. She pulls back the dressing room curtain and braces herself for another round of Empty Club Syndrome.
A wave of stale beer, bad breath and body spray penetrates the void between Justin Timberlake songs and hair metal.
"This place stinks," Sneaker Pimp says to the retired dancer bartender.
"It must stink real sweet if you’re here literally every weekend," she says with zero hesitation and a huge smile.
He’s about to pay his tab and storm off as Rose emerges from the dressing room — a big closet, basically, on the opposite end of the club. As Rose approaches, Sneaker Pimp sits down.
"One more, barmaid," he says.
"Watch it," the bartender says.
"What? I thought you liked pirates?"
The bartender rolls her eyes and laughs. She’s not sure which way to take it.
Rose slithers next to him, wearing a mens button-down shirt, lace panties and thigh-high stockings. Rose orders water. Desert sand replaces her mouth and throat, as she waits for the bartender to stop jabbering with one of the broke dudes across the bar from her. After waiting ten minutes, the bartender finally serves her complicated drink: H20. Rose downs half of it and asks for a refill.
"So I don’t have to interrupt your conversation again," Rose says.
"Why don’t you get a real drink?" Sneaker Pimp asks.
"Why don’t you get a real date?" Rose goads.
"Because you haven’t sat next to me yet," he says and turns to face her.
Rose nods and drapes the stool next to his with a sarong to sit on. The bacteria on the torn pleather butt-saucers causes ass pimples even through underwear. Any barrier protects against pizza booty - this evident remedy took months of trying washes, scrubs, masks, astringents, lotions and potions that never quite eliminated the puss-filled sores ruining her divine caboose. At her wits end, she decided it wasn’t her ass but everything it touched in the club: the bar stools, chairs and stage. So she’s packed a sarong to save her biggest asset from acne flares ever since.
"I like that," Sneaker Pimp says and points at the makeshift seat cover. "Classy."
Rose pauses instead of revealing the logic and scientific method behind her fabric bar-stool sheath. "So,
what’s your story?" she asks.
"You’re looking at it," he says and swivels so he faces the bar again.
"Bullshit. Everyone has a story outside this one."
Rose leans back and scans Sneaker Pimp. He fidgets with a napkin.
"I own a sneaker shop. This is where I go to avoid everyone. It’s far from my neighborhood, the store, and my life."
"That explains your impeccably clean kicks."
"Probably the only thing clean in here."
"Hey!"
"Besides you. Or, are you a dirty girl?"
"It depends on my mood."
"So, you’re bipolar."
"So, you’re a doctor?"
"I’m just making conversation. Why don’t we get a dance?"
They hold hands and traverse the club to a tiny, curtained booth. He sits on a chair and she draws the heavy velvet. A new song starts and she dances for him. A slow tease in pinup snapshots. She slides down his body and feels his heart race. He grabs her hips and pulls her into him but she snatches his wrists, lifts his arms above his head and hops away from his body and erection. She turns her back toward him and dances. Spins around. Propels her leg over his head. Completely naked now. He leans forward and she gently kicks him back into the chair. She sits on his lap, then stands, so her pussy is at his eye level. She lowers herself onto his lap. The song ends. He hands her four twenty-dollar bills.
They exit. She touches up her makeup and changes outfits in the dressing room, and he pisses and splashes his face with water in the bathroom.
They meet at the bar again. He fondles his drink and she thumbs through her phone.
"Take my number," he says.
"I’m old school and don’t integrate the digital world and my work," she says.
"Then come to my shop," he gives her a business card with his number and the shop’s address on it.
She stares at him in silence and stuffs it in her purse. Best not to argue and just toss it in the trash later.
"I’m there all week."
"I’m here all weekend."
"I know. Where else would you be?"
"I do have a life outside of here," Rose says and squints her eyes in annoyance.
"Sure you do," he says in a monotone voice.
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Don’t we all have a story besides this one?" he reminds her of what she said earlier.
"Don’t back-peddle," she says to combat his sly—yet, failing—negging. "I know what you initially meant."
"I meant you’re a stripper and this is how you spend your time."
Rose ignores him and considers laying into him or hustling him for another $80. The latter sounds more beneficial for her end goal of making money, so she strategically waits for Sneaker Pimp’s narcissistic impulse to doublespeak to pass. He’ll just deny the true meaning, in an attempt to confuse and dominate. Feeding into it is a trap she recognizes but keeps to herself.
Her water glass is empty. The ice has melted. An orange straw is all that remains.
"Are you ready for a real drink yet?"
Rose adjusts the sarong seat cover and calls to the bartender.
"Club soda and cran, please."
The bartender delivers it much quicker this time.
"Are you ready for a real dance yet?"
Rose licks the straw, puckers her lips and sucks a slow stream of the virgin concoction.
Sneaker Pimp stands and they return to the private dance space, for another intimate striptease.
When it’s over, Rose counts the money she made from Sneaker Pimp and fans it out on the glitter-encrusted counter top in the dressing room. The business card pops out from the line of eight twenty-dollar bills. She crumbles it and throws it into the wastebasket. She hides in the dressing room and reads Exotic until the night rush pours in, so she can easily avoid the Sneaker Pimp and his backhanded remarks.
