The Jade Butterfly. Jeffrey Round
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Since when did getting into a strip club become a porn audition?”
“It’s all part of the fun.”
“The joys of ghetto life?”
“Right. Anyway, he — meaning Not Philip — kept saying he had a secret. Not Philip made it sound like something terrible. An affliction of some sort. I kept expecting HIV or worse. I even checked out his medicine cabinet the first few times I stayed over. Nothing. Not even an eczema cream.”
“So what was it?”
They were lining up again, this time to pay the inflated cover charge. Donny waved at a couple of faces in the line-up ahead and blew a kiss, all without breaking stride in the conversation.
“Two things, actually. First, his real name was Prabin, not Philip. He doesn’t like to go by his birth name.”
“It’s a nice name.”
“Exactly. He didn’t live up to it.”
“Not the most terrible thing, but it says a lot about him. And the second?”
Donny held up a warning finger: Hearken — a note to the wise.
“And second, he was forty-two years old and had never had a relationship last longer than two weeks.”
“Ouch!”
“I think ours was the record at eighteen days.”
“Congratulations?”
“No. Sympathy would be more in order. He was beautiful. Flawless, in fact. And he was heavenly in bed. All testosterone and sphincter muscles. His hair was superb, his skin irreproachable. Even his breath smelled fresh in the morning, no matter where his tongue had been the night before. But Not Philip was also not relationship material. At the first hint of my growing amorousness, he bolted.”
“A fight?”
“No, more like a fright. And then no answer for days on end. From fast forward, let’s-get-together-every-day to suddenly I’m-busy-all-the-time. I stopped calling after the first week. I became pathetic by the second. By the third, I wanted to go over and scratch at his door and beg him to let me in. I was totally gaga, head over heels. He wanted none of it.”
Bills placed on the counter vanished in exchange for a stamp on the inner wrist. Dan looked down at a glowing smiley face. He assumed it was either a suggestion of the demeanour expected of each guest while on the premises or a highly optimistic prediction of how he would be feeling by evening’s end.
He turned back to Donny. “Did you ever ask him what happened?”
A baleful glance. “I know what happened. I reached my Best Before date. I was stale meat. The next time I saw him was a month later. He was out at the Eagle surrounded by friends. I picked up my broken heart, dragged it across the floor by its chain, and went over to say hi. He actually acted glad to see me. He slipped me the tongue and we practically made out in the middle of the bar for a full five minutes. The resurrection, la-ti-da. Then when I asked when I could see him, he just shrugged. ‘We’ll get together again,’ he said. Five minutes later, I saw him snogging someone else. That was it. I never heard from him again.”
“Somebody new on the scene?”
Donny shrugged. “I doubt it. He just doesn’t get attached. For long, anyway. I mean, if you haven’t had a real relationship by forty-two, what are the chances you’re ever going to have one?”
“True.”
They’d reached the club’s inner sanctum, a rostrum where barely clothed young men wandered freely amongst the “gentlemen” to display their wares, such as they were. Dan looked around curiously. Many of the dancers were truly fetching. Skin tones galore and looks of every sort — from twinks to muscle gods and back again. It was a veritable catalogue of flesh, a modern-day slave auction. Only these boys were for the browsing and borrowing, not the buying.
“Anyway, to get back to you …”
“I thought you’d forgotten.”
“… and your latest debacle.”
They sidled up to the bar where Donny slapped a twenty on the counter. They watched a waiter turn, dip, and glide, pushing two pint glasses forward. Shirtless and wearing only tight shorts, he flashed a killer smile as he handed over the change, hinting that for a small price his affections might also be available. And maybe, for just a bit more, the rest of him, too. Donny pocketed the coins and left a five.
Dan glanced over. “Big tipper tonight.”
“I’m a regular. It pays to treat the staff well.”
“Big tippers get big tips?”
“Something like that. By the way, we’re going to miss the show. Let’s head upstairs.”
They climbed the well-worn stairs, illuminated by a red light, and bordered by an intricately carved wood panel that might have come from the dungeon of the Marquis de Sade’s last stand. Arcane, polished, and reflective, it bespoke of a century or more of hidden delights. A pseudo-mirror, with a patina shiny enough to fool the drunker patrons in a dim light.
Upstairs, they found a dancer’s platform with boys lined up on either side. A glass backdrop overlooked a second stage one floor below. Double your viewing pleasure, double your fun. The MC stood, microphone in hand. His patter was quick, the music jaunty and upbeat as he offered the patrons a “Slam Bam Minute” featuring full frontal displays of the best wares the house had to offer.
Dan quaffed his beer and settled onto a couch beside Donny as the MC hustled his protégés for “a more intense encounter” behind the curtains at only twenty dollars per song. Considerably more than Ten Cents a Dance, Dan mused, but then this club had a reputation for being up-market. Who said romance was cheap?
On the dais, each dancer flashed his most prominent features. Many were attractive. All were charming. Heartbreak was the stock in trade here. Some were quite impressive — a young black man with the most differentiated set of abs Dan had ever seen, another with an elongated penis that, even slack, dangled nearly to his knee. Donny leaned over to confide that it had earned him the unofficial moniker, “Point of No Return.”
“Colourful, that,” Dan replied.
One at a time, the boys mounted the stage for the buying and selling of surreptitious looks; price no object when desire’s on the block. Because what it comes down to, they seemed to say, is what have I got and how much can you afford? Once you’re hooked, you’ll keep coming back. No matter the prize, no matter your taste. Crack cocaine, cheap gin, rough sex, good times, a roll of the dice, the turn of a card. Everything’s up for sale. Anything to blot out the despair of so long life, the pain of your miserable existence. A little magic to put the shine back in your eyes and the colour in your cheeks. Wind up the top and set it spinning on the floor once again. Your roll, friend. I’ll undo my shirt just enough to make you squirm, show you the outline of a stiff prick in my trousers or push up a sleeve to flash the bulging vein just begging for a needle. Make me feel complete and I will love you forever. Or maybe just for a day or possibly even an hour. Well, long enough for a quick wank, at least. Because love’s a sham, love’s a lark. And we all know love is immortal. Or is it just immoral? No matter. While your need is strong my love is miles wide, a magic carpet to ride on straight to the land of your dreams. Who cares if it’s only a few threads deep? But then five, ten, thirty years on and you’re still trying to kick the habit. Where, oh where, is love? What is love, after all? Better to forget it ever existed. Better never to have known that dream at all. Time to drag yourself off home alone, once again. Ah, well, there’s always tomorrow night.
The final dancer was one of the most dazzling Dan had ever seen. Sparkling blue eyes and chin-length black hair cut in a bob, he had a trailer-park body covered in tattoos, a piercing in every orifice, and a face with movie-star potential written all over it. He was anybody’s amusement-park ride.
True to his word, the MC wrapped up the event