York City Ballet.
He explained.
Initially, I was dubious.
‘You sure you have no idea when Chey will be back?’ I enquired, hoping this wasn’t my only option. How could I dance naked for other men when I knew, deep in my heart, that it was only Chey I truly wanted to dance for?
‘No. It’s impossible to know. Business, you see.’
‘Take me, then,’ I said.
The name of the club was the Tender Heart and it stood, all steel shutters, graffiti-laden walls and discoloured pink awning, at the top end of the Bowery, close to Lafayette Street. It had once been a popular rock club during the glory days of punk, I was later told. The walls of the basement area still dripped with several generations of alcoholic sweat and I almost gagged as Lev guided me through the narrow foyer to a recessed area where the offices were.
‘It’s better when the air conditioning is on, from late afternoon when the club opens to the public,’ he pointed out to me. ‘Barry, who runs the place, is always trying to save money so he has it switched off when the joint is closed.’
Barry was a diminutive Brit with an old-fashioned and dubious moustache and thinning hair. During the course of any conversation, he wouldn’t fail to remind you several times every hour that he hailed from Liverpool. But he looked nothing like any of the Beatles.
He sat at a rickety desk that had survived every world war you could think of, facing piles of untidy ledgers. Just a glorified accountant, I assumed, and no hint as to who the club actually belonged to. I briefly suspected Chey, but the place was just too downmarket and lacking in class, I decided, to be associated with him.
Lev had called ahead to warn him of our arrival.
‘So, you’re Chey’s girl?’ He grinned.
‘I’d rather you called me a woman,’ I said. ‘I waited long enough to become one, so I’m rather fond of the title. And I don’t belong to anyone.’
‘And feisty at that,’ he concluded with an amused smirk. He probably thought he looked ironic.
‘Yes, they breed us tough in Russia,’ I said, thickening my accent on purpose.
He looked me over, like a butcher appraising a cut of meat.
‘Our common friend has told you what we do?’
‘He did.’
‘You dance?’
‘I did. Although not the sort of dance you have in mind.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’
Barry gave Lev a glance and the fat Russian acolyte stepped out of the crowded office.
‘Can I see you?’ he then asked.
‘See me?’
‘Your body. Naked. In this sort of job, you understand, it’s what I’d call’ – he searched for the right word – ‘a prerequisite. You see, the customers must have something decent to feast their eyes on.’
‘OK.’ I nodded.
He sat back in his leather armchair and kept on staring at me.
I undressed.
His eyes lingered over every square inch of my skin, moving from part to part, area to area, almost examining me forensically, assessing, judging.
I just stood there facing him, feeling the oppressive heat floating throughout the room, seeping in under the door from where the club’s public areas were, my legs ever so slightly apart, trying to retain a modicum of modesty and elegance as I was being perused.
‘Very nice,’ he finally stated.
I lowered my eyes.
‘Breasts are small, but real, high and firm. That’s good. Dancer’s legs, thin but strong. Turn round,’ he ordered me.
I obeyed.
‘Lovely arse. A true work of art,’ he proclaimed. ‘Turn again,’ he asked me.
Again, he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my crotch.
‘That’ll have to go,’ he said.
I looked down at my naked body, perplexed.
‘All that hair,’ he pointed out. ‘Nice colour, matches your head. So rare, real blondes these days. All comes from a bottle. Some of the girls in other of our establishments even colour themselves down there, but it looks so fake, I always feel. Even though some of the punters are taken in by it. But at our location,
He explained.
Initially, I was dubious.
‘You sure you have no idea when Chey will be back?’ I enquired, hoping this wasn’t my only option. How could I dance naked for other men when I knew, deep in my heart, that it was only Chey I truly wanted to dance for?
‘No. It’s impossible to know. Business, you see.’
‘Take me, then,’ I said.
The name of the club was the Tender Heart and it stood, all steel shutters, graffiti-laden walls and discoloured pink awning, at the top end of the Bowery, close to Lafayette Street. It had once been a popular rock club during the glory days of punk, I was later told. The walls of the basement area still dripped with several generations of alcoholic sweat and I almost gagged as Lev guided me through the narrow foyer to a recessed area where the offices were.
‘It’s better when the air conditioning is on, from late afternoon when the club opens to the public,’ he pointed out to me. ‘Barry, who runs the place, is always trying to save money so he has it switched off when the joint is closed.’
Barry was a diminutive Brit with an old-fashioned and dubious moustache and thinning hair. During the course of any conversation, he wouldn’t fail to remind you several times every hour that he hailed from Liverpool. But he looked nothing like any of the Beatles.
He sat at a rickety desk that had survived every world war you could think of, facing piles of untidy ledgers. Just a glorified accountant, I assumed, and no hint as to who the club actually belonged to. I briefly suspected Chey, but the place was just too downmarket and lacking in class, I decided, to be associated with him.
Lev had called ahead to warn him of our arrival.
‘So, you’re Chey’s girl?’ He grinned.
‘I’d rather you called me a woman,’ I said. ‘I waited long enough to become one, so I’m rather fond of the title. And I don’t belong to anyone.’
‘And feisty at that,’ he concluded with an amused smirk. He probably thought he looked ironic.
‘Yes, they breed us tough in Russia,’ I said, thickening my accent on purpose.
He looked me over, like a butcher appraising a cut of meat.
‘Our common friend has told you what we do?’
‘He did.’
‘You dance?’
‘I did. Although not the sort of dance you have in mind.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’
Barry gave Lev a glance and the fat Russian acolyte stepped out of the crowded office.
‘Can I see you?’ he then asked.
‘See me?’
‘Your body. Naked. In this sort of job, you understand, it’s what I’d call’ – he searched for the right word – ‘a prerequisite. You see, the customers must have something decent to feast their eyes on.’
‘OK.’ I nodded.
He sat back in his leather armchair and kept on staring at me.
I undressed.
His eyes lingered over every square inch of my skin, moving from part to part, area to area, almost examining me forensically, assessing, judging.
I just stood there facing him, feeling the oppressive heat floating throughout the room, seeping in under the door from where the club’s public areas were, my legs ever so slightly apart, trying to retain a modicum of modesty and elegance as I was being perused.
‘Very nice,’ he finally stated.
I lowered my eyes.
‘Breasts are small, but real, high and firm. That’s good. Dancer’s legs, thin but strong. Turn round,’ he ordered me.
I obeyed.
‘Lovely arse. A true work of art,’ he proclaimed. ‘Turn again,’ he asked me.
Again, he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my crotch.
‘That’ll have to go,’ he said.
I looked down at my naked body, perplexed.
‘All that hair,’ he pointed out. ‘Nice colour, matches your head. So rare, real blondes these days. All comes from a bottle. Some of the girls in other of our establishments even colour themselves down there, but it looks so fake, I always feel. Even though some of the punters are taken in by it. But at our location,
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