service, he grabs his left hand with his right, covers it up. He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and says you hungry? I just ordered dinner. He steps to the side and opens the door wide. I walk inside and toss my purse on the dresser right next to his wallet and his gold watch and I say I’m gonna take a shower. And I’ll take a burger and those sweet potato fries I love and some ginger ale. Orange slice? he asks, and I nod yes.
The shower has two heads and they’re adjustable, so I aim one at my face and one at my chest and it feels so good, not too hard, not too misty, but just right. I’m scrubbing up with the nice body gel they have, seaweed and cucumber it says on the bottle, which seems like a strange combination but turns out that it smells great, and I’m wondering what I’m gonna say to Julian when I get out.
My first thought, option number one, is that I tell him to go to hell, tell him that even though I’m a stripper I have certain rights—rights to be treated with honesty and kindness. And that this isn’t working for me. Maybe I say don’t you ever come by the club again, ’cause I’d rather dance for some married guy in a bad golf shirt with a ring on his finger, someone who doesn’t say anything sweet to me, ’cause at least
that
’
s
an honest man.
My second thought is to not even bring it up, just pretend I didn’t see a thing. Turn this back into what it should’ve been all along, and that’s a commercial transaction. Go back to where I dance and he gives me money. Dance, money. Dance, money. No more sleepovers and room service and hot showers, no more free dances or screwing him in the hotel. Dance, money. And leave it at that.
I dry off and put the robe on, wrap a towel around my wet hair so it looks like a turban, white and high like the Sikh from the club. There’s a little sign on the sink that tells me I can save the planet byreusing the towel. I wonder why anyone
wouldn
’
t
want a new towel and I figure they really don’t care too much about the planet but they’re just trying to save some money on cleaning—so I toss the towel on the floor and step out of the bathroom. And I don’t feel guilty about it at all, ’cause I got a footprint, a
carbon
footprint as small as a mouse, and I get to have a little fun sometimes without worrying about the whole fucking world.
When I come out, Julian’s sitting on a chair at the desk and he’s reading a book. I can’t see what it is, but it’s thin and has a soft cover. He closes the book and looks up to me, sort of sad, and he raises his left hand high above his head, still, like he’s a real polite kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. And he says I guess you want to talk about this, and he points to the ring.
I sit down on the corner of the bed, cross my legs and adjust my towel-turban. Yes, I say, I’d like to know, ’cause I’m a bit confused. Julian takes the ring off his finger and holds it up to the light, rotates it, examines it. He looks at me, but he’s having trouble with eye contact, keeps looking down every time our eyes catch. He shrugs his shoulders and places the ring on the desk, on its edge. Then he holds the top with his left index finger and flicks it hard with his right. It spins tight like a top, stays in a small area of the desk, about the size of a dime, and holds its speed right there for a few seconds, maybe five. Then as it starts to lose speed, the spin isn’t as tight and the ring covers a bigger area, moving side to side, bigger and bigger, the size of a nickel, then a quarter, going slower and slower, no longer standing up straight, wobbling, wobbling, slower and slower until it falls to the desk. Then there’s one last little jump before it goes flat and still. We watch the ring, all quiet on the wood.
I reach for Julian’s knee. He pulls back just a little, a flinch like he’s afraid. And just then, at that moment—perfect timing—there’s a knock on the door and it’s
The shower has two heads and they’re adjustable, so I aim one at my face and one at my chest and it feels so good, not too hard, not too misty, but just right. I’m scrubbing up with the nice body gel they have, seaweed and cucumber it says on the bottle, which seems like a strange combination but turns out that it smells great, and I’m wondering what I’m gonna say to Julian when I get out.
My first thought, option number one, is that I tell him to go to hell, tell him that even though I’m a stripper I have certain rights—rights to be treated with honesty and kindness. And that this isn’t working for me. Maybe I say don’t you ever come by the club again, ’cause I’d rather dance for some married guy in a bad golf shirt with a ring on his finger, someone who doesn’t say anything sweet to me, ’cause at least
that
’
s
an honest man.
My second thought is to not even bring it up, just pretend I didn’t see a thing. Turn this back into what it should’ve been all along, and that’s a commercial transaction. Go back to where I dance and he gives me money. Dance, money. Dance, money. No more sleepovers and room service and hot showers, no more free dances or screwing him in the hotel. Dance, money. And leave it at that.
I dry off and put the robe on, wrap a towel around my wet hair so it looks like a turban, white and high like the Sikh from the club. There’s a little sign on the sink that tells me I can save the planet byreusing the towel. I wonder why anyone
wouldn
’
t
want a new towel and I figure they really don’t care too much about the planet but they’re just trying to save some money on cleaning—so I toss the towel on the floor and step out of the bathroom. And I don’t feel guilty about it at all, ’cause I got a footprint, a
carbon
footprint as small as a mouse, and I get to have a little fun sometimes without worrying about the whole fucking world.
When I come out, Julian’s sitting on a chair at the desk and he’s reading a book. I can’t see what it is, but it’s thin and has a soft cover. He closes the book and looks up to me, sort of sad, and he raises his left hand high above his head, still, like he’s a real polite kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. And he says I guess you want to talk about this, and he points to the ring.
I sit down on the corner of the bed, cross my legs and adjust my towel-turban. Yes, I say, I’d like to know, ’cause I’m a bit confused. Julian takes the ring off his finger and holds it up to the light, rotates it, examines it. He looks at me, but he’s having trouble with eye contact, keeps looking down every time our eyes catch. He shrugs his shoulders and places the ring on the desk, on its edge. Then he holds the top with his left index finger and flicks it hard with his right. It spins tight like a top, stays in a small area of the desk, about the size of a dime, and holds its speed right there for a few seconds, maybe five. Then as it starts to lose speed, the spin isn’t as tight and the ring covers a bigger area, moving side to side, bigger and bigger, the size of a nickel, then a quarter, going slower and slower, no longer standing up straight, wobbling, wobbling, slower and slower until it falls to the desk. Then there’s one last little jump before it goes flat and still. We watch the ring, all quiet on the wood.
I reach for Julian’s knee. He pulls back just a little, a flinch like he’s afraid. And just then, at that moment—perfect timing—there’s a knock on the door and it’s
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