The Man Club Page 2

  * * * *

  He started dancing at the club approximately eight months ago, just a few days after Car moved into my Cape Cod. Prior to dancing for its patrons, he was a patron, studying the dancers. He took notes on his phone. He asked if he could take photographs of the performers, which I agreed to. His studying continued for a month, two months, almost three months, until I confronted him, “Do you want to be a dancer, Rocco, or are you writing a book about dancers? What’s going on in your life? What are you thinking about? Do you want to dance or not? Tell me.”

  “I’d like to try dancing.” His blue eyes are intoxicating. His lips are a ruby-red that probably drive men wild. His thick coils of black hair look like a sheen of oil. The club doesn’t have a Middle-Eastern dancer. Maybe it should.

  I privately and professionally interview him. He strips down to his underwear, a pair of tight-whites; he shows off his large pecs and protruding bottom. It’s obvious he takes care of his body, spending time in the gym. His moon-shaped and spiraling tattoos are deep red, blue, and green. Rocco moves like liquid on the small stage, waving. He rolls his palms up and over his chiseled chest. He seduces me with his mystifying blue eyes of places that only men wish to visit. His red-lipped smile melts me, causing a ripple of heated sweat to form along the nape of my neck. The guy knows how to dance: swaying, thrusting, waving, and gracefully twisting to a slow Adele song. He plays with himself on the stage, cupping his privates in an alluring and seductive action, rolling two fingertips down and inside the white material, erotically teasing me, his only audience.

  I hire him on the spot. How can’t I when he seems to know what he is doing on stage? I’m a fool to pass on his dancing skills and erotic techniques. He can make me more money, cash in my pocket. Plus, the visiting gents and ladies of the club will love his dark skin and tattoos; something different for the club, adding to its variety of dancing men.

  I tell him, “You can start whenever you’d like.”

  He agrees. He becomes a money maker at the club. Coben Fierce used to be the club’s number one dancer, now Rocco is. The straight ladies and queer gents love him. They spend quite the sum of cash because of him: private dances in the upstairs rooms, drinks, food, and elaborate parties. Lots of gyrating. Lots of seduction. I’m glad I’ve taken an interest in him, hiring him. A strong business move on my part. Coben’s replacement. I can’t ask for anything better.

  Rocco doesn’t talk about his life outside the club. If he does, I don’t know the details about it. I do hear whispers among the other dancers of his sometimes doings: selling drugs and some high-end hustling. I hear some of the dancers talk about the coke Rocco sells. I also hear that some of the dancers use the coke Rocco sells. It’s not a problem right now at the club, actions that I haven’t personally witnessed, and I hope that aren’t happening, but it’s something I have to deal with, right now. The dancers need protection. The club needs to stay drug-free. If Rocco’s a bad egg, I have to get rid of him, even if he is a great dancer.

  Something sketchy at the club happens this evening. I eavesdrop on a conversation between Rocco and Lock. Lock isn’t an employee at the club, but all the dancers know him and like him. Lock’s a man’s man. The dancers are in a clique of sorts, and Lock hangs with the men, considering him part of their group. Lock’s here to drop off a teal-colored thong Rocco forgets to bring. They are alone in one of the cozy changing rooms with a flimsy door. I hear them kiss. Someone groans.

  Rocco says, “Don’t make me hard. I don’t like to fuck around in the changing rooms, respecting the other dancers. It’s one of my personal rules.” They kiss again: quiet slurping, lip-pressing, another groan. “We can get together after my show this evening. Meet me at my apartment around three. I’ll be ready for you. I want you to spend the night with me. What do you say?”

  “Here, take the stash now,” Lock says.

  “Wesley’s been waiting for it?”

  What stash? Drugs? Coke? Who’s Wesley? Never heard of him before. Christ, I hope this isn’t a problem. The club doesn’t need a drug dealer. We already have too many issues with the dancers who think they’re better than each other. Catty stuff. Bitchy stuff. We already have the Templeton cops watching the club for underage drinking, prostitution, and crooked conduct. The cops are dying to close the place down. Shit.

  I have to confront Rocco. He can’t be selling drugs out of The Man Club. It’s one of the club’s rules. It’s one of my rules. After Lock leaves, I tell Rocco to meet me in my office. He obliges with no questions.

  My office is small, a cardboard box. A tuna can. Three people can’t fit inside it. There’s enough room for a desk, one chair, an upright filing cabinet, and a window with an air conditioning unit plugging it.

  Rocco stands on the opposite side of my desk. He looks stunning in the teal-colored thong that Lock dropped off earlier for him: muscularly perfect, darkly toned, athletic, and model-like. The guy is drop dead beautiful and sexy. He can make adult movies if he wants to; this is how attractive he is. So far he hasn’t, according the club gossip.

  He asks me, “What’s going on, Gyles?”

  “I’ve heard things,” I tell him, cutting to the chase. No fucking around. I’m trying to run a business. I’m trying to make cash. I want next to no turmoil at the club.

  “What kind of things?”

  “Drug dealing. Are you dealing coke?”

  “Coke?” he asks, surprised: raised eyebrows, open-mouth, confusion tucked around his lips. “You think I’m dealing coke?”

  I nod, repeat, “I’ve heard things.”

  He chuckles. “Come on, Gyles. I have more respect for you than that. And I have more respect for this club and its dancers to do something like that. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “You’re not dealing coke?”

  He shakes his head. “I swear on the Koran.”

  “Don’t do that. It’s anti-religious.”

  “But I will. I’m not dealing coke. If you asked me if I hustle outside here, I’d say yes. I’m honest. But it’s my body, and I can do that. Hustling is my thing. It has nothing to do with the club, though.”

  “This isn’t about you hustling outside your hours at the club. That’s your own private business.” I sit solid behind my desk, unmoving. I tell him, “This is about dealing. Lock was here earlier to drop off the thong you’re wearing. You gave him something. Was it coke for a guy named Wesley?”

  “Oh my God,” he whispers, shaking his head, smiling. He blinks a number of times. He lets out a calming laugh. “Yes, Lock was here. And, yes, I gave him something, but it wasn’t coke.”

  “What was it?” I ask, direct. “It’s my club. It’s my rules. I need to know what you’re doing here when you’re not on stage. Tell me what you gave Lock.”

  He doesn’t become pissed with me, but maybe he should. I’m kind of an asshole to him: direct, curt, making the meeting uncomfortable for him. But I need to know of the problems at the club, and what happens among the dancers, visitors, and all the other whatnots that occur. It’s my place. It’s my business. It’s how I make a living.

  He’s confident when he answers my question, “It wasn’t coke. It was money.”

  “Money?” It’s my turn to be surprised: raised eyebrows, open-mouth, confusion tucked around my lips.

  “Yes, money.”

  He tells me a story about his Aunt Wesleywinn, who goes by the nickname Wesley. She lives in Erie. She has breast cancer and can’t work. Her government insurance is paying for her treatments, but they’re not paying her mortgage, electric bill, food bill, etc…

  “I take care of her. I gave Lock some money for her. The stash, as we call it. He was nice enough to drop some money off to her this evening. They have tea together and talk. They play Jeopardy! together. He’s good medicine for her. She likes to hear all his tales and study his good looks. It passes the time for her. They get along quite well. Lock’s an amazing man. And Wesley’s an amazing aunt. I have good people
in my life, and I love both of them.”

  I’m taken aback. I feel horrible. Have I crossed a line between us? Shame on me. One doesn’t realize the ordeals or everyday events people go through. One doesn’t comprehend the traumas we sometimes have outside work. One doesn’t…

  “I hustle, too, but it’s only temporary. The money is needed. I really like Lock, and the hustling is putting a wrench in our relationship. He doesn’t like me spreading my ass for other men. Nor does he like that I’m giving sex for cash. I can’t find another way to make good money, though. Hustling is lucrative. It helps my aunt pay her bills. In the long run, it helps me take care of her.”

  I tell him sorry for questioning him. “I hope you understand.”

  In a masculine action, he leans forward, almost touches his thong-covered dick against the edge of my desk, and shakes my hand. “All’s good. No problem. Thanks for coming directly to me and not talking behind my back.”

  All’s well that ends well. Good for us.

  When he leaves my office, I make a note to give him a raise. Maybe this will help him out, and Wesley. I’m sure it will.

  * * * *

  Name: Jane Marcell

  Club Member Number: n/a

  Stage Name: n/a

  Date of Birth: A woman never tells her age

  Occupation: Housewife of Erie County, extreme socialite

  Height: Five-five

  Weight: 120 (guessing)

  Hair: Bottled blonde

  Eyes: Aquamarine (contacts)

  Status: Married to Robert Marcell, a top-notch shrink

  Special Notes: Jane tells it like it is. She’s a no-bullshit kind of woman. She drinks too much and can swear like a truck driver. When she does use vulgarities, she’s still classy, wealthy, and of the upper-crust. She has a dirty little secret. Every woman does. She’s a regular at The Man Club. Loves the gays. Loves to visit the club. Loves to spend money here, touching dancers’ abs and pecs. Kisses them sometimes. Pays for private dances with them. I rely on her wealth and visits to fill my pockets.

  * * * *

  Jane insists we do cocktails outside of The Man Club. She picks La Rue. It’s a fancy place that’s over-priced. Only the uppity people of Templeton eat here. The drinks on the menu have no prices, which tells me I can’t afford the place. The wait staff speaks French. I can’t pronounce the items on the menu.

  She wants to sit on a deck overlooking Lake Erie. It’s early February, and the snow flies. Another storm takes over all the small towns next to the lake, Templeton included. Too bad for us. We sit inside.

  Jane’s dressed in all black from toes to head: high heels, slacks, gold jewelry, sunglasses, and a Lilly Pulitzer hat with a wide brim. “Sorry about my gloomy look, but I’ve just come from a funeral, darling. One of Robert’s wicked aunts died. We still don’t know if she was pushed in front of the Templeton T-train, jumped in front of it, or accidentally fell in front of it. As you probably already know, there is much ambiguity of her demise. It’s been all over the local news, of course. The police are still investigating, holding up Aunt Shany’s lawyers from divvying her monies and three estates.” She takes off her sunglasses and carelessly tosses them to the table. She runs fingers through her blonde hair; a pompous action only a wealthy women provides other wealthy women to view. “I’m not sure how much the dreaded woman is worth, but I’m sure it’s well into the millions. Robert’s hoping to take home at least fifteen million by the end of the investigation and the will’s reading. Only time will reveal the exact amount.”

  “Interesting,” I say. The fewer words the better, I determine. Jane can eat me for lunch with the gazillion dollars in her checking account. I’m chopped liver to her.

  She attempts to light a cigarillo, but the waiter rushes up to her side and politely tells her that she can’t. Jane rolls her eyes, makes a tssskkk sound, but surprisingly obliges. Sitting sideways, looking out at the bleak day, she crosses her legs, uncrosses them, and re-crosses them.

  “Shall we talk business, Mr. Beare?”

  “Of course.” I ogle her fake breasts, pulled back forehead, fresh Botox under her eyes and in her newly plumped cheeks. I’ve heard she’s recently had her neck sculpted by Dr. Mitchell Heni, one of Templeton’s best plastic surgeons. I see a few wrinkles under her jaws and think differently.

  “Gyles, you do know I love your club. Right? The queer dancers. The drinks. The music. The time alone with Mr. Abs. He is my favorite, of course. He puts on marvelous shows for me in the upstairs rooms. I’m quite the supporter of your establishment and Mr. Abs.”

  I nod. “Thank you. I’m glad you like the place, Jane.”

  It’s not uncommon for her to sneak into the club on a Friday evening and drop almost two thousand dollars. She drinks too much and tips the dancers well. Sometimes she’ll spend an hour with one of the dancers, usually Mr. Abs, in an upstairs room. When she becomes sloppy drunk, I take responsibility for her and see that she makes it home safely, paying a driver to care for her.

  A private show in one of the upstairs rooms costs five hundred dollars. The dancers flaunt their stuff, kiss the male and female patrons, and sometimes masturbate for their pleasures; a five hundred dollar fee. Not that it’s written down anywhere, but the dancers know it’s one thousand bucks for a blowjob in one of the rooms; the house gets six hundred. It’s two grand for a fuck; an action I think well worth the cash if you choose my meaty dancers Titan or Rocco. The house makes sixty percent of all the profits that are earned inside the rooms. Also, the dancers get a huge tip, usually have fun, and have regulars like Jane to Mr. Abs. Honestly, both the house and the dancers do well because of the rooms; a fringe benefit in making illegal money.

  The reality of Jane’s housewife world is simple: gay men are harmless regarding her marriage to Robert; she can eat them up with her eyes, dream of having extraordinary sex with them, and frivolously flirt with them. She can suck their dicks, even graze one of their bare and smooth bottoms with a palm, or draw a finger along their clenched rears. To my understanding, she doesn’t sleep with the dancers, blowjobs not included. Jane is frisky and loves to be paid attention to, paying quite the sum of money to be entertained by the dancers, particularly her favorite, Mr. Abs.

  These aren’t the real reasons why she comes to the club. It’s honestly not about her fetish for young and attractive men and exploring her sexual desires. Two significant reasons come to mind why she is a regular at the club. One, it’s about the dancers making her feel beautiful, a powerful woman, younger, and a price. It’s about Jane being in control, exploiting her loads of money and influence. It’s about Jane becoming turned on when two dancers kiss her at the same time and jut their goods in her face, reminding her that she’s in control and calling the shots. It’s about Jane being attracted to being attractive, the center of the dancers’ attentions. And two: it’s the place where she feels important, worthy, looked after…because her husband doesn’t give a shit about her these days, ignoring the woman, disregarding his marriage and role as a husband.

  She takes a sip of her ordered martini (dry, no olive). “I have a son. Do you know this?”

  I shake my head. Listening is best. I know very little about her private life, which is none of my business.

  “His name is Tucker. He’s nineteen and…”

  She tells me about Tucker taking a year off school from Temple, claiming that he needs a break from studying, that he’s overwhelmed with his classes, and his mental state isn’t clear because he’s different than all the other students. She adds that he’s similar to the dancers at my club.

  “Similar?”

  She waves her right hand at me, which is followed by a light chuckle. She leans over the table, looks from her left to right, tries to be discreet, and says, “My Tucker is gay…like your dancers. He likes the company of guys over the ladies.”

  “Not all my dancers are gay, Jane.”

  She’s taken aback by my comment, sits straight, and downs the last
of her drink. Following the process of emptying her martini, she lowers her tone and asks, “You don’t say?”

  “Two of my male dancers are straight. One is married to a woman with children. Kyle, the other one, dates models.”

  A sneer encompasses her semi-plastic face. “Lovely.”

  A waiter appears out of nowhere and takes her empty martini glass away. He replaces it with a fresh one; another dry martini.

  Jane lifts the martini, takes a sip, and says, “They do make the best cocktails here. It’s so nice to be spoiled in life.” She dabs one tight corner of her mouth with a napkin and continues, “Tucker is lost. He’s not himself these days. I see the hopelessness in his eyes, the hardship. He needs to be with men of his nature. He claims to be out of place at Temple, which takes away from his studies and is causing a severe drop in his grades. At this conjecture in his life, he’s socially behind, or so he tells me. He has no gay friends at Temple, feels out of place, at the wrong college…and I’m rambling, which is uncommon for me. Let me get to my point, young man.”

  She reaches inside her purse and retrieves a standard-size envelope. Jane places the envelope on the table and slides it in my direction.

  “There’s ten thousand dollars in the envelope for two months’ worth of Tucker’s services at your club, Mr. Beare. If this isn’t enough I will surely increase the amount. My son’s mental health and his social skills are important to me. He needs male companionship. He needs a homosexual environment. He needs to be among his own kind, similar to you and your dancers. I want him to embrace The Man Club and learn a little bit about life. I trust him in your care and with your dancers. Tucker is a fragile young man. Perhaps you can toughen him up a bit. What do you think?”

  I shake my head, even more confused. “What are you saying?”

  She resembles an actress in an old black-and-white Hollywood movie as another sip of her martini slides down the back of her throat. The woman is calm, cool, and collected, obviously aware of what she wants. “I’m paying you the money so Tucker can work at your club for eight weeks. Not as a dancer, of course, since he can’t dance. More like your assistant, or paperwork person, a bar keep, a waiter, or something like that.” She waves her hand in my direction again. “Tucker’s confused right now. He likes men, but he’s not with men. I’m hoping you can help him with this, Mr. Beare. I expect you to pay his wages, of course, which can come out of the ten thousand I’m providing you. Two months of his service should suffice at the moment. If I plan to extend his work with you, we can discuss the matter in the future. Do I make myself clear?”