Peepshow (11 page)

‘Yeah!’

‘Well let’s make some noise!’

I cupped my hand to my ear like I couldn’t hear them, and when they cheered loud enough I slid my knickers down to my ankles then stood up with my hand over my pussy. What a tease. I stepped out of the G and removed my hand. Ta da!

The last song was Warrant’s ‘Cherry Pie’, not exactly about or pertaining to nurses but a classic pub strip song nonetheless. Dave threw me my rug and I got down with much writhing around and flipping of hair. I dripped moisturizer on my tits to simulate that just-been-cum-on look then I went over to the ten-dollar guys and let them rub the lotion in. That’d teach the cheapskates. Right before the last song ended I was back on the rug for a bit of open leg work culminating in a final squirt of Nivea down there.

I stood up and took a bow and got a standing ovation that lasted until I was well into the girls’ room, sweating like crazy, the hair at the back of my neck damp and matted. It had been a good show.

When I got home I had a cold shower, made myself an iced water, took the phone out to the balcony and called the Marquis Centre for Bondage and Discipline.

‘Yes?’ the receptionist was stern right from the get-go.

‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I was wondering if I could talk to Ebony?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t allow personal calls.’

I thought fast. ‘It’s just that, I’m a stripper and I want to get into the B&D industry and a girlfriend of mine knows Ebony from when they used to strip together and suggested I talk to her . . .’

‘Oh all right.’ Her voice instantly changed to bubbly and chirpy. ‘Ebony’s not actually in today. Were you looking for work as a top or a bottom?’

‘What?’

‘A dominant or a submissive?’

‘I hadn’t really decided yet.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you right now that there’s not much work around for mistresses,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘There’s a bit of a glut in the market. You need a lot of experience and training or else have something special, different. Ebony does very well because she’s the only African-American mistress in Melbourne.’

‘I see . . .’

‘But we’re always looking for submissives,’ she said brightly, ‘and the money’s very good.’

‘What does a submissive have to do?’

‘Be available for paddling, whipping. We have this new A-frame rack that’s really popular.’

‘Is sex involved?’

‘The mistresses don’t generally have intercourse but the subs are required to provide it, yes.’

‘That’s interesting, but I’d still like to talk to Ebony about it. Can you give me her number or tell me when she’s going to be in?’

‘I’m not allowed to give out the workers’ numbers,’ said the receptionist, ‘but she is going to be at Sexpo this week, from tomorrow. We’ve got our own stand this year. Ebony and our other workers will be able to give you a bit more information.’

‘Thanks.’ I hung up and punched in Kelvin’s number.

He ran a small agency called Extreme Promotions and got me bucks’ parties and pub shows. I could have got more work through the larger agencies but Kelvin looked after the girls, provided security and paid a better percentage. He was a big, cuddly Sri Lankan guy with a penchant for soul music, Sam Cooke and Al Green.

Girls constantly screwed him around because he was so nice.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t make the show today,’ he said by way of a greeting.

‘Come on, Kel, I’ve never cancelled a show yet,’

I said. ‘I was wondering if you had a stand at Sexpo this year.’

‘Sure do, we’ve got a prime position this time, right next to the main stage.’

‘Do you need promo girls?’

‘Yeah. You offering?’

‘Can I do a few hours tomorrow?’

‘I can give you ten till four but it’s only twenty dollars an hour. Didn’t think you’d be interested or I would have offered you the work. You hard up for cash?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just wanted to get in for free.’

‘OK then, see you there.’ He sounded puzzled.

Soon as I hung up the phone rang. I steeled myself for Sal but it was Aurora.

‘I got your number from Jim,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No. What’s up?’

‘I’m just calling to remind you about the band tonight, Las Vegas Grind? Betty and I really want you to come. We think you’re one of the coolest people we’ve met in ages.’

Me, cool? I’d always thought I was a bit of a dag.

I’d totally forgotten about the invite but figured it’d be a good opportunity to find out some more information.

Plus there would be music and alcohol and dancing, a few of my favourite things.

‘Sure, I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘They’re on at the Espy, right?’

‘Front bar. I’m so glad you’re coming. See you about nine?’

At eight fifty-five I climbed the Espy steps in my faded jeans and pink checked shirt, ready to rock and roll. It was the perfect summer night and when I got to the top I turned and looked out. The bay was black beyond the Royal Yacht Squadron, coloured lights reflected off the water and oil tankers balanced on the horizon, lit up like party boats. It was so beautiful that something like infatuation welled up in my chest, and my eyes pricked with tears. Did I usually notice this stuff or was it that life and death situations made everything more intense?

Jesus. Get a grip, I told myself as I nodded to the Maori bouncer and entered the pub.

The band hadn’t started yet but their instruments were on stage. It was pretty packed for a Tuesday and the audience was mostly rockabilly. The girls looked like Betty with their liquid eyeliner and Victory-rolled hair and the boys wore bowling shirts and gravity defying quiffs.

Aurora waved from the bar and I sidled through the crowd. She stood up and hugged me and gave me a stool she’d been saving.

‘Which do you prefer,’ she asked, ‘Vivien or Simone?’

‘Simone, I guess, if I’m not at work. What about you?’

‘Aurora. I loathe my real name. It’s awful.’ She waggled her champagne glass at the bar boy and held up two fingers.

‘What is it,’ I asked, ‘Hildegard?’

‘Don’t laugh, you’re not far off.’ She handed me a drink.

‘Why’d you pick Aurora?’

‘I love Greek mythology, it was my favourite subject at uni. Aurora’s the goddess of dawn. I actually wanted Persephone but didn’t think anyone would be able to pronounce it. How come you chose Vivien?’

‘Vivien Leigh. I like her. She’s a Scorpio and according to Hollywood legend a nymphomaniac.’

Aurora tipped her head back and laughed. With her perfect blond looks you’d expect a sound like a pealing bell but hers was gutsy and throaty, like an old blues singer. She was dressed in a backless black singlet top and wore pants and high heels and long dangly earrings.

She looked like a Penthouse Pet come to life and all the rocker boys snuck peeks at her while their girlfriends pursed their lips.

‘You look a bit like Vivien Leigh,’ she said.

‘Most people say Xena.’

‘Hi, guys.’ It was Betty. ‘They’re on in a couple of minutes. Come to the loo for a line?’

I shook my head. ‘I would but I’m working at Sexpo tomorrow, can’t get too fucked up.’

Betty looked at Aurora, who thought about it for a second.

‘I’ll pass this time, Bett,’ she said.

Betty looked offended. ‘Fine.’ She marched off to the ladies’.

‘I didn’t want to take it if you weren’t.’ Aurora leaned in and touched my arm, ‘There’s nothing worse than hanging with someone on coke and you’re not.’

‘How long have you been working at the Red?’

I asked.

‘Five months.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was in Sydney.’

‘Me too,’ I replied, then changed the subject.

‘Do you know Frank’s brother Salvatore very well?’

I had to get something out of this night besides a new friend and some free champagne. ‘It’s just that I met him the other night in Jim’s office and he kind of creeped me out.’

‘Sal creeped you out? Just as well you didn’t meet Frank. Sal’s the older brother. Married, three kids. He runs the business end of things while Frank controlled the day-to-day running of the club. Don’t get me wrong, Sal’s no angel, there’s rumours he’s knocked off business associates, people who owed him money, and when he visited the club he always used to get a dance, but he never tried to fuck the dancers, not like Frank. God, Frank used to have this boat and he’d invite all the girls out to it for parties. I never went. A boat. Can you imagine? There’s no escape, it’s—’

A loud drumbeat and smattering of applause cut her off and I swivelled on my barstool to look at the stage. A single red spotlight illuminated the singer. His leather pants were tight and his red velvet smoking jacket appeared to have been pinched from Hugh Hefner’s wardrobe. He twined himself around the mike stand like a snake and crooned a few bars of ‘Blue Moon’, dyed black hair flopping over hollow cheeks. Aurora leaned in close and I smelled strawberries and roses. ‘That’s Betty’s boyfriend.’

He stopped singing and sipped from what looked like a quadruple scotch. ‘Good evening and welcome to the Esplanade lounge bar,’ he drawled, mouth close to the mike. ‘I’m your host, Johnny Del Rey, and this is LAS VEGAS GRIND!’

The lights came up and revealed the rest of the band but I only saw the lead guitarist. Holy mother of god he was a stone cold spunkrat. I felt my pupils dilate and knickers go moist and I had an overwhelming urge to throw my panties at the stage.

‘And who’s that?’ I had to shout in Aurora’s ear as they launched into a twisted hillbilly rendition of ‘Viva Las Vegas’.

‘Mick Halliday.’

‘He your boyfriend?’ Please say no.

‘I’m not really doing the whole boyfriend thing at the moment,’ she said. ‘He is something though, especially if you go for the bad-boy type.’

Mick had Elvis sideburns and dark messy hair, charcoal eyebrows and intense eyes. His black cowboy shirt was jazzed up with red piping and a rose appliqued over his heart. The rolled-up sleeves revealed strong arms covered in multicoloured tattoos, right down to his wrists. Lordy mamma, it was suddenly hot in there.

The band performed for an hour and I liked the music almost as much as I liked watching Mick play it.

The songs ranged from toe-tapping numbers about hot rods, girls and Saturday nights to darker, dirge-like pieces on sex, madness and death. I liked Aurora too, she was smart, easy to get along with, and after a few drinks I considered spilling my guts to her about Chloe and Sal but it was too soon, and I was too paranoid.

At ten thirty Las Vegas Grind gave up the stage to the headlining band, The Swamp Daddies.

‘I should go home,’ I told Aurora, tracking Mick’s movements out of the corner of my eye.

‘You’re not getting away that easily,’ Aurora said.

‘Everyone’s going back to Betty’s for a drink. If we leave now we won’t get roped into carrying any gear.’

We grabbed an obscene amount of champagne and took a taxi to a back street in Prahran. Betty lived in an unrenovated weatherboard house with a wire fence and sagging porch. Aurora took a key from the dead potplant on the verandah, shook off the dirt and opened the door.

I was in retro heaven. Elvis and Betty Page posters covered the walls, a zebra-print rug hid the tatty carpet, and lamps with fringed shades produced an orange glow. A lava lamp perched on an old TV set and a large fishtank housed a dozen goldfish swimming in and out of a sunken galleon. I was particularly taken by the glowing Jesus picture over the record player.

‘Cool,’ I said.

Aurora led me through a beaded curtain to a kitchen with a round-cornered pink fridge and black and white lino squares. I sat at the chrome and laminex table while she leaned against the sink and opened the champagne.

‘Just one more drink,’ I said, ‘and then I have to go.’

‘Whatever you say.’ She popped the cork and poured us both a glass. ‘So why’d you move to Melbourne?’

‘A lot of reasons, I guess.’

‘Man trouble?’

‘I broke up with my long-term boyfriend. We were going to get married. Shit happened. I thought it would be best just to move interstate.’ I could see Aurora wanted to press for more details but I was saved by a wave of people from the pub staggering through the front door.

Half an hour later the house was full. Aurora had melted away somewhere and I was stuck by the fridge talking with the fat drummer about how hard it was to get a break in the music industry these days. Mick was leaning against the opposite wall talking to a blonde with a ponytail and an upswept fringe. They seemed to know each other. She had a tattoo of roses and thorns around her wrist and tapped him lightly on the forearm as she talked. I tried to catch his eye but he didn’t look over.

God, this was pointless. I was drunk and pathetic and it was time to go home. I asked the drummer where the toilet was and excused myself and went off down a hall. I had a pee, flushed, and when I came out saw an open door to my right. Another kitsch extravaganza?

I poked my head in but was disappointed. Just a mattress on the floor with a crumpled doona and a couple of squashed looking pillows. A guitar case was propped up in the corner next to a milk crate full of CDs and books. I tiptoed over to have a look. On top was
The Lost Get-Back Boogie
by James Lee Burke and a Lucinda

Williams CD,
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road
. I had just picked up the CD and flipped it over to read the playlist when I heard, ‘You right?’

It was Mick.

I started and turned around. He leaned against the doorframe, a long-neck of Coopers in one hand and a joint in the other, staring at me with big green eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ I blushed. ‘I didn’t know this was your room. I didn’t know you lived here.’

‘I’m just staying for a while,’ he said, gaze steady.

He nodded at the CD in my hand. ‘You like Lucinda Williams?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Most girls don’t even know who she is.’

‘I’m not most girls.’

‘I noticed.’ He looked me up and down.

‘Bullshit, you’ve been ignoring me all night.’