Page 18 of Watch Me

“Fuck off,” interjects Tate quickly, slamming his palm into Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s arm drops away from me as he stumbles back.

Our lone security guard must be standing nearby because, for once, he’s there in a second.

“There a problem here?” comes Patrick’s voice. He looks directly at me as he speaks.

“No problem,” answers Tate. He holds his beer up again but this time with his fingers spread, proclaiming his innocence. “I just wanna talk to my girlfriend. That okay?”

Patrick looks at him, then back at me, and I nod.

“Let’s go sit at the bar for a sec,” I suggest.

My heart is hammering in my chest. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s here, drunk and looking for trouble, just days after I found out that the man I cheated on him with is his father. I’m sure he’s here to confront me and I’m scared. My lungs feel tight.

I don’t want to break up with Tate. I don’t want to lose my housing, but most of all, I don’t want to hurt him. Even knowing he’s paying cam girls nearly every night, what I did was worse. I let someone touch me in real life. Someone more significant than any long-distance stranger.

“You look so fucking sexy on that stage,” he says, swiveling on his bar stool and splaying his knees, taking up way too much room. I cross my legs, even wrapping my right foot around my left calf, twisting myself up tight as if this will protect me from whatever he’s about to say, whatever this is all about. But a compliment is not what I was expecting. Tate never compliments me.

“Thanks,” I reply. Then, “What are you doing here?”

He snorts. “Jason wanted to come in. Isn’t that fucked up? I’m like, my girlfriend works here, dude, but they were all like, so?”

I nod slowly, letting this information sink in and waiting for him to say more. So this isn’t about his dad? About us?

“It’s so fucked, right?” he continues, focusing his eyes on the carpeted floor like he’s just noticed it. During the day, with the lights on, you can see that underneath decades of dirty boots and spilled beer, the carpet design is a scene from outer space—stars and planets and rocket ships against a dark blue sky. An odd detail that goes unnoticed by most. “Like, of course this was going to happen, and you know how I feel about that. And here I am, sitting there like a fucking asshole while my friends ogle you.”

We’ve had this fight before, and I don’t want to go there again.

“It’s not a big deal.” I lay a consoling hand on his arm. “You know how I feel about this. We’re all naked underneath our clothes, right?”

He doesn’t return my smile. “No, it is a big deal. It’s fucked. You’re my fucking girlfriend, and Jason and Steve and Derek are fucking talking about your tits. Saying fucked up things about you. It’s not right.”

I sigh. We’ll never see eye to eye on this topic. Being a dancer inures you to nudity early on. Everyone changes in front of each other, no one has any shame. Part of it is that from following the same regime, taking the same classes, and eating the same kind of food, we all more or less have the same body. On top of that, for a dancer, our bodies are a tool; a vessel. We’re used to being objectified. Knowing that his friends are talking about my body doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Teachers, fellow students, and choreographers have talked about my body for as long as I can remember.

On top of this, I just don’t see the point in being ashamed of what I do. What’s wrong with having a sex-related job? What’s wrong with sex?

But I don’t want there to be any kind of scene at work, so I opt instead to diffuse the situation as quickly as I can.

“Why don’t I go home?” I volunteer. “That way, you and your friends can stay, and it won’t be uncomfortable for you.”

But Tate’s not in a pacifying mood. As his face reddens, my heart sinks.

“It will still be uncomfortable for me, Zoë.” He draws his words out long and loud, spelling it out for me, talking down. He’s raised his voice enough that the bartender catches my eye, and I give him a quick smile to let him know I have the situation under control. “My girlfriend’s a fucking stripper. Doesn’t matter if you go home or not now. They’re all talking about how they have a fucking boner for you, and everyone else in this fucking room has seen you naked as well. What’s the fucking point if you leave now?”

“Tate,” I say, low and terse. “I’m going to go home, and we can talk about this later, okay?”

“No.”

He sets his beer on the counter and leans in towards me without raising his voice. The bartender doesn’t look our way again.

“I told you. I don’t want you to work here. This is embarrassing for me. You shouldn’t go home, you should quit.”

“I’m not going to quit,” I answer hotly. I take a short breath to steady myself, and lower my tone again when I speak. “You know I like this job. There’s nothing wrong with doing this kind of work. You just have this old-fashioned idea that you own my body, that you can decide who gets to see it. Well, you know what, Tate? It’s my body. I get to decide what I do with it, and I happen to like stripping. And you know what else?” A storm is brewing in his eyes, and there is no way what I’m about to say next will calm this situation down, but I’m too far gone now. I can’t stop myself. “I’ve been giving lap dances, too, and I like it.”

The storm breaks. Thunder and lightning cross his face, but I keep talking.

“At least the men in this room want to look at me. When I’m here, I feel wanted. You don’t even want me, so why would you even care who looks at me?”

“That’s fucking bullshit!”

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