Page 20 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

And I was not exactly sane.

Chapter Two

“Listen up, ya slackers and sluts,” Jamie plays the room like a soundboard and every head turns as the lights dim. “Do y’all want a taste of the East Quay Cuties?”

Of course they do. Why else would they pay a cover charge on a Tuesday?

While the crowd shouts, a thin trail of light appears making a path from our “man cave” to the stage. The path clears and Jamie cross-fades from the house-mix to my song.

“Y’all wanna know who’s on tap tonight?”

They roar. My name is among the screams.

“I’ma give y’all a little hint.”

The opening of P!nks’ 2012 masterpiece, “Slut Like You” titter over the dark room and the regulars lose their minds.

Deep voices whoop and howl. High voices shriek. I hadn’t even stepped into the light and someone starts to chant. “Stagg-er! Stagg-er!”

Jamie won’t encourage a chant until I’m safely on the stage. “Chaaard Stagger! Coming out!”

That’s the cue. A little before my time in the music, but Jamie knows I don’t give a shit. I’m no ballerina.

I step out of the man cave and into the light walking with a confident swagger into the mob. Their roar drowns out all trace of the music. By the time I start dancing, they’re a frenzy of lust. Most of them keep an awed distance, as if I’m something beautiful and contagious to be witnessed at a distance, as if the heat of my body burns.

Still, I encourage audience participation. Lean into the groping of a very drunk group of nurses, beckon those pink-faced boys, offer lewd hip-swivels to the bride-to-be who is absolutely coming for my dick until her maid-of-honor protects me.

I spend too long in the masses. The other Cuties dart to the stage, afraid the crowd would tear them to pieces.

Isn’t that part of the appeal?

Jamie gives me the cue to get my ass on stage. “Chard Stagger? Show us…”

The regulars join in. “What you got!”

What I “got” is mania. I’m barely in control of myself, let alone the crowd. I always lose my clothes faster than the other Cuties and I’ve forgotten which choreography I planned. But I know my business.

There’s an art to unbuttoning a jacket to make people scream. Anyone can yank off tearaway pants, but it takes a special combination of hip, knee, and back to pull off sliding them down, threatening to bare your ass, and making people adore you for not following through. I know how to make them squeal and I give it a hundred and ten percent.

When P!nk starts barking commands, I’m on my knees, as naked as the law allows, covered only by the skimpy red strap. At the edge of the stage, shoulders to the ground, hips in the air, cash fluttering down around me.

This bridge is bigger than the cash, though. This moment is for caressing my chest and thighs, for tracing nipples and the divots of my abs while the mirrors reflect everything for the audience in the back. The ones sitting at the high-tops, no longer looking at their tablets.

In this brief and sensual union of dancer and whore, I’m the melting center of the sex-starved crowd. All eyes for me. All minds consumed by my body and their dreams. My movements mold the mob’s shared fantasy, my aimed winks and smiles feed the frenzy.

When the song ends, the roar is brain-melting.

Jamie breaks the spell by bringing up the lights and jingling a coin jar into the microphone. “Show him some love, folks. He works for tips. You can also tip Chard on your card at the bar. But look! His friends are here to help!”

The change is instant, like waking up from a dream. The eyes look away from me and to pockets, wallets, and money clips as they seek the means to pay for their pleasure. Three other Cuties join the crowd. If it was anyone but me, they’d come up to the stage and there would have been an excerpt from the actual show, but … well … it’s me. There’s a lot of cash to collect.

The song vamps as I swivel and dip along the edge of the stage and they pay for the privilege of being near me. Across the elevated catwalk, strutting my way to Jamie’s wall of machinery. Normally, I clear my tips into their jar then complete my circuit and make a sexy exit.

Tonight, I say into the microphone, “I owe the bartender a twenty.”

Jude looks confused and Paul turns fifty shades of red. He gestures frantically, no. But Jamie rallies the crowd to chant “Pay up!”

This crowd will not be denied.

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