Page 14 of The End of Summer

“OhmyGod, shots!” someone hollered, and I was bombarded by the greedy crowd, as if I was an untended bag of chips at a seagull-laden beach. Swarmed. Pummeled. Stunned, I stood there, amidst the slurping of mouths on plastic, which would probably have sounded like a dick-sucking contest were it not for DMX not-so-gently assaulting my ears with his repeated use of expletives. Tiny cups flew back onto my tray and excited obscenities came at me from all sides as the ladies resumed their sad attempts at sticking out their mostly flat hindquarters in the name of dance.

Thankfully, Arrow put an end to the mass hysteria by momentarily lowering the music and explaining that the group should split up, no more than four per pole, so they could be led through a series of moves by her team. There would be four basic maneuvers taught, she explained. “We’ll begin with a dip turn, followed by a fireman spin, a back knee hook, and a fan kick. We’ll also practice some floor work and then we’ll put together a short piece of choreousing both the pole and a chair. But first, we need to stretch. Everybody spread out.”

She commanded the room, and I was in awe. It was oddly reminiscent of watching an elementary school teacher direct a classroom of sweaty, post-recess children. Saffron, Cherry and Indigo headed to stations throughout the dance floor. Each of them was responsible for covering two poles, so Arrow modeled a move, and they did it with her before coaching their respective partygoers on how to execute it. The whole thing was conducted with precision: Arrow made it clear when I was to bring around more shots to keep the mood level, she gave the girls time to practice, and the place hummed with the nervous laughter of satisfied customers. They practiced “walking sexy” for each other, spun, slipped, and slid around the poles, learned how to crawl across the floor and how to fake a split off the pole. Generally speaking, the girls were terrible at it, but they were having fun, which was obviously all that mattered.

When the trays of shots were halfway gone, my colleagues performed a little number they’d be teaching to the room. An amalgamation of all the moves they’d taught in isolation with some simple transitions both on the pole and on the ground, somehow they made this 90-second situation look extremely hot. The ladies cheered, excited to learn a “whole pole dance,” and continued gratefully accepting my shots as they practiced and ultimately performed for each other in small groups.

Then, just as the last group was finishing up, a heavy knock landed on the steel entry door. Arrow looked around at the party as if she was uneasy and walked over to answerit – in pole heels and her underwear – while 27 pairs of concerned eyes followed her, mumbling to each other, as if they were about to be caught doing something wrong.

Alas, in walked a stone-cold fox of a man – all angles and lines and muscles under his tight t-shirt, dressed in a pair of waders and carrying a tackle box, evidently unfazed by Arrow’s lack of proper clothing. “Excuse me,” his voice boomed. “I’m with the Cape Cod Shellfish Association.” He paused for dramatic effect. “We heard there were some clams here that needed shucking.”

“Yeah, there are!” Arrow exclaimed. “Right, ladies?” She proceeded to grab him by the bulging forearm and pull him into the space. The tackle box dropped along with the beat, this time belonging to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. All of a sudden, the man’s hips began to gyrate and I realized that this was not, in fact, a poor, wayward fisherman. He was followed in by a giant bodyguard-type-gentleman, dressed in a black t-shirt, black jeans, and a black hat, undoubtedly in attendance to protect the talent.

Which was a good thing, too, becauseholy estrogen.You would think these women had never seen a man before. Arrow cried out for the bride and sat her in a chair and before I knew what was happening, the man’s waders were gone and his bulge was on full display, covered only by a triangle of shiny, camo fabric. He ground his hips into an overwhelmingly eager soon-to-be-espoused partygoer under a sudden thunderstorm of dollar bills. Meanwhile, I attempted to protect my strip-club-virgin eyes from the dry humping that ensued. The entertainer dipped the chair backand held the bride in place with one arm while situating his admittedly-plentiful junk directly over her face.

She was wildly mesmerized.

Variations of this continued on for approximately 30 more minutes. I delivered two more trays of the lighter shots during this time and marveled at this man’s dance moves. The stripper got up on chairs, interacted with almost every person in the room, and nearly impregnated the bride while Indigo and Cherry morphed into pole-swinging backup dancers. He was beautiful – a perfect combination of strong muscles and lean meat and good man smells, and then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, leaving me to wonder if it was all just a fever dream.

Somehow, tacos arrived exactly then. (Of all the things!) A catering van from Papi Chulo’s in Harwich delivered trays upon trays of premium Mexican cuisine, and, evidently, 27 suppressed orgasms became infinitely hangry. Corn tortillas went a-flying as inflated dopamine levels demanded to be satiated with ground beef, cheese and endless guacamole. Papi Chulo’s also brought a bucket of margaritas. Thank God; these ladies were so thirsty, they bordered on dehydrated. I would have recommended they put some electrolytes in their margaritas, but it was not my place to offer suggestions.

After inhaling their Latin snack (the food, not the stripper), the party came to a very natural close. Arrow reminded everyone to grab their personal belongings and we all waved at the bus as it exited the parking lot, as if it were a summer camp cheese wagon driving a group of children off to their first sleepaway adventure – instead of a liquor-stockedtrollop-tour headed to an after-party drag show in nearby P-Town. Saffron put on some Camila Cabello and we wiped down the poles with rubbing alcohol, disinfected the surfaces, cleaned the bathroom and swept the floor. When it was time to go, Arrow handed each of us a fat envelope. I counted the bills in my Fiesta.

$620.

In one night.

It would have taken me a week to make that much in tips at the pub.

Once I got home, I had a tough time coming down from the adrenaline rush. So many of my cherries were popped last night: I’d never watched a striptease, never seen anyone pole dance, never been a shot girl. So I did what anyone would do: I devoured a box of taco leftovers like a savage trash raccoon in front of my TV, inhaling the latter part of an SNL repeat as an accompaniment. I followed the hefty meal with a single lime-flavored High Noon and two melatonin gummies, hoping I would get some good, well-deserved shuteye. And I did, with Zoloft curled up at my feet. In fact, I was so overwhelmed with sudden exhaustion that I allowed myself to fall asleep in my fishnets and tank top, hair up in a messy bun, face unwashed, looking like a commercial for a hangover remedy.

The next thing I know, there’s sunlight beaming in through my slider. And banging. I roll over in bed, groaning. I check the time on my phone: 8:45.

Seriously?

It’s coming from Luis’ apartment – which is odd, because Luis is in the DR for the summer. Could be the managementcompany, checking on the status of our constant leaks. But it didn’t rain last night – so why would they be banging like this?

I try to suffocate the noise with my pillow, but to no avail. A whirring sound starts.

Ugh. What the hell?

I peel myself up.This shall not stand.Is it too much to ask for a little common courtesy? I grab my bathrobe and put it on over my ludicrous getup. Glancing in the mirror, I cringe. But I don’t care what the Tidewater Management Company thinks of me. And Mr. Smoot, our building handyman, has seen me look way worse.

I pad over to Luis’s in stocking feet, willing the grating sound to stop. I’m not hungover, but I sure am tired, and this is a most unwelcome alarm.

I knock on the door.

No answer.Of course. Old Smoot probably can’t hear me.

I try the knob. It turns. I lean my head in and scan the area, trying to locate the source of the noise.

“Hello?” I call out, stepping into the apartment.

Like a fucking jack-in-the-box, a man pops up off the floor, revealing himself over the tiny island separating the kitchen from the rest of the living space. He’s holding –ohmygod is that a gun?

I startle, and my hand lands on my chest reflexively. “Shit!” I seethe.

“Um, can I help you?” he asks in a tone that balances aggravation with politeness, a surprising combination for an obvious felon wielding a mortal weapon.

---