Medea

You see, the first rule is that you can’t rape the willing. It just wouldn’t work. It leaves two parties frustrated.
I thought of that when I saw Sámi dance round and round the pole. Up and down and bobbing her bottom with the ridiculous frills and ruffles into his face. He sweated under the black and red light. Sámi just smiled.
Up and down, up and down. You can’t rape the willing.
Sámi might go home with this one tonight, then again she might not. She was spending a lot of time with him. He didn’t seem to be shelling out too much money.
She wore normal regulation burlesque clothes. Basque, tassels, patent black heals, spangled tights, feathers. Like her costumes, Sámi often took men she met here home. I never did. It would ruin their delusions, and I’m a romantic at heart.
I would never want to do that, to let them see me in the cold light of day, the spangles and feathers looking faded, old, worn out. They would never come back here; I would never see them again. It would shatter too many delusions. They would see what was really there beyond the glitter. They might even see me.
And anyway, as my boss keeps telling me. I'm not here to dance, to pick up men. I’m here to pour drinks.
Pouring drinks is what got me the job. I’d watched Tom Cruises Cocktail too many times now to think it glamorous anymore. Pouring drinks, doing magic tricks and looking ok in a Basque got me my job in Jumbo’s Clown Room.
Jumbo’s is a burlesque parlour. It’s not a sleazy strip joint like Chico’s down the road. It’s a parlour and I keep getting told that. It’s classy. In real terms, it means it’s a strip joint that’s got a theme and a camp edge. It’s the only strip joint a girl like me could get a job in.
Believe it or not I was headhunted and the pay is good. A bartender that could make your cocktail flame and your coins reappear from behind your ear fitted right into the theme, the atmosphere. I tell them it’s magic.
Rule number two: don’t ever spoil the magic.
Jumbo’s doesn’t hire girls with hair extensions, bronzed tans or fake tits. Jumbo's only takes on staff that are weird enough to wear Victorian burlesque clothes. Really, it’s harder than it sounds.
Firstly, you need to be tall. I mean really tall, and then you have to wear heels. You have to be a bit thicker around the middle to make the Basques not look strange, you have to be full chested to make them stay up.
Because of the gastromic proportions of most of Jumbo’s staff, there aren’t that many dancers. Making a tall, big girl dance around a pole is exceedingly difficult. She may look a million dollars in her silver rhinestone boots and peacock feather bra, but she never feels that way.
She’s still a size sixteen and over six foot. She’s still as awkward and clumsy as she believes she is. Jumbo’s isn’t the only strip joint with a record at the Accident and Emergency Room, but it’s the only one that has genuine non-sex related mishaps. Instead of violent crimes, it’s more broken ankles and fractured collar bones.
Jumbo’s girls are reluctant to take their clothes off, no matter how much money is thrust into their velvet garters, that’s why this joint is classy.
Sámi was employed to dance. She wouldn’t at first, but as she’s a lot more agile than me. She got the hang of it quick enough. She’s now an old hand. I can’t dance, but then again, I’m not paid to.
I hear stories of how I am lucky to be working here at Jumbo’s. I could be working at Chico’s. Nobody has ever given me a satisfactory reason as to why all the strip joints names always end in “o”, like an endearing child’s way of pacifying the wicked.
Rule number three: you can never pacify the wicked.
The wicked will always give the illusion that they are totally ok with a situation. Only when it is too late, their true nature will come out, just when you think you’ve got away with it, just when you’ve nearly forgotten.
And then right on cue Dennis walks into the club and I think “it can’t be past two already.”
Dennis pulls out one of the purple topped stools and sits at the end of the bar. I slowly move off my leaning position and go and fix his drink. Bourbon.
Jumbo's only sells southern American bourbon and expensive French brandy. There is no house vodka here.
He sits tapping a cigarette and without looking he reaches into the ashtray. He picks out the matches. He pops the cigarette into his mouth and lights a match. Dennis likes the world to be in slow motion, like a film.
I like Dennis. He wouldn’t come in here if it wasn’t the only place that was open past two. He works the backshift on one of the raver clubs called A Little Closer in town. He sells alcopops and ecstasy to girls who dress like Jumbo’s paramours, except Dennis says it’s not as tacky. He says they’re a lot more homemade. A lot more homely.
I’ve been to A Little Closer. It’s full of plain girls wearing fur. The spell from Jumbo’s doesn’t follow me there as I sit in a pair of old jeans and plaid shirt. I’m unnoticeable in Dennis’s world.
Dennis is one of the few regulars in here that knows I’m a girl. Most of them think I’m a man all dressed up. A half-half, a transsexual that has had surgery.
This is because I’m tall and I wear heels. I fit right in with the other girls. Some are girls, some are boys, some were born boys, some were born girls. It creates an air of unpredictability. My first day I overheard them talking. They didn’t know. They are still unsure.
People still take bets on gender.
Dennis looks like he belongs in an Eighties film. He’s the ultimate sexy bad guy; the type who tempts Winoda Ryder’s and torments Molly Ringwold’s. He is Hispanic and wears a black trench coat. He is totally out of place in Jumbo’s. For a start he’s not old and gay. He doesn’t leer and barely takes much notice.
I knew Dennis before I started working here. He started coming in to keep me company, to have a drink after his shift. Now, although he wouldn’t admit it, he’s really taken a shine to the place.
I dump Dennis’s drink down and wave away his money. My boss isn’t on tonight and I can afford to give the odd free bourbon. He gestures the packet of cigarettes to me and I take one.
“Remember to use that”, he says pointing at the cigarette holder behind me. Being out of character is more despised that giving away free drinks. For something to do I make the cigarette disappear in my lace gloved hand and reappear out of my bosom. Dennis doesn’t look up; he’s seen me do it a thousand times.
The black and red lights make the smoke pour bright blue over the bar. Sámi has given up dancing and one of the new stand up comics comes on. Her name is Cilia and she is a transsexual. Sometimes it’s hard to guess.
“Have you seen this place in the morning?” Dennis asks and I nod “it’s all dusty red plush velvet with dodgy white stains.” He lights my cigarette now wedged into the holder and I begin to add to the blue smoke billowing over the club.
“Its come”, I say without taking my eyes off Cilia. Her hair is a bright gold under this light, but in the daytime it’s a pitiful, Labrador yellow. “Sometimes they just can’t help it.” there is always somebody who cuts the fabric out of their pockets.
“Nasty”, says Dennis “time you got a better job” and I ignore him.
Rule four: always ignore what you don’t want to hear. This rule applies mostly to friends and family.
After a bit Cilia begins to warm up the crowd and I feel more at ease. Sámi sashays over with a tray and orders three light beers intended for the table she was dancing at. We laugh and talk about eyelash glue for a few moments as I top up her beer and then she goes back with the curly handled brass tray. She looks sideways at Dennis and wonders why he is here again. She knows he’s a friend of mine, she always thinks its more.
Dennis winks at her and she looks shocked. Sámi scurries away and I notice that she’s been loosing weight. Her red Basque has air between her and it. She might get into trouble.
“Do you think shes happier than me? He asks and I reply
“No”
“You look nice tonight”, says Dennis and I say
“Of course I do. It’s my job”
“Your job is to pour drinks”, he says with a smile and gestures his glass towards me for a refill. I pour myself one too. It’s really slow in Jumbo’s tonight and I’m uninterested in Cilia’s performance.
“How long did it take you?” he asks. Dennis always asks this and each night it’s a different answer.
Rule number five: don’t ask questions that you might not like the answers to.
“An hour and a half. It’s a fine art”, I say unsmiling. Dennis seems unable to take this comment seriously and begins to smirk.
“Most strippers get bored after a while”, he says, and then nods his head over to Sámi “they get sloppy with the shaving, the plucking, and the preening. Not you.”
“I’m not a stripper”, I say “I’m here to pour drinks” and he smiles. I drink down the bourbon and pour us another. It’s smooth and like velvet.
“Violet”, he says and places his hand on mine. I just stare at it. I’m too exhausted to try and move it “Violet” he repeats and I can’t take my eyes off his hand “you really don’t need all that make up”, and I feel redundant.
“How many layers did you apply? How much do you spend on fake eyelashes each week? How much electricity do you waste on hair crimpers? Feather boas? Fishnets?” and again I think of rule number five.
“Rule number six” I think and then I say to him “you can look but you can’t touch”, and I remove my hand. I retreat to the other end of the bar and wipe some fake spillages. He calls after me
“Are you scared to exist, violet?”
“I’m not scared” I say to him and turn my back on him. He begins to shout. Dennis never understands when a conversation is over
“You are. I know you. You’re scared to exist beyond this place.”
“Oh, doesn’t be such a fucking idiot” I say and come back over to his side of the bar. It’s easier to continue Dennis’s conversation than to endure the stares of the clientele and cigarette girls. He smiles and lowers his voice.
“I’ve seen you apartment. It’s a homage to the burlesque” he says, still smiling and I feel like slapping him, feel like clasping my gloved hand to his cheek and leaving a red imprint. And he grabs the hand I was thinking of. I see my black polished nails in his and he says
“Don’t get offended, Violet. It’s only because I like you” and I think of rule number one.