Y Auditions

Strip Club Auditions.

"It should be easy," said Julie. "We've got ten girls coming, we have
to pick five."

Julie and I were in the club. It was ten to ten and the first girl was
due on stage for her audition in ten minutes.

"Five out of ten shouldn't be too hard," said Julie. "That's only one
out of every two. Fifty per cent."

Julie's maths was spot on. However, she was missing an important
point. As the newly appointed manager I felt that it was my duty to
point it out.

"What happens if they're all crap?" I said. "What happens if more than
half are no good at all?"

I thought Julie would be upset. I thought that she wouldn't have
thought about that, so caught up in her entrepreneurial dream was she.
I was wrong. Julie spoke without even pausing. "If they're all crap
then we pick the ones with the biggest tits. Who's going to care about
their face and dancing ability if their tits are big enough?"

"Spoken like a true feminist," I said.

"I am a feminist," said Julie. "I'm an independent business woman
offering jobs to other women in a woman-centred environment."

"And the fact that that job involves wobbling your tits in the face of
drunk males is beside the point?"

"Yes," said Julie, "it is beside the point. Because at the end of the
day we get the cash and those guys only get to look. That's all." Julie
glanced at her watch, then she looked back at me. "Honza, are you going
to be like this all day?"

"Like what?" I said.

"Like some kind of undercover reporter doing an expos? on the straight
soft porn industry."

Julie's words weren't exactly kind but I had to admit that they were
spot on. She had hit the nail on the head. Like an undercover reporter
was exactly how I felt. I even had a pad and pen in front of me.
Apparently they were for making notes. We were to give marks out of
ten; breast size, dancing skills and something Julie had labelled 'the
erection factor'. That was all clear enough. The problem was I still
hadn't got my head around what I was doing.

For years I had been writing articles for gay magazines. I had been
writing about gay men, what they get up to, where they do it, and what
they are wearing while they do it. Now, all of a sudden, I was in the
straightest of environments. I felt out of my depth.

In promoting gay culture I had done it at the expense of that which it
was opposite too, i.e. straight life and all it's little nuances. The
way that gay men are, I had written, was good, the way that straight
men are, I had written, was bad. For example. Gay men dress well, are
good at dancing, have nice teeth, and are, as a rule, more attractive
to the female population.

I didn't necessarily always believe what I had written but I had
believed that what I had written was necessary. You see, in a culture
in which the dominant is opposed to you it is necessary to fight back.
I had done this by making swingeing sideswipes with each stroke of my
pen, cutting asunder the cultural dominant. Now the only sideswipes I
would be making would be with a moist cloth across tabletops as I kept
my bar in order for my straight punters. It was quite a turnaround and
I hadn't fully adjusted to it yet.

"And Honza," said Julie, "while we are on the subject, do you think
that that particular t-shirt was absolutely necessary?"

"What?" I said. I drummed my hand on the table. I ran my other hand
through my hair. I was trying to appear innocent. I was a writer, not
an actor. I wasn't doing a very good job.

"'Will Young'," said Julie, reading the words emblazoned across my
chest, "'likes to suck asterisk, asterisk, asterisk, asterisk'."

"I didn't want the girls to think that I was straight," I said. "I
didn't want them to think that I was ogling them."

Julie slapped her hand hard against her forehead. "Honza, they are
strippers. They want to be ogled. That's how they make their money. If
people don't ogle they don't tip. Get it?"

"I get it," I said.

"Now," said Julie, "try and think like a straight man, try to appear
to have a genuine interest in tits. Here comes the first one."

Next to me Julie depressed a button on the portable cassette player
she had brought with her in the car that morning. Shakira came blaring
out singing Whatever, Wherever. It was time to begin.

So we began. Or rather stripper number one did.

She was small, she had blond hair, she was wearing black patent
leather high heels. She had tits like anti-tank missiles. It wasn't so
much an act, it was more of a dumb-show. She seemed to be miming the
story of twentieth century warfare while one by one her clothes fell to
the floor. The performance ended with the bombing of Hiroshima and that
girl in the picture. It was the sort of thing you expected to see at an
Arts festival supported by a socialist realist think-tank.

"Well," said Julie, "what did you think?"

"I'm mentally exhausted," I said.

"I know what you mean," said Julie. "Ten out of ten for tits. Zero for
presence. We'll put her down as a reserve."

"Reserve?" I said. "You were serious about choosing the ones with the
biggest tits if they're all crap, weren't you?"

"Absolutely," said Julie. "Tits are like outdoor swimming-pools, the
bigger the better."

"I'll bear that in mind," I said. "Look, here comes number two."

Julie started the music again. This time it was Kylie, Come Into My
Life. The woman on the stage started to do her stuff. Number two was
nothing like number one. Number two was good. She was tall. She had
long legs and long hair. She moved as if she had been dancing all her
life. Most importantly, she didn't look like she had a one-way ticket
booked on the next flight of the Enola Gay. She definitely had the
erection factor. Well she would have done if I was that way inclined.
To state the obvious, women had never really done it for me. It was
just one of those things, like a disinclination for cheese.

Once when I was in Australia I had made friends with a Thai tour
guide. He had grown up in Japan and now he worked for JAL. He said that
as he took hordes of Japanese male tourists around Sydney's sex clubs
he was in with all the prostitutes. He said that if I wanted he could
get me a freebie. With a female.

I was a bit unsure of how to react at first. My mother had always told
me that it was rude to refuse a gift horse in the mouth. I guessed,
however, that she had never been offered a prostitute. So I ignored my
mother's advice, something I often found quite easy to do.

I told Nui, the guy, that I wasn't interested. I said that as I had
had sex with him I thought he might perhaps have known that women
weren't my thing. He said that he did know that but that I was missing
the point. He said that prostitutes were professionals, that they knew
what to do with a cock. He said that their sex was irrelevant. He said
that it was purely about knowing what to do and letting it be done to
you.

On that we had agreed to differ. It was a path I would never go down.
I didn't believe all that crap about us all being basically bisexual.
Some people were but most of us weren't. Most of us were just one
thing. Or so I believed.

"She was good," said Julie as the woman on the stage came to an
elegant halt. "Very nice."

"I agree," I said. "What's her name?"

"Susie," said Julie.

"Susie," I said. "I'll put her on my list."

"Me too," said Julie, "I'll put her at the top."

"She's the only one on the list so far," I said. "She's bound to be at
the top."

"You're not too old to be castrated," said Julie. "A castrati would be
a perfect accoutrement for a strip club."

I was going to ask Julie what business she had using words like
accoutrement when auditionee three came on the stage. Auditionee three
demanded all my attention. She put all other thoughts out of my head.
She kind of took my breath away. But not in a good way. She was like a
punch to the stomach. A blow to the head. A kick in the balls.

The best thing that could have been said about the woman in front of
me now was that at a later date, in more accepting times, she might
have been able to have a career in pantomime. She could have played the
three ugly sisters. All at the same time. As it was, she wasn't cut out
to be a stripper. I felt like offering her ten pounds there and then to
keep her clothes on. She didn't even have any teeth. I wasn't straight
but even I figured that straight men preferred their women with
teeth.

"What does she think she's doing?" I said to Julie. I shook my head. A
woman with no teeth was bad enough. A woman with no teeth taking her
bra off was worse. I considered creating a slogan to that effect. I
could imagine it on the side of a novelty tea cup. I thought it might
make me a rich man.

"Just think of yourself as Pete Waterman," said Julie.

"Do you think that would help?" I said.

"These strippers are like the people on Pop Stars," said Julie.
"They're blind to their own failings. They think they can be stars.
They think we are the star makers."

I laughed. "This is Derby," I said. "It's just a strip club."

"Some people have small dreams," said Julie. She sounded angry. "We're
not all like you Honza. We're not all reaching for the stars."

"What do you mean?" I said. I knew that Julie meant something. I had
obviously hit a raw nerve.

"Shh," said Julie. "Not now. Here comes number five."

She was right, she wasn't only changing the subject. Here was number
five. She was on the stage almost before number four had left. That was
one thing in her favour straight off the bat. Anything that took my
mind off number four deserved bonus points.

Number five was good too. She wasn't as good as Susie but she was
passable. I could imagine her on a Friday night, doing her thing. I
could imagine the guys shouting at her, get them off, show us your
fanny, sit on my face.

That's what I thought people would shout. I had an image in my head of
what lads together would be like. Straight lads together in my head was
an altogether different kettle of fish to gay lads together. Straight
lads I imagined would be threatening, boisterous, out of control.
Straight lads viewing women made me uncomfortable. It was a power
thing. Or so I thought.

Traditionally men had power over women. Men were the bread winners,
the dominant ones, the ones in control. To extrapolate this, men
watching women strip was a control thing. The women were stripping for
them. If the men wanted they could have the women. On a most basic
level because they were stronger physically but also because that was
how our society worked.

By the same argument, men watching men strip was an altogether fairer
relationship. In my eyes it was a different dynamic. Men and men had
equal power so there was no inequality there. It wasn't a threatening
situation, it didn't make me uncomfortable. But maybe that wasn't fair.
As Julie had said I was putting myself in the position of a straight
man. And if I was a straight man then why shouldn't I like looking at
tits? There was nothing wrong with just looking. There was nothing
wrong with wanting more than that. We are humans and humans have
desires after all.

I realised that if I was going to be the manager of a strip club then
I would have to change my opinion of straight men. I would have to
learn to be more accepting, less judgemental.

"Honza," said Julie, "are you in a trance?"

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I thought she'd hypnotised you with the rotation of her
nipples."

"Very funny," I said. "Number five. She's in. Breast size seven.
Dancing eight. Erection factor nine."

"Nine?" said Julie. "That's high. Did she make you hard?"

"Ha ha," I said. "I'm just thinking straight."

"I must tell mum," said Julie. "She'll throw a street party."

"You're not funny," I said. "Hold off number six. I'm going to the
toilet."

"To have a wank?" said Julie. There was a glint in her eye. "You did
like her."

"You're still not funny," I said. But I thought she was, a bit.

As I stood in front of the urinal I smiled quietly to myself. Julie
and I still seemed to be in the habit of rubbing each other up the
wrong way but that was ok. It was nice to spend time together. It was
nice that she wasn't a prostitute anymore. I was going to help her run
a strip club. I had a novel that was going to be published. I had an
excellent boyfriend. Things were great. I shook off my cock and went
back out into the club.

"Number six is in," said Julie.

"Already?" I said.

"She was good," said Julie. "She had tits like novelty
balloons."

"Right," I said. I scratched my head. "Novelty in what way?"

"Imagine a huge balloon," said Julie.

"Yes," I said.

"The huge balloon is shaped like a tit."

"Yes," I said.

"That's it," said Julie.

"I don't get it," I said.

"Huge tits like balloons."

"You're weird sis," I said.

"Quiet now," said Julie, "here comes number seven."

Number seven was in, as was number eight. They both had that important
quality. They both looked like they knew how to make a cock hard in a
pair of straight underpants. They had that kind of look in their eye.
They had that pelvic movement. That meant that we had only two more
women to see and one space left. That was good. We were going to reach
our quota.

As Julie pressed the button once more on the portable stereo and
Atomic Kitten started to bludgeon Blondie's The Tide is High to death
with their saccharine vocals there was another sound behind us. It
wasn't something I expected to hear. It was someone knocking at the
door.

"I'll get it," said Julie. "You keep you eye on the tits."

"Great line," I said.

Julie got up and disappeared somewhere behind me and number nine
appeared on the stage. She was a nervous looking woman. She was the
kind of woman you saw in the queue at Sainsbury's worried about whether
she should have got one loaf or two. She didn't look like she was about
to take her clothes off. She was just standing there and I felt a bit
awkward watching her doing nothing. I didn't feel it would have been
polite to shout out, "Come on, show us your tits!"

I looked around for Julie to try and get some moral support. But that
isn't what I got. Julie wasn't paying any attention to me.

Julie was standing by the door. It was open. On the other side of the
door, standing in the street were two guys. They were both big. They
were both dressed in black suits. They were both wearing sunglasses. I
had seen their kind before. Andy had been involved with drugs once.
That's where I had seen their kind. Julie, my sister, had been a drug
addict once. I was able to put two and two together. I didn't want to.
I didn't want to make four. Julie had promised me that this was all
above board. She had promised me that this time things were
different.

Lots of people wore black suits, I told myself. Lots of people wore
sunglasses. Some people even did it at the same time. I remembered what
Julie had said to me earlier. She had said that some people had small
dreams. She was implying that I expected too much. She was implying
that I was judgemental and above myself.

Julie had made the decision not to be a prostitute anymore. She was
approaching this club in a sensible manner. She had asked me to be
involved. The least I could do was not jump to conclusions. I turned
back to the stage. I decided not to leap. I shouted to the woman that
she should start. She shouted back 'what?' and I shouted that she
should take her clothes off, one by one, in the manner of a
stripper.

It was as she got down to the bra that Julie came and sat next to me.
Her face was red. She looked upset about something.

"You ok?" I said.

"Yes," said Julie. "Fine."

Julie said she was fine. But she didn't look it. I couldn't stop
myself. "They your backers were they?"

"Yes," said Julie, "they were." She said it finally. She said it in a
way that meant it was the end of the subject. "How is number
nine?"

"A bit shy," I said, "but nice looking." I picked up my notes and then
put them down again. "We could do with a shy one. Some men would go for
that. We don't want them all to be too in your face. Too many tits in
your face could put some men off. We need background tits as a bit of
light relief."

"Good thinking," said Julie. "You're beginning to get the idea."

"Thank you," I said.

"Background tits," said Julie. She laughed a bit. "Strange expression
but I know what you mean."

"Thank you," I said.

"That's ok," said Julie.

"Julie?"

"Yes Honza?"

"About your backers, everything is ok, isn't it?"

"Yes Honza," said Julie. "It is." She ran her hand through her hair
and took a deep breath. "They're brothers. They own a number of local
businesses. A hair salon. A butcher's. A pet shop."

"Oh," I said.

"This isn't easy," said Julie.

"What isn't?" I said.

"They used to be my clients. At the same time. It was a bit weird, two
brothers. They used to do things to each other. I had to watch."

"Oh," I said.

"And sometimes I had to join in. Pretend I was their little
sister."

"Oh," I said.

"Then they offered me the money to do this. I accepted it. It was a
way out. But it doesn't mean I like seeing them. It's a reminder of
what I did. I have to accept that. And so do you. I'm not the kind of
person that could walk into a bank and get a loan. I want to escape my
past but it's always going to be there. Whatever you do, you always
take you past with you. There's no choice."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Look. It's number ten. Then end."

"Yes," said Julie, "the end. Can you trust me Honza?"

"I'll try," I said. "Why don't you start the music? We've got some
judging to do."

"Ok," Julie said. She started the music. Number ten started to
dance.

Number ten was a good place to end. Having chosen number nine we now
had our five strippers. If number ten had been good we would have had a
dilemma. However, there was no dilemma. Number ten wasn't good. She was
crap. She got her bra strap caught on one of the heels of her shoes.
Then she lost balance. Then she fell off the stage. Then she landed on
her head. Fortunately she wasn't badly hurt. She smiled bravely and
said she was a trooper. She asked if she should continue. I said not.
She asked if she had got the job. I said not.

The auditions were over. But that was just the beginning.