Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (34 page)

“What’s it called?” Sharon asked, after we told Peter to close up for the night and started out the door.

“What? Oh, I forget, but I’ll know it when I see it,” I lied.

“Sounds like a winner,” Sparkle sarcastically added.

“There’s a bar nearby,” I threw in. Naturally, that perked him up right quick.

Sure enough, not a half a block from my true destination, there was a cozy Thai restaurant on the corner. Go figure. Anyway, we went in and ordered. And, like most restaurants in the city, it was pretty good. The added bonus was watching all the prostitutes walk by, both male and female and all points in between. It was like our own personal floorshow. See, Polk Street has always had something for every liking. In fact, it was the gay place to be long before The Castro ever was.

We ate up fast, as we were all in the mood for a drink or two. Of course, I steered our trio in the right direction as we left. Then it was time for some creative thinking. I mean, how do you get a gay man and a mostly gay woman into a straight strip club?

“I hear they make a good drink in there,” I said, pointing at the sign that was glowing in hot-pink neon:
Snatch
…
Snatch
…
Snatch
. (When in doubt, shoot for the booze.) At least by looking up, no one was looking at the sign out in front. I caught a quick glance at it, and it may or may not have been Betty printed on top. For one, Betty was fully clothed when I met her, and the woman in the picture was, for the most part, naked and just barely concealing herself with her arms and hands. I was having second thoughts when, out of nowhere, Sharon replied, “I’m game.”

“You are?” Sparkle and I asked in unison.

“Sure, why not? I’ve never been to a place like this before. Could be fun,” she said, with a shrug, surprising the hell out of me. I mean, I didn’t think a woman, even a bisexual woman, would want to go into a straight, male strip club.

“Well, maybe not,” I backpedaled.

“But it was your idea,” Sparkle said, suddenly taking her side. And, with arms akimbo, he added, “What’s the matter? Chicken?”

“No, it’s just…”I tried, causing them both to start cackling at me. “Fine! Before you both lay an egg or some poultry-fucker happens by (hey, what’s the hanky color for that one?), let’s go in.” Damn, I’d heard of reverse psychology, but that was ridiculous. There I was, trying to trick them into going in and seeing Betty, and they had to coerce me into doing it myself. I was pissed off until I realized that I’d actually gotten away with it. And then, of course, I was scared shitless, because I suddenly realized that I was going into a tittie-bar. (Can they revoke you’re gay membership card for that?)

First thing, it was cold in there. Second, there were lights, but only above the several stages scattered throughout. Third, and this explains the other two, there was a naked or nearly naked woman on each of the stages, and, yes, in evidence of the frigid air, their nips were on high-beam. Needless to say, we practically ran to the nearest available bartender.

“Three gin and tonics,” Sharon ordered.

“It’s free for you, pretty, little miss. Ladies night,” he informed.

Now then, every other time, Sharon was your typical woman’s libber: she never let us get the door for her; she thought we were crazy when we let her do anything first, simply because she was a girl; she hated the whole Miss vs. Mrs. thing; but as soon as someone was offering her a free drink, well then, that missing Y chromosome was certainly a big-time bonus. So I’m here to say, as long as there are ladies nights, there will never be equality between the sexes! (Okay, I was jealous. I wanted a free drink and, unless they had a former drag queen night, I was clearly shit out of luck.)

The bartender came back with our drinks, adding, “And it’s amateur night. If you get up there and win, you get a hundred bucks plus all the tips you earn. Wanna enter?”

“I’ll just start with the drink, thanks.” Sharon blushed and took a swig of her gin.

“
Bock, bock, bock
,” I clucked in her ear.

“Only idiots fall for that one, Secret,” Sparkle said and pulled us all to one of the stages.

“Fucker,” I responded, staring up at the gyrating redhead now two feet above us. I had never been so close to a naked lady before and I felt slightly nauseous. (Could’ve been the cheap gin, though, but doubtful.)

“Here!” Sharon shouted above the music as she grabbed our hands to lead us to an empty table.

The three of us took our seats to the right of the stage, and, as my eyes grew accustomed to the lighting, I started to observe the goings on around me. I didn’t see Betty, but there were, like, four or five other naked or nearly naked women dancing, strutting, swinging, and otherwise exposing their privates for the clusters of admiring men. It was an amazing site to behold, really. These guys, who I took for your typical working, married types, were all sitting there completely absorbed in the action before them. And, every minute or so, one of them would stand up and hand one of the women a bill. I couldn’t tell the denominations, but these chicks were obviously raking it in, the men seeming only too happy to oblige. (Meanwhile, their wives were probably sitting at home trying to make ends meet. Sad, really.)

I guess, if I have to admit it, though, it wasn’t nearly as disgusting or uncomfortable as I thought it was going to be. It was interesting to observe the control that these women had over their admirers. Plus, from what I could tell, they were making a great deal of money for doing very little. Still, I should’ve known not to get too comfortable, because, while I was looking around, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, lo and behold, there was Betty.

“Table dance?” she asked, not yet recognizing me.

“A what?” I asked, stunned that it was actually her.

“You know. A table dance. You sit at the table, I dance, get a little undressed, you tip. Get it?” she explained, with a devilish smirk on her face.

Just then, Sharon noticed the interaction and spoke up. “Betty?” she blurted out, surprised that it was the same person that had been in the store earlier that day. Of course, Betty looked even more shocked. She didn’t immediately recognize us, but hearing her real name and not whatever name she went by in the bar seemed to give her a jolt. Still, she relaxed a bit once she figured out who we were.

“Well, hi,” she said, “did you guys find my book or something?”

“No,” Sharon explained, “we were just passing by and decided to stop in and check the place out.”

Betty sat down and joined us at our table. “Well? What do you think?” she asked, motioning with her hand around the place.

“Well… uh… it’s different.” Poor Sharon. I don’t think she knew just how to react.

“Hey now, you don’t have to put on an act for me. I know it stinks, but the pay is amazing and I have time for my photography during the day,” she explained, gently slapping Sharon on the shoulder. “Besides,” she added, “I have a whole showroom full of lovely ladies who are only to happy to pose naked for me.”

“I can see where that would be a job perk,” Sharon admitted, leaning in closer to Betty.  Obviously, our new friend’s choice of profession was not a turn off to our old friend, Sharon.

“So, how ‘bout it?” Betty asked, standing up and shaking her stuff. “Care for a little show?”

That’s when Sparkle, who had been sitting quietly in the background for a change, threw in his two cents. “Take it off!” he shouted. Naturally, I gulped. I mean, it’s one thing to watch a naked chick dancing from a distance, after all, but it’s something entirely different when they’re right in front of you and you sort of, kind of, know them already. That didn’t stop Betty, however; Sparkle’s encouragement was all she needed.

She waited for the next song to start, which, thank goodness, was
Hit Me with Your Best Shot
. See, I felt safer knowing that Pat was going to be with me during the ordeal. And that’s when Betty started to gyrate in front of us. She looked at all three of us, but concentrated on Sharon, who, from what I could see, had died and gone to heaven.

Naturally, the top was the first thing to go. One minute there’s Betty; the next minute, there’s Betty and her boobs.
Poof
, just like that. Honestly, I could’ve used a little more time to get used to the idea. Like when you’re about to go into a cold pool and you gingerly put your toe in, and then your foot, and then you slowly, ever so slowly, slide the rest of your body in, until you hardly notice the cold water anymore. Well, with Betty, it felt like someone had thrown me into the pool. Head first. Into the deep,
deep
end.

Sparkle, to my amazement, was cheering her on. (How Sparkle manages to surprise me anymore is a mystery.) He got up and put a dollar in her garter belt. She thanked him with a wink and toss of her hair. I thanked him by kicking him under the table. Then Sharon joined in the festivities and seductively added to Sparkles dollar with one of her own. Sadly, that’s when Betty looked over at me.

Well, what was a gay boy to do? I reached for my wallet and pulled out a dollar. (When in Rome…) But before I could reach for the garter, Betty turned around, bent over, and pulled down her shiny, pink panties. I was at a loss (to say the least). Now what?

“Put it between her cheeks!” Sparkle shouted at me. I shook my head no, in shock at the very thought.

“Do it!” Sharon joined in.

“Do it!” shouted the guy at the table next to me.

“Do it!” Betty commanded from her precarious position. “I can’t stand here like this forever.”

So I did it. I neatly folded my one-dollar bill in half and gently placed it between her round, upturned cheeks. Then Betty stood up, reached for the dollar, and stuck it in her garter. (Hey, I could’ve done that myself.) My table erupted into applause after that. Even I got into it and gleefully clapped. (Funny, basically she mooned me and I paid her a buck. Why that was cause for merriment, I have no idea.)

Of course, the show wasn’t over yet. Completely naked except for the garter belt and a pair of, from what I could see, very nice heels, Betty swung and strutted her body and then plopped right down on my lap. Yikes.
Get it off me, get it off me
, I scream in my head. Sharon and Sparkle nearly fell off their chairs with laughter as all the blood in my body rushed to my head. Then, straddling me, Betty shook her chest right in my face and bumped and grinded her ass on my lap. That’s when the whole chair thing back at the store that morning dawned on me. No wonder she sat down like that when she joined us: force of habit.

Realizing that I’d had enough, Betty jumped up, put her outfit back on, and took a bow. (Heck, I would’ve paid her to keep her clothes on if I had known what was going to happen.)

“That, my dear friend, is a table dance,” she said and kissed me on the cheek.  “Did ya like it?”

“Oh… yeah, sure… um, thanks,” I stuttered.

“That’s the closest Secret’s been to pussy since we were down at the ASPCA last month,” Sparkle shouted, and I, naturally, winced. (I’d almost bought a cat, until I realized that Sparkle and Peter were handfuls enough.)

We all laughed, while Betty moved on to another table. I hoped that her next customer would be more appreciative of her talents. Sharon shouted at her that she would give her a call when the book came in, to which Betty replied, “Why wait until then?”

“Sharon’s got a girlfriend, Sharon’s got a girlfriend,” Sparkle chided, echoing my joke from that morning.

This time, Sharon smiled and replied, “I could do worse.”

“You have,” Sparkle returned. “Now let’s vamoose before this place has any lasting effects on us.”

“Yeah,” I said as we stood up to leave, “what’s next, Monday night football?”

“Heaven forbid,” Sparkle answered, in mock horror.

We were outside in a flash. That, I must say, was enough machismo for one lifetime, and I, for one, was glad to be out of there. But, as they say, out of the frying pan and into the fire. We were barely two steps down the sidewalk when I noticed someone that looked like Peter standing across the street talking to another boy who also looked vaguely familiar..

I shouted “Peter!” to whoever it was, and that’s when I knew that I’d been correct. Peter froze when he saw the three of us crossing the street to where he was standing. Of course, none of us looked happy to see him there. It was neither the right place nor the right time for a boy like him to be. After all, there was only one kind of person his age that was on Polk Street at that time of night. I prayed for a much better reason as we approached.

“Hey, guys. What are you all doing here?” he asked, nervously.

“I think I should be asking you the same…” Sparkle started to answer, until I interrupted him with, “Sam!”

“Hi, Cousin Bruce,” Sam said as I stood there in shock. He looked horrible. As a matter of fact, he looked much like Peter did when he first came into our lives, and I knew that could mean only one thing: trouble.

“Okay,” Sparkle barked, “what the fuck is going on?” He was mighty pissed. As far as he knew, Peter had never gone behind his back before and, obviously, he was doing just that right at that very moment.

“It’s my fault,” Sam said, looking down at the sidewalk. “I made him promise not to tell you. I didn’t want my mother to know where I was. She’d send my miserable uncle out to get me, and I knew you’d call her if you knew I was here. I just wanted to get a job and a place to live before I told you guys that I left home and came here to live.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve had much luck, Sam,” Sparkle said, with some bitterness, but I could tell he was softening fast. Poor Sam looked pitiful. But he was right; I would’ve called home just so they wouldn’t worry about him. Stupid kids.

“Where are you staying?” Sharon asked, concerned for my cousin.

“Right here,” he said, pointing to a rundown hotel.

Immediately, I felt sick to my stomach. “How long have you been here?” I asked, barely wanting to hear the answer.

“Just a few days, but it took me a week to get here. I only got in touch with Peter two days ago, I swear, and he wanted to take me to you guys right away, but I wouldn’t let him. Please don’t be mad at him,” he pleaded, all hound-dog-puppy looking.