Troika (17 page)

But I’m also feeling furious. I’m furious at myself, at my
sexless
self. I’m furious at Julian, who manages to be both blameless and guilty. And I’m furious at Perla, too, the little slut with the B cups who has been fucking my husband.

“I need you to do me a favor,” I say.

“Anything, babe.”

“Anything?”

“What is it, Sophie?”

“I’d like you to bring her to me.”

“Bring her to you? Bring
who
to you?”

“Perla,” I say. “Bring her here.”

I
’ve had guys ask me to do just about every sick, twisted fetish you can think of. I don’t do any of them ’cause I got boundaries, but some of the girls will do anything for a buck, especially that skank Lopez and the ones that are hooked on drugs. They’ve got no dignity, those girls, no limits, and they will do anything,
anything
, for some cash. So I guess it’s just natural that when a guy meets a stripper, he assumes she’s a whore too.

So I’ve had guys ask me if I’ll piss on them, which is sick, shit on them, even sicker, stick my finger up their asshole, my
fist
up there too, if I’ll smoke a cigarette all sexy and let them jerk off, let them come on my feet, hit them, jam a dildo in their ass, my tongue in there too, dress up like a schoolgirl, simulate rape, you name it. One guy, get this, wanted me to put on fuck-me pumps, crush a baby mouse under my heels and make a video of it. A crush video! I mean,
how sick is that? Have you
ever
? One of the things I’ve learned stripping is there’s really no end to sexual pathology, no end.

But the sickest thing I ever heard, well, not as sick as crushing the mouse but pretty close, was when that club-footed messenger, Roger, walks into the club one day and says have I got a strange request for you. And I’m thinking, here we go, all that friendship stuff is out the window and Roger wants to fuck me. And I’m half thinking of doing it just to piss Julian off ’cause I haven’t heard from the man since the last time we were in the hotel and he doesn’t even have the decency to let me know he can’t see me for a while. I’m at the end of my rope with Julian ’cause there’s no hope of it being any more than just an occasional lay. It’s getting a little boring and empty and I’m getting to the point where I think I’m looking for a little more out of life.

So Roger limps over to the bar and he’s looking real uncomfortable and all the compassion I had for him comes right back, ’cause how could you not feel bad for a guy with a clubfoot? Although I once read about some Nazi guy who had a clubfoot, so I guess you can’t feel bad for
all
of them. Anyway, Roger settles into a bar stool. I give him my signature peck on the cheek and get him a beer. Okay, he says, in the event you thought it couldn’t get any weirder, it’s getting weirder. He takes a swig of beer and a deep breath and says Julian sent me down here and he’s got a favor to ask you. And before he can tell me the favor, I want to know why the hell Julian didn’t come down here and ask himself. Julian’s a tough guy, Roger says, and a stand-up guy. When he says this, I raise my eyebrows ’cause I’m not so sure Julian’s the definition of a stand-up guy, whatever the hell that even means. But he just can’t stand rejection of any kind, Perla, never puts himself in a position where he can fail in the eyes of someone he cares about. He’s real tough in some areas, not so much in others I guess. So he sends me down here to ask you an important question.

Roger finishes off his beer and waves real wild for another one. I’m laughing ’cause Roger is no big drinker, you can tell, but he’s knocking them down today. You know that Julian’s married, he says, and I nod yes. Well, his wife, Sophie, she knows all about you. When Roger says this, I all but fall off the chair ’cause the last thing I want in my life is drama, some crazy bitch who can’t satisfy her husband showing up at my place of work and threatening me. And I also don’t want to be the home-wrecker type. If I’m going to be fucking a married man, the last thing I want is for her to find out about it. Roger sees how concerned I am and he puts his hand on my arm and says don’t worry, Perla, it’s all good.

It’s all good? I ask. How the hell is it all good? It sounds
all bad
to me, and I jab my finger in Roger’s chest, not too hard but hard enough to make a point. Roger flinches when I touch him and I realize that he’s a gentle man, afraid of aggression and afraid of a fight. And that’s why he loves Julian so much, ’cause Julian is just the opposite and he’s got Roger’s back.

It’s all good, Perla, he says, because Sophie wants to meet you, wants you to come to New York. What? I ask and say there’s no way, Roger, no way that I’m doing a threesome with Julian and his wife. That is just not cool. I say it real slow. That. Is. Just. Not. Cool. Roger smiles and says please listen to me, Perla. Remember when I told you that things were more complicated than they seemed? I nod yes and out of the corner of my eye I see Lopez running and stumbling over her high heels, turning her ankles, chasing a Hollywood guy who comes in a few times a year and throws around hundreds like they’re nickels—and I’m thinking how can I ditch Roger and get across the room before Lopez is on the ATM’s lap. ATM, that’s what I call a real rich guy who tips huge and doesn’t ask for any extras. With the best ones, you can make a thousand bucks in an hour and all you have to do is dance and whisper some sweet things, push
a few buttons and the money spits right out. But Lopez is fast tonight and she’s on his lap in no time. And she looks over to me and gives me a cocky wink, that bitch.

So, Roger, tell me why a girl like me would want to go up to New York and meet my customer and his wife. How does that make even the tiniest bit of sense? I want to know. Roger looks down to his bad foot and moves it so that it rests on the brass rail that runs along the bottom of the bar. He puts his hand on my hand. And he says ’cause Sophie’s paralyzed, waist-down, and can’t ever walk again, and Julian loves her. And Sophie has some desire to meet you,
why
, only she can explain, and that’s why I’m here.

Roger takes out an envelope, just like he did last time, but this one’s got a plane ticket and five hundred bucks for travel money. Show up whenever you want, the ticket is always good, he says. You don’t even need to call first, just show up. He drops his bad foot with the thick shoe onto the floor and pushes himself off the stool. I hold his elbow so he’s stable and we stand and look at each other, him in his funny cripple shoes and me in my five-inch pumps. He puts his hands on my shoulders real sweet and looks around the dingy club, at the lights, the girls, the smoke, and he says make the trip, Perla, ’cause who knows where it takes you. Maybe it ends up worse than this, that’s a possibility. Or maybe it takes you through the looking glass, he says, clear through to a place unexpected and great.

M
y mom’s over at Felipe’s again. I usually get home from the club at around ten, and that’s when we used to catch up. Have a late dinner and do our nails together, reminisce about Dad and Cuba, listen to music, maybe play some cards. But now when I get home it’s empty most nights and it’s just not the same. I just turn on the TV and eat takeout and do my own nails. I sleep late, maybe Mom comes by in the morning to change her clothes or pick up some things for the day, and we chitchat for a few minutes and then she’s gone. It’s been lonely without her around as much, real lonely, and I’m thinking maybe it’s time I just tell her she doesn’t have to worry about me anymore, that she can move in with Felipe full-time and I can get a roommate, see if maybe Rebekah wants to move in with me.

So I’m in the club and feeling lonelier than usual. I’m on the stage, wondering what I’m gonna do when my shift is over, what the hell my life is about, no man, no respectable job, and I’m dancing on
the stage, rubbing my pussy against this disgusting pole. I’m staring off into the distance for I don’t know how long and I lose track of where I am. I forget that I’m in the club, forget that I’m naked, that there’s twenty gross men staring at me. My body’s moving to the beat of the music, moving without me giving it any orders. This happens to me sometimes, my body and my mind doing different things. I once went to a psychologist a couple of years ago, when I was feeling real depressed and frightened and missing my dad so bad. The shrink thought that maybe the depression was one of the reasons I got on the pole in the first place—and maybe the reason I couldn’t get off it.

Anyway, I told the shrink about these episodes, where my mind and my body go in different directions, and she said I was
dissociating
. She described it all technical, but I think what dissociating means is that sometimes your life sucks so bad that the brain has no interest in being around and says thanks for the invite, but I’m gonna sit this one out. Or the other thing it could be is not my brain reacting to a shitty life, but maybe it’s some screwed-up wiring in my brain that
caused
this shitty life in the first place. Cause or effect? Who knows? It’s better if it’s effect, I think. Effect is easier to fix.

So, I’m dissociating right there on the pole and I don’t hear Schultz on the loudspeaker calling Lopez up on the stage and telling me it’s time to get back on the floor. And the only thing that brings me out of this dopey state is Lopez tapping me on the shoulder saying Perla, Perla, you okay? And something about the way she taps me, real gentle and concerned, something about that changes the way I feel about her, makes me think that maybe she’s had a real hard life too and she’s doing the best she can. And that beneath all the toughness and the ink, beneath all that, maybe there’s some decency under there.

I make it down to the floor and it takes me some time to come
back to reality, to
re
associate, like the shrink used to say. I start recognizing things and people, and one by one the picture gets put back together. There’s the Champagne Room, I recognize that. The VIP Room. There’s Schultz and Jade. There’s the lawyer who got disbarred. I know that strobe light, that curtain, that sticky leather couch. And finally the picture’s complete and I’m
back
.

I sit down and Jade brings me a bottle of water. A guy walks over to me, sort of sweet-looking, attractive. He’s dressed in expensive clothes, not flashy but nice. His hair’s combed and he looks like he smells good, which is real rare in a place like this. I check his left hand and sure enough he’s got a wedding ring, and I think at least here’s an honest guy, at least from the view of a stripper. He sits down and tells me his name is Jed, which makes me laugh ’cause it doesn’t seem like a real name, and he says let’s go to the Champagne Room. That’s two hundred, you know. And I say that ’cause sometimes they’ve got no idea how pricey it is. Turns out he’s fine with it. When we get in the room, he sits down and I take off my top, tell him he can touch my tits but no kissing and no touching me down there.

Well, we’re half a song into the set and I’m straddling him and doing my thing, trying to be present but not
too
present. I can feel his hard dick through his pants, pressing against me. I got no problem with a guy having a hard-on ’cause that’s what they’re here for, right? A few more songs, I think, and I get my cash and maybe I’ll tell Schultz I don’t feel good and get out of here early tonight. But next thing I know this guy slips his hand under my panties and I grab it real fast, pull it out and remind him no touching down there. He nods okay and I go back to doing my dance. But sure enough his hand is right down there again, but this time he pushes real hard and I feel his finger on my pussy, reaching around to get his finger
inside
me.

I grab his wrist and try to pull his arm away, try to get up off
him, but his arm’s around my waist and I can’t move. He’s pushing his finger deep inside me, and I’m not wet at all so it hurts bad and I know this is gonna cause a tear and some bleeding. And I’m sure his hands are dirty so I’m already thinking infection. He’s got one finger in, then he puts another and another—and I think it’s three and it hurts like hell.

I scream out Schultz, Schultz! And thank God he’s standing right on the other side of the door. He hears me and runs in, pulls me off the guy, smashes the guy’s face into the wall, and then Schultz and the other bouncers take him out to the back lot and get rid of all the frustration that’s been building up in their lives. After that first punch, it’s got nothing to do with the guy breaking the rules. After the first punch, it’s the closest Schultz and the boys are ever gonna get to a shrink’s couch.

Schultz comes back after a few minutes and he’s holding his hand, which is red and swollen. He hands me a hundred bucks that he pulled off the guy. You okay, Perla? And that’s the second person in the last half hour who asked me the same question, and when two people in a shit-hole like this ask if you’re okay, then clearly you’re
not
okay. Schultz tells me to go home, get some rest, and says maybe go see a gyno doc if your pussy’s sore. That’s exactly how he says it,
go see a gyno doc if your pussy
’
s sore
.
I give Schultz a hug, ’cause he’s a big, sweet oaf and he’s got my back.

I’m in my car driving down 95 and my pussy
does
hurt. I’m mad, real mad, but mostly at myself. I knew a recovering alcoholic once and she kept hanging out in bars with her drinking buddies even though she was trying to stay sober. And then one day I saw her and she looked like shit, been drinking again. When I asked her how she ended up boozing, she said Perla, you keep hanging around in barbershops long enough, eventually you’re gonna get a haircut. That’s how I feel about my pussy right now. It was just a matter of time.

I look down to the center console and reach for a pack of gum. Underneath, I see the envelope that Roger gave me. There’s no cash in there ’cause I already spent that on rent and some new sandals. But the plane ticket is still there and it’s been peeking out of the envelope for weeks, just one little corner, teasing me and eyeing me and begging me to do something outside my comfort zone for once in my life. I remove the ticket from the envelope and pick my teeth with it, ’cause I think I got something stuck in there and it’s driving me a little nuts. I’m wondering how an open-ended ticket works. Does that mean I just show up at the airport and I get to go on
any
plane? Fly to Caracas? Or Milan? Or just to New York?

There’s traffic on 95 and it looks like a big wreck ahead, so I pull off at Hallandale Beach Boulevard and start taking side streets south toward Miami. It’s going to take a while to get home and I want to be in a shower so bad, soap up and wash away the stench of that guy’s fingers. I’m thinking maybe I’ll hang out with my mom tonight, play some cards with her, heat up the rice and fish that’s left over in the fridge.

Then I remember that my mom’s with the boyfriend tonight and I’m gonna be all alone again. I look over at that envelope and boy, is it seductive. And I think
fuck it
,
I
’
m not gonna lie on the couch alone and eat Cuban food and listen to music
. Instead, I’m gonna go home, take a shower, pack a bag and take a trip to New York City—maybe walk around Times Square and Greenwich Village. And maybe, if I have enough courage when I get there, maybe I’ll stop in on Julian and his paralyzed wife. ’Cause I don’t know what’s on the other side of the looking glass, but it sure as hell can’t be worse than having some asshole stick his fingers in your pussy.