The One With The Doable Duo
A loud bass line thumped through the brick and concrete walls, rattling my bones as I walked up the sidewalk toward the building. It got louder as I opened the door, a break in the muted effects of the exterior walls of the club. Inside, it was neon lights above the bar, spotlights on the stage, and bachelorette or birthday parties clustered around the tables. I hung my head low and made my way toward the door that had the “Talent Only” sign above it. In thinking about it, I couldn’t even really classify the smaller-than-average hole in the wall (using a curtain as a makeshift divider) as a door, but it provided enough privacy for our backstage area.
When I walked into the tiny room designated as our “Ready Room,” Taylor was already at his wardrobe rack, flicking through tonight’s outfits. He had one hand on his hip, the knee of his opposite leg popped out; he was making clicking noises with his tongue as he examined each article as if it held the answer to the meaning of Life. This had become something of a ritual for him before each show, which only provided me ammunition for all the jokes I made at his expense.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” I greeted, sliding my jacket off. Taylor merely grunted at me in response, waving his hand dismissively. “You’re so rude,” I sighed, turning to my own wardrobe rack and quickly scanning through for our first set.
Once I found the right outfit, I slid the hanger off the rack and started taking the pieces off and putting them over the back of my chair. Out of my periphery, I caught my reflection in the mirror, and turned to examine my face for a moment. I’d shaved that morning, but now there was a light dusting of stubble coming in along my jawline. I knew Ruby would give me hell for it, but I seemed to get better tips with facial hair than without, and that was enough consolation for me to deal with whatever Ruby threw my way.
Taylor was still examining his clothes by the time I finished getting dressed, so I picked up the Nerf football I kept on my desk and chucked it at him. Being a better dancer than quarterback (and I wasn’t that great of a dancer), it just barely made contact with his right shoulder before bouncing off into the corner. Taylor turned around, an un-amused pout on his lips. “That was rude, Zac.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his bottom lip still poking out slightly.
“Get over yourself and get dressed, Princess,” I ordered, grabbing a Dr. Pepper out of the mini fridge.
With a surly expression clouding his face, Taylor went about doing as I instructed, tugging on his wardrobe, in time enough for our cue. I heard Ruby over the loudspeaker, introducing our act.
“And now, my lovely ladies, it is time for the TITilating temptation of women everywhere; the mythological duo that makes even my grandmother turn into a horny fourteen year old! It’s Thor and Adoniiiisss!”
A roar went up from the audience, which sounded much louder than the deceptively small numbers, and Taylor and I sprung up on stage to the intro of “Welcome to the Jungle”. For once, we managed to complete our routine—solo dances and all—without any mishaps. We got through our biker routine with enough time for me to swiftly exit the stage as Taylor removed his chaps and begin his solo to some Katy Perry song I could never remember the title of.
While Taylor pounced around the stage, I quickly changed into my second outfit; the one I wore for my solo. I wasn’t particularly fond of the faux-fur knee-high boots I had to wear—they were hot, and I never did get to take them off—but I did feel kind of awesome wearing a two-horned Viking hat and carrying around my namesake’s hammer. The giant, plastic hammer had “THOR” etched in the head, the handle shaped suspiciously like a part of the male anatomy. I tied a faux-fur cape around my shoulders, wrapping myself in it as I stepped to the side of the stage and waited for my act to start.
Taylor took a bow and lifted dollar bills off the stage as he walked off, blowing kisses to some of the women in the front few rows. I rolled my eyes, hearing the bass line to “Immigrant Song” starting. Slowly, I walked up the stairs and paused briefly, jumping into the spotlight and flinging my cape open just as Robert Plant’s voice echoed the first haunting “Ah-ah-ah” of the song. I lifted the plastic hammer I held above my head, reaching toward the Heavens and flexing my arm muscles before rocking my hips back and forth. Three women in the front row started fanning themselves, two were standing up clapping, and another was just eyeing me like she hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
I took my dancing over to the one who was licking her chops, figuring she’d give out the best tip. Slowly, I squatted, still rocking my hips back and forth as I dropped the cape from my shoulders. I looked over my shoulder just as she was reaching up with a handful of dollar bills. I allowed her to stuff them—one-by-one—into the waistband of my bright red briefs while her friend saw fit to start stuffing money in my boots. I groaned at how disgusting those bills were going to be when I took them out and moved on to the next set of customers.
Having disrobed as far as our club allowed already, the rest of the song was spent by me just walking across the stage, shaking my ass or my junk in some woman’s face and getting money stuffed in my underpants. At one point, I was holding the hammer at my hips, roaring as one of the customers—a regular—ran her hands over letters of THOR, then squealed with delight as I winked at her. She threw another five dollars in ones at me, and as I bent over to pick them up, I mouthed “Thank you” as sexually as I could. She shoved another five in my face.
Finally the song was over, and I gathered my cape, hammer, and what money I could carry offstage as one of the stage crew actually swept the money on the stage toward the backstage area. Once I had made it to the dressing room, I began the process of extricating myself from the knee-high boots while Ruby announced an intermission. Taylor had his head stuffed in the mini fridge, looking for God-only-knew what. “Hey, Tay, you looking for Narnia in there or what?”
“No, I’m not looking for Narnia, smartass. I’m looking for my Diet Coke. I had three cans in here, and now there are only two, and I didn’t drink one.” He put his hands on his hips and threw me that pout. I wanted to punch it off his face.
“Well, I don’t drink that shit, so—wasn’t me.” I shrugged, getting up so I could change. I gathered the outfit for the finale Taylor and I did together and walked behind the divider we used for a changing area. I pulled the leather chaps back on, this time pairing it with a cowboy hat and boots instead of the leather vest from our opening biker act. Taylor was still staring into the fridge, so I walked up to him and pushed the door closed. “Hello? It’s almost time for us to go back on stage—you can worry about your Precious later.”
With that same pout attached to his lips, Taylor stalked off to get changed, then met me at the stairs to the stage. The pout was still on his face when he arrived, but as soon as we took the stage to the sounds of Big N Rich, his lips curved into a bright grin. He got way too into this “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy” routine, but the audience was eating it up. I was almost positive that Taylor had earned us more tips than I did for once. As the song wound down, I walked around the stage, taking dollar bills out of bras with my teeth and allowing some forty-something divorcée to stuff a handful down my briefs. Taylor and I both scooped up bills that had been thrown on the stage, and I gleefully shoved a $20 down the back of my underwear.
Back in the dressing room, I walked behind our changing divider and took the briefs off, sliding into my jeans commando. Dollar bills spilled out of the leg holes and waistband of the discarded undergarments, and I scooped everything into my arms as I walked back to my desk to count my earnings, carefully separating the bills as I went into stacks; mostly ones and fives, but there were a few tens and twenties as well.
“That old lady with the bird brooch gave me a fifty-dollar tip!” Taylor exclaimed, waving it above his head as he practically ran to his side of the room. With no shame, Taylor took his briefs off, and stood in the middle of the room naked, shaking all his money out. He bent over, the fluorescent lights glinting off his ass and into my eye.
“Damn it, Taylor, put your fucking pants back on!” I hurriedly looked in the opposite direction, waiting to hear the zip from his jeans before daring to return my eyes.
“If you didn’t take your clothes off for money on a nightly basis, I’d think you were a prude,” Taylor snorted a laugh.
“I’m not a prude, Taylor…but I also am not gay like you. That means I don’t take pleasure in seeing your junk in my face.”
“Funny, that’s not what you said last night.” Taylor shot me a wide grin before turning back to his pile of bills to count.
Before I could say anything in response, Ruby appeared at the door, a plastic smile on her face. This could only mean one thing: she either needed one or both of us for an extra shift, or she required some off-the-clock repair services. Given the leaking faucet in the men’s bathroom, I was leading toward that being her request as she began giving us compliments about our show.
“You guys were on fire tonight!” She gushed, rocking back and forth on her heels.
Shaking my head, I held up my hand to stop her from continuing. “What do you need, Rube?”
“Well. I was thinking we needed to do something to get the club name out there…and I figured the best way to do that was to get you guys out there.” She produced a flyer from behind her back, which had a photograph of Taylor and I on it. Across the top were the words “Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun – With Double Entendre’s doable Duo, Thor and Adonis!” There was booking information at the bottom.
Taylor grabbed the piece of paper from Ruby’s hand, apparently requiring a closer look. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“What does it look like?” I asked him, taking the flyer from him to read it over, myself. “She’s contracting us out for private parties.” I handed the flyer back to Ruby, shaking my head. “I don’t think so, Rube…working here at the club, that’s one thing. But, parties?”
“Well. I hate to tell you this, Zac, but you don’t have a choice.” Ruby shrugged, backing out of the room. “I’ve got a line of dancers who are just dying to have your spot. And with you getting a percentage off the cost of the party PLUS keeping all your tips…if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will…”
I chuckled, knowing that was the farthest thing from the truth. “No you don’t, Ruby. And even if you did have a line of dancers waiting for a spot here, you’d never fire me.”
“Which is why I know you’ll do it,” she beamed.
“Yeah, c’mon, Zac,” Taylor said from beside me. “It could be fun…plus, it sounds like it’d be good money. We make a killing at the club, think of what we could do at private parties. Anyone who’s gonna pay for this is going to tip really well,” Taylor tried to rationalize.
“Wow, Taylor….you’ll do just about anything for a dollar,” I shook my head at him, frowning at the smile he so genuinely had on his lips.
“Except diapers and donkey shows.” He shrugged, then leaned over and whispered, “and even those are negotiable.”
“So, good, you’re in. Your first party is next Saturday night; I need you at Hotel Palomar by 8PM sharp. Bring any props or costumes you need from here and do be sure to have a good routine worked up—these ladies are paying a lot of money to see you take your clothes off. Let’s not disappoint.”
With a pat on my chest, Ruby walked out of the dressing room and left Taylor and I alone to contemplate our new assignments.