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He was the strangest stripper the group had ever laid eyes on. Wearing sunglasses indoors, in the dark club, with matching denim coat and skinny jeans. No shirt. Retro high top sneakers. He walked out onto the stage with his hands in his pockets.
“Is...Is this who we’re supposed to be here for?” you whisper to the friend next to you, confusion evident in your voice. You were expecting something more like The Full Monty and less like an 80s mallrat.
Your friend takes a sip of their drink: a specialty cocktail that came encased in a coconut with a little umbrella. “I think so,” they say in a voice tinged with awe.
It happens to be your birthday, and your friends had made plans to take you out. They had been talking for weeks about it; they said they had done a whole bunch of research and that they had something really special planned.
This didn’t really feel all that special though.
The music was blasting the way you expected it to in a strip club; all the throbbing bass and laser lights. The DJ came screaming over the speakers to introduce the dancer, “Alright Patrons! Give it up for your next performer, our very own Freshly Squeezed one...Orange Cassidy!” Your jaw involuntarily falls open. What kind of a stripper name is Orange Cassidy? And what does the DJ mean by ‘Freshly Squeezed’? Now, you’re more than a little scared of what might come next.
But Orange Cassidy does nothing more than start hip thrusting, halfheartedly and off the beat, with his hands still in his pockets. “You cannot be serious,” you say, turning fully in your seat to face your friends. A couple of them are barely managing to hold back giggles as the man on stage slowly pivots and begins to gyrate his hips around in the same halfhearted way.
“He’s apparently a tourist attraction,” the one closest to you says, by way of explanation, while never taking their eyes off the stage, “I saw a whole bunch of really glowing reviews of this place, but absolutely nothing that explained it. They just said ‘you have to see it to believe it’ or something equally useless.”
“I fail to see how this is somehow ‘must see,’” you retort as Cassidy stops his attempts at a booty shake and walks over to the nearby pole. He removes a hand from his pocket long enough to link his arm around the pole, before reinserting his hand and beginning to walk in a circle around the pole. One of your friends barely held back the loud snort of laughter.
“This isn’t how I expected to spend my twenty-first birthday,” you grumble, picking up your own drink and taking a large pull as the ‘stripper’ on stage disentangles himself from the pole and leans back against it instead, crossing his legs. You’re unsure of whether or not his eyes are closed, since the stupid sunglasses are still on, but you get the distinct feeling he could go to sleep right there.
“To be fair,” your friend says, “this isn’t anything like what we expected either.” They lean over the table to throw some cash onto the stage, in an effort to tempt the entertainer.
Now, it’s not as if the man on stage was unattractive - his six pack gleamed in the stage lights when he moved, and you could swear he had some glitter on his face, bringing attention to those cheekbones - but he was also very unnerving. He pulls himself off the pole and ever so slowly strolls down the extended part of the stage toward where you and your friends sit. He turns to face you when he arrives, and you can feel him staring your group down through the sunglasses. A feeling of judgement passes over you. One of your friends hides their head in their hands, another tries to muffle their drunken giggles by resting their head on the table. Tentatively, the one closest to you reaches over and sticks some more money in the sneaker of the ‘dancer.’ In that underwhelming way of his, Orange Cassidy starts hip thrusting again.
Deciding that joining in is better than sitting out, you reach up and tentatively wave some cash of your own at the man. Without warning, Cassidy drops to his knees. With some hesitation, you stick the money into the waistband of his pants. When it’s secure, he falls backwards until he’s laying on the stage. He then starts hip thrusting again, upwards this time, with his feet planted and his hands still in his pockets. Your mouth falls open again, quite by accident, and you hear a couple of your friends choke.
“What. The fuck?” you mutter as the friend next to you coughs & laughs at the same time. When he finishes, Cassidy kips back up to a standing position, causing the group of you to begin to feel a little warm. You feel the blush rising, but you’re unsure how he had that effect on you.
“Okay, that was kinda cool,” one of you mutters; you don’t look to see who.
The ‘stripper’ (you notice that he has yet to actually remove any clothing) meanders back to the pole and links himself around it again, going back to pacing in a circle.
“So...is he going to do any actual stripping?” you ask, somehow more confused than before. The answer from your friend is a soundless, non-committal shrug. You grumble and slump back, sulkily sipping on your drink. “You’re as bad as him,” you murmur, thrusting your chin at the stage. Cassidy finishes his pacing and spins himself around a couple of times before dropping the jacket to the floor and flashing a thumbs up as the music begins to fade out. The lights fade out as he exits the stage.
“I...suppose that answers your question,” your friend said, setting their drink down as the lack of pounding dubstep made your ears ring.
“So, like, what the fuck are we doing here?” you ask, “Wasting our money on a stripper who barely strips? Those Yelp reviews should have said ‘World’s Laziest Stripper’ and been done with it. At least we would’ve had an idea what we were getting into.”
“Oh come off it,” one of your friends says, “That’s selling him a little short, don’t you think? I mean, it can’t exactly be easy to do that with your hands in your pockets the whole time.”
You roll your eyes as a couple of them snicker. “You guys have terrible taste,” you say, deadpan, “Can we go do something else now? This is supposed to be my twenty-first birthday.”
“NO,” your friends insist, all together, “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. You know you have to go ask him for a lapdance.”
“The fuck I do,” you reply, “Again, my birthday. I was under the impression I was supposed to be enjoying myself.”
“Come on,” you hear a voice cajole, “Maybe the lapdance is where he surprises everyone. Maybe that’s what all the Yelp reviews are talking about.”
“Fat chance,” you say, downing a shot sitting on the table. You were damned if you were gonna stay sober much longer.
“Look, it won’t hurt to try, right?” says someone else, “and he’s over by the bar, so why don’t you go and I don’t know buy him a drink or something?”
The next act was coming to the stage; the music picked up again, making talking difficult and the entertainer’s enthusiastic Magic Mike impression had the stage area quickly filling up.
You roll your eyes once more. “Alright,” you agree, “but only because it’s getting really crowded up here.” You stand up on somewhat shaky legs and make your way past the throng of people to head toward the bar. You thought that maybe the drinks here were stronger than you thought because you found yourself unexpectedly tipsy. You weren’t a stranger to alcohol, despite only just turning legal, and you didn’t think you had enough to make you feel like this. Your legs still feel a little weak and heavy, you’re a little overly warm, and your vision wobbles a bit in front of you. You can see Orange Cassidy, though his back is turned, because he’s wearing that dumb denim jacket again so you use that as a point of focus for directing your movement.
As you get closer, you notice a large patch on the back of his jacket - a black and white photo of himself. You hadn’t noticed that during his performance, but then again your attention had been elsewhere.
Orange Cassidy turns around and leans back against the bar as you approach. You look the ‘entertainer’ up and down a little, before attempting to speak.
“That was an...um, interesting performance you had up there,” your voice trembles a little; you’re not sure why, but suddenly you feel nervous talking to this man. You see his head turn as if to glance at you from behind his ever-present shades before turning back.
“Okay…,” you mutter and turn a little to glance at your friends. They’re waving you on with enthusiastic encouragement. You turn back to Cassidy, who hasn’t moved an inch.
“Can I buy you a drink?” you try, skeptically, as you’re still unsure as to what this guy’s deal is. Almost imperceptibly, he nods. You turn to the bartender, “I’ll have a beer, and whatever he wants.”
The bartender glances up and smiles. “Ah,” he says enigmatically, “The Freshly Squeezed One.” He hands you a cold bottle after removing the cap, and places a glass of orange liquid on the counter.
“A screwdriver man, I see,” you say in an attempt at wit as you hand him the drink. It briefly crosses your mind that strippers aren’t supposed to drink while on the job, which would make Cassidy’s ‘virginal.’ Suddenly, that ‘Freshly Squeezed’ nickname dawns on you, but it only serves to confuse you more as, to your surprise, Cassidy removes a hand from his pocket and takes the drink, using the tiny straw that came with it to sip from. He then inclines his head slightly, and begins to walk off. Your brow furrows; in your somewhat drunken stupor you’ve lost track of what’s going on. You look over at your friends and they begin shooing you, urging you to follow.
“Tell us how it goes!” one of them shouts as you pass by. You see that Cassidy has meandered off towards where the VIP rooms sit, off to either side of the stage. You quickly check yourself to make sure you’ve still got enough cash on you for a private show. You hope it’s worth it, then briefly wonder what the appropriate amount to tip a stripper is if they don’t actually undress.
The VIP room is darker than the club, lit entirely by strips of LED lights bordering the walls. Two couches face each other along opposite walls, and another pole with a wide base sits near the back of the room. You start to sweat a little as the door closes behind you, and nervously you set your beer down and take a seat on one of the couches. Orange Cassidy sets his drink down next to yours, and sticks his hand back in his pocket before sauntering over to stand in front of you. Like before, you get the distinct feeling that you’re being judged on some low level, but this time, it feels… sexy? A couple of decidedly naughty thoughts run through your mind in quick succession, and you’re grateful that the darkness of the VIP room masks your drunken blush. You fish some cash out and slide it into the waistband of the enigma’s jeans.
Once more, you are rewarded with Cassidy’s odd way of hip thrusting. There’s something almost sultry, in the intimate atmosphere of the VIP room. Then he turns around and does that strange butt shake and you’re once again at a loss as to how to react. When he’s done, he sits down in your lap. He’s heavier than you imagined, looking at his skinny frame on stage, and for a moment you wonder if you’re expected to do something. Then you feel the slight movement he’s making on top of you, and in the dark, you raise an eyebrow; this is certainly some kind of lapdance, but you’re not entirely sure what kind. The man bounces a little in your lap before settling down, then he reclines until he’s leaning all the way back against you, pressing you into the couch. The weight drives some of the breath from your lungs, and you find yourself entirely pinned down, and again unsure of how to proceed. You raise a hand in a hesitating fashion, as if you might touch him; he’s so still that he threatens unconsciousness and you would not be surprised to hear a light snore.
Before you can actually touch him, however, he pulls himself off of you and flops face down on the floor. Now you’re just concerned, again wondering if he’s passed out or maybe fallen ill. He doesn’t move for a moment, which doesn’t help your newfound anxiety, and you begin to lean forward to check on him when he does move, very suddenly. This time, he begins a strange dry-humping of the floor, and the thought of a seizure passes through your mind before it dawns on you that this must still be part of his ‘routine.’ Cassidy wriggles until his knees are under him, then lifts his butt into the air, sliding his face across the floor in the process. His ass starts to sway while it’s up there, and you’re distracted from the possible rug burns on his face by the sudden roundness, enhanced by the tight jeans he wore. It might be sexy, except you were more than a little concerned for the jeans, as the seam seemed as if it was not going to be able to hold out much longer. You weren’t sure a wardrobe malfunction would improve the performance. You stick some more cash into his back pocket, more out of charity than anything else.
To your shock, he jumps to his feet from his position on his knees. He bounces in the squat position for a moment before standing up, spinning around and flashing another thumbs up. After a pause, he picks his drink back up and nonchalantly exits the room.
You wonder how you’re going to explain this to your friends.
[FIN]