Nighttime Amusements

Masha was finishing her dance. That meant it was my turn, and I went backstage. Just in time, the song had already ended.

"You've just seen the beautiful Mari dance, now welcome the charming Carrie!" a voice rang out in the hall.

That's right, there's no Masha here, only Mari. And there's only Carrie.

I stepped onto the stage. The spotlights hit my eyes. This was my first appearance today, the show was just beginning. I walked over to the pole. A napkin in my hands—it's dangerous to dance if the pole is slippery. Wiping it down so it's unnoticeable is an art in itself. The client should only see the dance.

I know I look stunning. Black patent leather thigh-high boots

on towering platforms. Black lace panties. A corset with laces. A bra to match the rest.

Actually, I love white lingerie. But in the club, it turns out to be very impractical—it gets dirty quickly. And that's not erotic at all.

Loose chestnut hair follows every movement of the dance. Some clients don't notice anything else but this hair.

The music is playing, I'm dancing. And studying the visitors. There aren't many of them yet. A few are settled on the sofas in the corners of the hall. A couple are hanging out at the bar counter. I looked with disgust at their bellies hanging below their belts. Dancing in front of such people is disgusting, let alone anything else. I wouldn't go near them for anything.

It's fine, Carrie will go.

Two guys were sitting on the left, on the sofa under the stage. Some girl was jumping onto their laps in turn. Her skirt rode up to her waist, but it only amused her. The hall administrator was gloomily watching this trio but wasn't taking any action yet.

Sprawled in the corner on the right was a man. "The Turk," as the girls called him for his distinctive appearance. He was a regular client. He came with a new girl every time. And why does he bring them here? I won't approach him either; the girls complained about his rudeness. But they tolerate him here; he leaves a decent amount of money.

I unbuttoned my corset and sent it backstage. The bra followed it. The guys with the girl on their laps started whooping.

In the middle sat two. No, they weren't together. The one on the left was very young. Handsome. Stylish haircut, branded clothes—you could see he had money. I wasn't the only one noticing; Mari and Nicole were already circling around the guy.

Today he'll be mine, if I want.

To the right sat someone older, but still young. He was smoking a hookah and throwing casual glances at me. Trying to look confident.

The more confident you try to seem, the faster your money will become mine.

He's a newcomer, that's obvious. Ask—by what signs? I won't tell, I don't know. But it's obvious. And I'm going to confirm it.

The song was ending. I suddenly wanted to perform my signature move—a horizontal split on the pole with a spin around the axis. I usually save this trick for later, but that boy with the hookah had too bored an expression on his face.

And now my legs are stretched out in a straight line along the pole. Holding onto the pole with one hand, the other hanging freely. I arch my back slightly and tilt my head. My hair cascades down like a waterfall. I make a turn, capturing the gazes of all the men in the hall. Another turn, faster. My hair flows like a silken train. Another turn. Whistles and applause in the hall.

The Turk, smiling, is telling his girl something, pointing a finger at me. The drunk girl from the trio on the left is glaring with an envious look. No wonder, her suitors have lost all interest in her and are only looking at me. The young guy forgot to ash his cigarette, and the ash is about to fall right onto his pants.

And this one with the hookah continues to sit with an absent look! You jerk! What did you come here for? Okay, that's it, consider yourself in trouble!

My dance is over. I picked up my corset and bra backstage, got dressed. Looked at myself in the mirror, fixed my hair. My breathing evened out. The girl looking back at me from the mirror was such a sweetheart that I wanted to flirt with myself.

I went out into the hall and slowly walked along the stage, catching admiring glances. I approached the hookah lover.

"Hi, can I smoke hookah with you?"

"Hi, of course! Have a seat."

Wow, a sincere smile and a pleasant voice.

"Treat a girl?"

"What do you want?"

"Maybe a bottle of wine?"

"Oh, do you really need that? Do you drink at work?"

Actually, I really don't drink much. Drunk pole dancing is risky. But why does he need to know that?

"Well, let's drink together, don't you want to?" — I give him the smile of a naive young girl.

"I've already had enough to drink today. But smoking together—with pleasure!"

A cheapskate or what? Fine, alcohol really isn't what I need right now.

"Well, let's smoke. What flavor?"

"No idea, whatever they brought, that's what I'm smoking. And you were very good on stage!"

Look at that, he noticed! I'm just thrilled! I'm good everywhere and always! And only idiots don't notice that!

"Thank you."

"Do you dance professionally? Not everyone can do a split like that."

Really. What do you know about it? Trying to act all high and mighty?

"I'm naturally flexible. It comes easily to me. Even the girls envy me."

"And the boys are delighted with you. Do you do any other tricks?"

Yes. Especially good at transferring money from your pockets to mine. And you'll sit there swallowing your naive fantasies.

"Tricks? Well, I dance, and then—depending on the mood."

"So—I'm lucky. It's clear—your mood today is just right."

Believe me, soon it will be even better. And you'll be a few hundred lighter.

"Do you visit strip clubs often?"

"Is it that obvious?"

He smiles. Trying to win me over with his sincerity? But that's better than if he tried to act like a club hero.

"A little."

I'm not lying either. And I smile back at him. Don't want to ruin a conversation that started so well.

"Seems like they call you Carrie here?"

What's this "here" about?!

"Bingo, you've answered the million-dollar question!"

"We'll spend it together."

He's not bad. Definitely can't deny him a sense of humor.

I take the hookah mouthpiece, change the disposable tip. Inhale. Cool smoke pleasantly spreads through my body.

Melon flavor. I like it.

"What does Carrie do outside this club?"

What does a 4th-year student do? Goes to classes. Takes exams. Makes plans for the future.

"I ride a motorcycle."

"Really! Tell me more! No, wait, let me imagine. Summer, the sea, Kazantip. The day is ending, the setting sun turns the clouds on the horizon into pink feathers. The party is just starting, but the music is already playing. Young people are gathering. Hanging out by the road, sipping from colorful bottles, and taking drags from flavored cigarettes. And then the roar of an engine drowns out the music. Everyone turns and sees a night demon approaching them on a red sports bike. The demon is all in black. A tight-fitting black protective suit, black gloves, black helmet. Stops, kills the engine, and swings a leg over the bike. Everyone gasps. Because from the figure, it's immediately clear it's a girl. And to dispel any doubts, the demon removes the helmet with one hand, and a mane of chestnut hair bursts out. The evening breeze catches it, and it flows like a heraldic flag. Everyone falls silent, standing with their mouths open. Even the music fades. The queen of the night has arrived at the ball.

I laugh, no, I'm howling. No one has ever joked about me so colorfully on this topic.

But there's something to it! Some similar fantasies have really visited me! I need to play with this one separately!

"Wow, you really spun a yarn! You're such a chatterbox! Oh, damn, I've been talking with you for ages."

"But you really do ride a motorcycle?"

"Yes, really. We'll talk later."

I fly onto the stage. The management doesn't like pauses between numbers.

And now I'm dancing again. My mood is lifted. Oh, I'm going to dance for you now, get ready!

Something tells me it's not "you" (plural), but "you" (singular). God, I want to dance only for this boy! And I don't even know his name!

I'm dancing, and looking at him. And he's looking at me, not looking away. And there's no lust or crude appraisal in his gaze. His gaze is light, you don't want to cover up from it. And I feel light too.

I am Salma Hayek, and he is Quentin Tarantino. Tito & Tarantula are playing their famous After Dark. I am the embodiment of temptation. Now I'll pour whiskey down my leg, and everyone around will start turning into vampires.

I'm dancing, and I don't want to stop. I'm enjoying the dance, it brings me to some kind of ecstasy. The audience reacts to this. Whistles and applause ring out. Hands stretch out money onto the stage. I notice it, but ignore it.

You're here for the money! Have you forgotten?! Take it quickly before they change their minds!

The dance is over. I collect the money and go backstage. I'm drawn to continue this conversation. On the way, someone grabs my wrist and offers me a private dance. I break free and, with the words "Not now," run to the sofa in front of the stage.

How sweet of you! To refuse a client because of an unfinished conversation! Have you completely lost your mind!

"Hi."

"Hi. That was very cool! Even better than last time."

Well, I tried.

"Thank you."

"You know, you remind me of Salma Hayek from 'From Dusk Till Dawn.'"

What, can he read minds?

"Only I didn't have a snake around my neck."

"You looked very... dangerous, or something, even without the snake."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Well, if you get involved with you—you always have to be on guard. Can't relax."

One already got involved... What do you know about it!

"Not true, I'm sweet and fluffy."

"Yeah. Like a panther."

"Seems like we were talking about motorcycles."

"Yes, and I didn't let you tell me. Well, tell me!"

"Actually, I don't have a red sports motorcycle."

Actually, I don't have any motorcycle. It was his motorcycle.

"But you want to have a motorcycle, right?"

"Yes, I would like to."

"Wait, let me guess. You work here to save up for a motorcycle?"

"How perceptive."

You don't understand anything...

"I work here to help my mom..."

God, why am I saying this?! He doesn't care! Why did I remember her? God, she's to blame for everything! It's because of her I'm here! Because of her helplessness and powerlessness! And now I have to be the strong one...

"And mom, of course, takes the money and doesn't ask where it comes from."

Who are you? Are you going to tell me what's good and what's bad? Maybe even teach me about life?

"Mom doesn't need to know."

"And who does know?"

He knew. Tolerated it at first. Then those flashes of jealousy, those scandals, nitpicking over every little thing! And then—"Let's stay friends." What does that mean, can anyone explain? What does "stay" mean? Why "Let's stay friends," and not "Marry me"?

I look at him. I need to discuss this with someone. I can't keep it inside anymore. With him? Well, what difference does it make, with whom? Not with mom... He's just a random fellow traveler. We're passengers in the same car, but we're going in different directions. No, I won't.

"Dear visitors. A special announcement. Full striptease in a private booth for half price. 200 hryvnias instead of 400. Enjoy a dance just for you for the duration of two songs. Hurry, the offer is valid while this announcement is playing!"

"Let's go for a private."

"You know, I'm fine as is. With you. I see you want to talk about something. Let's talk."

Oh, a psychoanalyst. Maybe you'll even send me a bill?

"Oh, do you really need me burdening you with my problems?"

"Well, why not? If I start getting burdened—we'll change the subject, that's all."

Why do I want to tell him, to confide? I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, but with him—I wanted to.

"Explain, what does the phrase 'Let's stay friends' mean?"

A pause, he's thinking.

"Had a fight with a guy?"

"Not exactly a fight, but it ended with those words."

"He knows where you work."

"Yes."

"You met him here."

"Yes."

"He wants you to quit this."

"Yes."

"And offers you money."

"Yes!!!"

And he hit the bullseye! "How