Double Love

“Come on, Mel,” said Lauren, grabbing my elbow. “Don’t even bother to talk to these losers.”

But it was too late because the two cowboys were intent on making trouble now.

“Oh yeah?” one grunted while swiping at his nose. “What’s it to you?”

Oh no. Had this guy been using drugs? Sure enough, there was a telltale smudge of powder on his upper lip. No chewing tobacco for these dudes. Instead, they were going at the cocaine hard, and probably felt as impervious as tanks right now.

“Shut up,” his friend snapped. “Don’t talk to this skanky ho. Look how fat she is. She’s bigger than the cows back home.”

I gasped, all the blood draining from my face. How could these strangers call me fat? I’m not fat. Maybe I’m not thin, but I’m not huge or anything either. More along the lines of pleasantly plump. After all, the average American woman is a size twelve, so my size fourteen made me only slightly bigger than average. How could they say that about me?

But Lauren leapt to my defense.

“Shut up,” she hissed, staring daggers at the two men. “Both of you are fucking dongheads with tiny penises. Trust me, I’m a ho so I’ve seen a lot of guys. I know,” she said evilly.

Both guys looked about ready to punch her, but that’s when a bouncer the size of a refrigerator stepped in.

“If you folks ain’t gonna buy, then it’s time to be on your way,” he grunted. “Move along. Clear the sidewalk.”

“What?” shrieked Lauren. “What did I do? It’s these two fucking dongheads who called us names when we didn’t even do anything. They said we were hoes!” she cried. And to my disbelief, tears started rolling down her pretty face. I swear, any man would melt seeing my beautiful friend cry, and the bouncer was no exception.

“Get out of here,” he growled at the two cowboys. “Before I get my gun.”

Of course, the only thing he was carrying was a clipboard, but the guy was so huge that both cowboys trembled in their boots.

“Come on,” one said to the other. “Let’s beat feet. New York sucks.” The one who’d originally insulted us nodded and quickly, the two scurried off with their cowboy hats under their arms. Good. I’d had enough.

“Thank you,” I said to the bouncer, my cheeks flaming despite the cold night air. “We really appreciate that.”

“Yeah thanks!” added Lauren chirpily. Of course, the waterworks had stopped instantaneously, and she flung a long lock of blonde hair over one shoulder. “Lauren and Melanie,” she said, announcing our names.

Despite scaring off our harassers, the bouncer looked at us skeptically before lowering his bulky frame onto a stool by the door.

“IDs,” he ground out.

“Please,” said Lauren haughtily, tilting her perfect ski-slope nose. “Don’t you remember me from last weekend? I dance here, I’ve already been vetted by management. You know me.”

“I don’t care if you’re fucking Mother Teresa,” said the big black guy. “IDs.”

Lauren gaped at him like she was genuinely surprised. But then he seemed to recognize her and with a sigh, pulled the velveteen curtain back. We stumbled in, Lauren with the air of a queen, and me like a mouse trying to find my bearings.

“Stand up straight!” she reprimanded me. “Arch your back! Look glamorous!”

I did as she asked, trying not to feel self-conscious and shy. But of course, that was impossible. The Donkey Club itself was not a vote of confidence. A dirty low-slung bar took up most of the space, with three poles in the center, and spotlights of gold highlighting dancers wriggling and twisting on stage. Peanut shells littered the floor and the clientele weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. I could see a couple missing teeth, some sunburns, steel-toed boots and cowboys hats all around.

“Where do these guys come from?” I asked with wonderment. “I thought we just got rid of the cowboys?”

After all, we were on the west side of Manhattan, in the middle of a concrete jungle, and surrounded by skyscrapers and guys in thousand-dollar suits. Where did they find these rednecks?

But Lauren just shrugged. “Listen, the customers pay and that’s what we’re here for right? We can’t dance at the bigger clubs because they want girls to work three or four nights a week and we’re not local. We can’t get up here that often. You know, school and all.” That was true. We’d taken the bus up from Virginia and it’d been a hellish five-hour ride, cramped and stuffy.

But Lauren was right again. I needed the money and was willing to do what it took, even if it meant dancing for rednecks. So long as the customers had the cash, then that was all the mattered. Hanging my head, I followed Lauren to the back room, where she knocked before opening the door with a proprietary air. A seedy looking dude in an ill-fitting suit looked up, his hand stilling suspiciously beneath his desk before hastily switching off his computer. No doubt he’d been stroking himself to some porn.