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want to.

    One afternoon, Misty asked me to come to her club.
    “I’m on television, honey.”
    “What?”
    “Don’t look at me like that—I don’t mean like on
real
TV. In the window. It’s a new thing. Couldn’t you please do it? Just once. I’d really like you to. I mean, you’ve never seen me … work. I’m real good, everybody says so. That’s why I’m in the window.”
    “Is anybody leaning on you?”
    “It’s not
that,
baby. Please?”

    I went the next night. It was just like she said. The club was just a narrow doorway with a little window on one side. They had a TV set suspended from wires hanging there. Black-and-white, like you can rent in cheap rooms. One long loop, the same stuff. Over and over. I stood there and watched until Misty came on. You couldn’t tell where she was, like in a dressing room or something. She had a regular dress on. The camera watched her pull it over her head. She had a slip on. She took it off. Then she was in a bra, panties, high heels, and stockings. She kicked off the shoes, unrolled the stockings, bending over with her back to the camera. She unhooked the bra from behind, dropped it on the floor. She was just rolling the panties down over her hips when the tape looped to some other girl.
    The barker was a greasy little guy in a blue jacket. He didn’t yell and scream like the other ones on the block, just waited for someone to stop and watch the TV, whispered to them.
    “They go all the way inside, pal,” is what he said to me. “No cover, no minimum.”
    I went through the door. Dark place, the air stung my eyes. I ordered rum and Coke. Don’t mix them, I told the sagging topless waitress. Like I was worried about watered drinks. She gave me a wink like I was a smart guy, knew my way around. I drank a little bit of the Coke, poured the shot of rum into the glass. The waitress came back a little later.
    “You don’t like the Coke, huh?”
    “Just for a little taste,” I told her. She brought me another. I did the same thing, left her enough of a tip so she wouldn’t make a fuss … but not so much that she’d think about working me for more.
    A Puerto Rican girl with a blonde wig was on. There was music, but she wasn’t really dancing. Just shaking her body parts with the music around her. People threw money on the bar. She’d kneel and pick up the bills. When she got enough, she rolled them all into a little tube, held it up so the watchers could see it, kissed the little roll, stuffed it deep inside her G-string. Every once in a while, she’d pull down the G-string real quick. The money was gone. Inside her, someplace. The men applauded, like she’d done something good.
    Misty was different. She really danced, like she was moving to the music. The men didn’t clap real loud for her until she got on her hands and knees, crawling the length of the bar, still moving to the music. She took a glass from in front of one man, put one hand inside her G-string, like she was playing with herself, sipped from the glass. Then she poured some of it right on the bar, put her face down, wiggled her butt real hard while she lapped it up. They really cheered for that. Men put money on the bar—Misty crawled over to the ones who put up the most, let them spill their drinks on the bar so she could lap them up again. She crawled off the stage when her number finished, looking back over her shoulder.

    When Misty got back, she looked tired. I was watching TV with the sound off, trying to figure out what people weresaying from the way they moved. She just said a quick hello, went in the bathroom. I heard the shower.
    She came out with a towel around her head, still a little wet.
    “Honey?”
    “What?”
    “I thought you were coming tonight.”
    “I did.”
    “I didn’t see you.”
    “I was there.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You think I’m lying?”
    “I didn’t say that, honey…. Don’t be mad.”
    “Come here.”
    She came over to me slowly, her face down. Got on