DANCING ON THE TUNDRA by Bert McKenzie Copyright 2010
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
CHAPTER XIX
Wayne felt very badly about his rather malicious trick. He didn't regret its emotional impact on Collin. In fact he rather enjoyed the look on the photographer's face when the bedroom door opened to reveal Terry literally in the middle of the young red head. Collin registered surprise, confusion, shock, hurt and anger all in an amazingly quick succession. He turned and stormed from the apartment. This was pretty much the effect that Wayne had hoped for. What he didn't count on was the anger and embarrassment expressed by Terry who immediately stopped what he was doing and grabbed for his clothes, dressing and then hurrying after his married lover. Meanwhile, the poor young man Terry had been with was left high and dry, so to speak. Of course Wayne, being the ever gracious and obliging host, closed the bedroom door behind himself and proceeded to take up where Terry left off.
Meanwhile, Terry managed to catch up with Collin just as the man flagged down a cab. Collin opened the door and Terry quickly scooted into the seat beside him. The driver asked directions and Collin gave him the address of his downtown studio. As they drove off, Terry tried to apologize. "I'm sorry you saw that," he said.
"So am I," Collin replied through gritted teeth. "Are you sorry you did it?"
Terry thought for a moment, searching his motivations. "No," he finally admitted. "I wanted to do it very much."
"I thought we were lovers," Collin hissed. "I thought we had an understanding."
"You thought I'd never go to bed with anyone else but you," Terry supplied.
"Yes."
"You thought I'd just wait around for you to come to me, knowing I can't come to you because of your wife."
"Well . . ."
"You thought while you were off playing house with Felicia I'd just sit back like a good little boy until you finally had time for me."
Collin opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced down at his hands, clenched tightly together in his lap. Just then the cab swerved, narrowly avoiding a head on collision. "Hey, you want to keep your eyes on the road?" Collin bellowed at the driver who had been a little too caught up in the drama occurring in his back seat.
"For what it's worth, I didn't mean to hurt you," Terry admitted, gently placing a hand on top of Collin's clenched fists.
Collin looked up, tears filling his eyes. "I know," he replied. "I know it must be pretty awful for you when we can't always be together. But I suffer just as much. You think I like being with that woman, making love to her?"
"I thought you didn't have sex with her," Terry said, suddenly feeling betrayed as he realize that Collin had lied to him again.
"Well, sometimes . . . she says she has needs . . . and then I . . ."
"Why don't you just leave her?" Terry asked.
Collin's mouth worked silently for a moment, like he was trying to speak, but no words were coming out. "I . . . I can't," he finally gasped. "She won't let me. You just don't know Felicia."
"Collin, it's you who won't let yourself. Don't blame it on her." They collapsed into each other's arms, Collin crying softly on Terry's shoulder. They rode this way for quite some time until the cab finally ground to a halt.
"If you two girls are finished . . ." the driver interrupted. The two men looked up to see that they had arrived at their destination.
"Let's go back to your party," Collin suggested as he dried his eyes.
"You sure?" Terry asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Maybe you can introduce me to that cute little red head . . . that is if you don't mind sharing."
"I already share you more than I care to," Terry complained. They instructed the cabby to return to where he picked them up.
On the ride back uptown Collin told Terry about the job. He cautioned that it wasn't a glamorous position, like being in a Broadway show or even a real play for that matter, but it was a start. Terry was to meet with the director of the Chartreuse Parrot, the next morning at nine thirty. The position was that of a backup dancer to the drag show that was performed there.
"A drag show!" Terry protested. "Now that's where I draw the line. I'm not a drag queen and I don't want to be one."
"Relax," Collin countered. "Despite the fact that you and I both know you're really a cream puff, you're just too masculine looking to be a convincing drag queen. I think it's that sharp jaw line and those muscular shoulders." The job was that of dancing with and around the female impersonators and generally adding color to their show. Collin had done photos for the club and so he used his connections to talk with the owner and show the man his nude photos of Terry. Assuring the man that Terry was a very talented dancer, he secured a meeting and audition.
The next morning Terry showed up at the Chartreuse Parrot at 9:15. The club was located in the upstairs of an old building just a few blocks off Broadway, but close enough to Time Square to almost be considered in the theater district. Hanging over the outside door was a neon sign that looked like it might have at one time advertised Polly Parrot shoes. At night it no doubt adequately advertised the establishment, but by the light of day it was a rather unattractive circle of thin white tubes. Just inside the door was a narrow stairway leading up to a landing containing a counter where customers stopped to pay the cover charge before being admitted into the actual club area. Seeing no one at the counter, Terry pushed open the thick, heavy door to enter a dimly lit room. His initial impression was of being in a dead forest, the upended chairs with their spindly legs looked like the desiccated branches of trees reaching into the gloom.
"What do you want?" a harsh voice called out from an even darker corner of the room.
"I'm Terry Michaels. I'm here for an audition," Terry said nervously.
"The new dancer. Well get out here where I can take a look at you," the gravelly voice responded. As Terry walked out toward the center of the room, stepping past the tables and chairs that now seemed to be only clustered by the door, he detected some movement from the corner. A heavy set, middle aged man dressed in a chenille bathrobe and carrying a cigarette in one hand and a coffee cup in the other stepped forward to meet him. Terry couldn't help but notice the pasty pink complexion and the pencil line eyebrows drawn on the man's forehead as the two of them stepped into the one pool of light in the room. "What's the matter? You never seen a drag queen out of costume at nine in the morning?"
"No, it's not that," Terry said quickly, feeling self conscious. "It's . . . it's . . ."
"Yes?" the man asked as he took a drag on the cigarette.
"It's 9:20," Terry finally finished lamely.
The stocky man tilted his head back and began to laugh. His entire frame shook with mirth. "Not only gorgeous but he's got a sense of humor, too," he gasped then his laughter turned into a deep, dry, hacking cough. He doubled over gasping for breath.
"Are you okay?" Terry asked nervously.
"Cigarettes, they'll kill you," the man said as he caught his breath, then took another deep inhalation on the butt between his fingers before stubbing it out in an ash tray sitting on the one lone table that had been left in the center of the floor. The man lumbered off into the darkness, grabbed a chair from the upside down ones by the door, carried it to the lone table and then sat. "I'm Chanelle." He held out his hand like the queen mother as if he expected Terry to kiss it. Instead the dancer grasped it with a firm shake. "You got a cigarette, Blondie?"
"Sorry, I don't smoke," Terry replied.
"I'm sorry you don't smoke either. I need a cigarette bad. Listen, you go out in the hallway and get me a pack of Virginia Slims and you've got the job."
"But, you haven't seen me dance."
"Blondie, I saw your resume and photos. You got a nice body. The guys that come in this joint aren't gonna care if you can count to two as long as you look good. Now be a dear and go get me my cigarettes."
Terry dropped his dance bag on the floor and crossed to the doorway that Chanelle had pointed out. Just beyond was a hallway leading to the restrooms. Beside the door to the men's room he found a cigarette machine. Terry dug out four quarters from his pocket, dropped them in the slot and purchased the cigarettes, then returned to the main room where the man sat sipping his coffee. As Terry approached, the man snatched the pack from his hand and tore it open, pulling out one of the cigarettes, sticking it in his mouth and lighting it from a book of matches he found in a pocket of his robe. He took a deep draw, exhaled with a sigh of contentment, then handed the pack back to Terry. "No, you keep them," Terry said obligingly.
"You bought them, Blondie. They're yours."
"But I don't smoke."
"Well I do. You keep them for me." Terry took the cigarettes back. "Now, about that job, we'll provide you with costumes, you provide your own makeup. We start a new show next Friday so be here for rehearsals at 2:30 this afternoon. Remember, your job is to look good, but that's it. You don't steal the show from the girls when they're on. How do you feel about showing your body?"
"Excuse me?" Terry asked.
"I know you're a dancer, but would you mind working in the nude?"
Terry blushed. "I've done it before," he admitted.
"Great. If you're a good boy, Mama Chanelle might give you a solo number. You can make quite a bit of extra money that way. Drop by tonight and you'll get to see Todd. He does a strip number between shows. He's the asshole you'll be replacing. He's going to California to make films. Believe me, after seeing his dick tonight you'll know why they want to photograph it." The man stopped his rapid fire monologue to take another drag on the cigarette and then cough. "Now get out of here, Blondie. I've got to go get some beauty rest before that rehearsal." Terry turned to go, but Chanelle stopped him. "Oh, babe, before you go . . . give me another one for the road." Terry obliged with another cigarette, then picked up his dance bag and left. It wasn't till he was halfway home that he realized neither of them had ever mentioned his salary.
The rehearsals were very short and simple. For the most part Chanelle sat in a chair and directed everyone's movements. Terry and one other boy, Frank, were the only two performers of the all male cast who didn't appear in drag. Instead, they appeared in a variety of costumes as backups for the impersonators doing simple dance steps and staying in the background. The most difficult part of the show was Chanelle's first entrance. Since she was the owner of the club, the headliner and MC, she had to make a splashy entrance. Terry and Frank opened the show by carrying her on, sitting on their shoulders. It was extremely difficult to coordinate their movements so they were in perfect unison while supporting the drag queen's very ample bulk.
Wayne seemed upset that Terry agreed to take the job. He said he was worried that this might mark Terry's career and he would never get a good job in the real theatre. But Terry suspected that Wayne was more upset that the job had been found by Collin than for any other reason. Wayne and Collin were the two men closest to Terry, but they seemed to have developed an almost active hatred for one another. Nevertheless, Wayne was in the audience for Terry's opening sharing a table with the lover/ agent. He cheered and whistled whenever his roommate came onstage, and the rest of the audience seemed to pick up on his excitement. Terry was embarrassed by the response he was getting, but no one else seemed to mind with the exception of two impersonators who received less than kind responses to their numbers.
"Give me a ciggy-butt, Blondie," Chanelle demanded as she came up to Terry, adjusting her wig and fiddling with her sequined gown. Terry pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit her one. During rehearsals he quickly realized that she expected him to always be prepared with a pack and a lighter. "They like you. You're pretty hot stuff," she remarked.
"Thanks," Terry replied proudly.
"So, you want to do a strip between the two shows tonight?"
This was something Terry had not expected. "I don't think so," he said. He remembered the number he had seen Todd, his predecessor, do. It would be fairly simple. All you had to do was dance to the pre-recorded music, take your clothes off, then rake in the money the audience gave you. Still, he was too nervous to consider this. He had danced in the nude before, but that was in a play and he was a character. This would be different. He would be himself out there, taking his clothes off so everyone could see his body.
"Come with me," Chanelle said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him off toward the dressing rooms. Once inside the dingy little cubicle that the two chorus boys used, she opened a trunk that was in the corner and began to root through old costume pieces that were stored inside. "Here," she said as she pulled out various items. "And this and this. Now, put these on." She dumped a number of things on Terry's stool, then rushed out of the room.
Terry was still examining the items when Collin was escorted in. "Terry, this is great," he said enthusiastically. "Chanelle's going to introduce you as the featured stripper between shows."
"I can't do this," Terry protested. "I can't go out there and . . ."
"The featured stripper gets a bonus. We're talking an extra $100 a night plus tips."
"But all those people will be watching me, not some character I'm playing."
"Listen to me," Collin said, gripping the blond's shoulders. "I'll be at the front table. Don't think about anyone else. Just pretend I'm the only one there and your stripping just for me."
"Hurry up and get dressed, Blondie," Chanelle said, sticking her head in the door. "We're about ready for you."
Terry peeled off his last outfit and with Collin's help, began dressing for the strip number. The costume was composed of rust colored doe suede material and had a tiny thong that barely covered his genitals; a bikini brief that was just a front and back which tied together on the sides with spaghetti strap laces that made up the waistband; then came suede pants that had Velcro side seams from ankle to waist so they could be easily ripped off during the number; and finally a short vest that only covered his chest, leaving a bare midriff. The entire outfit was decorated with fringe and sequins and was completed by moccasins and a bright yellow feather on a multicolored, elastic headband. When he was finished, Terry looked in the full length mirror on the back of the door. "My God, I look like a faggot, disco Indian."
"You look terrific," Collin smiled.
"A blond, blue eyed Indian? This is ridiculous."
"You're on," Chanelle said as she looked into the room. "Now get out there and shake that hot little ass of yours." A driving disco beat could be heard on the house speakers.
"I'll be out there watching," Collin said as he slipped out the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Chanelle's voice boomed over the live mike. "The Chartreuse Parrot is proud to present our latest discovery, a gay white boy captured by savage Indians as a child and now all grown up and making the disco scene, the Renegade!"
Terry stepped out into the hot spotlight and began to move to the pounding rhythm. At first he was terribly nervous and self conscious, but as he heard the cheers and applause he began to relax. Somehow, deep inside, his worst fear was that they would laugh, but instead the crowd was wildly appreciative. Terry began by kicking off the moccasins, then he slipped off the vest and continued to dance. The heat and excitement caused him to work up quite a sweat until his rippling muscles were sparkling under the light. When he finally grabbed his crotch and tugged, yanking off the trousers the crowd screamed. He slowly untied the laces, dropping the briefs and danced for a while in his thong. Gradually men began to come to the edge of the stage and hold out bills. He danced to the edge and allowed the strangers to festoon the waistband of his G-string with money. In return each 'customer' demanded a kiss, some of them taking the opportunity to squeeze his buns or feel his crotch. Finally, as the music was winding down, Terry stepped to the back of the stage, executed a pirouette, then slipped his hands in the waistband and dropped the thong, taking an artistic pose just before the blackout.
In the dark Terry grabbed his costume and as many bills as he could feel, then slipped off to the dressing room. "That was fantastic," Frank, the other chorus boy said as he came into the room.
"A star is born!" Chanelle crowed, slipping in as well. "Don't worry, Blondie. Tony will pick up the rest of your costume and your tips and get them to you." Wayne and Collin both appeared in the doorway, babbling their enthusiasm, but Frank suddenly took over. He chased everyone out of the room so Terry could get dressed and relax before the next drag show.
As the weeks went on Terry continued to do the specialty strip number between shows, often varying the costumes and music. He worked with the tapes to time his movements so they were coordinated and became more of an actual dance routine and less of just taking off his clothes. He asked Frank why the other chorus boy never did a strip, but Frank admitted that he was too inhibited to even contemplate such a thing. He was happy enough doing his part as a backup performer.
One night, after Terry had been dancing with the show for about three months he received a note backstage. A woman named Monica Waters wanted to meet him between shows. After his strip number, Terry dressed and slipped out front to find the lady in question. "Mr. Michaels?" a matronly looking woman in her early forties hailed him. Terry made his way to her table. "Good evening. I'm Monica Waters. Won't you join me."
"Thanks," Terry replied taking a seat. "I can only stay for a minute. I have to get ready for the next show."
"Yes, of course," she said with a tight smile. "I'll get right to the point. My husband wants to become a theatrical agent. I don't think that's a very good idea. He has quite a prosperous little business as it is, and we certainly don't need the money. But even so, if he wants to change his career I'll support him. I like him to be happy. However, I don't want him representing questionable performers." She wrinkled her nose as if she were smelling an onion. "Don't get me wrong. I'm sure you're very good at taking your clothes off, but I don't think strippers are exactly high value clients."
"Excuse me," Terry interrupted her. "What has this got to do with me?"
"My husband says he's your agent," she replied.
"Your husband?"
"Collin Waters."
Terry felt dizzy and disoriented. "No," he protested as he shook his head. "No, I've met Collin's wife, Felicia. She's an actress, about my age."
"Don't be silly. Felicia is our maid," the woman said huffily. "I'm sorry to bother you at your . . . place of business," she continued, standing up. "Since we don't have a formal contract I'm sure you'll have no problem finding someone else to promote . . . what you do here." The woman picked up her purse and exited the club, leaving Terry in a state of confusion. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands over his eyes. The maid! The woman Collin was with that night in his studio wasn't even his wife. He was cheating on Terry with his maid and passing her off as his wife. And the unattractive, older woman who really was Collin's wife just came in and dumped Terry. He didn't know whether to scream or cry or laugh hysterically.
"Buy me a drink, big boy?" a man's voice asked at his elbow. Terry sat up, opening his eyes. An attractive man with flaming red hair was sitting at the table.
"You," Terry said, instantly recognizing the man for the same one he had met in the Cavern a year ago and again at his homecoming party.
"Me," the man replied. "Either buy me a drink or take me back to your dressing room and fuck me silly."
In his anger at Collin, Terry jumped up, grabbed the man's arm and quickly dragged him backstage. Terry led him to the tiny cubicle which was currently empty, and began stripping. The red head squealed with delight and began to shed his own clothes as well. As soon as they were both naked Terry grabbed him and brutally kissed him, his tongue raping the young man's mouth. He then spun the red head around, forcing him to bend over, and Terry began to sodomize the man, transferring his anger and aggression into the physical act of sex.
Frank started to enter the dressing room, saw what was taking place and quickly backed out. Realizing the repercussions if Chanelle found out Terry was having sex with a customer in his dressing room, Frank discreetly hung around just outside the door and told anyone who came by that Terry was having a private meeting with his agent.
When it was over and his passions had been slaked, Terry began to shake and apologized to the young man for his brutality. "Don't be sorry," the red head smiled as he pulled up his trousers. "That's just what I wanted. I love it hard and heavy. You were great." But Terry didn't feel great. He felt hollow, empty inside. In his anger he had tried to rape the red head. He had tried to do the same thing the boys in his high school class had done to him on prom night over five years before. It was fortunate that the man was a willing partner, but what if he hadn't been? Would it have mattered? Would it have stopped Terry? He didn't know, and that scared him more than anything.
"What's wrong?" the boy asked as he finished getting dressed. "Didn't you like it?"
Terry continued to sit on the stool, a far away look in his eyes. "I just lost my agent and my lover at the same time," he said slowly.
"As far as a lover goes, don't worry," the man said, lifting Terry's face and kissing him firmly on the mouth. "I'm not the lover type, but if you ever need a fuck just give me a call," he continued when they had broken the kiss. "And as far as an agent goes, can you modify your routine tomorrow night so that you have a lot more dance moves in it?"
"Yeah, I guess," Terry replied, still in a daze.
"Great. I'll bring my uncle by. He works for Wilkins and Miller. He's always looking for talent."
"Your uncle is an agent?"
"Yeah. Why do you think he'd drag me to that awful show you were in last year. So dance good tomorrow night and I'll do my part on one condition. I want a return engagement this weekend. Maybe I could drop by your apartment Saturday night after the show?"
"Sure," Terry said, feeling his body begin to grow numb. He could feel the cold of the arctic tundra blanketing his heart and soul.
Terry spent the next day rehearsing and perfecting his routine for the following evening. The phone rang persistently throughout the day but he refused to answer it. He was afraid it might be Collin and this was the last person with whom Terry wanted to talk. Wayne noticed that his roommate appeared distant and preoccupied, but he didn't think it was serious so he went off to work leaving Terry alone. Around two thirty in the afternoon Terry heard a loud pounding on the front door. He continued to ignore it, and it finally stopped. Later he found a note on the floor that had been slipped underneath. It was from Collin.
"Dearest," it read. "Monica said she spoke with you last night. I'm so sorry. She said you were confused about Felicia. Believe me, Felicia was a fling. It's over. There's no one but you. I love you. I want to talk to you and discuss this. Ignore whatever Monica may have said. Meet me tonight after your routine. C." Terry wadded up the note and threw it in the trash. He then called Chanelle on the phone.
That evening the show went well. There was only a minor bit of trouble when a man dressed entirely in black tried to gain entrance and had to be carried out by Sven, the club's bouncer. Terry's new routine seemed to stun the audience. They weren't sure how to react. His flashy dance routine wasn't exactly the usual strip number they had expected. Although he did manage to peel down to a dance belt, he spent most of his energy in pirouettes and tour jetes. As he dropped into a final pose, and the light snapped off, the audience broke into sporadic applause.
"What the hell was that supposed to be?" Chanelle asked as she lumbered backstage.
"Just trying out something new," Terry said with a smile.
"You stick to the old stuff," she told him. "Look, you didn't even give anyone an opportunity to put money in your G- string. You ain't going to get rich doing that artsy-fartsy stuff," she growled. "Now give me a cigarette and get out front. There's some old guy asking for you."
But apparently the 'artsy-fartsy stuff' was what some people wanted. Several customers congratulated Terry on his way out into the house. As he stopped at the table containing a distinguished looking older gentleman sitting beside his friend, the red head, the man smiled up at him. They talked until it was time for Terry to rush backstage for the second show. By the time he left the club that evening he was tentatively under contract to Wilkins and Miller and was promised an audition for a Broadway show.