Brian Keene - Kill Whitey

Next to the DJ booth was a small bar where another surly-looking Russian dispensed plastic cups of soda and water—at five bucks a pop. The club was brightly lit and clean, for the most part. Strippers, each one wearing only a skimpy thong, moved between the tables, flirting and offering lap dances. On the stage, a short Hispanic girl gyrated to the rhythm, slapping her ass occasionally before shoving it into the faces of the guys lined up along the railing. She didn’t do much for me. Her hips were too wide and her backside too big. I’ve never liked a lot of junk in the trunk.

Jesse stood up. “Yo, anybody want a soda? I’ll get first round.”

Darryl didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the girl onstage. He was a fan of big asses.

“I’ll take a Pepsi,” I said.

“They don’t have Pepsi. Just Coke.”

“That’s fine. Whatever.”

Jesse turned to Yul. “You want anything, dude?”

Yul shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His attention was focused on a nearby table, where a skinny blonde with huge fake tits was giving a lap dance to a guy in a cowboy hat.

I leaned over so that I wouldn’t have to shout, and elbowed him in the ribs.

Yul jumped.

“You like that?” I nodded at the blonde.

He nodded, still speechless.

Grinning, I scanned the club, checking out the different girls. The Odessa certainly catered to its clientele. There was something for everyone: blondes, brunettes, and redheads; skinny girls and fat girls; babes with back and ones with no junk in the trunk; hot MILFs and barely legal college-age chicks. It was like the internet had opened a strip club. All of the women were naked, except for their thongs. Each time the song changed, a new girl would take the stage, and then her thong came off. The crowd cheered each time. You’d think they’d never seen a woman before. But then again, looking at some of them—they probably hadn’t.

As I looked around, I noticed a few more Russian guys in the room. They were wearing suits, or sport jackets and slacks. Business casual. I wondered what they did on ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day’. Most of them stood with their backs to the wall, watching the crowd for signs of trouble. All of them had that same stony expression that Otar the doorman had been wearing, and all of them looked like they could kick more ass than a donkey.

Jesse returned with our sodas. I sipped mine and grimaced. It was warm and flat. For five bucks, you figured they’d at least include some fucking ice. Of course, we hadn’t come here for the soda. The four of us sat back and enjoyed the show. The girl ended her set with a simulated orgasm. The music faded. The sound system hummed with feedback.

“Give it up for Sicily,” the DJ said, signaling another change in dancers. There was some scattered applause, along with catcalls, whistles, and rowdy cheers.

“Sicily will be back onstage in an hour. Meanwhile, make some noise for an Odessa favorite. Gentlemen, let’s hear it for Sondra!”

Gwen Stefani boomed from the speakers. The lights dimmed. A red spotlight illuminated the stage. The crowd shouted with enthusiasm. Whoever Sondra was, she had some fans.

“Give it up,” the DJ urged one more time. “Make some noise, ya’ll!”

And that was when I saw her.

Sondra took the stage.

And I fell.

The first thing I noticed about Sondra was her black eye, but it was her laugh that really caught my attention.

The DJ was shouting and the crowd was hollering and the music surged—a perfect storm of white noise. It was giving me a headache. I glanced down at my drink, took a sip, and heard her laugh. Even over all the noise, I heard her laugh. I looked back up again and here was this beautiful woman with a bruised, swollen eye, dancing around the stage like she owned it, smiling and giggling and waving to the crowd. It was like she didn’t even know she had a bruise on her face. Despite that shiner, Sondra was still breathtaking—and I mean that in the literal sense. As I stared at Sondra, I stopped breathing. My heart beat faster. I began to sweat.

She glanced in our direction, saw me staring at her, and then quickly looked away. The flesh beneath her left eye was puffy and swollen and purple. It was like a blemish on an otherwise perfect apple. After she’d looked away from me, I started breathing again and averted my eyes to the floor. At first I was embarrassed that I’d been busted gawking at her, but then I realized that she probably hadn’t even noticed. Everybody in the fucking place—male and female, customers and employees—were staring at her, mesmerized by her presence.

“Holy shit,” Darryl gasped.

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

“Damn straight,” I whispered. “What’s she doing in a place like this? She could be a model.”

Darryl nodded, his eyes never leaving her. “No bull-shit. I would kill or die to make love to that woman.”

“Make love?” Jesse shook his head. “Dude, that’s top shelf, Grade-A pussy. You don’t make love to something like that. You fuck the shit out of it and then you fuck it again till your dick falls off. Then you pick your dick up and fuck it some more.”

Darryl laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jesse. That’s why you don’t get laid—because you don’t know shit about women.”

“I get laid.”

“In your dreams, maybe—if the chick is blind. And retarded.”

“Fuck you, Darryl. I know women.”

“You don’t know jack. You’re a novice.”

Jesse shrugged. “Oh, yeah?”

“Hell, yeah. A woman like that—every swinging dick, would-be player in the world is trying to fuck her. Anybody can fuck . Fucking is easy. Fucking is what animals do. You want to impress a woman like that? You gotta be different. You can’t fuck her. You gotta make love to her, instead.”

Jesse sat back and didn’t reply. He seemed thoughtful, as if Darryl had just handed him the Holy Grail. I wondered if he’d use the information, or forget about it like he did everything else in life.

My attention returned to the stage. I grabbed a cocktail napkin and mopped sweat from my forehead. Sondra wound around the brass pole jutting from the center of the stage. The spotlights shimmered over her body as she arched her back and ground her pelvis against the pole. Her long, black hair flowed over her back, swaying seductively. She twirled around the pole and I snuck another glance, checking out her perfect, heart-shaped ass.

It was lust at first sight.

Think I’m being crude? You weren’t there.

I popped wood, and pulled my t-shirt down over my crotch.

Jesse must have noticed my reaction, because he started laughing at me.

“Larry,” he said. “You’re allowed to look at her, you know. You don’t have to be sneaky about it and shit. Fuck, what are you, like twelve years old or something?”

I glanced at Sondra again, watching her glide across the stage. She did a split and I got harder.

“Do you know her?” I asked Jesse.

“Hell yeah, I know her.” He fumbled a wad of bills out of his pocket. “Her name’s Sondra Belov. Russian chick. She started here a few months ago. But before that, she used to turn tricks. Maybe she still does.”

“What?”

“You know Lou Myers? Works out in the yard? The cab jockey?”

I nodded.

“He told me that she used to work at that massage parlor in York. The one on Princess Street. Turned tricks in there. Twenty bucks a pop. I ain’t bullshitting you, man. She’s a ho. He banged her a couple of times.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Can’t. I haven’t gotten a lap dance yet.”