Levels of Cruelty

hey everyone. this is an excerpt of a book i’m hoping to write. i was asked by a notable publishing company to put together a proposal. this is a bit of that. it is fiction. trigger warning: contains sexual assault.

Candy was in a twenty minute room. Good for her. She deserved a break, considering it had been a slow night for most of the girls. It’s harder to make things work when you’re not down to ride a few dicks or sell blowies, but everyone is entitled to their boundaries. But it was a lot more lucrative to not have so many boundaries. Rat checked the time on their phone: 1 a.m.. There was still an hour to go before the 2 a.m. rush. Bars close, men ripe with the sour odor of booze on their skin would wander in, looking for a way to keep the night going. Even though it was a Wednesday. Not everybody works a nine-to-five, Monday through Friday. Rat hoped there would be at least one business daddy passing through on a business trip, looking to drop a couple grand on “companionship”.

A message popped up on Rat’s screen:

Guess who’s in town ;)

Sir Mix-a-Lot was back. He wasn’t actually Anthony L. Ray, the Sir Mix-a-Lot, but it was his nickname.

Rat responded, frowning at their phone:

Yay! Where are you?

The problem with Mix-a-Lot was that he was impatient, and flighty. He wanted a lot, and immediately. Rat had intended to stay until four, but with Mix in town, Rat would have to cut their shift short, and pay for Candy’s uber home.

Rat watched the (...) appear and disappear, as Mix composed his message. He wasn’t the most coherent texter. He wasn’t the most coherent speaker for that matter. Rat had known him for long enough to understand what he meant most of the time, but that didn’t make talking to him any less frustrating.

I’ve got a glass shower waiting 4u :-D

This was not the information Rat had asked for.

Ah yes, let me just type in “glass shower” into Maps.

No need to get feisty. Be a sweet girl.

Rat felt a vein pulsing over their eye. There was nothing more irritating than being chastised by a man, except for following up the chastisement with being told to be a “sweet girl”. Rat was growing a beard. They were both surprised and slightly disappointed nobody had noticed. On the one hand, it was safer for the customers not to notice any chin scruff during their blow jobs. They were still able to pass as a woman. But on the other hand, the beard was an exciting development. It had taken six months of T to see much of a difference. Rat’s voice was dropping, but it wasn’t deep enough to raise any alarm bells. They just sounded husky, like a woman with a sultry deep voice. Which wasn’t what they wanted, but it was safe.

Don’t tell me what to do, or I won’t come

Rat didn’t need to be nice to Mix. If anything, it was part of their relationship. He liked to press Rat’s buttons and get chewed out, so long as he could jerk off to it.

Fine, fine, darling. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m at the Rubicon, room 705.

That was in Canton, so only twenty minutes away. But it was early, and while Mix was good money, he was not great money. Rat pulled out their dance receipts from their purse and began tallying how much they’d made so far. Rat received another message from Mix.

How long?

He hadn’t had the courtesy to schedule ahead, and now he was pressing Rat to hop-to, as if Rat was sitting alone at home, twiddling their thumbs, waiting with baited breath to be told where to go to get fucked.

I’m at the club. It’s going to be at least an hour.

Can’t you leave early? I’ll make it worth it $

I’m short 500. I need to make that much, then I can head over.

I can cover that.

Rat checked the dance area to see if Candy was out. Still no sign of her yet. Maybe the guy had bought another round. Rat could leave the car with Candy and have Mix send over an Uber, which might make the most sense, as much as Rat didn’t like taking cabs from the club. Too many drivers felt entitled to ask intrusive questions, and there was always the chance some predator could seize the opportunity to rob them, since they were carrying a lot of cash. Rat had a taser in their bag just in case, but in the metaphorical game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, handgun beats taser every time.

Plus the regular rate, plus I need an Uber.

Are you ready? I’m calling it now. What’s your club’s name again?

Rat couldn’t understand how this man, who had visited the club so many times, could forget the name. What was wrong with him?

Nevermind, I got it. ETA 15 min.

Jesus Christ, that was no time. Fuck this asshole for booking without asking. Rat needed to hustle.

I’m hurrying. I’ll let you know when I’m in.

Mix sent a kissy face emoji with heart eyes, a water droplets emoji, and finally, a cherries emoji. While the real Sir Mix-a-Lot was known for Baby Got Back, he made a slightly less appreciated song called Put ‘Em on the Glass, to appreciate the women who were perhaps less endowed from behind, but who still had assets worth ogling. Mix was all about watching Rat press their tits against whatever glass he could come across. Sometimes it was a glass table with him lying underneath. Sometimes all he could find were glass cups. Primarily, the fetish worked best with a glass shower situation. It was relatively low impact. Mix wasn’t trying to fuck, or even touch Rat too much. He preferred to pull up a chair and stroke himself off while watching the show, interjecting with directions to “add more soap” or “clean the glass” whenever the soap blurred the visibility.

Rat packed their bag and ran to grab Ronnie to cash them out.

“Why so early?” Ronnie asked, pursing his lips.

He dabbed away a glistening pool of sweat that had collected on his brow. Ronnie was always sweating. No matter how icy the club was, it was hot for him. It was never enjoyable dealing with managers, even the tolerable ones. Ronnie wasn’t bad, but he was going to take at least ten percent of the money Rat had toiled to earn that night.

“I’m tired and my feet hurt,” Rat said, brushing off his question, “You know where Candy is?”

Rat kept an eye on Ronnie as he calculated their total. Rat should be going home with $750, not including tips. Rat’s tips were a private matter.

Suddenly, Rat felt a hand on their arm. It was Candy, and she was crying.

“He fucking put his finger in my asshole!”

Rat swung around, looking for who Candy was talking about. A man was gesturing angrily at one of the bouncers, pointing to Candy.

“What happened?” Rat asked, fury bubbling up in their throat.

“That fucker! I told him “no”, but he didn’t listen, so I ran out. I was done. Fuck that dance!”

The bouncer approached them with the irate man following closely behind him.

“She fucking stole my money! And she left in the middle of the dance!”

“He’s lying! I didn’t steal anything! He stuck his finger in my ass after I told him not to!”

“You bitch!” the man shouted, “She’s a thief, and a lying slut.”

“You fucking piece of shit!” Rat screamed, and darted at the man, only to be pulled away by the bouncer.

Ronnie interceded, looking from Candy, to Rat, to the livid man. Candy’s face was streaked with tears. Rat was out for blood.

“I”m sorry, sir.” Ronnie said, addressing the man, then he turned to Rat and Candy, their mouths ajar in disbelief, “Candy, you’re drunk. Go home”

“What the fuck, Ronnie?!” Rat’s voice cracked.

“I’m not drunk!” Candie cried.

“What kind of place is this?” The man spat, looking at the two strippers in disgust.

“We’re sorry for this little mishap. If you follow Chris, he’ll give you a voucher for a free entry.” Ronnie gestured toward the entry booth and led the man out.

The bouncer released Rat, and returned to making his rounds. The room suddenly felt unfathomably cold. Rat looked at Candy. She had slumped down onto the ground. She clutched her bag to her chest as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m not drunk, Lil.”

“I know you’re not.” Rat replied, the lump in their throat choking their words.

Rat reached out to touch Candy, but stopped short.

“May I?” Rat asked.

“Not now. I don’t want to be touched right now.”

Rat dropped their hand. They felt their phone vibrate.

Uber’s here. Nissan Pathfinder, plates end in 0UV, Jacobe.

No. It wasn’t going to happen.

Sorry, I can’t do tonight. Shit went down, and I gotta take care of Candy.

Why don’t you just bring your little girlie with you?

For a moment, Rat considered it. Mix had already promised $500 on top of the normal rate, which was a solid chunk of money for a few hours of work. It would bring Rat closer to their weekly goal, but perhaps more importantly, not doing it would mean working double shifts to make up for the difference. Rat looked back at Candy. She’d stopped crying. Rat felt a wave of guilt for even considering prioritizing Mix’s money over taking care of Candy. Rat hated themself and hated Mix for putting the idea into their head. But most of all, Rat hated Ronnie with a white hot blistering passion.

Sorry.

Rat couldn’t look at Mix’s messages anymore. Rat felt the phone vibrating. He was calling her. Mix wasn’t one to take “no” for an answer, especially after calling an Uber. Rat wanted to throw the phone against the wall, but they couldn’t afford to damage property like an angry white boy.

There was nothing to do, but wait. Ronnie was in charge of their money. If they walked out, they would ultimately hurt themselves more. All of those hours spent entertaining insipid men would count for nothing. They couldn’t afford to walk out.

Ronnie took his time. It felt like half an hour had passed before he returned to deal with them, but Rat knew it was just a feeling. They had counted the dancers performing on stage while they waited. Only three had gone up. Five minutes per dancer meant that it had only been about fifteen minutes. Finally, Ronnie returned.

“Both of you, come with me.” He commanded, sternly.

Rat and Candy collected their things and followed Ronnie to the back office. On the wall was a calendar with pictures of classic cars. The CCTV feed played across three monitors and showed each dance booth in grainy black and white. There was nowhere for them to sit, so they stood while Ronnie retrieved papers from a filing cabinet behind a desk.

“We do not tolerate this kind of behavior here. This is a gentlemen’s club. I will not have dancers yelling at customers on the floor.”

“He assaulted Candy!” Rat interjected, unable to restrain themself.

“I don’t know that. I’ve seen what you girls do in the booths, and I know for a fact neither of you is any kind of angel.” Ronnie replied, his face impenetrable.

Rat felt tears drop from their chin to their chest. They hadn’t realized they were crying too until that moment. There was nothing they could say. Any admittance would be used against them, and it was clear, Ronnie already had enough on Rat to shut them up. How much had he seen? How much footage had he kept? What could they do about it?

“Candy, you owe us for the dance you walked out on.”

“What?!” Candy began coughing.

Rat felt sick. This was not happening.

“He never paid, which makes you liable for the $150.”

“Ronnie, give her a break! This is ridiculous. She didn’t steal anything.”

“She used the dance booth when someone else could have been using it, which means she has to pay. It’s in your contracts. She owes what she owes.”

Ronnie placed two pieces of paper on the desk in front of them.

“I’m also gonna need you two to fill out these warning sheets. This is your first strike. You get another one, you’re out. Let me grab some pens.”

Candy and Rat looked down at the forms in disbelief. Nothing made sense anymore. It was almost unfathomable that there could be additional layers of cruelty to hand out. Candy placed a hand on the desk, attempting to steady herself. She was shivering. Her face was pale. Ronnie returned with two pens.

“Just sign the bottom and date it.”

Candy grabbed the pen and signed in a hurry, not even looking at the page in front of her.

“Don’t forget to print your stage name above the signature.”

It was somehow so formal, so terrifyingly bureaucratic.

***

Rat remembered when the club initially hired them. The manager at the time had handed over a thick pile of paperwork for them to sign. Rat had begun skimming through the contract, only to be stopped.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s mostly a lot of words to say that you work for us, and you won’t sue us for letting you work here. If you want a full run down, I can walk you through it on a slow day.”

Rat couldn’t remember that manager’s name. It had been years since he left.

“Let me just snap a few pictures then.” Rat had said.

“I can give you a copy later tonight. I have to give a few other girls the orientation too, so when I’m done with y’all, I’ll make copies for all of you.” He’d winked at her.

It was unsettling, but most managers were unsettling at best, predatory creeps at worst.

Rat had never received a copy of that contract. After they began their first shift, it had all been such a blur, they had forgotten to follow up, not that that was their job. Management manages, strippers strip. And yet in retrospect, Rat wished they could read the contract they had signed so long ago.

***

When Ronnie looked away, Rat pulled out their phone and snapped a quick picture of the document before signing. It felt as if they were signing away their soul, confirming something that was horrendously false. Ronnie scooped up the papers and aligned them by tapping the bottoms on the desk.

“Thank you, ladies. Who wants to get cashed out first?” Ronnie asked, as if nothing had happened.

“Candy.” Rat volunteered.

Ronnie printed out Candy’s receipt.

“Not a bad night, all in all. Without that dance, you’re still leaving with $450.”

Ronnie placed the receipt on the table and began counting the money. Rat and Candy stood in silence. Candy signed the receipt. Her face was expressionless. It was as if she wasn’t even there.

“And Lilith, you always do well. Your total is $850.”

Ronnie slid Rat’s receipt over to them. There was nothing to say. Rat signed. They had $85 in their hand divided across management, the bar, and DJ for the tip-out, but the last thing Rat wanted to do was hand these people money. What were they even getting tipped for? Apparently not for protection. Apparently not to be treated with extra care.

Ronnie stood, pausing for a moment, expectant. He wanted his tip. He looked at each of them with an amused expression on his face.

“I’ll forgive it this time, but next time, I expect some appreciation.” He straightened his checkered tie and walked out.

Rat’s palms were wet with sweat as they clenched the $85. Rat took Candy’s hand and pressed the damp money into her hand. Her fingers refused to close around the cash. Rat squeezed, forcing her to form a fist around the money.

“I don’t want your money, Lil.” Candy whispered.

Rat looked at her. They couldn’t force her to take the money as much as they wished they could.