Posts Tagged ‘Jackson Heights

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10
Feb
06

Sometimes You Just Find Yourself Backstage with a Stripper

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Gay and New York
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Against my better judgment, late last night on my way home from the bar, we stopped in at our local. So close to the E train; who can resist? It was the typical “just one drink” scenario. But the hot bartender convinced me to get a second one. “But a stripper is coming out soon,” he said.

Ah, yes. They always do strippers on Thursday nights at this place. I might as well check it out, eh?

The barman was mixing extra strong. He poured the vodka for about 10 minutes and then splashed some cranberry on top and poured on more vodka. If I’d been near an open flame, it would have exploded. Then he gave us tequila shots out of nowhere. It’s nice to know the bartenders, because they let us kiss them on the cheeks, and they’re generous with us, and sometimes we can convince them to take their shirts off, but needing to wake early to work the next day, it was not a good night to receive this brand of generosity.

Having just finished lip synching a South American torch song, a drag queen was talking to the audience rapidly and breathlessly in Spanish. I comprehended nothing until I caught the word “stripper.” She wound up and pitched his name … “Willy.”

Willy emerged from behind a velvety red curtain and unceremoniously climbed on top of a box that was standing where the pool table usually is. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he sure was extraordinary to look at. Typically overmuscled for my taste, but a fine example of male perfection and perfect for mindless entertainment.

They never go all nude here, which is fine. It’s vulgar enough as it is to have a stuffed thong flopping over your head and a stranger’s feet much closer to your drink than you’d prefer as a narcissistic straight man tiptoes by gracelessly in construction boots. The guys usually tease you with a quick tug on their overimagined underwear. Maybe they’ll wag themselves like propellers as they convulse to the Latin dance music. But this guy didn’t need to tease. He didn’t need to strip. It was all visible, because he was wearing knee-length britches (I can’t think of a better word) that were skin tight, but very expandable, red — and made from something that resembled macrame. It was all there, fully inflated, barely held in and pressed against his abdomen by the … well, special trousers.

I just don’t know what to do with a stripper. I like to watch from a distance and not participate. To my way of thinking, they are for viewing. I can gratify their egos just fine without touching them. I don’t touch the artwork at the Met. Plus they’re greasy. No one takes home a stripper, except his girlfriend, who is usually ostentatiously stationed nearby with a couple of gal pals drinking things with paper umbrellas. She glares over her drink. “Just here to keep an eye on that man. He’s mine, bitch,” her narrowed, over-eyeshadowed eyes seem to say.

You can have him, missy.

He was very popular. To each his own, I say, definitely, but the pawing of the spectators makes them seem doubly unsexy in comparison to the thing they’re worshipping. Honestly, don’t the dancers prefer not to be groped? If I happen to find myself too close to one, I know he’ll hover over me, dangling his engorged man-flesh, waiting for a couple bucks and a fleeting brush of fingertips against pubic hair. But I’m embarrassed and annoyed, not turned on.

I had to piss like a racehorse. But to get to the restrooms, I would have to walk past the stripper, into the spotlight, across the “stage” and behind the red curtain. “Just go,” said Jeff. But I couldn’t walk past that.

But I had to. I just kept my eyes forward, swept past the stripper and found a couple of people waiting before me in the cramped “back stage” space. The pool table had been shoved back there. And with three grown men, there was barely enough room to turn around and open the door to the men’s room. Then the show ended, and suddenly the stripper was off the box and on his way toward us to change into something else before his next act.

Sharing the cramped space with us, he bent down to get his clothes from a bag. His macrame knickers were hanging loose, the tender globes of his soft, full butt peeking playfully over the waistband. (Sometimes I love overwriting!) It was like being in a locker room at the gym, but with attractive people.

And then his oiled ass was brushing against me.

“Excuse me,” he said shyly.

“Uh…” I said. “Sure … er, no problem.” My face flushed hot. I briefly considered skipping the bathroom. But soon he was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and a pair of warm-up pants. Apparently, he dresses as quickly as he undresses. He grabbed a pack of smokes from his pocket and hopped out back to light up.

Then someone stepped out of the men’s room, and I ducked in.

05
Dec
05

Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood: Traffic Lady

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York and The People in Your Neighborhood
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Before I changed my hours at work a few months ago, every morning on my way to the subway I used to see a crossing guard at the corner across 82nd Street from a Catholic school in my neighborhood. She directs streams of children and impatient parents across 35th Avenue, on their way to the school on the site, for a couple of hours every weekday.

She is a perfect example of someone who has tured a job I would consider boring, or at least monotonous, into the pin on which the rest of the world spins. She is so earnest in her duties that I was often slightly annoyed by her — I am not a morning person, and usually I’m in a hurry and cranky on the way to work. Now that I get only rare doses of her, I’ve come to see her as a sort of treat.

She wears her uniform with her black-brimmed white cap and white gloves, her day-glow vest, of course, and always dark glasses, whether the sun is bright or not. If it’s raining, she’ll have a rain coat on and a clear plastic covering for her hat — and still the day-glow vest.

Her pedestrian traffic-directing zeal is such that I can hear her even before I reach the near side of the street. She steps out onto the corner with her palm raised toward the cars stopping for the red light shining above her head. Then she turns to face the people on my corner waiting for the WALK signal and wildly swings her other hand in a wide, neat circle in front of her, like she’s beating the air. It’s precision and directness seem almost violent. I imagine she has a strong arm. She calls across, “OK. Cross now. Come on. Come on across!”

She whips that hand around like it’s so very important. Like our lives depend on that motion alone. She’s showing off how hard she is working for us. Clairee does this in the final scene of the film Steel Magnolias when Annelle goes into labor at the Chinquapin Parish Easter egg hunt. Clairee shoves onlookers aside, sort of side-shuffling across the lawn to clear a path, and using a similar circular forearm motion to direct Annelle to safety, which turns out to be the open passenger side door of Spud’s truck 10 feet away. As if Anelle and the friends propping her up on either side couldn’t have found it alone — or if Spud might have lost control of the vehicle and careered into the pregnant woman. It has always been, in my mind, one of the unforgivable moments of Olympia Dukakis’ performance. (The other big one is her declaration at the Christmas party: “The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize” — a great line, delivered beautifully, but which falls flat when the other actors do not respond, leaving Dukakis to smile dumbly and walk off into the house for no reason. Her Oscar-winning turn in Moonstruck more or less makes up for it, though.)

I’m sure the traffic lady saves kids’ lives daily, but I’m not sure how effective she is for the adults. Many people are already crossing before she opens her mouth — or her hands. People cross against the lights all the time. Including myself. I wonder sometimes if she’ll ever try to stop anyone from crossing on a red light — rushing into the street to grab someone by the hood or scarf and drag him back to the corner, or standing in someone’s way with her arms out and shouting “You won’t get past me! I dare ya!”

But I’ve never seen it.

Her voice is a cross between Cyndi Lauper and Elaine Stritch. “Goo’morning!” she cries, as we pass her. “Goo’mornin’, dea-uh. Goo’mornin’. Have a nwice day. Goo’mornin’, dea-uh.” Despite the automatic, thoughtless way she says it, I think she greets each of us individually. It is at once officious and personable.

Sometimes she’ll be talking to a woman with a baby stroller or a small child by the hand and, with the distraction, she is a little less like a toy soldier. Walking by, I catch just a snip of the conversation.

“Yuh kiddin’ me.”

“Oh, I knaow! I couldn’t bullieve it! Huh own dwaughtuh. So, I says to huh, I says…”

I smile and sigh. I love Queens.

Usually I get to that corner after 9 a.m., after she’s left. But if I leave early enough, I see her still. She was a regular feature of my day. She is as much a fixture on that corner as the lamp post. I know that if I ever wanted to I could stop and ask her how her morning is going. I could be the lady with the stroller and spend a few minutes chatting. But I really don’t think she would care. And honestly, who wants to be responsible for distracting her?

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the untallied hours