Revue (7 page)

I diverted my gaze to Noah, on stage, who was popping his shoulders and turning sharp and concise to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails, as if he were some sexy robot. “Wow, he’s great! You can tell he’s enjoying himself. It’s a pleasure to watch.”

“Bingo, sweetheart.” He leaned back on his hands, his position, cool, calm and collected. “That’s exactly right. Women are harsh as fuck when it comes to the dancing part. Yeah, they want to see as much of our body as possible, but for the majority, it’s the performance as a whole that’ll have them coming back for more and bringing their friends along with them.”

“So you’re saying that women don’t pay money to see you get naked?”

He chuckled, arrogantly. “No. I’m not saying that at all. Of course they fuckin’ want to see me naked, but they want the entire package: looks, body, personality and dancing. Men, on the other hand, are different. When they go to a strip club, they just want to see tits, arse and pussy being paraded in their face. They couldn’t give a fuck how good of a dancer she is. They just sit there with a hard-on and dream about fucking her. That’s it. Men want sex. Women want entertainment.”

I nodded slowly in agreement. “Huh … I guess you’re right.”

“I am right. It’s harder for us guys. Our performance, as a whole, is the key. You could be the biggest motherfucker there is, benching five hundred kilo, or you could have the largest cock in the world. None of that matters, because if you can’t nail confidence on that stage, you’re fucking screwed and will be eaten alive.”

Patsy poked her head through the crack of the entry doors. “Forty-five minutes till start,” she yelled. “They’re queuing up outside, and I can tell you, they seem feisty as all hell! I hope you’re prepared.”

Noah dry-humped a chair on stage. “Excellent. That means there’ll be some biters.”

I scrunched my nose. “Biters?”

“Yeah. Slick isn’t opposed to having his arse bitten.”

“Oh my God! Women actually do that to you?”

“Sure. If you let them or aren’t quick enough to stop it.”

“And you guys like that kind of thing?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If a man did that to a female performer, he’d be thrown in jail.

“Some do, some don’t. Slick does, Chief doesn’t. Surfer is alright with it if he’s wasted, and I reckon Dimps will follow in Slick’s shoes.”

“What about you? Do you like being bitten?”

Josh leaned in with a predatory glint in his eyes, the subtle graze and press of his teeth very quickly finding my neck. “The question is, do you?”

I tensed and then shivered, the sensation and proposition sending a direct message to my pussy.
Holy fuck!
“Ac … actually,” I stuttered, pulling away from him, “I don’t.”

He grinned. “The shade of your cheeks and the firmness of your nipples say otherwise.”

Quickly looking to my breasts, I noticed the not-so-subtle impressions through my blouse that he was referring to.
Shit!
I covered my chest and scrambled to my feet. “It’s cold, arsehole.”

“It’s summer.”

“The air con is on.”

“You want me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.” He stood up and invaded my personal space. I tried to step back, but his hand held me pressed to his side. “Your cute little cunt is pulsing, isn’t it?”

“You’re such a rude prick,” I whispered, smiling mildly toward Matt who was glancing in our direction, concern on his face.

Josh, too, joined the pretence and smiled before taking my camera in his hand. “You take selfies with this?”

I turned and glared at him, knowing where he was going with it. “I can, but I don’t.”

“Pity. Your pussy in a picture frame would look nice on my bedside table.”

Snatching my camera from his hands, I headed for the door. I was a big girl and could hold my own, but even I needed a reprieve from someone like Josh. His words were so crude, yet they also lit a fuse within. I’d never been spoken to in the way he spoke to me, and I didn’t want to admit that I liked it.

As I grabbed the handle, turning it to exit the room, Matt’s voice sounded loud and clear. “Bugs, a word. NOW!”

***

The room was buzzing with excitement, women of varying ages seated around tables covered in white damask cloth. Wild Nights Revue promo posters and banners adorned the walls, and waiters and waitresses rushed about, clearing the last of the plates from the dinner service. There were grandmas, near-naked skanks, shy wing-women, and brides-to-be wearing novelty veils covered in flashing lights. And I could honestly say that, outside of a beach or swimming pool, I’d never seen such little clothing on women.
Holy shit! I think that chick’s vagina just ate her shorts! And, love, a good part of the front of your dress is missing. You may want to search for it.

I almost swivelled on the spot in an attempt to try and search for it but, instead biting back my astonished smile as I approached a table of women, the discussion they were having centred solely on the guys. “Last year, Matt chose me to go on the stage. God, I hope he chooses me again. I’ll just die if he doesn’t.”

“I’d rather ride Brad’s surfboard,” another said, dreamily.

They all laughed.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, gaining their attention. “I’m the revue’s official photographer. Do you mind if a take a couple of photos for possible promotion?”

Squeals pierced my ears.

“Of course not. Will they be online?” one of them asked.

“Quite possibly, yes.”

“Oh my God! How’s my makeup? Does someone have a compact mirror? Please tell me someone has a compact.”

“Just use the selfie-camera on our phone. That’s what I do,” her friend offered.

Suddenly, six of the women pulled out their phones and inspected their appearance, a couple of them even taking the chance to touch up their lipstick and pucker their lips in a kiss expression.

I nearly gagged … on the vanity-inspired vomit that rose up my throat.

“Quickly, ladies, you all look gorgeous. Trust me.” I didn’t have all fucking day to stand there while they plastered on superficiality. Sure, I got that they all wanted to look nice for the picture, but there’s nice then there’s going overboard nice. These ladies were definitely going overboard.

“Okay, hmm … how will I get you all in the frame?” Turning, I dragged a spare chair from the table behind me and stood on it, selecting the wide-angle view feature of my camera.

“Awesome! Above photos are much more flattering,” one of them stated.

I faux-smiled my recognition to her. “Okay, one two three, smile!”

Duckface. City.

… I shit you not.

If I’d had a loaf of bread handy I would’ve broken off pieces and tossed them in their general direction. Pursed lips had never looked so … pursed.

Assessing the photo on my screen, it took all of my inner strength and willpower not to burst into giggles. “Excellent! Thank you, ladies.” I jumped down from the chair. “Have a great night.”

A blonde raised her empty glass. “Oh, we will,” she stated with surety. “Especially when Josh comes out.” She fanned her face dramatically.

“Oh please, Jen, he’s gonna pick me, not you.”

The blonde hiked her breasts. “You wish. I have these! Game over.”

My eyebrows rose. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“It’ll be game over when Mr Sex On A Stick whispers in my ear and not yours.”

Oh … that’s right, the infamous whisper.
Surely he wouldn’t choose one of these bimbos. I mean, male slut or not, the dickhead had to have standards. Then again, vending machine girl was far from … well … anything.

Turning, I went to retreat before the proverbial vomit in my mouth projectiled.

“Hey! Wait! How do we get a copy of the picture?”

I paused. “Keep an eye on the Wild Nights website and social media pages.”

They all squealed again. “Bottoms up, lovelies.”

The chink of clinking wine glasses, together with over exuberant giggles, faded as I headed backstage to go to the toilet before the show began—my bladder on the brink of bursting.

Rounding the corner, after being waved through by Johnno—one of the security guards—I bumped into a woman.

“Shit, sorry,” I mumbled, angry with myself for continuously colliding with people.
Did I fucking eat magnets at some stage? My God!
I looked up, feeling terrible … until I realised the woman was chatting to Josh, her hands on his bicep and groin doing most of the ‘chatting’.

She tutted angrily and gave me a disgusted once-over. “Watch where you’re going or invest in a pair of glasses.”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, shocked by her disdain.

“You heard me.” She gestured from her to Josh and back. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

I glared at Josh. “Perhaps if you moved your whoring to a more private place, I wouldn’t keep walking in on it.”

The woman slowly turned on her heel. “Bitch! Did you just call me a whore?”

If the whore fits, then yes, I did!

Summoning my inner Xena, warrior princess, I was just about to tell her ‘Hells yeah’ when Josh yanked her arm, spinning her to face him once again. “Don’t fuckin’ speak to Cori like that. You can leave now. I’m done.”

Her jaw dropped.

So did mine.

She huffed and went to say something, her mouth resembling a fish out of water, but thought better of it, instead pulling free of his grip and nudging my shoulder as she walked past, sending me stumbling backward.

Josh caught my arm. “You all right?”

“Yes,” I said, wrenching it back.

He fired me a smirk. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

Scowling, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down. “I don’t get you. I don’t get why you treat women like that, let alone treat yourself that way.”

“You don’t have to get it,” he explained, relaxing his stance and leaning against the wall.

“True, I don’t.” I walked past him, met his gaze and paused. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to though.”

There was something about him that drew me in. He was a car wreck waiting to happen and, for some reason I cannot fathom, I wanted to prevent that collision.  I despised him yet welcomed his presence, wanted to slap him yet taste his lips. The man was a fucking puzzle and, unfortunately for me, I was a born problem-solver. I hated the unfinished. Resolve and understanding was what I craved. So, being unable to figure Josh out? Yeah, that was bugging the absolute hell out of me.

Finding my favourite position—front of stage right—I squatted with my camera poised, ready for the guys to step into the spotlight. Patsy was not only their manager but also the MC, the role suiting her boisterous, loud and proud personality—that bold bellow of hers assaulting my ears when she tapped the microphone and scanned the crowd, an impressed smile on her face.

“Ladies and, hmm …” She preened her neck and held her hand to her forehead. “Do we have any gentlemen here tonight?”

A group of girls screamed ‘yes’. I turned to where they were standing at the back of the room, spying them holding up the arm of a red-faced guy.

“Excellent! We do have a gentleman here tonight. Hi there, sweet cheeks,” Patsy crooned. “Now don’t be shy. You want a piece of one of my boys, you just raise those arms and holler. You hear me?”

He playfully wrestled his arm free from his girl friends and covered his face. It was quite adorable and made me smile. I inwardly applauded his courage to stand out at an event like this. It also had me wondering how the guys felt about patrons of the same sex. I made a mental note to ask them.

“So, are we all ready for a wild night?” Patsy asked.

The crowd yelled
yes
and, apparently, that wasn’t good enough.

“I said, are we all ready for a
wild night
?”

This time, the women—and man—all screamed.

“That’s what I want to hear. Now remember, there are no boyfriends or husbands here. Tonight, they don’t exist. It’s just you and …” She lowered her voice to an excited growl, “… the Wild Nights Revue!”

Darkness descended and coloured stage lights swirled around the room, creating an ambience of anticipation sporadically illuminated when the lights bounced off the faces of audience members. From my perched position on the ground, I could see the guys take to the stage—legs apart, heads down, hands behind their backs. They were in costume, but what theme, I wasn’t sure.

A guitar rift blasted through the speaker beside me, followed by the unmistakeable drawn-out screech of Axl Rose’s voice. Darkness turned to light, as “Welcome to the Jungle” began to play, revealing all five guys in construction worker costumes. Each of them wore a hard hat, a pair of jeans, boots, and an open fluorescent worker’s vest—their oiled chests bare underneath.

They looked fucking hot. So hot, that all of sudden, I wished my house were in need of repair.
Holy shit!

The drums kicked in and the guys lifted their heads, each of them smiling seductively toward different areas of the crowd. Their feet tapped, their hips swayed. Then, all four of them moved into optimum muscle-flexing position, just like body builders do.

I couldn’t help but laugh—it was so cliché.

Surprisingly, Lucas appeared to be the lead in the act, as he was the only one wearing an orange vest—the others wore yellow. He was also front-and-centre and taking command.

As Axl sung about bringing people to their knees, all four guys dropped to theirs then fell forward into a dry-humping-the-stage-floor position. The smoothness of their action was quite sexy and, I’m not going to lie, it twitched a feeling within. It also had the crowd screaming, wolf-whistling and shouting out encouragement for the guys to ‘lose the gear’.

Lucas stepped to the front of the stage, turned sideways and pulled out a tape measure, emulating the length of tape was that of his cock. I quickly snapped his photo and smiled at the innuendo but then got excited when all of them followed suit—a line of sexy construction workers stroking erect tape measures.

Nice. Very well done!

Peering through the viewfinder of my camera, I pressed the shutter button and captured the sexual playfulness they were projecting. It was fun, full of energy, and enticing enough to set the mood for the rest of the night. I then pivoted on my bent knee and aimed the camera toward the crowd, snapping a few shots and smiling at the fact the guys could turn everyday mothers, sisters, daughters and friends into craving, lipstick-wearing, alcohol-drinking balls of horny oestrogen. It was quite impressive.

Swivelling back around, I found the guys had moved to the rear of the stage, standing side by side. Their posture, the music, the subtle glances and positioning of their hands, all culminated in building anticipation of what was to happen next.

I waited. Eagerly. Then, with perfect timing and synchronisation, they flicked off their vests and dropped their pants.

The crowd screamed.

I nearly dropped my camera.

***

During the second act—Noah’s fireman routine—I chose to head backstage and take some behind-the-scenes style pictures. I wanted as much perspective of their opening night as possible. The more variety I had, the more pictures
Women
magazine had to choose from.

During my original job briefing, I’d been told when heading backstage to be cautious and respect the guys’ privacy. They didn’t go the ‘full monty’ on stage and, because of that, no completely nude shots were to be taken—intentionally or by accident. To be honest though, they didn’t need to strip down completely, as there wasn’t much that could be left to the imagination, considering the teeny-tiny G-strings they wore.

It was probably for the best, though. I didn’t need to see five sets of family jewels. Apart from the surprise glance of Brad’s twig and berries on the first night, I’d managed to avoid any similar scenario.

Approaching Johnno—who was standing guard by the change room—I held up my camera, indicating I wanted to enter for photographic purposes.

He winked and bashed on the door. “Elmer’s here with her camera,” he yelled.
Seriously? They’ve told him already?

“Gee, word ’round here travels fast, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does, love. Don’t forget that.”

I glowered playfully at him. “Thanks. I won’t.”

“Send her in,” Josh shouted.

Johnno turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. “Here you go. Enter at your own risk.”

I laughed. “It’s a bit like that, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Noted.” I winked and entered the room, walking around a small alcove to find Josh sitting on a chair, rubbing what I assumed was oil all over his legs.

My core clenched.

My mouth parched.

A man’s legs were by far my favourite of their anatomy. Strong, toned, defined legs spoke of hard work. They also spoke of dedication and stability. Josh’s legs spoke, very loud. So loud, that they had a direct conversation with my pussy. My God, they were immaculate, and the way his hands were gliding up and down them, I neared died on the spot.

“Are you taking pics with your photographic memory today, sweetheart?”

“H … huh?” I raised my gaze to find his signature, conceited expression. It had me regaining my composure. “No, smartarse, I was just wondering why you put that shit all over you.”

He put the bottle down. “Come here.”

Hell no!
“Nope, I’m fine where I am, thanks.”

Huffing, he stood and strode toward me, and for a split second, I wanted to turn and run, knowing that nothing good could come out of what could potentially happen.

“Corinne,” he said, his voice low as he stopped in front of me, “you’re a terrible liar.”

“Well, that’s good, because I wasn’t lying.” I stood my ground, both figuratively and physically.

With lightning speed, Josh clasped my hands in his and placed them on his chest. “Feel me.”

Fuck! I can’t. I swear my fingers just went numb. Earth to fingers, can you hear me? … Nope!

I literally couldn’t move them, which worked in my favour until Josh moved them for me.

Feeling returned.

Feeling felt good.

Too
good.

Crap.

“Smoothest fucking skin you’ll ever have under your fingertips. That’s why I put that shit all over me.” He continued to glide my hands over his chest, his gaze never leaving mine.

He wasn’t kidding. Soft perfection was pretty much the best way to describe what my hands were touching: hard, yet incredibly smooth. It was the perfect mix of naughty and nice. And fuck me, if I didn’t want to rub my face all over him, like you do when you find that perfect pillow in a hotel room.

My cheeks flushed with heat, and I slowly pulled my hands out from under his. “Fair enough,” I said, choking on my words and having to clear my throat.

His eyes were hooded, his posture relaxed. “We’re not done.”

“Ahh …” I screwed up my face. “Yeah, we are. I get it. You wear it for baby-soft skin. Message received loud and clear. Thanks.”

Taking my hands back in his, he lead me over to where he’d been sitting and handed me the bottle of oil. “I need you to do my back.”

I shoved the bottle at him. “No fucking way. Get one of the others to do it.”

“Look around. Do you see anyone else in here other than me and you?”

I twisted around and scanned the room.
Shit!
“No.”

“Bingo! Now stop being a chicken and rub.”

“No!”

“
Bok, bok.”

“Who would’ve done it if I weren’t here, huh?” I asked, eyebrow raised.

“Not the point. You’re here. So you’re it.”

Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes to rein in my building frustration. I hated being baited, especially by someone like Josh. “Fine. Give me the bloody bottle,” I snapped.

He laughed. “Anyone would think I’d just asked you to rub me with horse shit.”

“Trust me, if I had gloves on, I would.”

“Kinky. I like a bit of kink.”

Popping the lid open, I poured the pleasant-smelling oil into the palm of my hands and rubbed them together “Is this vanilla?”

“Yes. Last month I had coconut. Next month it might be strawberry.”

I laughed. “You’ll smell like a friggin’ cake.”

“Good. Women like to eat cake. Makes sense, right?”

“Oh my God. You’re insane.”

“No, you standing there rubbing my oil into your hands is insane. Hurry up, I have an act to perform.”

“Shit! Sorry.” I slapped my hands on to his shoulders and began rubbing the oil all over his back.

Wow!
The span between his shoulders was outstanding. There was nothing but muscle and perfectly-smooth, inked skin. I nearly bloody hummed in delight.

“So, Corinne, why photography?”

“Huh?”

“Photography. Why’d you choose that career?”

“Oh. I think it chose me, really.”

Josh made a sound of recognition.

“Is that what happened with you and performing?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I trailed my hands down his spine.
Oh sweet, sweet spine.
“What I love most about photography is being able to capture a moment in time. A beautiful piece of history, because that’s essentially what a photograph is—a small piece of time passed.”

He lifted his arms, indicating I needed to rub down the sides of his abdomen.
Okay, if you insist.
“When I spoke to your brother, he said you don’t normally take photos of people. Why?”

“Because I don’t find beauty in all people, and if I can’t find some form of it in my subject, the photo will reflect that.”

“You don’t like people, do you?”

“Of course I do.” I laughed. “They’re just not my muses. They’re unreliable, unhappy and never satisfied. People are pains in the arse.”

Josh rotated to face me and pointed to his chest. “I need this done, too.”