Hunting with Hyenas

Uncapping the large plastic bottle labelled Liquid Sugar, Jezebel deliberately twisted her wrist just inches above her chest, gripping the container tightly in her hand. As the sticky, clear fluid dripped down her torso, she made eye contact with the suited man in the front row before examining the rest of the room. The dim lights highlighted the thick cigar smoke wafting through the air, making Jezebel resist the instinctual urge to rub her eyes. She hated smoking almost as much as she hated drinking. 

“Pour some sugar on me. Ooh, in the name of love. Pour some sugar on me. C'mon, fire me up. Pour your sugar on me. I can't get enough…”

It was perfect timing, the pour. She’d always been good at timing her moves to the exact lyrics of her music. She hadn’t always been the best dancer. Or the most seductive. But timing…timing was her thing.

“No, it’s step two, three, four. Not step, step, two, three, four,” Marabel would direct her when they’d practice their jazz routine in the basement after school. But Jezebel could never get the moves right no matter how hard she tried. Rather than feel inferior because of her lack of dance skills, she’d asked to help out behind the scenes with the jazz teacher.

“You changed those lights to the exact beat of the music…how’d you do that? Aren’t you only ten?” the teacher had asked in surprise after she helped with her sister’s first performance.

“Nine and a half,” she’d grinned.

“You sure are good at timing,” the teacher praised. And Jezebel agreed. She sure was good at timing. 

As she rubbed the oily, sugary water down her ribcage, she slowly untied the left side of her bathing suit; her eyes surveying the front row of men sitting on the velvet, maroon furniture. It reminded her of an animal program she’d just seen on TV: Hunting with Hyenas. Desperate, hungry hyenas waiting anxiously for carcasses to be thrown to them by their zookeeper. Mouths watering. So impatient.

Jezebel tried to spot one of her regulars in the modest crowd. Maybe Todd or Billy D.? Hadn’t DeMarcus promised he’d visit her today? She could always count on at least one familiar face to throw her a hefty tip, even if she did sometimes have to take them to the back room. But today, only new expressions gawked back at her. 

Bending down slowly, she held her breath, trying to ignore the smell of residual vomit and beer at the end of the stage. She’d have to make a complaint to Steve before she left. She…these women…they deserved a clean stage…didn’t they? The stench made a memory emerge of when she’d last seen her father. Vomit and beer spilled down his belly. His shirt pulled up above his waist.

“Do you think he used it as a napkin to wipe his face and never lowered it again?” Marabel had asked, standing stiffly next to Jezebel as they both stared, stunned at their father’s corpse. Jezebel had barely registered what her sister had said, trying to sort out in her head if she felt remorse or relief.

As she prodded her face between her legs, she glanced at the stage behind her. Kitty was doing her signature move at the pole: the inside hook. A few unfamiliar men gathered around, ogling as Kitty hung upside down, her right leg hooked around the pole. Jezebel shifted her eyes away before she got too caught up in Kitty’s performance.

The worst thing you can do as a performer is compare yourself to others, Marabel had told her when she’d first started jazz. Kitty was a pole master queen the same way that Marabel could move across a stage like a ray of light gliding across the room. Kitty could spin upside down on a pole with the same art form that Marabel could perform a Flying Charleston. Jezebel simply rubbed wet sugar down her body and got naked.

Jezebel wasn’t naïve. She was fully aware that spinning upside down on a pole and doing a Pas De Bourrée was harder than what she did. But Jezebel usually attracted a larger crowd than Kitty. It was in the same way that Marabel was the smarter one. The kinder one. The better one. But Jezebel seemed to always have more friends. Sometimes she felt like talent and kindness got you nowhere in life. Or at least, not in hers. Certainly not in Marabel’s.

As she leisurely ran her hands through her sticky hair, neck, and around her hips, she tried not to show her disappointment by the lack of customers. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken this morning shift for Amethyst. But Amethyst had promised her that a ton of night workers would be getting off and it’d still be busy. And after watching, Hunting with Hyenas with Ben, she’d learned that even though hyenas were nocturnal animals, they still could venture out during the early morning hours when other predators began their daily hunting. She’d taken it as a sign to switch shifts. So where were her hyenas?

Slowly untying the right side of her bikini bottom, she heard some moans and whoops from the front row almost indistinguishable from the noises she’d heard from the mammals on TV. Eyes glossed over. Lips parting. Leaning closer and closer, almost touching the stage.

Trying not to wince, she pulled the rhinestone studded cloth off of her, shifting her eyes to the neon sign behind the bar. This is where she’d keep her gaze until she was done. She hadn’t yet learned how to keep her focus like the zookeepers did after they tossed scraps over the fence. Or maybe the difference was, once the hyenas received their carcasses, their gazes broke away. Jezebel’s hyenas kept their gazes, only wanting to be fed more.

The neon sign etched in her irises was a pretty, dark blue. Marabel’s favorite color. Jezebel always liked pink or purple. But Marabel always loved blue. The color of her eyes.

“Terminal,” Marabel had explained last year, her sister’s voice trembling on the other line of the phone. And when Jezebel heard these words, she’d conceded of course.

“Come live with me,” she’d said, “I’ll take care of you.”

“How can you afford…”

“I’ll afford,” she’d interrupted her.

As Jezebel swished her hips, she thought of how only a few months ago, she didn’t even take her bottoms off. Hell, she didn’t used to take anything off. But when she’d bartended and overheard that the strippers made three times what she was making, she’d conceded of course. And when she’d overheard the performers who went full nude earned twice as much as topless ones… she’d conceded of course.

She tossed the bottoms over to the man in the suit, hoping he was the one with the largest wallet. Doing a spin, she waited anxiously for the song to come to a close. Her feet ached in her heels, her pinky toes squeezing out of the sides like swollen sausages. She wished she could take them off. She’d lost a toenail last month because of them. But no one wants to see a stripper dancing without heels, do they? She’d never seen any at least…

“Take a bottle, shake it up. Break the bubble, break it up…”

As Jezebel shook up the half empty bottle of sugar and began spraying it over the front row of men, she reached behind her and unlatched her bikini top. As the song concluded, she was in a full split in the front row, the papery feeling of money fluttering on her face… the third best feeling in the world. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

Shutting the door slowly behind her, Jezebel turned on the water, washing the overdone makeup aggressively off her face so that the image staring back at her in the mirror returned to Jess. Grabbing baby wipes from her bag, she slowly wiped the sticky sugar off her skin, the absolute worst part of her shift. The part where she cursed herself for picking liquid sugar to use as her signature move. Why couldn’t she have opted for water? Or bubbles? Or learned to use the pole? She felt like a human fly trap.

Finally clean, she tugged on her pair of jeans and an oversized cozy sweater before heading out of the bathroom and to the back door. She had two days before her next shift. Two days to be Jess.

As she walked up to her house, she could hear the sound of laughter floating through the windows. The sweetest sound in the world.

“Mommy?” Ben called through the window, as Jess pulled the front door open. The smell of coffee brewing mixed with wet dog wafted into Jess’s nose. They must’ve played with the hose outside, she thought, she must be feeling okay. 

“Hi honey, how was your day?” She leaned down and spread out her arms as Cooper came running behind him. Damp paws jumped on her as little hands grabbed at her ribcage. The soft feeling of toddler and puppy kisses fluttering on her face…the two best feelings in the world.

“You’re home in time for lunch,” Marabel said softly, popping her head out of the kitchen. She gave Jess a forced smile, masking whatever pain was lurking inside. 

“Can we watch Hunting with Hippopotamus’s tonight?” Ben asked, tugging at her arm as he pulled her inside the kitchen.

“There’s nothing I’d want to watch more in the world,” Jess conceded of course, as she followed her son inside.