READ A FREE CHAPTER FROM MY UPCOMING TITLE "THE EDGE"

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“Tonight, all you beautiful ladies – tonight is your night. So, throw your inhibitions to the wind, kick back, relax, and let it be an experience to remember forever. Because guys like these at The Edge Nightclub only come around in your dreams! And we’re gonna make all those dreams come true right here and now, baby!!”     

-Kalvin "Smooth" Jones   

CHAPTER 5

    It was almost showtime! Spotlights beamed down an array of blue, red, and green, illuminating a colorful stage for the upcoming well-rehearsed performances that would ignite the libidos of a female audience at total capacity. Folding metal chairs were opened and lined up behind the railing of the platform area, while cozy VIP booths and leather barrel seats surrounded the stage on the ground-level floor. The bar was stocked with top-shelf selections, anticipating the eager one hundred thirty-six guests out front. All hands were on deck. Everything for the star-studded event was ready…except for the music. That was, of course, until I was able to save the night.

    After a panicky Miguel alerted Kalvin and me that our resident disc jockey unexpectedly quit to return to his home in Istanbul for a family emergency, I phoned a friend – one I knew was tunefully inclined. He was a fellow gym rat who worked after-hours, DJ’ing at one of the boardwalk casino nightclubs. Luckily, he was looking for a gig from eight to eleven PM on the weekends to supplement his grave shift income. He was Jason Best, a.k.a. “DJ Good-Good” – twice as better than the rest when it came to mixing tracks.

    The guy had an outstanding reputation in the Atlantic City nightlife scene. Good-Good, sometimes known simply as “Goods,” was like a skilled painter when it came to putting playlists together. He was methodical in his process of lining up each song to blend perfectly into the next one, as if he were creating a countryside vista with the strokes of a brush on canvas. 

    He always took his time. He carefully considered how the main performance tunes would play for Kalvin, Miguel, Don Jon and me, speaking to each of us individually in the DJ booth.

    After I told him about my musical lineup, he smiled and admitted to me, “Wow! I’m really looking forward to your bit, Ricky Royal!” 

    So was I.

    Good-Good didn’t travel alone. He always had his younger cousin with him, waiting in the wings to assist with setting up and breaking down the equipment. Unfortunately, as graceful as this DJ was in his work, his cousin couldn’t quite master the same level of elegance. The kid was as clumsy as a newborn giraffe with long legs. At least once a night, he’d drop something or trip over his own feet.

    In my attempt to depart the booth, Good-Good stopped me while my body was in motion. “Hey Ricky, you know you owe me for comin’ in last minute like this, right?” he said delicately with a half-smile.

    “Fair enough,” I responded. “What can I do for you?”

    Goods pointed down at his cousin, who was wandering around, gazing at the club’s ground-level layout as if it were his first time at Disneyland. 

    “His name is Zack. He’s home from college for the summer and has one year of school left. He’s my family, a great kid…but he’s a klutz, Ricky. I can’t have him with me anymore. I just can’t take it. The boy needs help!” he admitted, shaking his head and connecting various TRS cables to a monitor and mixer.

    I had an inkling about what Goods was requesting before the words escaped his mouth. Still, I bit the bait, asking enquiringly, “So, whatcha want from me?”

    “Give him a shot in the show?” Goods kindly requested. He went on before I had the chance to answer, “Ricky, you told me at the gym weeks ago that you were looking for new floor guys. Well, here ya go. Teach the kid how to walk a straight line without falling on his face, and he won’t do you wrong. Just keep him off the stage! Ha!”

    Shifting my eyes to Zack, then immediately back to Good-Good, I thought intently about the idea for nearly a minute before speaking again. The kid was still moseying around aimlessly. Yet aside from his perplexity, he had wavy brown hair, a smooth baby face, and dark brown eyes – like a young Johnny Depp. It was the “innocent boy” look that girls swooned over. Suddenly, I had visions of this working out.

    I grabbed Goods’ microphone and spoke into it, calling for Kalvin to meet us at the DJ booth. He was pacing around in his gray Tom Ford sharkskin suit, living his role as MC to its pinnacle. 

    On his way up the stairs toward the booth, he yelled to Pope the bouncer, who was by the bar, telling him that it was time to organize the girls outside and line ‘em up into a single file. Once Kalvin made it to the top, Good-Good and I pitched the idea of Zack trying out as a floor guy. The boss nodded, quickly signed off on the idea, and commanded, “Get him a tank top and bring him to the back! We need to start movin’ here!” 

    “Roger that!” 

    It was a nightly tradition for Kalvin, Miguel, and I to take a shot of my vintage whiskey together in the dressing room before the show began – a tradition that started when Guns ran things. Since his death weeks prior, we’d toast each show in his honor. On this night, we asked the two new guys, Don Jon and Zack, to join us in the ritual.

    “To new blood!” spoke Kalvin, raising his hand with the shot glass. On the surface, he appeared optimistic about the next generation carrying on an old tradition. But, deep down, I knew he was hesitant.

    “New blood! Salud!” we replied in unison, clinking our glasses and slugging the good stuff down our throats.

    Mr. Smooth then addressed us one last time. “Let’s have a good night, boys. Miguel, head to the door and start checking the girls in with Pope. Ricky and Jon, you two will escort groups to their seats once they come in! And, uh, new guy…”

    All eyes were on the college boy. We were interested in seeing if this ship would float or sink. The hours to come would certainly tell.

    “I don’t know what you can do yet…but show me what ’cha got tonight, and we’ll go from there!”

    I reminded Zack, “Just keep it simple and talk to the girls,” passing along the same advice a wise man once gave me when I started stripping.

    Suddenly, we felt the bass bumping, shaking the walls around us. Dance music amplified and reverberated in our ears, giving us the needed adrenaline boost. Enough with congregating – it was time to get busy.

    On the way out of the dressing room, I noticed Don Jon sniffling and rubbing the bottom of his nostrils with his left hand as we headed to the entrance. Yet, I disregarded this for the time being.

    Out front, Miguel was singing Latin songs, dancing the merengue and charming the vibrant ladies away, welcoming all to The Revue, one by one, as if he’d known them for years. They loved it. Smiles were contagious. Ladies’ hips began swaying to the music before they even entered the club – the sequins on dresses catching the last shimmer of the spring sunlight before it vanished for the evening. This was key time for El Amanté to sell upgrades, private dances, and hot seats to the different groups.

    What were hot seats – you ask? 

    Besides the stripper in a performance, the girl in the hot seat was the center of attention on stage. She became part of the routine. Sometimes there was only one, and other times there’d be up to three or four at once in one act. It all depended on how many parties wanted to pay the hundred-dollar price for their special friend. 

    The lucky girl would be escorted to the stage by a floor or side-act guy and seated on a metal chair. Before the main dancer began his number, the girl was covered in dollar bills that her friends tucked away anywhere they could fit them: dress straps, bras, cleavages, panties, stocking liners, stiletto heels – go ahead and let your mind wander! The end goal was to ensure that the dancer removed all the money from the girl in the most erotic ways in the most erogenous zones, and to keep the crowd on the edge of their seats, yearning for more.

    Ten minutes til’ "curtains up." Familiar party songs of all genres blasted loudly through the speakers while the spotlights flashed in sync with their beats. DJ Good-Good played everything from the classics to pop radio. Whether it was Journey singing “Don’t Stop Believing” or Drake’s hit “One Dance” blaring, the music moved the ladies like puppets on strings. Those who weren’t dancing were flirting with one of us guys or waiting at the bar.      

    Although there would be potential hell to pay the next day, alcohol and joyous vibes kept pouring in like they were both on IV drips. The energy was at an all-time high. This was Friday night in AC, baby! 

    Immediately after the first hot seat girl was escorted up and covered in cash, Smooth slowly ascended the stage to greet her, along with the rest of the crowd taking to their chairs. Hands waved in the air like an uncoiled rope with sounds of “woo” and “take it off” filling the space in-between. Finally, the music faded out, and Kalvin brought the mic near his mouth.

    “Ladies!!!!!! Welcome to The Male Revue at The Edge in Atlantic City. My name is Smooth, and I’ll be your master of ceremonies for the evening!!”

    The explosion of cheers and applause shot up into the air like fireworks. You could feel the electricity all through the club, especially from the rowdy group of British girls in the VIP booth in the left-hand corner of the room, celebrating their friend’s 30th birthday. They’d just placed an order with Zack to run bottle service for them. From afar, I watched it all in motion, praying the kid wouldn’t screw it up for this cheeky royal court.

    Kalvin persisted in talking while swaggering up and down the stage, making eye contact with his lady of the night. “Where are my birthday girls at?”

    The Brits, erupting in joy, nearly tossed their girl out of the booth as if she were being exiled by the queen. The birthday lass already had a cat-and-mouse thing going with Kalvin. I’d noticed the two getting chummy the minute she entered the club. He even winked at her from the stage.

    “How many of you are here tonight to piss off your boyfriends? Better yet…fiancés? Can I hear from my bachelorettes celebrating, baby?”

    The focus of the room shifted to the many “bride-to-be” sashes and bejeweled tiaras sparkling in the bright light – those girls seizing their last chance to be swept off their feet by a handsome stud, the kind they’d only see on romance novel covers or fantasize about while their fiancés attempted to make love to them. This was their final night to drift away from reality and to feel the warm embrace of a sexy young muscleman before returning to their mundane day-to-day lives. 

    “Who came tonight to piss off their husbands?”

    “WOOOOO-HOOOOO!!!”

    Married women were the most dangerous guests. They were strategic with which beefcake they wanted to sink their claws into – like a predator attacking its prey. I could tell the pack of middle-aged cougars by the bar wanted to do bad things to the hot and steamy Puerto Rican, Miguel Matta. Every time he’d walk past them, a different girl would reach for the first appendage on his body that they could clutch onto tightly like a vice grip. However, the Latin lover never seemed to mind. After all, at The Revue, being bad was always encouraged.

    Smooth continued his intro on stage. “Here at The Edge, no matter your celebration or marital status, we’re all here for one purpose…some light, clean, family-friendly entertainment that you can go home and tell your significant others all about! Right?” 

    After such a statement, Kalvin stopped talking to revel in the sudden awkward silence that filled the room.

    “Yep, I know. I crack up each time I say it, too!!”

    He paused once more to hear thunderous laughter resonate from wall to wall before getting back to his spiel. Of course, a few one-liners during the intro would always enhance the crowd’s spirits.

    For a brief moment, during the echoing giggles, I thought I saw Holly, the girl I slept with the night before, by the bar with a friend. I wasn’t sure. Either way, I didn’t plan on acknowledging her. I kept my distance while the MC went on.

    “You’ll see all sorts of strapping men walking around the floor and dancing on stage: white, black, Latino, mixed…muscular, lean, tall, short. Well…not too short, right? This one over here gets enough of that at home! Know what I mean?”

    He didn’t point to any one girl, but he did get a smile from each of the Southern belles seated around the stage. Kalvin turned his attention to the hot seat bachelorette and kneeled in front of her. 

    "Tonight, all you beautiful ladies – tonight is your night. So, throw your inhibitions to the wind, kick back, relax, and let it be an experience to remember forever. Because guys like these at The Edge Nightclub only come around in your dreams! And we’re gonna make all those dreams come true right here and now, baby!!"

    Even though he spoke at the hot seat girl, looking directly into her eyes, he was addressing all the females in the room.

    Whoa! Abruptly, all the lights went off!

    “Man…it’s about to get hot in here! Who’s sweating?” asked Kalvin, beginning to “panic”, pacing back and forth.

    While he started slowly unbuttoning the top of his collared shirt, the building’s red fire alarms on the walls began blasting shrill siren noises. The white strobe lights on them were rapidly flashing. Spotlights beamed an unpleasing red light into the crowd’s faces before they turned their shine to the stage. Fog machines provided so much smoke that you could barely see the girl sitting next to you. Was it time to evacuate the premises? No. Stop, drop and roll? Not yet. Was this just a drill? Sort of.

    Lil Wayne’s hit song “On Fire” started jamming through the speakers. Smooth then made his way down the stairs to get off stage, screaming into the microphone, “Ladies, give it up for your fireman…Donnnnn Jonnnnnn!!!!” 

    Through the thick fog, the first performer of the evening strode up on stage in full fireman’s apparel: brown and yellow Nomex coat, pants, and hat, with a prop hose in his left hand used as a phallic symbol of what was really between his legs.

    If it were any other dancer than the smug New Yorker, I’d have been entertained. After all, the fireman bit used to belong to Guns…and he gave award-winning routines. Yet, this Don Jon wasn’t doing justice to the departed man’s legacy.

    He was so stiff when he moved around, that you’d think he just broke his back in the dressing room. His reciprocal arm swing, trap muscle flex, and lateral shuffle from one side of the stage to the other were the most bizarre dance routines I’d ever seen – he wasn’t in rhythm with the music. It was worse than the “robot.” At this point, there was no worry about Jon taking our jobs at the top. At least, not for now.

    Despite his standoffish act, the crowd was still “making it rain” with money during the young, tan, oiled-up bodybuilder’s number, screaming to see more skin. The energy in the room was through the roof.

    In fact, just as I turned my eyes away from the stage, I was approached by one of the hot British girls from the booth.

    “Ay-up! How does a gal from across the pond get a private dance from such a striking chap as yourself while we await our tipple?” she asked me, holding out a C-note. 

    Long silver earrings dangled in the curls of her dirty blonde hair. Her skin-tight sparkly dress that emphasized her curves was the same color as her cherry red lipstick. She gently placed her left pointer finger on her lower lip, patiently awaiting my reply. I knew this was gonna be fun for us both! 

    “Come with me!” I said, taking her hand and walking us towards the private room in the left-hand side of the club – where the real action happened.

    She introduced herself as Emily from Exeter. I wasn’t sure which I liked more – her body or her sophisticated accent. I assumed that at some point in the night – I’d get the chance to know both a bit more.

    As we drew closer to the private dance room, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an unsettled Zack by the bar, still waiting for the barback to bring him the Vodka bottle to deliver the Brits. I couldn’t tell what was taking so long, but I was sure he was missing the mark somewhere. 

    Time kills all deals, buddy!

    “Ahhhhhhhhh!!!” Suddenly, horrid screams echoed from the ladies’ restroom. Two girls from the same British bunch came running out, eyes wide open in panic – as if they were rabbits in a wolf's den. I followed Emily, sprinting into the restroom quicker than her friends had exited. She screamed even louder as soon as she saw the same chilling sight.

    The birthday girl was passed out, leaning against a stall divider – vomit all over her dress, in the toilet and on the floor around her. 

    I bent down to check her pulse...