Out of Sorts and Incognito

Combat Joe - Welcome Back

Joe is a real person.  A friend of mine who's been in the  strip club "industry" for years.  Occasionally I get him to talk about old times, how this.. all of this started.  The following is a kind of mix fan fiction and real premise tales of that start.

...

"Joe- what the fuck am I looking at??" a gruff man said standing staring into the cavernous 2'OClock club interior.

In view was a long runway stage, strobe lights, cigar smoking chairs, a few ill described gentlemen and one girl strolling and back and forth on the runway, peeling off her clothes, one song at a time.

11pm. The 2'oClock Club, one of 30 strip clubs in the combat zone. The year 1970.

Joe had got a job as a bar back just a few months getting out of Vietnam. America was the pits. He came home not as war hero but as burden or so it felt like to the average people in this town, Boston.

Nope, he wasn't exactly welcomed.

No ticket parade, no cake, no thanks, just a bag full of canned goods and a garbage truck job.Thanks America, Joe would often think to himself.

Boston was home. It was the city he grew up in. It was the city he left behind to go join the forces, do the right thing, die in some swamp. Worse yet- watch others die for a war they didn't understand much- but thats just first of many lessons Joe would learn. People don't always make the right choice- often you have to experience it before ya know. Maybe he had to experience war to understand the value of life, the value of moments, the magic in the human exchange.

He never really intended to kick off a 30 year career in adult entertainment industry thru the comings and goings of Boston's hedonistic underbelly- the Combat Zone. But a front is front, a solider gets a job, gotta do what ya gotta do.

Working at 2'OClock wasn't so bad. Sure his boss sounded like a mafia guy, an effect he wouldn't really think about until years later when he'd replicate the voice of his would be boss at a party to tell people about the industry in the 70s. Clubs are full of characters. An accent, a few crazy mannerisms and ya got a nice cocktail, ya got a scene- and Joe loved the scene.

Joe put down his bar rag and walked over to the club owner staring into the main club interior. He looked diligently to pick up what was missing in his bosses view.

"One girl.." Joe said noticing that only one girl was working the stage. The norm was at least 2 girls at all times, maximizing the potential to convert on these customers.

Customers? These people were perceived lowlifes to typical society. In reality they were you, your neighbor, the teacher at school, the priest down the block, the cop that pulled you over, or the judge that presided over your case. Over the years Joe would realize theres a definite class of people, or more so- a type of soul that frequents strip clubs. Who they are as a job doesn't matter- its what they seek, in the women there, in what they want to find in themselves.

"Yeah.. one girl.. get down there and get me another...NOW!" Boss said exhaling a puff smoke from his cigar and pushing Joe to the side, knocking him off balance.

Joe nodded and knew what to do, plus this as a kind of bonus- he'd get to choose. He darted past the main stage, between the two lawyers stuck in dead pan stare at Holly, the tall blonde who was down to her panties and heels waiting for the next song to hit.

Joe gave her nod as he went for the locker room door. Flung it open and took in the view of who to be next, to get on that stage, to maximize the return.

The return was drilled into him and everyone else that worked 2'OClock. Gotta get paid. Time is wasting and more so a stage is missing a girl.

In a glance he added it up- Sasha, Betty and Desere. He started to think like an owner or try to- compliment the arrangement, not replace it. The club was formula, right stimulus, right time, max profit. It was constant dynamic, you were always placing your bets, pushing the envelope on what could be, how it could unfold and how you could repeat it again.

"Betty you're up! Let's go go!!" Joe barked at Betty a petite brunette that had crazy eyes. Crazy in that she could lure you in a gaze. Over time Joe would master this complicated and yet artful grace of not falling in love with every woman he'd meet in the business. Business was business.

"You don't get to fuck the merchandise." his boss would tell him on day one of the job.

He got lectured on numerous things, how to stand, how to talk, how to command, how to stay focused and that was easy- cash. Strip club was a cash machine, thats the mission, thats the only mission, at least thats what he thought at the beginning.

"Yeah ok, sec.." Betty said as she stood up from her mirror giving a powerful gaze back to Joe. She tried to crush him from 13 feet away in a move that definitely caught his attention. It wasn't just the eyes, she made it clear to focus on the action- her legs slowly standing up knowing full well Joe would trace the stockings from black topaz studded heels to the fantastic thighs and that moment of full poise as if she was syphoning the cash outa his wallet with a look.

This is what they did. This was the technology in play, a woman in power, a woman's hustle.

"Let's GO!" Joe said as reflex to change his vision and turn away from this gorgeous girl. She'd compliment Holly well, a decent pick is what he thought walking out of the locker room.

Betty emerged on the stage moments later, slightly dismayed that Joe managed to get out of her net. Early on, this web, yeah lets call it what it is, the glue of a woman, the tease of possibility, the chance of pussy- not happening here. She began her routine, Joe wasn't a customer- the patrons were.

Back behind the bar cleaning up Joe shrugged off the choice, just doing what he's told. The boss noticed the choice, but didn't nod or give Joe any indication that he cared. For now Joe was back in his primary position, stuck behind the bar swapping up messes and cleaning glasses. His one moment of decision power made.

It worked though- moments later both girls complimented each other well on the stage giving the audience a choice in fantasy. Blonde or brunette- you decide. Each girl had a unique look, a specific drive, a scent of seduction, a process to entertain, convert, and attain the transaction. They were working girls who knew their trade, enjoyed their freedom, their choices, control and cash.

A few hours later and Joe found himself in art of war flirting with Desere. She as a tall black girl who had a thing for vets. She'd always asked him about the war. Which war he wondered at times, not that he wanted to really talk about it. What to say, he was there, now he wasn't. She enjoyed teasing the crap outa him while he was stuck behind the bar.

"I like that you can't go anywhere..." Desere said pulling off one of her nylons, her shift ending, standing a few feet away from the bar staring at Joe, stuck, cleaning glasses. She thru the nylon at Joe as he caught it in the air, never breaking the line of sight back to her.

Joe had a kind of magnetism to Desere. She was easy to talk to, and more so she was real. He was starting to see the separation between the real and illusion. At first everything seemed real but its not- the people, the strippers, the owners, the patrons, some of them are real, most are not. Overtime in the years ahead he'd have quite the dirt on so called society.

In a whiff he picked up the smell of sweat and perfume staring down Desere as she tempted the first rule of don't fuck the merchandise. Rules are meant to be broken, he thought to himself.

And this was the zone, the combat zone. Half his war buddies were fighting for landscape jobs and stocking shelves- and here he was in the underbelly, his new path, unfolding.

Fun.