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My dancing role in The Proposition paid $150 per week. I had to work two other jobs just to afford my cramped Queens apartment. Throw in two hours of commuting into the city each day and all that was left was about seven hours for sleep. Anything else I wanted to do, whether it was watching a movie or doing laundry or cooking my own meals, cut into that sleep time. I worked seven days a week, which meant I didn’t even have any days to play catch up.
That was the reality of a second-rate dancer trying to follow her dream of becoming a Broadway actress. I needed my apartment in Queens for that. I needed two jobs just to barely afford the apartment and food. It was a cycle that was difficult to break out of, and I felt like I was barely hanging on. If I ever got sick or broke a bone, I was fucked.
I ate my over-priced breakfast sandwich on the subway and tried not to think about it. I failed. Even shifting my thoughts to the wonderful night with Braden failed to improve my mood.
Frederick’s, the department store in Brooklyn where I worked, opened at 8:00, but my shift started at 7:00 so I could restock shoes that people had tried on and then discarded. We worked on commission, which meant they could pay us $5.50 base before our commissions. Altogether it ended up around $15 per hour for me. I wasn’t a good saleswoman.
The doors opened, and the line of waiting Brooklyn housewives waddled into the store.
It could be worse. That’s what I told myself while I was cramming too-small shoes on women with big feet—that it could always be worse. My imagination failed to think of a worse scenario, but I’m sure there was one.
“Girl?” shouted one woman with a 1980s perm. “Excuse me! Girl!” She waved a pair of Gucci Black slippers at me.
The only good thing about the job was that it didn’t require much thought. I could zone out, and hum some of the music from The Proposition to myself. Granted, the music wasn’t very good, but I liked to have it memorized to the point that I could recite it in my sleep. It made the dancing easier, more natural.
Soon I was thinking about Braden again, and by extension, Braden’s offer. Not just his offer—their offer. The four of them. It was intriguing, but it was crazy. The kind of thing that wasn’t practical in any reasonable way.
Wasn’t it?
I thought about the last couple of normal dates I’d been on. It wasn’t often, given my schedule. Neither date had gone well. And it was so much work. First dates had their own set of rules and boundaries, as did second dates. Then on the third date you got down to business. In both cases, we hadn’t made it to the magical date number three because both guys turned out to be huge douches. Time and money, my two most precious resources, down the drain with nothing to show for it.
That’s why I preferred hooking up with someone from the bar. I didn’t want anything serious. I didn’t have time for anything beyond one-night stands. Some flirting at the bar while I worked (efficient multitasking!) and then straight to their place for some action. Hot, meaningless sex with someone I never had to see again until they came back to the bar and made it weird.
What if I could have that, but with several guys? In different specialized areas?
Say what you would about Braden and his friends’ offer, but all the cards were on the table. No weird expectations. Ryan just wanted a fuck-buddy. Dorian wanted a friend. Andy was looking for a potentially serious relationship with an emotional connection.
It was like one boyfriend broken down to his three constituent parts. It was a shame I didn’t have more time, or it just might have been doable.
And Braden…
Our sex confused me. Was it just to prove he wasn’t gay? Did he want to have sex with me outside of that root goal? The lust had seemed real. More than just a guy going through the motions. But why would someone like him even want to be with me? He was the flawless male lead of the show, handsome and muscular and smooth in every way. A New York ten. I was barely a six on my best nights.
Why couldn’t I stop thinking about the way his lips felt against mine?
I was so busy daydreaming that I only brought one pair of shoes back to the woman with the perm and too much eyeshadow. She stared at the single box I placed on the ground and made a choking noise.
“Excuse me, girl,” she said. “I asked you to bring me a size five and a half, and a size six.”
“Right, sorry,” I said. “I’ll go grab those for you.”
She tossed her head and looked around for someone to share in her misery. “The last thing I need is a ditsy shoe girl wasting my time.”
I’d been assisting her for almost an hour without a sale, so if anything she was wasting my time. But I couldn’t say that.
“Go on!” she snapped. “Why are you still standing there?”
I turned away and mumbled, “Chill the fuck out,” under my breath, too quiet for anyone to hear.
Or so I thought.
“Excuse me?” the woman demanded. When I turned around she was on her feet. “What did you say to me, girl?”
I froze, panicked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes you did. You shouted an expletive at me. I heard you!”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” I replied, thinking fast. “What I said was that it’s chilly out.”
