Most of the regular patrons know of him. From the back many have mistaken him for a woman, the soft long hair hiding his masculine shoulders. He never has a companion, but sits at the bar all night, nursing a single drink. What he orders is too small; it must not even give him a buzz. Sometimes he disappears outside and comes back in smelling of cigarettes, or so the bartender says. He is noticed because he is attractive, but also because he is unusual. One does not usually sulk at a strip club, but what should be a handsome face is stuck in a permanent frown. The patrons call him Velvet. He looks dark and smooth and noble.
Most of the regular patrons also know that he has a favourite. When that unique man takes the stage, green eyes widen and turn. The mysterious man places his chin in palm, he does not look aroused, but he stares with serious intent. The bartender likes to describe it as "longing." The female patrons find that very romantic, perhaps he comes because he is in love with Alex.
Who wouldn't be? Alex fills the room with laughter and cheers. The great Greek flexes and poses and strips with a mighty confidence that is showy, but not lewd. One does not feel shame for lusting after Alex, for the man seems to enjoy himself. He talks to the room, and though his voice must roar to carry over the music it is as if he is reaching out to each of his admirers individually. When he arrives the neon lights change to bright yellow, he does not wish to hide, and for a second you are somewhere else instead of at a covert strip club. You are not ashamed to be bowing for Alex; you are honoured.
When his act is over there is real applause as he exits the stage. Then the lights dim and the music again starts to thump and anonymous lithe bodies writhe on the stage. The sharped-nosed, longhaired man slips off his stool. Long fingers press a banknote on the counter, denomination indecipherable in the darkness.
A few patrons try to sneak backstage, to find Alex, to gift him a flower or money or offer a transaction of a more sordid kind that he would never accept. His dressing room is hard to find, hidden in a dim hallway behind a red curtain that matches the walls' colour.
If one were to successfully locate Alex's room they would find it locked, although a warm light still shines from underneath the door. A handmade sign hangs on its front: DO NOT DISTURB. Painted golden nasturtiums, the flowers of conquest, adorn the sign's edges. The brown lettering is polite, but firm.
If one were to lean in and press one's ear to the door, as the curious may be bound to do, one could hear the murmur of voices or laughter. And if one sat long enough outside the door, the clinking of glasses and conversation would make way to louder yells and moans. And if one waited long enough one could learn the name of a certain mysterious man. The name is roared in elation, as if in religious worship.
By early morning, when the club is closed and janitors mop up unmentionable fluids, the door to that room will open. A large man will exit, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, but he will not be alone. There is another on his arm, thinner and darker, but red cheeked and smiling. They will walk arm in arm out into the early morning light. The city is just waking up. Ever the nonconformists, they will sleep soon, but first they must eat. There is a diner four streets away that knows them well, but not where they come from. They like it that way.
Eighteen eggs, twenty rashers of bacon, a bowl of potatoes, a loaf's worth of toast, and several pots of coffee and tea please.