1Michael
“You all did brilliantly today, ladies,” Michael said as he saw his last exercise class of the day out the door.
He smiled and exchanged farewells with them all. Once he was alone, he started cleaning down the poles, ready for the dancers who would occupy them when evening came and the lights were lowered. By day, Heaven and Hell housed pole fitness classes; by night, it was a dark and sultry pole dancing and striptease club, aimed at gay men.
By the time he was done with the poles, the metal rods shone bright enough to gleam under the spotlights. He checked his watch; there was just time to grab a shower, something to eat, and get changed before he had to put his managerial head on rather than his fitness coach one. The door rattled open, drawing his attention up the stairs; he’d obviously forgotten to lock it.
A slight young man stepped into the club, grasping a flyer in his fist. “Do you still need a dancer?” His voice was more confident than Michael had been expecting, based on the anxious, pinched-lip expression on his face.
Michael swept his gaze up and down the young man’s body. He was definitely attractive, though very different in stature to most of the dancers that worked in the club. He looked slim enough to snap if he stood out in a storm. Michael doubted there was an inch of fat on him, based on the way the oversized jumper and jeans hung on his frame. Light brown hair hung down to his high cheekbones, but the back and sides were shaved short. He had a large backpack on his shoulders, with a coat slung through the straps. In his other hand, he was carrying a sleeping bag.
“How old are you?” Michael asked.
The young man rolled his shoulders back, standing taller. “Twenty.”
“Have you got ID to prove it?”
He pulled his backpack onto his side and pulled out a passport before righting it again. He flipped the passport open and held it up without moving closer so Michael could actually see it clearly enough to confirm his age.
“Have you pole danced before?” Michael asked. It wouldn’t be the first time some naive kid had walked into the club, thinking pole dancing was easy.
“Yes.”
“Done stripteases?”
The young man nodded.
Michael drew his thumb from his nose to the corner of his mouth. “Get down here and show me your ID.”
The young man’s eyes widened a fraction—they were dark, Michael noted—and then he jogged down the stairs. He held out his ID, not relinquishing it as Michael checked it. The photo definitely matched the attractive, fine-featured face before him, although it must have been taken a few years earlier, as the passport’s five-year lifespan had expired. He could see the young man’s date of birth, which established that he was twenty. He couldn’t read his name, as his thumb was obscuring it.
“What should I call you?” Michael asked.
“Jag.”
Michael raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment on it, though he doubted it was his real name, especially as the question hadn’t prompted him to move his thumb. His lips turned down a fraction. Jag wasn’t the first cagey dancer he’d met, and he doubted he’d be the last.
Jag stared up into his eyes. “And you? What should I call you?”
Michael’s lips curved into a smile. “Michael.” He could tell he was going to like this guy, whether he had ability on the pole or not. But a spunky attitude wasn’t going to encourage punters to part with their cash.
“Like the archangel?” Jag asked, tilting his head a little.
“Exactly like the archangel. That used to be my stage name, before I started running this place.” Michael’s smile deepened as Jag’s searching gaze swept over him. He liked being under the scrutiny of those large, dark eyes. “Why don’t you warm up while I pour myself a drink, and then you can show me your moves.”
Michael moved to the bar. He took a mental inventory of the drinks they had in to give Jag enough time to warm up. He took several surreptitious glances at the young man, who had removed the jumper, revealing a skin-tight T-shirt. Michael marvelled at how supple and flexible Jag was as he stretched out his back. Once Michael had made a note of what booze he needed to order, he poured himself a scotch on the rocks, turned the music on, and then wandered round to the front of the bar and perched on a barstool.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
He wasn’t sure what to expect. When Jag had first walked in, Michael had doubted he had the strength to hold himself on the pole, but having seen snatches of his warm-up, Michael was willing to keep an open mind. Besides, he was definitely easy on the eyes. It had been a while since he’d hired a twink, but he knew there were customers who favoured the more delicate, feminine look over big guys with rippling muscles.
Jag started with acrucifix climb, gripping the pole between his knees, one thigh raised, his lifted foot neatly pointed. It was an easy enough starting position, but it got Michael’s attention. He sat a little straighter, sipping the scotch as Jag hooked his knee around the bar and leant back, arms stretched, almost fully inverting himself. He raised his supporting leg, hooking his ankle around the pole, which he grasped with one hand so he could pull his back closer to it. The fingertips of his opposite hand grazed the floor, completing theblade. From there he pulled himself up the pole so he could arch his body into arainbow, spinning slowly round the pole as he moved back down into abridged handstand. Every move was exact, and the transitions were fluid.
It wasn’t the sexiest routine Michael had ever seen, but it was definitely sensual. Hell, he was getting turned on, and Jag was fully dressed. His mind started to conjure up images of him in much less clothing, under low lighting, with sultry music playing. He could almost see the punters with their mouths hanging open, eyes wide as they ogled the elfin young man. It would be a crime not to put him on show. Maybe in a spotlight of his own. Michael shifted, adjusting his tracksuit a little. The club needed a new angel, and Michael felt as if he might have found him.
After around five minutes, Jag ended in apirouette pose, arms up and crossed around the pole at the wrists, shoulders and arse resting against the long metal rod, one knee bent. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes soft, focused, and alluring. He locked stares with Michael, and for a few seconds neither of them spoke. Then Jag moved to sit on the edge of the stage, breaking the spell.
Michael clapped slowly. “Very good.”
