Page 1 of Man Cuffed
1Renaissance Strippers
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
Ernest Hemingway
Meg
My long skirts swish around my legs as I stride toward the king’s throne, a bottle of wine in one hand, a silver chalice in the other.
I’ve wanted to be an actor since I was four years old. I love shiny lights, passion, and costumes. So you’d think that the Renaissance era wench’s costume I’m wearing—with my boobs hiked up to my chin—might possibly be a highlight of my career.
But no. I’m not dressed like this to meet a knight, or wrestle dragons. This isn’t a low-budgetOutlanderknockoff. This is my day job. I’m a serving wench at Ye Olde Tavern.
Five nights a week, I lace the tight bodice up over my puffy-sleeved blouse and sell tankards of beer. Some days it’s fun. When I’m in the right mood to play the bar wench, I bring out my English accent. Or Scottish when I’m feeling extra feisty.
Tonight, though, it’s just a chore.
My thirtieth birthday has just come and gone, and I’m still waiting for my big break. Acting is a hard profession, and I’ll admit that I’m a little depressed. My agent called today to let me know that I was passed up for another role.
At least this job pays well. Ye Olde Paycheck has bought me some time to figure out what I’m going to do with the next act of my life. I’m in the midst of a wicked midlife crisis. Pre-midlife crisis? Let’s just say, a crisis. And it doesn’t help that my sister suddenly has her entire life figured out. She’s married to a knight in shining armor. Am I jealous?
Hell, yes.
I’m also a little sick of rejection. I’ve beenthis closeto landing role after role for a decade now. I’m starting to take that shit personally. And that’s no way to approach a career that you love.
“Wench!” calls an aggravated voice from the private room.
I’m a little sick of that, too. Ye Olde Tavern is particularly rowdy tonight. And not the good kind of rowdy. It’s the bad kind, where the kitchen is slow, the bartenders are in the weeds, and chaos reigns freely. There’s a bachelorette party going on in the private room, where a dozen young women are getting drunk and crabby in equal measure.
I grab some Ye Olde Pretzel snacks and a couple more pitchers of beer. Then I gird my loins and head back there.
The bride-to-be is your basic definition of a bridezilla. I can easily picture her stomping on all the tiny townspeople around her. She zeroes in on me right away. Here we go.Smile, Meg. You’re an actress. Pretend you give a shit.
“This is adisaster,” she sneers, getting up close and personal. I set the beer and pretzels on a table and prepare to take whatever she’s about to throw at me. I’m hoping it’s not a punch. “We’re starving and we’re supposed to have turkey legs and all we’ve got is pretzels and bar cheese and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have that in the Renaissance. And my strippers are late!”
It’s time to whip out the British accent.
“Oh! Don’t play the daft cow! Pretzels pre-date Christianity,” I say with a giant smile, so she won’t realize I just insulted her. “And I know those skivers will turn up before you know it!”
The truth is that the strippers areusuallylate. They like to get baked before they turn up with their old-fashioned boom box and cheap costumes.
A half hour from now, Bridezilla won’t care, though. All will be forgiven as soon as they rip those costumes off and gyrate their backsides.
Also? I’m pretty sure they didn’t have male strippers in the Renaissance. Not that I’m going to point that out.
“There’s an event at the arena,” I point out. “Your gents are likely stuck in traffic. And your turkey legs have just arrived.” Thank goodness. My coworker has just entered the room with the platter. He’s quickly swarmed by the bride’s drunk and starving girlfriends. Legs are grabbed, and elbows are thrown. It’s Ye Olde Feeding Frenzy.
As I watch one of the women rip into a turkey leg, I have a brief flashback to working as an extra on a popular zombie TV show. I was a highlighted extra. And I can still taste the intestines.
“Finally,” Bridezilla growls. “You ought to at least comp those legs for me.”
“I’ll give you a free dessert,” I counter, sans accent this time. “And the bar cheese.”
She glares at me. Her green eyes hot and angry. I have the sudden impulse to wrestle her to the ground, pin her arms behind her back, and make her cry for mercy. This costume is starting to affect my personality. And I’ve always been impulsive.
But that has to end. I’m the new thirtyish Meg. The responsible Meg. The younger me would’ve tackled this bitch already.
Thankfully, the beaded curtains part again, and three guys in cop uniforms step into the back room.
