When Ilinca talked about how she endured the heels and corsets like a carefree vixen, Victor was clearly interested, one ear turned to her more than the other, nodding every so often in deep interest. He had a deep interest in a great many things and it certainly didn’t exclude how burlesque dancers survived their time on stage laced up with their feet contorted into the most uncomfortable footwear possible. Perhaps, if he’d been stone-sober, he wouldn’t have been as obvious about his abject interest, but as it was, as he’d imbibed, he nodded as he listened to her, dropping a ‘wow’, ‘ah’ or ‘ow’ every so often.
Victor had always liked how corsets looked but he imagined being squeezed, laced, pushed into it with its unforgiving boning and his back hurt just thinking of it. But from what she said, he could imagine the shoes could hurt even more. He’d never walked around in heels before, he wouldn’t know.
When she smiled at him when he asked about if lesbians attended, he felt a sweep of relief and almost emptied his second drink when she confirmed what he guessed, enthusiastically. He wondered what it was like to be wanted by all kinds of people, to be the star of a show featuring desire and fantasy. When Ilinca asserted that sexuality shouldn’t matter, he paused, thinking that she was… right. It shouldn’t matter. She said it so confidently that it sounded like fact, rather than advice. He blinked a couple of times, tried to make his face neutral and repeated it to himself in his head. Your sexuality should not matter. She even went as far as to elaborate about neighbors, family and for a moment… he really wanted to hug her. Put his arms around her and thank her… but that would be both inappropriate and too revealing. But he had a new level of fondness for her that he didn’t think possibly otherwise.
“It’s… it’s true. Men are taught to not express themselves…” he confirmed, having learned that the hard way in a lot of awkward moments between other men and himself, realizing they were coming from different places. “Yes, Sweet Tea Vodka,” he said excitedly. “It’s pretty rare but totally worth it. If I can get my hands on some, you’re welcome to try it.”
Victor was thrilled to learn the phrase, he’d always been a sucker for new languages, especially toasts. Bulgarian was a language that he’d never considered learning, but it couldn’t hurt to learn how to toast Ilinca when serving her. He listened carefully to her pronunciation and furrowed his brow a little, leaning forward on the bar. “Z…a…. ti…tvoe…zdrrrrave,” he attempted, blushing a bit afterwards and laughing. “I’m so sorry, I’m butchering your language. I tried my best,” he offered. “I’ll practice. Where no one can hear me.” Then he had an idea as he turned to serve a customer another pumpkin spice white Russian. “Here. I’ll teach you a toast in Korean. It’s geonbae. Geon… like ‘gon’… bae… like ‘bay’. But when you say the ‘o’ in geon, smile while you say it. Would you like another drink to practice?”
The customer, whom he’d seen three times already leaned in and said, “Cheers to her fabulous ass and your cute little butt… saw it when you turned around earlier. Oh boy, I thought… there’s nothing like those Asian chicks. And even the guys, sometimes a man can’t tell these days. I mean… compared to her…” he pointed to Ilinca, “You look like a scrawny kid.”
Victor tried to say something, but his voice was caught in his throat and he couldn’t look the man in the eye. The stranger chuckled and threw a tip onto the bar, looking him up and down before he turned around to walk away.
Victor grabbed the money, sweeping it off the bar and putting it in a jar to count at the end of the night. His mouth was shut so tight, it looked almost soldered shut. “Sorry,” he whispered at first, then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Sorry. He never should’ve… talked like that about you.” He avoided her eyes, embarrassed beyond expression of that man.