I stare at myself in the long mirror. My eyes flit up and down and up again. The matching bra and French knickers are gorgeous, not designed for pole dancing, but still so comfy and stretchy. I knew the moment Allegro showed them to me they were what I needed. A break from the PVC outfits the other women wear. I wanted class—well, as classy as possible when you’re hanging upside down on a pole revealing your tits to a room full of strangers. Even so, the maroon colour against my tan skin looks gorgeous, and the fact that the set is lace gives it that extra something. It’s the shoes that pull my attention, though—black, high, peep-toe. The straps attached to them are what made me buy them. I’ve always loved straps that wind up your legs, over your calf. These straps criss-cross and then criss-cross some more, all the way to my thighs. The tattoos that cover most of my body help the overall look. This new outfit will be a hit, I have no doubt.
People say that confidence is what you need to do this job. Liars. It’s not confidence that’s needed. It’s being in a place where you don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve reached that place. But it’s not rock bottom, it’s not even down low. The stripping is something I never imagined I would do, but I love the escape my job gives me and the freedom. The facts are solid, even if I were working on something like a west-end show, I would be dancing someone else’s moves. Not mine, never mine.
On this stage, the only requirement put on me is to be sexy. The moves here I choose, all of them. I always wanted theatre, but that ship has long since sailed. Now, after a year of working here, I’ve realised that as long as I don’t care, then I can be whoever I want, play a role, pick my poison. Or, I can just be Liv. It’s my choice. When the fear subsided, it dawned on me that there was no one to worry about, nobody who was going to be pissed. Well, nobody that I felt had a say in my life. I realised I could do this and see it as a job using my self-confidence to get me through, or I could see this as my stage, my chance to do what I wanted. That thought was as freeing then as it still is now.
With a new outfit and new song, I walk onto the dark stage.
Taking my place, I stand with my legs apart, hands gripped to the cool steel bar, and I wait for the first few beats of the music. My eyes close the minute Zayn Malik’s ‘Pillowtalk’ starts, then the lights come up, and my eyes shoot open. I pull myself up wrapping my legs around the pole feeling the cold, hard metal under my fingers. I climb to the top before the chorus kicks in. At that point, I let my head and arms fall back and slide all the way back down. Then I make some basic moves on the pole like the chopper and kiss, stuff that gets the crowd going. I know the chorus is coming again, this isn’t a long song, so I need to take my bra off soon. Pulling myself from the pole, I take a slow extended cartwheel until I end up sitting on the floor doing the splits. I reach my hands up, then twist them behind my back to unhook my bra. I don’t see the men or women. I don’t see the lights, the bar, or bouncers. When I strip it’s all about the dancing. Nothing else exists.
My fingers touch my back, but I never get the chance to pop the clip before I’m lifted from the stage. The music continues, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the boos and hisses of the people around me. The shouting starts, and it jolts me into the here and now. I realise I’m being kidnapped. My hands come up, gripping onto the man’s shoulders. I’m about to claw at his eyes when I register—it’s Isaac. He’s striding across the club, with me in his arms, heading backstage. My jaw drops and confusion takes residence in my brain.
I notice Leo, the floor manager, marching toward us. He’s yelling, but against the music and people shouting, I can’t hear what he’s saying. Although, the russet colour of his cheeks and the anger in his eyes tells me he doesn’t like the fact that I’ve been manhandled from the stage. I hear him shout something about how he’s going to kill Isaac if he doesn’t put me down. The minute he gets close enough, he raises his hand ready to lash out. Isaac slams his elbow into Leo’s face, without faltering in his step. I watch as Leo drops to the floor while we carry on moving.
Once we make it through the backstage door, Isaac drops me down but grabs my hand, glaring at me. He looks like he’s ready to spit fire, he speaks through gritted teeth when he asks, “dressing room?” I don’t reply verbally, I just point in the direction he needs to go. We make it behind the door, and he bolts it from the inside.
“What the fuck, Via?” he roars. I blink, staring into his face as I watch it contort with anger.
“What?” I ask, shock and confusion coursing through me.
“What the actual fuck?” he asks again, the muscle in his cheek jumping as the rage brews inside him. He points to my outfit. “You’re taking your fucking clothes off now?”
I feel a bubble of anger start to ferment low in my stomach. “What’s it got to do with you?” I snap, standing up and throwing my hands on my hips.
“You’re… you’re—”
“I’m what? Last time we were
