“Darla, please. I need that money tonight—” I started to say but she held up her hand, cutting me off.
“Someone’s hired you for a private dance. Paid a g for the privilege,” she said, practically licking her lips. Private dances had to be requested and were reserved for certain high-paying clients. I had never been requested before. My stomach flipped over. It was common knowledge that the private dances usually involved...other things. There were no cameras or bouncers in the secluded rooms and the usual rules of “no touching” weren’t adhered to.
Was I expected to have sex with this person?
I couldn’t do that.
Stripping was one thing. I actually enjoyed that part. It was sexy and hot and made me feel alive. I had always been a dweeb in high school. Growing up, I was the runt, not hitting a growth spurt until I turned sixteen. I didn’t go on a date until I was seventeen and about to graduate. I was the shy, smart kid who kept to himself. Not much changed when I went off to college either. It was hard for me to break out of my shell and meet people. I didn’t do parties or bar crawls because I wasn’t a drinker—never had a head for the stuff. I was definitely an outlier when it came to the whole college experience. I was awkward and small talk didn’t come naturally to me. I was the guy either friend-zoned or overlooked completely.
Not much changed for me in college. Not at first anyway. I was still the quiet, smart guy. Sure I got the attention of women—I knew I was good-looking in my way—but once my natural awkwardness took over, they typically lost any interest. Looks only get you so far.
I didn’t know what made me go to the open call for exotic dancers at The Landing Strip. The online ad promised it had the potential to make you lots of money. Mom and I were looking into residential facilities for Sam and the decent ones were way more than my mother could afford. Insurance would only cover so much, so the cash drew me in. The unexpected buzz of being on stage, transforming into someone completely different, was what kept me there.
Darla had seen something in me. She said I had a nice face but it was my “aura” that made her hire me. I hadn’t known what she meant, but apparently, I had a sexy, mysterious thing about me that you couldn’t teach. She told me to start working on my body. She had another stripper named Mike to share with me his high-intensity workout meant to bulk me up. “Women don’t want scrawny. We want to see your muscles,” Darla stated in her usual gruff way.
I started working out five times a week. I lifted weights and started running. Over time I developed a nice set of abs. I would never have a body builder’s physique—I wasn’t made that way—but I was toned and hard. The first night on stage was both the worst and best experience of my life. I had moved like there was a steel rod shoved up my ass, but the women loved me. They shoved so many bills down my tiny G-string that it looked ridiculous. I made three hundred and fifty dollars that night. I started putting half of my nightly tips aside to pay for my brother and mother’s care. And once I had been dancing long enough, I even developed a bit of a following. Despite this, I had never been requested for a private dance.
Until now.
“Okay,” I said, my voice a little high pitched.
Darla raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on my very obvious nerves. She expected us to do our job and not bitch about it. “She’s waiting in the 70’s room.” She shooed me and I quickly made my way to the narrow hallway at the back of the club. There were three rooms, doors all closed. Each had a “theme,” if you could call it that. The 70’s room was complete with shag carpet and tacky wallpaper. It looked like the set of a bad porno. Which, I guess was the point.
I braced myself before opening the door.
I could do this. It’s a thousand dollars! That was a lot of money. It was for one hour of my time. That was it.
I’d worry about the shame later.
I opened the door.
“Hi there,” I said, affecting a sultry tone. I slipped into my role seamlessly. I was a sex god. I was the alpha hero of their smutty fantasies.
The woman was sitting casually in a two-person velvet-lined chair sipping dark liquor from a highball glass, her long legs crossed. “Hi,” she greeted, her voice smokey and deep.
She was older, but she wore her age well. If I was a betting man, I’d say she was at least forty. And she was hot, with a body that was curvy but toned. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a low-cut blouse. Her boobs were massive and practically spilled out of her shirt. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head. She wore quite a bit of makeup, but it looked good on her.
I walked further into the room, unsure of how this was supposed to go. Was I meant to start dancing right away? Talk to her first? It would have been nice if Darla would have given me some pointers.
The woman watched me, her eyes sizing me up. She had paid well for my time so she clearly wasn’t going to hide her interest. She licked her lips. “You’re prettier up close,” she rasped, giving me a steamy smile.
“Thanks,” I said lamely. What do you say to something like that?
The woman crooked her finger, beckoning me closer. “Come here.”
Shit. Okay.
I strolled over, trying to act unaffected, even though I had started sweating like
