Page 1 of Watch Me

ZOË

THREE OF THE men at the table watch me approach, their eyes tracking me with an avid hunger, but the man closest to me doesn’t even turn around.

“This is my friend Mata Hari,” Rachel says as I arrive, in the specific silky voice she uses as “Jazmyn” when we’re working. She runs a hand along the back of my shoulders, the sharp acrylic tips of her nails scratching pleasantly across my skin. She’s like a small pet, speaking in purrs and wielding little talons. When I put an arm around her soft shoulders, a good two or three inches below my own, her glossy black hair feels like fur against my inner arm.

I’m glad she’s stopped rolling her eyes when she uses my stage name, like pretty much everyone else who works here. “It’s not sexy,” says the manager, Big Rob, at least once a week. “Why not Amber? Or Savannah?”

“Mata Hari is a renowned seductress!” I usually say, and he rolls his eyes.

But the men at the table just smile back—the empty, bland smiles of men who aren’t really listening. They don’t care what my name is. They didn’t come here to learn about me. They came for a feeling. A fantasy.

And I don’t mind that at all. It’s why I love stripping. Because being the fantasy turns me on, too.

“Hi.”

I smile in a way that I hope is both sweet and sexy, tilting my head and feeling the smooth curtain of my hair sweep over one shoulder as I do so. I straightened my naturally wavy hair and added a weave tonight, and I’m enjoying the way it feels—heavy and sinuous as it swings across my back and over Rachel’s hand.

“Hi,” replies the auburn-haired man at the far end of the table with a wide, confident smile. The two men on either side of him smile too and nod. The fourth man, the one with his back to me, finally turns his head and gives me an appraising look. He doesn’t say hi, or smile, but his face isn’t unfriendly. He just seems quiet. Serious.

He’s also staggeringly attractive. Dark, almost black hair, with salt and pepper starting at the temples. A carved face, like it’s been sculpted from marble, and deep mahogany eyes.

In fact, all four of these men are good-looking, and they look like they have money, too. Suit jackets are slung on the backs of the chairs and the handsome, dark one has a large, expensive-looking watch that draws my eyes down to where his massive hands are resting on the table.

We like this demographic. They have money to spend and are usually more respectful than the rowdy, younger guys.

“It’s Nick’s birthday,” Rachel-as-Jazmyn tells me, smiling between me and the dark-haired man, “and he’d like a lap dance from you.”

I’ve only been giving lap dances for a couple of months, and Nick is something I haven’t encountered yet—a genuinely hot man I actually feel a nervous tremor about being close to.

For the most part, the clients are men I’d never choose for myself. They can be unattractive or just unappealing—or very drunk. But stripping is a job, and the job is to sell the illusion of seduction. I learned quickly how to compartmentalize my feelings and act the part.

But this man is a test of my professionalism. “I’d love that,” I say—sincerely, for once—and place a hand on his shoulder. It feels like a granite boulder.

“Great.” The auburn-haired man waves his hands upward to urge his friend to his feet. “Go on then, Nicky.”

Nick stands and shoots the redhead a frown. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man a lot of people call Nicky.

The other man laughs jovially and reaches across the table, thrusting a short stack of twenty-dollar bills in my direction. Ten, I count quickly. This job has given me an almost supernatural ability to discern the value of cash at a distance.

“Take good care of him,” he says with a wink, and I smile as I take the cash from his hand.

“I will.”

Surreptitiously, I peel one bill off the top and slip it to Rachel, a courtesy for calling me over, and then lead Nick towards the VIP area at the back of the club.

There are six booths with heavy curtains that close for privacy. I sashay to an empty one, my platform heels forcing me to sway from side to side as I walk, and indicate the padded bench as I stash my money bag underneath it.

Nick sits and leans back, long legs stretching across the entire length of the booth. His crisp, white dress shirt lays flat against a muscled stomach, two buttons open at the collar. He doesn’t smile nervously, like some customers do. He doesn’t laugh or try to make small talk. He’s composed and confident, and it’s a little bit intimidating. Usually, the clients are the ones trying to impress me.

When I’m on stage, it doesn’t matter to me if the men watching are attractive or not. It’s the act of being seen that I like. The freedom of moving my body purely in a way that feels good, with no thought to shame. But lap dances are different. There’s an intimacy to them that brings out people’s inner feelings. Often it’s nerves, but Nick doesn’t seem to have any. He’s a cool customer.

“Happy birthday, birthday boy,” I say in a low murmur.

I step over the long bridge of his legs to lower myself onto his lap until we’re face to face.

This job has changed my physical boundaries in a lot of ways, getting me used to being close to strangers—to touching and being touched by them—but feeling his hard thighs under mine and smelling the warm, soapy smell that emanates from his chest area makes my cheeks warm in a way that isn’t typical for the VIP booth.

He smells fucking good.

---