Page 1 of Jagger

Hoots,hollers, and salacious screams echo around the room as Ginuwine's “Pony” fades away and the blue-tinted lights above dim out, leaving the six of us frozen on stage.

Panting.

Sweating.

Sly grins on our faces. Grins that have the power to shred panties and wreck a woman right in her very seat.

But they’re not here for a quirk of our lips.

No.

They’re here to watch us shake our asses, grind our hips against the stage and hope that, along with stripping free of our shirts, we’ll strip free of everything else too.

And who are we exactly, you ask?

The Men of SIX.

I'm Jagger, but the world knows me as Jag. Then there's Sinclair, who the ladies dubbed Sin, Ronin better known as Rush, Dallas aka Big D, Calvin the ex-cop, and Paulie, our resident Guido.

Together, we deliver the hottest male entertainment on The Strip, and when I say the hottest, I mean the absolute fucking hottest. Why else would women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities pay, not only an obscene cover charge at the door, but also hefty drink prices at the bar, and an additional fee for VIP should they find themselves interested in a private dance?

Truth is, price is irrelevant when the experience is platinum and the ambiance is high-class. At least that’s what the majority of our testimonials say. SIX may be Sin City’s hidden gem, but even the most well-known club or show within the infamous bedazzled adult playground has nothing on us.

Shielded by momentary darkness, the boys and I disappear behind the ebony curtain and shuffle into the dressing room for a ten-minute break before making our rounds back in the main room. I amble straight to the fridge and pull out a Red Bull, chugging down half the can as my brothers disperse through the room and plant their asses in the nearest seat. We’re not blood brothers, of course, but I’ve known them long enough to consider them as such.

“Good-fucking-show,” says Calvin from his lone spot on the couch.

Dallas and Paulie nod while Sin and Rush mumble some form of an agreement.

“You forgot to add as usual,” I point out, downing the rest of my tangy, bubbly goodness.

“How many cans you have left?” Sin asks abruptly, prompting me to open the fridge again and take a headcount.

“Five.”

“Jesus Christ, Jag. You just bought that fucking pack two days ago.”

“And?” I fling the emptied can into the trash.

“And, that shit is gonna fucking kill you if you keep guzzling it down like water.”

“Yes, dad—whatever you say, dad.”

“That’s Daddy to you, fucker,” he snickers, and Dallas proceeds to bark out a laugh I’m sure Betty can hear from the bar.

Saluting them with the finger, I strip out of my slacks and slip into my worn jeans, grabbing my fitted off the coffee table en route the door. “When you pay my bills and buy me a new Audi, then you can be Daddy. Until then, get on your knees and fucking blow me, dickhead.”

Dallas howls again, the boys right along with him, and with a satisfied grin, I take off down the darkened hallway and pull the bill of my cap low over my eyes as I push past the privacy curtain into the main room.

A boisterous blend of chit-chat, laughter, and “She Knows” immediately slap me in the face, the promise of a good night supercharging the air like a live wire.

“Jagger! Jagger, over here!” I hear from somewhere in the crowd.

I grin.

Scanning each table, not a vacant seat in the house, I search for the source, only to have Sin come out of nowhere and point out a group of ladies of in the back. They’re huddled in one of studded leather booths, their wicked smiles telling me all I need to know, even from across the room.

Either the singles are about to rain down or one of them is leading lead me straight to VIP the second I approach their table. Considering there’s four of them, I figure it’ll likely be a mix of the two.

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