Page 5 of The End of Summer

“I promise!” she insisted. “Some of the parties like to bring in outside entertainment, but you yourself will never have to worry about stripping, I swear.”

My stomach knotted. “Remind me again why you didn’t tell me about this place sooner?”

“Um,” she grinned, blushing. “You didn’t ask?”

I looked at her, deadpan.

“Fine. To be fair, you’ve always been a little, well –”

I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips into a smirk. “Be careful with the character assassination, please. I’m in a fragile state.”

“Straight-laced?” she offered. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. You’re adorable, with your smarty-pants online Master’s degree and your goals to teach little kiddos. But, to be fair, your Instagram is more reminiscent ofSesame StreetthanMagic Mike.”

“False!” I retorted. “Clearly you’ve forgotten about the time I worked at Cock Town.”

To clarify: Cock Town was a classy joint in downtown Amherst where I learned how to decorate paper penis-shaped bibs for chic patrons to don as they happily drank beer and ate chicken.

“You lasted three days,” Jenna said. “Remember? You couldn’t handle the menu?”

“Hateful,” I laughed. This was sadly accurate, though. On my first Saturday night there, the manager wanted me to push the drink specials, which included the Whisker Biscuit (vodka-cranberry), the Nipple Ring (rum and Coke), and the Spunk Trumpet (seven-and-seven). All of the drinks were served with a Blow Pop sticking out of the top in the spotwhere a little paper umbrella might have otherwise been. To clarify, I would have been fineservingthem, but I couldn’t bring myself to announce the names of the drinks to tables of total strangers. So, I turned in my apron and high-tailed it out of there, face ablaze from blushing.

“Anyway, that vibe will get you lots of love in a place like this. Everyone loves a good girl with a wild side.” Jenna winked at me, knowing full well that all sides of me are as tame as they come.

But hey, a job’s a job.

And with that, it was done. No resumé submission. No interview. Just a shady text exchange between Jenna and someone named Arrow. Now, four days later, my first shift – if you can even call it a shift? – starts in exactly 13 minutes, and I’m parked in the Fiesta in an obscure back alley behind the lumberyard off 6A.

Well, no time like the present,I decide, climbing out of my car. I lock the door behind me and walk as gracefully as possible on my 3-inch platforms to the steel, purple-painted door Jenna explained that I should look for. No signage, which I find a touch disturbing, but what do I know about this sort of business?

It’s oddly quiet, but as I approach the door, I feel the ground shaking so slightly that I wonder if I’m imagining it. It’s as if this warehouse has a heartbeat all its own.

Deep breath, Gretchen.

I open the heavy, metal door and succumb to the shock of sudden sensory overload. Bass thumps harder than my hammering pulse. Rihanna reminds me that I’ve come here to “work, work, work, work, work, work” through huge,black speakers at a decibel that must be illegal for the sleepy beach town ofWellingham.A black banner with hot pink writing hangs on the wall, announcing the name of this fine establishment:Cosmo-pole-itan.My eyes take a moment to adjust to the neon purple lighting as the door immediately slams shut behind me. I spy one, two, three… eight silver poles, and – oh –wow.

That girl is upside down.

Upon closer examination, I see that her legs are crossed, one over the other at the knee, as if she was just neatly sitting in a chair. Her back is all the way arched, though, and her hair is so long it’s just inches from the ground. Her tanned skin is everywhere: bare arms, bare legs, bare stomach and back. Only her essentials are covered – if by covered, you mean spilling out from the sides of an insubstantial sequined bra and panty set, which might actually be a bathing suit, although I can’t imagine anyone doing laps in sequins. She’s reaching her hands toward the floor, elongating her body, and, yep, by all accounts it appears that she is hanging on to the pole with only her thighs.

Sweet Jesus.

The pole isspinning.

The girl – er,woman– swings her body back up, hands, then arms, then head, neck and torso, grabs the pole, kicks her legs back like a pendulum, and glides down to the ground.

Which is when I notice her choice of footwear.

The clear heels must be at least eight-inches –

“Hi!” she says, ripping me out of my thoughts with a natural grin.

“Hi?” I reply, a question, because I am unsure of basically everything in this moment. Like, how am I here? What even is this place? I’ve become a character in what feels like a shroom-induced movie-in-my-mind. Long way from Kansas, Toto. This place is definitely not the future kindergarten class of my dreams. Also, I don’t do shrooms. Only multivitamins. And only when I have enough money in the bank to afford such a luxury.

She sashays towards me; my guess is that sashaying is the only way one can maneuver in shoes so tall. Her generous hips sway – boom, boom, boom, boom – to the rhythm of Rihanna and Drake, until she gets to the massive speaker and lowers the volume. Then, she turns back to me. Her platinum blonde hair goes all the way down to her waist.

“I’m Arrow,” she says, extending her hand.

It’s not a strip club,I remind myself.There is no stage. Just these poles. These poles are for teaching, not for stripping.I consciously try to keep my judgment face in check.

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