Page 116 of Ewan

I swear this will be the last time I’m doing this.

Today and tomorrow.

That’s it.

No matter how good the money is. I get too frazzled for putting myself out there. The patrons cheer me on as I demonstrate how athletic I am.

I smile––what I think a smile is––and spin around before grabbing the pole and doing my routine.

I’m a pretty decent pole dancer, and I’ve heard that good pole dancers make north of ten thousand dollars a month in the big cities, which is way more than my teacher's salary.

Having principles is bad in this economy. It’s always been bad, it seems.

The crowd keeps cheering me on.

I’ve told you I'm good at this, and now that I'm getting the hang of it, I’m giving them my best.

Sultry squats and back extensions. Grabbing the pole and lifting myself up. Squeezing it behind my knee and slowly sliding around.

It’s a beautiful sequence that usually makes people forget about their hard dicks and appreciate the effort that goes into performing these acrobatics.

Some people applaud me. And I hope the jerk in the back office––the manager––if he’s watching––I’m sure he is–-already regrets being a knucklehead with me.

Of course, I’m getting a few requests to remove my bra. That’s not going to happen. Some girls do that. Some go out there wearing pasties. Some may take their panties off if a client is generous enough to open their wallet and make it worth it for them.

What they are doing is not what I’ve been doing. I’ve gotten away with not doing it by balancing out my lack of compliance with a nice acrobatic show.

A few more moments pass, and cash starts flowing in my direction. From ten-dollar bills to one-hundred-dollar bills.

The calls keep coming, yet I ignore them. But there’s something else I can’t ignore.

There’s this odd feeling that I’m being watched.

Of course I’m being watched. There’s an entire room full of people, mostly males, and they’re all staring at me.

But this is not that.

My brain notices something different.

The patrons out there are mostly background noise, and that’s not what's getting to me.

But this?This weird feeling?

This is what's getting to me.

It quickens my pulse and makes me aware of it as it nags at my perception. It almost makes me adjust my moves so I can peek around the room.

I struggle with that idea a lot as something inside me wrestles with that thought.

A battle ensues in my head, and as I try not to lose my balance and fall off the pole, I struggle to make sense of this.

As my performance comes to an end, I straighten and move away from the pole before prancing to the edge of the stage, which is part of my routine.

People love my moves, their loud voices hovering over the stage.

I make out a few silhouettes and the low-hanging lights, as well as a few faces without a clear identity.

Overall, I don’t spot anything unusual. Some patrons are dressed casually. Other sport more fancy clothes.

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