Page 2 of Truth Be Told
I slam my locker, too. “Nope. I guess not. How do I look?” I do a little twist.
“Smokin’. Come on.”
By the time we start, the club is packed. It’s going to be a long night. I prepare to replace a dancer named Tracy as the end of her shift approaches, and she comes down off the pole out of breath and sweating, but only after gathering up her fair share of tips off the platform floor. Most of the men around her don’t want her to leave, but a few seem to change their minds when they see me approach. They’re looking at me like I’m the next piece of meat to be evaluated on the auction block. I divert my gaze, refusing to make eye contact. Tips be damned.
A flash of lights set to the beat of the music draws my attention. Lorelei is already working a stage opposite me. She’s past a large divider in the main room, and I have to strain to see her. I can only catch streaks of her hair being tossed and glimpses of her legs over the top of the divider as she twists and twirls her money out of her viewer’s pockets. She’s giving them what they want. They won’t be left impatient, that’s for sure.
“Come on, girl,” a man taunts, shaking a wad of cash up and down from his seat.
Tracy has since disappeared, and I’m up. The men are waiting for me, almost-empty drinks in hand. I take the stage, taking extra care with my tall heels to not fall flat on my face on the way – it’s always been a fear of mine, although I’m lucky that as of today it hasn’t yet happened – and swing myself around the pole in one swift motion, sticking that very heel into the air. This pleases my small crowd, and the man who’d been calling to me now starts to fork over some of that cash as I continue to dance. He thumbs through the bills, the motions more for show than anything else. He’s drunk. I can see it in his eyes and the way his movements are just a little slowed. Of course, that should be a given. They all get drunk here. That’s what this place is for. It’s whatI’mfor. For a bunch of lonely, single (hopefully) guys to come and watch me wrap my half-naked body around a pole for a couple of minutes. I want to puke.
But I won’t. I don’t want them to notice my slight tinge of nausea, so I try to mask it with a smile.
I can be prone to nausea at the most inconvenient times. Ever since I was a kid, my mom used to complain about having to rush me out of the store, forfeiting her huge pile of groceries, holding my little body straight out in front of her in an attempt to avoid getting puke on her just-dry-cleaned cashmere sweater. For a while she thought it had to be some kind of medical condition, but it never amounted to anything except annoyance and inconvenience. And now is certainly one of those times of inconvenience.
The smile works. They don’t let up their cash flow, and their expressions of glee plaster their obliviousness all over their faces.
For crying out loud. They’re like kids in a freaking candy store.I need to get a better job,I think as I send my hair flying.
Although, that isn’t quite true because this isn’t my main job. I should have said,I need to get a better side job.That’s all this is. A side gig that I just so happen to be pretty good at, and a side gig that just so happens to, so far, be pretty good to me in return.
A few minutes into my dance I catch sight of a lone man sitting at a table in the corner of the room. He’s drinking a beer. Well…he has a beer in front of him. I shouldn’t say he’s drinking it, because the entire time I’ve noticed him, he hasn’t taken one sip. He’s watching me. At least…I think he is. It’s hard to tell with the way the light’s shadows are falling over his eyes, and his prominent brow creates a perfect combination of concealing his gaze.
I might as well give it a shot. Tonight could use a little excitement, anyway. Who knows? Maybe he’s loaded and he’ll be blown away by my charm and elegant sexuality, come on over and pour out louds of cash onto me as I practically bathe in it. I roll my eyes, this time not trying to hide my expression from the watchful eyes upon me. Get over yourself. You’ve been at this for, what, two months now? You’re not the best. You’re not even the best in this room. Lorelei’s over there kicking ass, and here you are rolling your eyes and checking out the mysterious clientele lurking in the shadows.
That’s bad. The ones who lurk in the shadows, who give off that mysterious vibe, are usually the ones you’d least want to interact with.
There’s something about him though. Maybe it’s the way his hair falls perfectly down his forehead, over his right brow, threatening to descend over his eye, and his attitude that makes me feel like he planned the whole thing. Or maybe it’s the way he’s dressed, which would be impeccably if it weren’t for the top three buttons of his dress shirt that he has hanging open. The undone buttons expose the top of his chest, and pull my suddenly-magnetic eyes down to the very beginnings of a white undershirt.
I try to flirt with him with my eyes, desperately trying to keep the hope alive that maybe he’ll come over and join in on contributing to my cash pool, but the longer I watch him the more disinterested he seems. Right as I’m about to give up, he rises and reaches into one of his back pockets. He pulls out some money and tosses it onto the table, then walks away, leaving his beer.
It takes a lot to throw me. Since taking this job, I’ve learned how to put up with a lot of shit: catcalls (those are to be expected), drinks being spilled on me (both accidentally and intentionally), and touching (which is, by the way, strictly forbidden). So it should go without saying that I can take the heat. But that guy, the way he was looking at me, and the way he got up and flat out left just becauseIstarted looking athim…that threw me.
I regain my composure enough to finish my performance, and by one thirty, I’m beat. My feet ache and cramp in their compressing still patent leather. I’m dying here.
I’m breathing hard, and a fine layer of sweat breaks out across my skin as it does every night I dance. You may not think it’s possible for stripping to be one of the best workouts in the world, but you’d be wrong. I fan my face as I descend the few stairs, looking forward to some nice cold ice water and leaving the whistling and drooling of the men far behind, although I can still feel their eyes on me as I walk away.
I meet up with Lorelei as we converge on our way to the locker room. She raises her hand for a high five. “We did it,” she says.
“One mini-shift down,” I reply, smacking her hand.
We call them mini-shifts, the small segments of dancing we do before taking our thirty minute breaks. So far, it’s been my experience that you’re given more breaks in this job than any other “normal” job. I suppose you have to.
Just as we’re about to reach the freedom of the locker room, and with my hand on the door ready to open and get that nice glass of water, the fire alarm sounds. A loud, wailing sea of men’s voices flows through the building.
“Fuck,” says Lorelei, stomping her foot and yelling over the sound. “It’s like thirty fucking degrees out. Fuck.”
“If you say fuck one more time, I’m keeping my razor the next time you need it.” Lorelei has this thing with swearing. She’s trying to stop, and she’s asked me to help her. Most days that’s easier said than done. “I’ll make you dance all hairy.”
I’m not sure if she heard me, because she ignores what I said and takes my hand. Together we make for the door, about to join a large mass of people heading the same direction.
I hesitate briefly, resisting against the pull of Lorelei’s hand. Maybe I should run back inside for my switchblade. The truth is, I feel even more naked without that thing than I do without the majority of my clothes on, as I am now.
“Stella!” Lorelei says over her shoulder. “Come on.”
I guess it isn’t worth it. Don’t they always say that, anyway? Never go back inside for anything.
“Come on,” she says again. I rush up to her so that we’re closer together amid the small mass of people. “Keep me warm.”
