by Emilia Finn
For months this year, I’ve been one of them. An entertainer, a dancer. But not a whore. Never a whore. Mac is on the door of this club tonight, which means if we can’t make it so I look nothing like me in the next twenty minutes, then I’m screwed and in soooo much trouble.
“It’s itchy,” I complain of the silver-blonde wig Celeste sets on my head. She forces it on without thought for the way she jams my neck around, and smacks my hand away when I reach up to scratch. “It’s poking me.”
“I’m gonna poke you with a steak knife if you don’t stop fussing.” She smacks my hand again, and continues working, while another girl – Gloria – works on my makeup.
I always add something along my eyes and lips, if only to convince myself I’m pretty enough to be on that stage, but tonight, we’re going with a full makeover that I’m hoping, if Mac gets a fast peek of my face, will keep him from recognizing me. I know that if we stop and speak face-to-face, I won’t be able to hide, but if he stays on his side of the club, and I stay on mine, everything should be fine.
Right?
I wear a silver wig that completely hides my telltale hair, and contacts that change my brown eyes to a… well, a dirty green, I guess. Lipstick, concealer, massive lashes, and a million other things – not the least of which is a silicone nose that surprisingly changes my face more than anyone would expect.
Gloria is an expert with stage makeup, so when I told her of my problem, she shoved me into her chair and went to work doing what she does best.
I never expected dancing here would be a problem, seeing as my friends have never stepped foot in this place to party, and my family are well past the partying phase of their lives, but tonight is the second time this year that Mac’s been hired to work. Twice in a year doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you’re shaking your ass on a stage, your best friend walking up and discovering your dirty little secret becomes a little problematic.
Damn Mac Blair for taking these jobs. And damn him again for tapping out at his fight last year.
I was so certain he would win. It was poetic. It was the way it was supposed to end, but Iowa was the better fighter, Mac tapped, and I lost a bet.
A big bet.
“Almost done, sweetpea.” Gloria nibbles on her lips while she works a mere two inches from my face. Her breath tastes like lemon candy, her lashes are so long, they almost touch my face, but her hands are gentle and competent.
I might have acted like I didn’t see her every time I’ve come in here, but the first time I ask for help, she’s all over it, judgment free.
“Those contacts are gonna start bothering you before long. You’ll wanna squirt some drops in there as often as possible.”
“I’ll keep the drop nearby for between sets.”
“Remember you have the wig,” she coaches. “Don’t run your fingers through your hair unless you’re sure you won’t accidentally tug it off.”
“And don’t fall off the pole,” Celeste inserts. “That shit hurts. Especially when you land on your newly inserted titties.”
“I didn’t get new tits recently,” I try to joke.
I press a hand to my stomach before I hurl, and do that fake laugh where everyone knows you’re being fake. I can’t stop it. I can’t settle until this night is over, and Mac and I are on opposite sides of town long enough for me to tear these lashes out again.
“I appreciate your help,” I say quietly. “Truly.”
“It’s okay, baby girl. Celeste is onstage tonight too, so if your man walks his fine ass in, she’ll do something to borrow his attention. Lights are down low, lower than usual, thanks to the new tits she likes to use for good rather than evil. Music is up, folks are already on their way to drunk. It’s gonna be fine.”
“He’s not my man.” I hate that that’s the only thing I’ve zoomed in on. “He doesn’t want me.”
“If he doesn’t want you,” Celeste says, “then why the frack are you worrying about what he thinks?”
“Because…” I frown and look down into my lap. “Because I care. I care that he doesn’t think poorly of me. I care that he doesn’t catch me dancing for men.”
“You ain’t sitting on anyone’s lap, babe. You’re on a stage, doing a beautiful routine that draws folks in, not because of your ass, but because of how effing elegant you look when doing it.”
“I wish I could dance like you,” Celeste says. “I wish I had even half your talent.”
“And you aren’t even wearing a thong,” Gloria finishes. “Other girls, they lose the bra and wear a string thong. You wear booty shorts, you never take your top off, and you still make more in tips than the rest of us put together.”
“There’s something to be said for the value of mystery,” Celeste says. “I show it all, so now they’re bored. She shows ‘em nothing, and now they pant for her. They wanna see what you’ve got, hon. They beg for your attention and pray they’re the lucky fucker that gets your nod.”
“My dad will kill me if he ever finds out,” I choke out. I think of my father, of his joking façade, but beneath that, his furiously protective streak. “He will straight up kick my ass.”
“It’s just dance, honeybee. No one is touching you, you ain’t sitting on anyone, you ain’t touching someone else. It’s about perception at this point – nobody’s gonna get pissy if you dance on a stage in a tutu. But because it’s in a club, suddenly it’s bad?” Gloria shakes her head. “No. None of those double standards are allowed up in here.”
“Prepare yourselves.” The voice coming through the sound system carries to the changing rooms where I sit. “Next up, the one you’ve all come out tonight to see…”
“Oh god.” I close my mouth before I throw up.
“Holly!”
“You’re up.” Cupping my face, Gloria stares straight into my eyes and grins. “Go hard, and you might earn that two grand tonight.”
“It’ll all be over if I can do that.”
Her smile drops. “I’ll miss you if you go.”
She releases my face, then I find myself spinning so Celeste can cup my face the way Gloria did.
“You’ll be fine. And seriously, will you actually die if he recognizes you?”
I consider her question. Run through the scenarios.
“I don’t want him to be mad at me. I especially don’t want him to think less of me.”
“You said you want him, right? You want him to be your man, but he won’t make the move.”
I nod. “I swear, he’s the stupidest guy I’ve ever met.”
“Well, mayyyybe,” she stretches the word out, “just maybe, you should show him who you are. I bet that’d get his ass moving and staking a claim. He won’t take you because he expects you to always be there in the wings. But if he knew of your offers, baby girl. If he knew of the men that would pay a lot of money for a little of your time in a secluded room…”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not going to a room with them.”
“You don’t have to tell him so. All you gotta do is nod one time; when a man approaches you, you nod, then you watch your man claim you.” She grins. “It would be glorious, to be honest.”
“I’m not playing those games.” I slide off my stool onto bare feet, and breathe through my panic. “Either he wants me, or he doesn’t. Whatever his problem, he needs to work through it without me playing games of manipulation.”
She snickers. Shaking her head and leaning forward, she drops a kiss right on my lips, only to pull back and study my eyes. “You call it manipulation, I call it the fast forward button. Go do your thing, honey. Then get back here and toss those contacts. Your natural color is so beautiful, I hate to dirty them up with these imposters.”
“H-H-H-Holly!”
My waiting crowd hollers as the emcee calls my fake name.
I pass through the tunnel that’s sort of similar to the one we enter when we step up for a competition fight, climb the three steps to the stage, and note how men sit taller. They pay attention.
Phones are put down, ankles are raised to rest on knees, and under heated gazes, I have to start moving, praying I don’t spew everywhere.
I wear booty shorts, just like I do in my gym and dance studio. I can’t bring myself to wear less, so I wear what makes me comfortable, and do my thing for the seventh Saturday this year. I wear a black bra beneath a tight, white tank that turns see-through under certain lights from above. My brown hair usually hangs low to tickle my back, but it’s tied up tonight, and in its place is a wig that barely touches my shoulders.
On all of the nights I’ve done this, I haven’t felt too guilty. It’s just dancing, after all. I’m comfortable knowing it’s just dancing, just a sport. It’s helped keep the guilt from my heart.
The only reason what I’m doing would be frowned upon is because of where I am. Rhino’s Club has a less than stellar reputation around this town. Tell my daddy I was dancing in booty shorts at the studio; no big deal. Tell him I was dancing in booty shorts at Rhino’s… the shit will splatter.
With eyes on me, hungry, possessive, heated eyes, I approach the pole I actually kind of like, lift my arms high above my head, and, grabbing on, drop my legs out beneath me so I move into the splits that make men gulp.
Patrons are still allowed to smoke in here, unlike at other, more upmarket clubs in the city, so some light fat cigars, puffing out the disgusting smoke that, thankfully, helps keep Mac away.
His job is to stay outside, and his heart transplant means he never purposely puts himself somewhere he’s going to be sucking down secondhand smoke. For the first time ever, I pray these watchful men suck on those cigars like they’re candy, puff the choking smoke into the air, and if I’m lucky, they’ll do it so much that I can stand amongst the clouds and use it as another buffer to hide my identity.
Tomorrow, I can try to clean my lungs with bleach and hope none of the poison stuck.
The Weekend, the artist that sings through the sound system, croons about pain and love and scars as I slowly lift again and begin to climb the pole.
The first time Celeste suggested I use the pole, I was almost offended. Like, how dare she ask me to do such a ridiculous thing? But then she showed me her routine. She showed me how she does it, and proved that dancing, pole dancing, any kind of dancing, is a sport just as surely as fighting is. Her smooth routine intrigued me. It turned me on a little, and by the end of the weekend, I was watching, mentally choreographing, and then I was up and putting my strength to the test.
A lifetime in a gym comes in handy when trying such a taxing new exercise, but though I’ve worked out almost every single day of my life, I still found new muscles I had no clue existed. Muscles in my thighs, muscles in my arms. It’s all so different from fighting, from weightlifting, so as I’d practice, then drag my ass home to rest, and my mom would ask if I’d had a good session, we both knew she meant at the gym.
If only she knew the truth.
Money slowly makes it way to the stage. Twenties, fifties. Singles that I’m tempted to pick up and shove back into the throats of those who toss them. I climb eight or so feet up the pole, prepare my arms for the lift, then I push my legs away, only to bring them back in again and send myself hurtling around in circles.
I release my grip to drop down a foot, open my legs in a wide V, and then closing them again, I release my hands and send myself gently to hang upside down.
My wig tugs and makes my scalp itch, but I leave it be. Every single person here knows it’s a wig, so it’s not like it’s a huge embarrassment if it moves.
I bend my spine backwards so the arch makes me groan from pleasure when it clicks and cracks, then grab onto the pole while my legs hold me from above, and when I have the pole in my hands, I release my legs and slowly bring them around so they touch the floor again.
Most of the other girls wear sky-high stilettos when they’re dancing. It’s part of the show, after all. But I nixed that idea after just my first night. I like bare feet. I like being able to feel the floor beneath me, and it’s not like the owners of Rhino’s get mad – if the patrons don’t like it, it’s my tips that suffer.
My tank top rides up as I bring my feet back beneath me, so when I stand, my entire belly and the bottom half of my black bra are exposed. Sweat slicks along my skin and makes it impossible for my top to lower on its own, but because my hands are busy, I can’t fix it. I continue moving and smiling extra big for the guy tossing fifties at my feet.
He’s not so old that it’s creepy. Twenty-five. Mayyyybe thirty, if I want to be brutally honest. But I’m not fifteen anymore, and it’s not like its unheard of for a twenty and thirty-year-old to hook up. I don’t intend to go anywhere near the man, but I still need to talk myself around, remind myself that I’m not a child anymore. I turn twenty-one in a few weeks, finally old enough to actually drink in this place, rather than dance in it.
When one song turns to another, and that one into a third, Leona Lewis croons and helps me get lost in the music, rather than obsess over what’s happening beyond my immediate crowd and the suffocating smoke.
A fourth song turns into five, and at the end of that one, my crowd applauds, knowing I’ll be leaving to take twenty minutes out back to count my cash and catch my breath.
Dancing is exhausting work. It’s exhilarating and demanding and sexy, but no matter how much I enjoy it, it’s still hard work and takes my breath away.
It’s almost dehumanizing the way we have to dart around and collect our cash at the end of a set. I hate it. It’s my most loathed minute of being out here in front of these people, but I’m not leaving it behind. Not a single dollar. So I scoop it up, turn back to collect the couple I missed, and when the front doors of the club open, I race past Celeste and bolt into the back to take cover for twenty minutes.
One set down. Two more to go.
And as I sit on the same stool I started the night on, I count more than eight hundred dollars in cash.
For less than an hour’s work.
“Hell fucking yes.”
I recount it, roll it, and toss it into my locker before Celeste’s set ends. I spin the lock to make sure the door is secure, then I head back to my stool and crack open a bottle of water.
I go back on again soon.
Mac
Holly Who?
“Hey, Tara.”
The manager I met the time I was here for Nicole moves behind the bar with fast, steady hands, delivering drinks to those who shout for them. She moves faster for those who use their manners, and ignores those who don’t.
I stop and lean against the perpetually wet bar, wait for her to notice me.
“Hey, honey! Hold on.” She lifts a single finger, flirts with a customer while she pours a beer, and when he slaps money onto the bar, she picks it up with a slurp when it sticks to spilled alcohol, and tosses it to the back counter to dry out.
“Hey.” She moves to me in a rush. “You’re here.”
“Yeah. Can I get a drink?”
“Red lemonade?” Her lips quirk up into a playful grin. She knows I don’t mean alcohol, and when I nod, she throws her head back on a laugh and begins pouring. “Such a masculine drink, Blair. Do you want an umbrella, too?”
“I’m not insecure.” I turn at the bar with a grin and rest my elbows behind me for a moment.
The dancing girls do their thing. They slide along the pole, extend their toes, and show off sparkling heels, then they dip and show a whole heap of ass.
“Here you go.” Tara drops the tall glass by my elbow and claps my cheek hard enough for it to almost be a slap.
When I peek down to my drink, I pick the umbrella out and flick it as she walks away with a laugh.
“Go back to work, Blair. We aren’t paying you to watch the girls.”
“Mm.” And yet, I turn back to the stage with my girly drink in hand.
I intend to walk away, I swear I do, but the music changes, something sexy and pulsing by Rihanna makes the club floor vibrate, so when the lights flic
ker the way they do at a pro fight, I remain where I am, chewing the inside of my cheek when a pair of extra-long, extra-lean legs make their way to the stage.
The platform is a full fifty feet or so from the bar. Add in the smoke in the air, and the lights sending my brain into a seizure, all I can focus on are the legs. So fucking long, so beautiful.
I bring my drink up and sip when the woman’s silver hair – a wig? – sparkles against the lights from above.
There are two others on the stage with her, but they’re not a synchronized group. They each do their own thing, and the seats that were empty a moment ago fill again, as the newcomer steps onto bare toes and seduces them.
The other women, one who I know is called Gloria, dance and shake their asses. The other one, the one that isn’t Gloria, is topless, wearing nothing more than a thong and heels. Her body is toned, and her stomach has sexy little ridges that most women would kill for.
But to every man in the room, she’s invisible. When compared to the silver-haired seductress, she doesn’t exist.
My heart beats faster in my chest. Something I never really noticed pre-transplant, but it’s something that makes me pause every single time now. I hold my drink in my right hand, and bring the left up to press to my chest to feel the thump-thump-thump. The smoke in the air makes my throat dry, but though I’ve made it a personal policy to stay outside as much as possible, I don’t walk away.
Not yet.
The new chick, clearly younger than the other two, if only because of how much smaller and more compact her body is compared to theirs, twirls around the stage with her own special flare. The others shake their asses and pleasure the men. But the third, she closes her eyes more often than not, and seems to float as she moves.
The romantic in me considers that she’s dancing just for her. One arm lifts high above her head, the other, she brings around in a sort of circle that makes me think of…
No.
