by JA Huss
I wonder how she didn’t notice it last night. Nah. Not really. She was high, it was dark, and after we got naked I was behind her for most of the festivities. In fact, she and the other one were so high that I debated whether bringing them home was the right thing to do. But then I remembered… I don’t really give a fuck. And now I need them to go. But I should be thoughtful about it.
“Hey, can you grab your friend and get the fuck out?” Eh, eh, eh… thoughtful. “Please?”
She says something that may be “You asshole,” or “Go fuck yourself,” or less probably, “You got it! Sorry to be a bother!” But whatever it is, it has motivated her to scramble back into the bedroom where I hear her rousing… Rapunzel?… from the floor. I turn back to the window. The street below is teeming. Like always. People rushing to… whatever. Do whatever fucked-up thing it is they came here to do. I spread my arms out and press my dick against the glass.
“You. My royal subjects! I piss on you all!” (I don’t say it aloud. I just think it. I may be crazy but I’m not insane.)
Goddammit! I need to slow my brain down. That dream was… What the fuck was it? And when did I start dreaming again? Have I been dreaming for a while and didn’t know? Shit, am I dreaming right now? Who’s to say this whole fucking reality I’ve been living isn’t just some dream that I will wake up from just like I woke up from the last one? No. Fuck that. I’m not in the mood for an existential crisis today.
I hear, “Yawafuggindickgofugyerseeeefff” from behind me. And the door slams shut. I better go get in the shower. I—
Just then… the fire alarm goes off. Loud. Fuck. What the fuck? I sniff. I smell smoke. What the hell is—Maybe I am still dreaming. I must be. Am I? Or did Kerosene and Glycerin betray me and set the sheets aflame? Would they? Did they? Fuck! Those fucking—! How could they?
I cough. I can feel my chest tightening. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Where’s it coming from? Where the fuck—?
I run into the bedroom. Nope. The sheets are white and crumpled and there are some errant black and blonde hairs, but that’s it. But the smoke is definitely filling the space. Shit! Where is it coming from?
The alarm is blaring. I would say it’s deafening, but it’s not. It’s jarring, shaking, screaming.
I run back into the living area and look to my right and that’s when I see the toaster. Smoking. Flames shooting up from the inside. Like the whole silly apartment, the exterior of the toaster is made of glass, so I can see the bread burning and shriveling to a crisp through the clear pane. It suddenly occurs to me that if the apartment were on fire that’s what I would look like to all the people on the street watching me burn.
And for some reason, that gives me an incredible sense of relief.
I need to slow down my brain. It feels like it’s on fire. It always feels like it’s on fire these days. Maybe it always has.
Maybe a shower will help. Maybe it’ll wash off the smell of smoke. And booze. And sex with strange women whose names I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll turn the heat on the water up as high as I can and see if I can scald the rest of my skin off.
Maybe I’ll open my mouth and swallow it all in. Maybe I’ll drown. Maybe I’ll punch a hole in the sky and sneak back into Heaven to find my angel.
Or shit, maybe I’ll just get dressed and go buy a fucking car.
It’s all the same to me.
Chapter Two - Maddie
There is a right way to do everything. A right way to make toast, for example. Or the right way to get to work. Or take your clothes off once you get there.
Toast is easy. You pop the bread in, make sure the setting is halfway between three and four, and push down that little lever. Up pops perfect toast.
Getting to work can be trickier. Sometimes I have to make snap decisions because of traffic. I work just off the Strip here in Vegas, so traffic is something I can’t really avoid. But I can plan for it by learning all the secret access roads around the casinos.
Taking off your clothes on stage is definitely a process and if you do it right, it’s just like toast and nothing at all like getting to work. You gotta do that tease first, right? Shake the money-makers a little. One strap here, another there. Make those guys work for the big reveal. You gotta do that little ass wiggle as you drop one bra strap, then the next, and then… ta-da!
Easy.
Money, that is.
Which is why I do it. Why else would I? It’s not my first choice. It’s not even my thirtieth choice. But it’s the one that I’ve got in front of me. And I need it. Money. To, y’know, live and everything. Hell, quick, easy money is why everyone does it. Pretty much the only girl I know who actually thinks of stripping in Vegas as a career is—
“You’re late, Scarlett.”
Her.
Raven. Bitchy boss extraordinaire and the oldest stripper down here at Pete’s. She’s thirty-seven, so not really old. But…whatever. If I’m still getting naked for money at thirty-seven… well, I just won’t be. That’s all.
Which is why doing things the right way is such a good idea and why I’m sticking to my plan, no matter how much money I go home with each night. There’s no way I’ll end up managing a strip bar in Vegas ten years from now. Of course, if you had asked me when I was eighteen what I’d be doing when I was twenty-five, I might’ve said a lot of things, but pretty sure none of them would be this. So best not to get overconfident.
“That’s the third time this month.”
I glance at the clock as I walk towards the dressing room. Five minutes is technically late, so I don’t argue. Just drop my bag on the chair next to Raquel and get busy.
“Hey, sweetie,” Raquel says as she glues her eyelashes on. “Big crowd tonight.”
“Good,” I say, rummaging through my bag to find my outfit. It took me a while to get used to being called sweetie and honey and baby by other women, but I’m a go-with-the-flow kinda girl, so I caught on quick enough.
“You got any regulars coming in tonight?” Raquel asks. She’s just trying to make conversation, but I’m not really here for conversation.
“I don’t believe in regulars,” I say. It’s my standard answer.
“I just don’t understand that,” Jasmine says, catching up on the conversation as she comes in from the stage clutching her bra and panties. “They pay good. It’s almost like a regular paycheck if you work them right.”
I don’t want to work them right. And I won’t be here long enough to care about a regular paycheck.
“Plus…” Raquel says in her sing-song voice. “Sometimes they take you home and…” She does a wink-wink with the one eye that already has the fake lashes glued on.
“I don’t believe in that, either,” I say, finding my outfit and stripping bare. I adjust my girls in the cups and then get busy on my garter and stockings. Three minutes later I’m slipping on the stilettos.
“Why do you wear that?” Jasmine says. “It’s not what they want, honey.”
I shrug. “I think it’s sweet. Very girl-next-door, ya know?”
Jasmine makes a face. “The girl who lived next door to me growing up was a crack whore. Not a good comparison.”
“Fair,” I say. “Well, I lived next to—” But I stop. Because I realize I’m about to divulge something personal about myself. That’s not part of my process. “To a church,” I say, recovering. “And this is probably something they’d wear.”
“Ha.” Raquel laughs. “Baby, no church girl is climbing into bed with her boring church boy wearing that.”
True. But I’m done with this conversation, so I let it drop. My typical outfit is what you’d call… virgin wedding night. It’s usually white, or pink, or sometimes pale blue. But it’s always made of cotton, has a little ruffle somewhere, and a little satin bow between my tits.
“I like it,” Otis says from the door. He’s the dressing room guard. More like a peeping Tom, but whatever. “Makes you look… wholesome.”
“Thank you, Otis. That’s exa
ctly what I’m going for.”
Because I’m trying to hold on to some part of the life I used to have. Even here.
I wrap my long, auburn hair up into a bun, pin it high on my head, and slip the blonde wig on.
It comes with pig tails.
“You look like jailbait,” Raven says, pulling up her black stockings. “Not girl-next-door.”
“Maybe,” I say, unwrapping a pink sucker and giving it a lick. It’s my only stage prop. “But don’t knock the power of youth. I’m pretty sure that’s why I take home four figures on a good Saturday night and you take home three.”
Bitch.
The rest of the girls erupt in laughter, but I’m already leaving, so I don’t catch whatever comeback Raven throws at me. She’s sensitive about her age.
I’m not only good at devising the perfect process for every possible scenario, I know how to find a person’s weakness and use it against them. I developed it as a way to deflect. To protect myself. And eventually it just became a part of me.
It’s kind of what I do out on stage. I analyze. I critique. I process shit and make predictions. I’m here to make money. I have very specific reasons for taking my clothes off in front of strangers and none of them include finding regulars or letting one of these people take me home for a night of extracurricular sexual favors.
As soon as the stage lights hit me in the eyes I morph into someone else.
This girl.
As opposed to that girl.
This girl is carefree and innocent. Blind to the cruel ways of the world. Sheltered and pure. At least that’s what I want these men to think.
They want that, right? The pure ones.
As long as that virtue doesn’t prohibit them from sucking a cock, that is.
I stifle a laugh as my hand automatically grabs the pole in the middle of the stage. I swing lazily around it as I enjoy the bubblegum sucker in my mouth. I don’t do gymnastics upside down with my thighs wrapped so tight around the brass pole, they make squeaking sounds. I just saunter around. Lick my candy seductively, flash my eyes at them all innocent and shy.
I tease them. And I don’t even have to do much either. Just let them look at me. Take off my top, wiggle around, and pretend I’m having the time of my life. That these men are my secret fantasy. That they might be the one to take that innocence away tonight…
Blah, blah, blah.
My point is—I don’t really give them much out here. I don’t want these guys to think, Hey, this bitch has talent. She was born to fuck that pole. I don’t want them thinking about anything except how many bills they need to stuff into the strings of my panties in order to get my attention for a few more seconds.
I don’t need them to think. I just need them to forget who they are, why they’re here, and what happens when they leave. I need them to see the character I’m portraying, not the woman I am.
And it works.
They always make a few lewd comments when I come out dressed up like—as Raven put it—jailbait. There’s the usual jabs about looking like someone’s little sister—mostly to get the older brother in the group riled up. And of course, they have to go one step further. “I’ll be your daddy, little girl.”
Gross.
But very predictable. And I like predictable, so I don’t even mind it. Because in my experience, surprises are very rarely a good thing. Predictable is safe. Predictable has rules. It makes sense.
For instance… I’m predicting that this room is filled with about three hundred men with money in their pockets. Pete’s isn’t the classiest strip joint, but it’s not a dive, either. And there’s a cover charge to get in. These guys aren’t here to wallow in self-pity at the bar over some bad week at work. They’re here to get a hard-on, maybe a lap dance so they can come in their jeans, and then go back satisfied to whatever girl they’re avoiding at home in bed.
Or maybe they don’t even have a girl. Maybe this is just the way they like it. Romance from afar, paid for in single bills, one stage act at a time. No commitment, no expectations, no reality.
That’s how I like it, so there’s those guys here too.
I bend low, opening my legs to give the group of guys in front of me a nice panty shot. They beckon me with dollars. One holds up a twenty so I ignore his cheap friends and stare him straight in the eyes as I wiggle, licking my sucker, twirling my pigtail between my fingertips, my ass so close to the floor I start to worry about getting the little t-back ruffle dirty.
So three hundred men, give or take a dozen or two. Once my act is over I’ll go out on the floor to see if anyone wants some special attention. I’ll do a dozen or so private lap dances—hands off only, I follow the rules and make no exceptions—and then I’ll do one final act towards the end of the night for people who came in late and missed the first one.
Then… voilà. Night over. Scarlett counts her money, changes her clothes, turns back into Maddie, and goes home.
Money Bags gives me a wink, so I stick to him for a little longer. Getting close and bending over so he can tuck that twenty into the back of my panties. I can’t afford to give him all my attention. That would piss the other guys off. But he pulls back the string near my hip and tucks twenty bucks worth of attention next to my skin, so I turn, slip a strap over my shoulder, and give him first look at one of my girls.
He smiles. Coyly. He’s kinda cute, I realize. But then I let that thought wander away as quick as it appeared. I would never—ever—date a guy who came here and saw me dance. Ever.
“Logan,” he yells over the music. Like I care what his name is. But then he takes a fifty out of the wad of bills he’s holding in his hand and waves it in front of me, capturing my attention with a come-closer gesture with his finger.
I look at his friends, at a few other guys sitting up in the front, and give them a little attention too. They tuck bills into the panty strings at my hips. Raven will chew me out if I pick a favorite while on stage. “That shit is for later,” she’ll snap.
But eventually, because I want that fucking fifty—and only after I’ve taken off the babydoll nightie and thrown it off to the side of the stage where I exit (just to make it easy to collect when I’m done)—I go back to him.
I bend down, legs open, ass wiggling close to the floor. And smile. “Scarlett,” I say over the music.
“Ah,” he says. And then he leans forward and says, just loud enough for me to hear and no one else, “You don’t look like a Scarlett.”
I recoil a little. But just a little. Patrons don’t get to rattle me. “What does a Scarlett look like?” I ask, my tone teasing.
“Like you,” he says. “But without that stupid wig covering your blazing red hair.”
This time I more than recoil. I stand up, thinking way too hard about that little offhanded comment. Because that’s what it was, right? I mean, all these dumb men have to know I’m wearing a wig. It’s what strippers do.
“Good guess,” I say, lowering back down in front of him, shaking my tits a little more. Getting my Scarlett on. “But wrong. I’m blonde under the wig as well.”
His eyes dart down between my legs and he nods his head. “Prove it.”
I laugh as I coo, “Pay me.”
He holds the fifty out, but not very far. Not far enough so he can reach me to tuck it into my t-back. “Crawl over here and take it with your teeth,” he says.
I smile and stand back up. Move on to another group of men across the stage.
Fuck him.
I repeat my staged seduction with them, but they only offer up singles. I move on to another group and get the same. My act is almost over, so I gotta make a better impression. Mr. Money Bags might’ve just ruined my take-home by showering me with bad luck.
So I work harder. I stand up, begin to ease my panties down over my hips. Turn, stick my ass out, and wiggle them down the curve of my ass before pulling them back up and letting the elastic snap against my skin.
That gets them all going and the bills start flow
ing again. I glance down, see a few fives tucked in with the ones, but that’s it.
My gaze involuntarily wanders back to Money Bags. He’s casually holding the fifty between his index and middle finger, like he’s waiting for me.
I take my attention back to the men I’m dancing for now, mentally telling him to fuck off.
My song begins to wind down, just a few more moments to collect. So I strut back over to the asshole with the fifty, sucking on my sucker in a way that makes every man in the room think their cocks are my candy, and drop right in front of him—legs open. I debate with myself, hard, for less than a second, then I decide to hell with it and pull my panties aside quickly to give him what he wanted.
“No fair.” He laughs. “You’re bare.”
I shrug, then snatch the fifty from his fingers and say, “I gave you exactly what you paid for.”
But he grabs my wrist as I try to pull away. He leans in, close, and then he growls, “Carlos didn’t get what he paid for. And he’s out of patience, Madison.”
He lets go before I can even properly freak out. Stands up, turns his back, and walks off. My song ends and the lights go out, leaving me in the dark to grab my nightie as I make my exit and remind myself why I’m here.
“Good set,” Raquel says as she brushes past me to make her way out on stage.
“Thanks,” I hear myself mumble, almost stumbling into the dressing room. I stuff my money in my backpack and take a seat in front of the mirrored vanity Raquel just vacated.
