“Come on, Ginger. You’re up in less than two minutes. They’re almost to the end of Coco’s number.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stand and do a quick check of my look in the full-length mirror.
I’ve got on a pair of ass-less chaps with toy guns slung low in a holster buckled across my hips. My top is a black satin shirt tied tight under my tits, pushing them up and giving me plenty of cleavage. The lace mask covers my face, and I hope it does the trick.
Marnie snaps her fingers. “Let’s go.”
Hurrying down the hall, I adjust the cord that holds my cowboy hat on and take a deep breath.
Coco’s music hits a crescendo, the lights strobe on, and the crowd cheers. Then the spot goes dark, and I know she’s busy gathering her money.
A minute later, she dashes through the curtain, and my song starts playing. I strut out onto the stage toWanted Dead or Aliveby Bon Jovi.
I swagger the length of the stage, shaking my hips to the driving beat and pulling my gun. I wrap my leg around the pole and lick the barrel from bottom to top.
I know every man in the place is imagining my tongue running up the side of his dick. I lose myself in the music and dance, trying to ignore the table at the back of the room.
I do my act, putting everything I’ve got into it.
At the end of my performance, I tear off my top and flash my tits for two seconds before the spotlight goes dark. Any more than that, and they have to pay for a private room.
When I finish, bills rain down on the stage. Gathering them up is always my least favorite part. It’s demeaning scrambling on my hands and knees grasping for money thrown at me. But I think of Tucker and am grateful for every dollar.
I head to the dressing room to change clothes.
After my performance, I, like every other dancer, am expected to hit the floor and work the crowd, selling lap dances.
Quickly changing into a skimpier outfit that makes it easier to move around the crowded room, I choose one that isn’t too revealing, considering Cody is out there.
It’s a red bra and panty set that’s more satin ribbons than anything else. It has no cups, but at least my nipples are hidden by rhinestone-covered hearts held in place by gold chains. A red satin bow on the thong rests just over my crotch.
I add a matching red lace blindfold to cover my eyes, and lace cuffs with satin ribbons that tie around my wrists.
I check my new look in the full-length mirror before heading to the floor. My back for the most part is completely naked, covered by just a ribbon thong and bra clasp. I’ve got a good ass, and showing it makes me lots of money. My lap dances are usually in high demand whenever I wear this number.
I scan the room. Some girls struggle with this part of the job, but I have an easy way of talking to men. I make them feel comfortable, especially the shy and awkward ones.
Because of that, I don’t go near the MCs table in the back, instead leaving them to the other dancers.
I find my mark and head toward a shy, nerdy-looking guy in the corner. My goal is always to try to convince a man to accompany me to one of the VIP rooms we call the champagne rooms. That’s the golden goose—the main attraction and every dancer’s gold mine. Not only can I make a mint off those private dances, but the club’s cut makes it the number one thing Marnie and Ronnie push for.Get them back to the champagne room—that’s always goal number one.
When I first started, I was terrified of this part of the job, but an experienced dancer took pity on me when she found out I’d recently lost the love of my life, and was a single mom trying to make it from month to month.
She was the kind of woman who didn’t waste her time giving out free advice, so when she took me under her wing, it really meant something. She was good at what she did and taught me everything she knew. I still remember the first thing she said to me.
Lola shook her head in pity at my pathetic lap dance skills, then pulled me to the side. “Look, honey, I’m gonna give you all my best tricks. First things, first. Do you feel beautiful?”
“I guess so.”
“There’s no guessing about it. You are. You need to know it, to feel it, to believe it. If you do, and if you paste a smile on your face, even if you don’t feel it at first, you’ll make a fortune. I guarantee it. Just remember, customers hate jaded strippers. We indulge in fantasy here. They don’t want to hear about how hard your day has been or how much your feet hurt, and they definitely don’t want to read it on your face. A smile makes you approachable. See, I’ll let you in on a little secret, sweetie. Pretty women are really intimidating to most guys.
“In fact, inability to talk to women is what brings most money customers into this club; so, make yourself as easy to talk to as possible by letting your wall down. Just remember, eye contact makes all the difference. Connection makes a sale. But don’t get too touchy on the floor. Make him wait until he’s in the VIP room. Got it?”
I took every word to heart and studied everything she did, every move of hers, I copied, and I learned the most important lesson—dancing is all about an illusion of intimacy with the customer, the desire for the unattainable, an implied message with just the right layer of fantasy.
Approaching with a smile, I immediately put the man at ease. “Hello, handsome. Have you ever been in here before?”
