Page 66
I recognize these men, I know what they are—men like Frank who ignore no and stop, men like our manager who enjoys snapping our G-strings and slapping our asses—they want power. They’re always punching down, because nothing makes a cowardly man feel more powerful than stealing the light from a woman who looks like she has something to live for.
Misery loves company, and they want to be the one to break me.
The first hour goes by quickly; I’m better at holding my ground tonight. The first guy who tries to grab my ass gets a quick hand on his wrist. I simper when I tell him “no touching,” but I make sure my eyes convey that I mean it.
The lights flash pink and blue and I fall into a rhythm. Three songs, a private dance, get a quick drink of water. I prioritize customers paying with higher bills. I glimpse at their phone lock screens; if it’s a photo of a mother and a newborn, it’s showtime.
It only took me two nights to find that new dads are the easiest targets; they’re desperate and horny and easy to take advantage of. Let’s not pretend there’s anything innocent about these lustful losers who beg for multiple children and then abandon their exhausted wives at home so they can go out and watch other women take off their clothes.
And every time he taps ignore when his wife calls, I charge him double—dancers can be sharks too.
I’m standing near the rack when a customer turns around and puts my hand on his crotch; he asks me how much for me to suck his dick as if he’s ordering a drink. I shove him away.
“Not happening.”
“Extra hundred,” he offers.
“No,” I say, and walk away. I can feel his eyes on me and it makes the back of my neck itch. Ten minutes later I’m talking with another patron when the same guy returns.
“You’d make more money with me, you know.”
I look him up and down. “I’m good.”
“Why the hell not?”
The customer I’m talking to gets up and walks away, and I’m pissed because I almost had a dance out of him. Now I’ve wasted my time.
He grabs my wrist. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll go easy on you.”
Now there’s a scene. The floor manager comes over; as smarmy as this motherfucker is, I appreciate him stepping in.
“He needs to be cut off,” I say, gesturing to the customer. The asshole scoffs and walks away. I stand there dumbfounded. I turn back to my manager. “Why aren’t you kicking him out? He’s been harassing me for the last half hour after I’d repeatedly told him I wouldn’t engage in sex acts.”
He sighs at me like I’m being difficult. “If I kicked out every guy who asked you to suck his dick,” he says, glancing between us, “I’d have an empty club.” He laughs, he actually laughs. No wonder Fern said the managers were trash.
“The rule is no touching, no extras. I did exactly what I was supposed to do.”
He grins at me like he’s won something, like I’m not seeing the full picture, then he looks at his watch. “Why don’t you head out early tonight and think about whether this is the right place for you. Don’t forget to pay the house on the way out. Fifty-five.”
“But I came in before six,” I say.
He raises a brow. “Fifty-five.”
My mouth goes slack. I want to argue, I want to scream, I want to take out every bit of anger I have on him. Instead, I close my mouth. Because this shithole is all I’ve got.
I nod and my throat tightens. Fuck. I did like Diamond said, and standing up for myself just cost me what could have been a great night. After paying the house I walk away with eighty-seven dollars.
In the dressing room, I put on my street clothes. Two of the dancers watch me but don’t say anything. I grab my bag and head for the door. When the outside air hits my face, there’s a burning sensation. Don’t cry. There’s nothing worse than a crying stripper.
I need to figure out how to end this.
The chaos from years ago is creeping back in. The last time my life started unraveling like this, it didn’t stop until I’d lost everything. I’m losing control . . . And that scares me more than anything else.
CASPER
She’s stripping.
That’s where she’s been. That’s her new job. That’s why she says she’s working.
