“It’s perfect. You look amazing,” she said after actually examining my face. I could always count on Carol to not blow smoke up my ass about anything. I still didn’t totally believe her. The last five years, with its divorce battles, had taken its toll on my spirit and my appearance.
Physically, I was in good shape. Three days at the gym, hundreds of squats a week, and two nights at pole dancing class had turned my forty-five-year-old body into a fit, toned dancing machine. I think I was more proud of my ass now than I had ever been in my dancing days.
My face, though. My spirit. Neither seemed to have that same glow, that same enthusiasm as they had before my second divorce. The custody battle for Trey and Monica had taken a lot out of me. After three years of fighting, I finally had them every other weekend. Being a sex therapist seemed to be a strike against me, even though I helped so many people.
The music stopped and Heather pranced off the stage, money spilling out of her g-string and her hands. She wore a smile that I had no chance of rivaling.
“Did you clean out the suit?” I asked her as she passed.
“Not yet. He paid for a lap dance in the back room, though.” She winked at me, looking over her right shoulder.God, she IS gorgeous, and she exudes sex.
That used to be me. I used to exude sex appeal. Charisma. I had men eating out of my hands for table scraps.
“Oh, a lap dance. You should do that,” Carol said, strangely excited at the prospect of me grinding into the crotch of a stranger. That had not been on my checklist of things to do today.
“Everyone give a hand to the heavenly Heather,” the DJ, Tony, announced in his best stripper announcer's voice. His voice had that low timbre that seemed to vibrate the entire room.
Hoots, hollers, whistles, cat-calls, and applause filled the main room. Then a quiet settled over everyone as the audience awaited the next dancer.
“Break a leg, Reggie,” Carol said. She smacked me on the ass for luck which elicited an unexpected “oh” from my lips.
“That was the halfway point for Amateur Night, gentleman… and ladies.” More hoots and hollers. “Rock You Like a Hurricane”by the Scorpions began playing.
“Our next dancer came all the way from Seattle. She plans to make all of you sleepless in LA as she excites you with her dancing.” The song continued, and I hoped the timing would be just right.
“Making her Cherry Pie debut is Muse,” he let the u and then the s of Muse trail off forever as “Here I Am”belted out of the sound system.
I’d always wanted to be someone’s muse, and I didn’t want to be a Tiffany or a Jade, so I chose Muse as my stage name for my one night on stage. I didn’t come from Seattle, but something felt wrong giving the name of the small town I grew up in.
The applause and cat-calls began as soon as I set foot on stage.
My feet crossed in front of me with each step as I strode onto the stage with a classical runway walk. I headed straight for the pole. I let the music and applause fill me. It joined with the fear and adrenaline, while waves of raw sexual energy pumped through my veins. Pole dancing had helped me get my sexy back, and I hoped that tonight would ignite it.
The burgundy wrap flew open, and the front trailed behind me as I approached the pole. I grabbed the pole with both hands, one above my hand and the other one lower. As I spun around the pole, I lifted my knees and tightened my abdominal muscles. The chair spin wasn’t as aggressive as Heather’s spin, but I knew I could pull it off and look graceful. At five feet ten, it was sometimes hard to pull off graceful.
After bringing my feet back to the ground, I hooked my right leg around the pole and transitioned into a front hook spin. I reached up as high as I could with my right hand on the pole and brought my left arm across my chest and grasped the pole. Pushing and pulling, I spun around the pole once, then twice.
Bringing my feet back down below me, I almost tripped as my heel caught the pole. Reaching both hands up the pole just above my head, I hugged the pole before tensing my biceps. Lifting both feet off the ground, I wrapped my legs around the pole with them both aimed away from me, parallel to the floor. Feeling my legs lock firmly, I removed one hand and held it out in my version of tada and smiled at the men sitting at the edge of the stage. It wasn’t the prettiest pole sit, but it was mine.
The whole routine took less than a minute and the music still blasted. I only did the simplest maneuvers, not because I couldn’t do harder ones, but because I didn’t have the confidence to do them here in front of twenty or more strange men.
Doing them in front of other women, sisters of the pole, during dancing class always made me feel brave. Now, I had to just strut and smile for another three minutes. Or until I got bood off the stage.
The whistling and applause heightened, which caused goose bumps to form on my arms.
I faced a man in a blue suit with his tie loose. He had a rugged jaw, dark eyes, and a body that seemed to fit his custom tailored suit perfectly. His hair was a dark black that matched his eyes and, unlike other patrons, was still immaculately styled. No one had run their fingers through his hair tonight. Yet.
He tipped back his drink, draining his glass of everything but the ice. He folded and laid out a twenty on the stage in front of him.
The thrill of seeing that twenty there on the edge of the stage, laid out there for me, thrilled me. The applause and the stares filled me with confidence, and I went off script immediately. In my bra, panties, and heels, I was ready to show these men more of what I could do on a pole.
I transitioned into a carousel spin, like Heather had done, and then climbed the pole and kicked my legs up high. After holding the inverted position for two breaths, I opened my eyes.
Mr. Dark Eyes had laid out another twenty on the stage.
I hadn’t planned on making any tips tonight. I just wanted to dance and reclaim some of my old self. Forty dollars didn’t mean that much to me. My sexual therapy practice had thrived in the last year.
Something in my pussy though clinched a little at the thought of this dark-eyed stranger slipping a twenty—or two—in my panties.
