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Mr. Dante Romano.
Strange how I know so much about this man, and yet I've found absolutely nothing when I’ve attempted to search his name.
It’s like the man doesn’t exist to the rest of the world.
It should surprise me, of course—you’d expect a man who is paying thousands of dollars a month at a strip club to use a fake name, to keep things quiet. But for some reason, it does all the same.
“Good evening, Mr. Romano,” I say with a smile and a small, flirty wave of my fingers.
Strange that this exchange feels normal, almost friendly now.
“Six hours, yeah?” Marco asks in his gruff voice.
And then he’s walking out. Despite being alone in a random room with a near stranger, I never feel uncomfortable here. Even on that first day, Marco explained all of the ways I would be protected and what to do in an emergency. For a strip club, Jerzy Girls treats the employees well, ensuring we’re always protected and comfortable.
I got lucky in that sense.
The door won’t be locked—another safety precaution the club has in addition to a small, hidden panic button that will send a silent alert if things go awry.
Still, the room is small and private, perfect for lap dances or more, as I’ve heard some girls whisper.
But Dante Romano doesn’t ask for more, ever. He just sits in the shadows for hours and watches. And asks me questions.
“What are we having today?” I say, standing in front of the mysterious man who must have bottomless pockets. To spend at least a thousand dollars a night on a private room plus the generous tip he slips me—he has to have a good job. Or a healthy trust fund.
I could tell you that from his clothes alone: custom-made suits that I get glimpses of, the crisp white button-downs, and shoes that cost $400 to start. I could pass the man walking down the street and know he’s loaded without him having to buy my time each week.
“Not sure, Marco’s deciding,” he says, his feet moving out and crossing at the ankle as he sits back.
“Got it,” I say with a smile. I move around the room, moving my hips slowly to the beat of the music, moving my hands to my hair, fluffing it out.
“What are we chatting about tonight, sir?” I ask, because besides keeping my distance and dancing around in a skimpy outfit, this is what we do.
The first time I was brought back here was just five days after I started at Jerzy Girls. Just like tonight, the man sat in the shadows, a single lonely chair in the room, music playing low and sultry.
I was terrified, of course, the blood rushing in my ears, my mind on overdrive thinking about what would happen to me in this small, dark room. Terrified of what would be expected of me, what I would be forced to do. I’d heard stories from the women about men who request intricate lap dances, men who want to touch. Men who want . . . more.
And in six hours, you could do quite a bit “more.”
I’d sold my dignity to Paulie Carluccio and he owned me—he could tell me what to do, when to do it, and with who. But for some reason, when I made that deal, I didn’t anticipate anything more than dancing on a stage with a fake name.
When I walked in this room for the first time, all the mysterious man said to me was, “Dance.”
And I did that. It was easy. Dancing has always been something I love to do. I might be a shitty stripper, stumbling on stage at least once a shift and refusing to even look sideways at a pole because I know damn well I’ll break something on it, but I love to move my body to music.
Of course, I assumed he would expect at the very least a semi-decent strip tease. After a few minutes of swaying my hips, playing with straps, flipping my hair, dropping it low and spreading my thighs, I started to move the strap of my bra down over my shoulder. Pushing it down, down, until—
“No.”
I froze in panic.
What does “no” mean in the context of stripping at a strip club?
“No stripping,” he said. “Not here.”
Inevitably, the panic rose.
First off, what in the fuck could “not here” possibly mean? Because I was not leaving this room until Marco came to get me, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going anywhere else.
