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1
Lola
The club hides its secrets in the thick, dark air. Fluorescent lights mark out the stage and the neon strobes flicker to a beat of their own. The throb of bass pulses through the air and liquor is poured in ample measures. Welcome to . . . McLandon’s. The sign sits a little tilted at the back of the bar and the neon has dulled over the years, but it still hums throughout all hours of the day and night. Time loses its meaning the second you walk through the doors, and that’s just how it should be--temptation wrapped in a pretty, dark bow.
The lights drop as I stroll out down the walkway. Dark aviators cover my eyes, shielding them from the neon that flickers across my skin. My hair is short, in a bright pink bob, and my lips are glossy and full. I take each step casually, balancing perfectly in my high, glass-like heels. My body can barely be seen, hidden in the darkness as I make my way to the very front, walking high above, looking over my shades as I catch eyes and answer with a wink.
I nod to the back and the UV light suddenly flashes across my skin. My underwear lights up, glowing bright against my body. The neon green gleams, catching the light with every roll of my hips. The lace kisses my chest, the material light, letting my breasts bounce as I dance slowly, putting on the show people came to see.
I raise my hands high up above my head, my fingers threading as I spin on one heel. The neon lace riding high against the curve of my ass gives the audience a perfect view of my ripe, peachy cheek. Facing the back, I turn, glancing over my shoulder, my teeth running along my lower lip before I bite down. I give my cheek a soft slap, making ripples vibrate along my curves.
Lowering and turning in a half circle, my knees bend outwards wide, my ass hovering a few inches from the floor, the muscles in my thighs tight and toned as I spread. That flashing UV light brings gazes to the pulsing green between my legs. My pussy is lit up as the lights bathe her in a neon glow.
My fingers rest against the tender skin of my ankle bone. I slowly begin to stand, my fingertips tracing up my body. They trail along my inner thighs, turning out to glide over lace, running against my sides before following the curve of my spine. With an expert flick, my nails catch the clasp of my bra and my breasts are freed with a tiny bounce. I slip the straps from my shoulders, baring my full, pert breasts.
Reaching to the side of the stage, I dip my hands in thick, creamy neon paint. I place my palms flat on my stomach and slide up, smearing neon trails over my ribs before I cup my breasts, rolling my nipple seductively slow between my fingers and thumbs. They harden under my touch, the paint cool and bright against my creamy skin, lighting me up in a fluorescent glow.
I reach for more paint and it drips from my fingers, splashing along my thighs, leaving creamy, neon strands. My wet fingers start on my hips, slipping under my panties. Paint dribbles from the sopping lace as I cup my pussy under the fabric. I roll my neck back, my fake, short bob bouncing as I moan. . . . The UV light flickers off and my body plunges into darkness.
It is one of my messier shows, which means more clean-up time after. The janitor gets really pissy with me if I get excess paint on the stage. But the paint gets me the tips. Something about creamy fluids smeared across a nearly naked girl seems to get guys hot under the collar.
But I am careful with the mess. I slide into the backstage area, which for a strip joint is not quite as dingy as one might expect, and start to peel off the perfectly dried neon paint.
The space is minimal, small, organized, and clean--mainly because myself and the other girls have been around a while and we like things to be, you know, not gross.
At the wrong end of my twenties, I really am nearing the age of stripper retirement. I have been on this stage for nearly ten years and at one time, “Lola” was a mask. A part of me I was ashamed of. Now I forget the girl I used to pretend to be. For all the stigma that comes with stripping, there really is a life to be had in the pleasures of the night. And I have found a home here, as unconventional as that may be.
There is a tap on the door and the bossman himself peeks his head around. “You were great out there, Lola. Love that song choice with the neon. Always a favorite.” He treats me to a warm smile and I feel him power up the charm offensive. “We have a private party tomorrow. . . . I know you don’t usually work, but you were requested. Specifically. Big tips.”
“Oh, Landon . . .You certainly know the way to this girl’s heart.” I grin at him.
If you think of every stereotype you have ever heard about a strip joint owners—that they are old, fat, groping, entitled, that they smoke, and that they are just general assholes—you could throw them all out the window with Landon. He is polite, professional, and sees us as women and definitely not objects. He hires well, takes care of the good ones, and lets the bad go. (The girls on drugs are a problem that just can’t be solved in a place like this.)
All the girls crush hard on him. Hell, I even crushed hard on him at one point, and I am very very, very gay. That smile of his could make a heart melt in seconds. I often wondered if it wasn’t those big blue eyes of his that made all the panties drop around here. But Landon is mysterious in a way that means we can lust after him, but never touch him, which probably only adds to his allure. He never sleeps with the girls.
“If I knew the way to your heart, Lola, I would be a guy in trouble, but as it stands I will happily fill your pockets with cash.” He gives me one last smile before giving the side of the door a little tap, like a knock on wood, which is endearingly charming. “Get home safe,” he finishes, before drawing the door closed softly behind him.
I let out a little sigh. He’s right; I don’t like to work Mondays, but I also don’t have plans that can’t wait for another day. My hot date with ice cream and watching reruns of Jersey Shore, while alluring, can wait until Tuesday.
“Lola . . .” Chuck calls through the door. “You heading out or you wanna take a private dance in booth three?” I glance at the clock. It’s after two but I don’t feel tired. These thighs still have some grind left in them.
“Liquor ‘em up, Chuck, I will be through in five.”
“Got you.” I hear him step away as I pull my real hair out from under the synthetic pink bob and run my fingers through the long dark curls. Reaching for a liner and lipstick, I paint on my game face. It’s time to make some cash.
2
Willow
If I roll my eyes any harder, they will be stuck staring at my brain cells--which I’m in real danger of losing while working with this bunch.
“Are we seriously not past the male cliché of strip joints and hookers in 2023?” I ask with a sigh, already knowing the answers I’m about to be showered with.
“Oh, come on, Willow! Don’t act like you are better than the strip club. Nothing better than a bourbon, titties, and ass on a Monday night!” Bill hollers from over the booth, as Jim starts throwing out the single dollar bills while making lewd gestures.
“Clichéd and cheap,” I say with a sigh, and spin in my swivel chair to gaze at my screen.
I knew I was a little hard on them in some ways. I’m the only woman in here—a token. I am well aware that my hiring had nothing to do with my 4.0 GPA, nor the fact that I graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League school that I worked my absolute ass off for. Neither was my employment due to my charity donations, volunteer work, nor the fact that I sold my soul to the intern gods. No. It’s because of my father that I’m here--but hey, that is a conversation for my therapist.
