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But the guys have embraced me. I have to give them credit for that. They don’t hide who they are or keep me out of the loop. They don’t put on airs and graces in case I go running to Daddy. They are cautious around me and make an effort to respect my personal space, giving me work that challenges but doesn’t overwhelm me, and they invite me to work events.
Like Monday night strip club outings.
I look down at my dry-cleaned Armani suit. The skirt is perfectly pressed and fitted to me, my stockings have a sheen but are also nearly opaque so they are still office appropriate, and my shirt is tucked to show off my figure. The outfit is designed to give the impression tha I am here to work. I know that I’m put together. It’s a well-crafted veneer of perfection that I’ve spent my entire life creating. And I wasn’t sure it would blend too well in tonight’s venue. I knew if I went home, I’d talk myself out of going, and if I did that . . . I’m just not sure playing hooky gives the right impression when I am trying to fit in with my male colleagues. Willow Rutherford: The Prude.
On the other hand, I figure I won’t really be high on anyone’s radar in a strip club as the only woman in a group of balding, middle-aged men who have a lot of cash and are desperate for female attention. I’m guessing the bar will be well-stocked and, overall, it will be an experience. Pretty sure I shouldn’t be nearly in my thirties, having never set foot into the dark side of town. So I decide I’ll go with them to the strip club.
It’s obvious as we reach the entrance who comes here often. Of the group of us, only a couple of the guys make their way straight to the side door, not bothering with the front because they know the reservation procedure. And funnily enough, it’s not the ones who talked the big talk. Those macho guys seem a little more unsettled but also excited, which makes me want to be sick in my mouth at the thought of it. This kind of place exploits women, and I can’t quite get past that.
The security guy gives me a little smile and a nod, and I wonder about his story. What he might have seen coming in and out of this place. How many women were like me.
McLandon’s. Not the worst name for a place like this. At least it wouldn’t look too bad on the company account the next day, and you could probably hide your visit from your wife.
I step inside and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but then they widen and I feel my eyebrows raising as I drink in the details. Everything is crafted to entice. The stage is raised to the perfect height above the seats so eyes will be drawn up, invited to explore the dancers performing. Mirrored walls offer reflections, glimpses of hidden flesh. Blackened walls, comfortable seats, and the sweep of spotlights make time freeze. The world could be waking outside, but this place seems to live in the eternal, scandalous night. It makes my breath catch in my throat.
I settle at the bar, taking whatever drink is pushed in my direction as my gaze drifts from one scene to the next. It’s all so disorienting. Hard to imagine how many people are here, how big the place is, and who is who . . . but I guess that’s all part of the narrative. You’re supposed to be focused on one thing. As if the whole club is following my thoughts, the lights dim, a silence settles and I can feel the static of anticipation sizzle through the air as she comes into view. For a second my heart stops altogether and only one question lingers on my breathless lips. Who is she?
3
Lola
Differences hover in the air from last night and the setup is a bit altered, but the atmosphere still tingles, all the same. The buzz of adrenaline. My eyes are already glazed as I lean in for the final swipe of crimson, pupils dilated so my blue irises seem to have darkened to black. I stand slowly, tall on skyscraper heels, barely dressed in slips of silk, and my bronze skin is perfectly oiled . . . . I step out onto a dark stage.
The strobe sweeps over my skin, starting at my ankles and rising up my bare, toned legs as my fingers curl around the polished pole. My knees part, thighs spreading, and my hips dip into a slutty drop. A slither of fabric barely covers my blushing sex. My stomach presses forward and I feel the kiss of cold steel against my skin, as my breasts rest heavily in tied silk on either side of the pole.
My grip closes, red painted fingernails tightening their hold as I begin to writhe, my body following a seductive rhythm as I grind myself against the pole.
I love to dance and know I am an exceptional dancer. My body was created for men to look at and I’ve made my peace with that. My body is lean in the right places and full, luscious, and curved in others. My waist is narrow and my legs long. I possess a natural elegance that cannot be learned. My lips are full and my blue eyes seductive.
Men want me. They always have.
At first, when I realized this at twelve years old, it was alarming. I didn’t want the men in return and in the following years, it became very clear that I was gay.
It didn’t matter. I learned to accept that men wanted me--wanted to look at me. So I learned how use that to my advantage. My significant financial advantage.
Now when men gaze at me, they pay for the privilege. In my opinion, that is exactly how it should be.
Now my body is begging for attention. The attention it so deserves. My body understands as I feel the eyes in the room following me. My head tilts and I sweep my hair around, my natural long dark curls flipping away from my face.
I see a woman in the crowd. Unusual, but not the first time, or, I suspect, the last.
I only catch a glimpse. The intensity of her gaze surprises me. At a glance, the woman looks immaculately put together and expensive. I choose to meet her gaze with my own, giving her a view into my dark soul.
My right thigh rises upward, knee bending as my leg snakes around the pole. My body follows in a seductively salacious curve. My spin is slow and deliberate, my back arching so that my hair trails behind me as I go round and round. My body is much stronger than it looks. As well as hours spent training on the pole, I do weights in the gym. I eat well and look after my body. I take my work seriously. I do everything in my power to be the best I can, and I know it pays off.
My stiletto finds the floor and I stand with my back against the pole. McLandon’s is dark as the strobes dim, but then the backlight bursts with life and my frame is displayed as a silhouette. My arms curl upwards, fingers tangling through my curls and then pulling on the string around my neck. The moment the bow unties, my breasts fall with a soft bounce. Fabric falling, discarded, as I bare myself in tiny panties, waiting for dollars to line the floor.
As the spotlights dance over me once again, I feel their heat on my naked skin. My body is their canvas and they paint me as they please. I feel my nipples harden conveniently under their glare, knowing that it adds to my allure. My hands reach up and take hold of the pole above my head as I lower myself. My knees spread outwards, thighs parting as my ass settles just above my heels. I hold myself wide, and open. Almost everything is on display. Almost.
Letting go, I fall forward. My knees find the stage, palms resting against the floor, fingers fanning outward. I crawl toward the front. My eyes are filled with dark temptation because I know I can be exactly what the clients want. And by doing so, I can take their money.
Do you want me to beg for you? I think. My tongue rims my lips as I inch forward. My breasts fall heavy with soft swings and my hips snake, the sway of my ass mirrored around the stage. I am naked except for a small flash of red silk that aches to be torn from me.
I see the woman again and am drawn to her. She is beautiful in a posh business type way.
Focus, Lola.
I pick one of the guys and choose to focus on him instead.
