Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
It’s been years since I’ve performed for a real audience, not since I quit dancing so I could get a job to pay the bills, Ellie’s dance classes, and later, my college classes. Still, every time I get on stage, I’m taken back to the days when I was able to use dance as my escape—before the harsh reality of life shattered my dreams, knocking me to the ground and forcing me to crawl across the sharp shards left behind.
As I dance seductively, shedding each article of clothing until I’m completely naked, I’m taken away from here. Away from the ogling men, away from the smell of sex that permeates the air—far, far away.
And then the song ends, the lights go down, and I’m back in the present. At Wanderlust, I perform on a stage for money, three nights a week, just so my sister and I can barely skate by. While I pay the bills for the shitty apartment we’re stuck in, our prostitute mom goes off fucking countless men in order to support her out-of-control drug addiction, as well as her pimp-slash-boyfriend’s gambling problem—all in the name of love.
I quickly collect my clothes, then head backstage to put on a robe. Unlike most strip clubs, Wanderlust doesn’t allow men to throw cash at the dancers. This is an exclusive members-only club for the obscenely wealthy. It has three levels: The bottom floor—underground—is a private sex club called Elite, where men and women can partake in various sexual acts while utilizing the club’s carnal amenities. The ground floor is a high-class strip club and bar, which is where I work, and the top floor will be a restaurant called Impulse that’s currently under construction.
We’re paid a set amount per performance—each dancer performing two times per night—and then for every private show, we’re paid a percentage of what is charged. Men can tip the dancers—which they do, a lot—and at the end of the night, it’s split amongst the women working that shift. We can also provide extras in the private rooms, and a few of the dancers also choose to work the floor at Elite, providing a full range of services to that particular clientele. Between the dancing, the private shows, and the other options, many of the women who work here easily make in the high four figures per night.
After checking on my sister, who’s practically inhaling her dinner, I change into my floor outfit—tiny, black leather booty shorts with a matching halter top that zips down the middle and dips low, showing off my naturally full-size D breasts. I pair the outfit with knee-high black leather combat boots and then make my way onto the floor.
Like every Friday night, as I walk around my assigned tables, I’m propositioned to partake in extras—to which I sweetly decline. Most of the regulars already know it’s not going to happen, but a few newbies ask, unaware that aside from private dances and shows, I don’t do any extras. It means less money, but I refuse to put a price on my self-worth.
When a group of businessmen walk in and the hostess says they’ve requested a private performance, I change, again, and then head back to the room they’re holding their meeting in. Until I started working in this industry, I had no idea how common it is for men to hold business meetings in a gentleman’s club. Oftentimes, they barely even notice me dancing. I’m more of a pretty backdrop that makes them feel powerful—I don’t get it, but the truth is, I don’t really understand men in general, and what little I do know, makes me wish I were attracted to women—it’s a shame I’m not enticed by the female body in that way.
Marina once told me the annual membership fee here starts at seven figures. I can’t even imagine having that kind of money to blow. But then again, the men who come here are worth millions, sometimes billions, so for them that fee is nothing more than a drop in the bucket.
The private show goes smoothly, and before I know it, I’m back on stage for my second performance of the night. Different outfit, song, and routine, but it’s all the same—after a while, it all blurs together.
I’m about three-fourths through my routine when something—a spark, a zap of some sort—shoots through me, sending a shiver up my spine. It knocks me out of my escape and sends me flying back into the present. My gaze collides with a man, and for the first time in…I don’t even know how long—if ever—my moves falter. I can’t see the color of his eyes from here, but the heat of his stare sears into me.
I want to look away—to avoid making eye contact—but I can’t. It’s as if he’s holding me in place, his eyes locked with mine, demanding my undivided attention.