I wish I were on stage right now. At least it would keep me busy. Shitty airport peanuts, drinking fountain water, and the cold sting of potential rejection are just not the cascade of roses I had imagined them to be. A few people who arrived here after me have already boarded and taken off on their planes – a shitty reminder that I’m still here, still alone, and still potentially insane.
You know, we’d better wait until I have a cold hard drink in my hand to swim any further down that rat hole. Let’s get back to the story, it’s a lovely distraction.
I eventually quit my job at the grocery store so I could work on my dancing during the day. I justified my dedication by convincing myself it was for research purposes for a future novel but, the truth is, I’d always been ambitious. And I wanted to be the best, highest paid stripper at the Men’s Den.
Of course, it wasn’t all roses. In fact, the day that began the saga that led me here to this fucking awful airport started very, very badly.
I was having a particularly good night with our patrons at first. My g-string was stuffed with 20’s – a rare occasion – and I was enjoying the hooting and hollering as I wrapped my stiletto around the stage pole and swooped into a new move I’d mastered the week before. I was hot, and being hot is great.
Unless one of them walks in.
Before I go any further, allow me to explain something: I’d gotten use to the diversity of the clientele at the club. Some men were needy, some stand-offish and others very vocal. Some were fat, some were skinny, some were gorgeous (we’d stand a little taller and grind a little deeper when they walked in – like bridesmaids fighting to see who’d catch that luscious bouquet). Moral of the story: there weren’t many being drafted as male models. But they were mostly kind and respectful and held a deep admiration for the female form that typically kept their behavior in line. I got used to enjoying the admiring eyes of even the most unattractive men – an essential skill for any woman giving a lap dance to a complete stranger.
And then there were the “Pots” as we called them. Ugh. Dancing for them was like unclogging a toilet – no one enjoyed it but someone had to do it. They weren’t necessarily called “Pots” because they were physically unappealing – we enjoyed dancing for plenty of men who were altogether unattractive. It was more a matter of persona: the glint of greed in their eyes, the way they leered at us while simultaneously licking their lips as if readying themselves for a well-deserved meal. They were scumbags and normally we’d run the other way, but we had a job to do and as long they didn’t break the rules, the boss couldn’t kick them out.
The Pot that walked in on this particular night was, well, large (and not in the good places). The rolls that cascaded down his body were accented by glints of hot sweat trailing from his thick and stocky neck. We knew him well as the “asshole that loves ass holes”. We usually held out hope that he’d do something inappropriate from the get-go so we could kick him out, but our wishes rarely came true. He did get booted for a month once. It was like Mardi Gras at the club every day.
I’d been there six months that fateful day he walked in. I had managed to use my greenness to avoid patronizing him in the past, but my time had run out. The girls were all too happy to him off on me; at least they were kind enough to grant me looks of pity in their wake.
“Ellie!” Hissed a voice. It was Mia. I glared at her.
“What?” I snapped.
“The first time is always the worst, but it gets better after that. Just close your eyes and pretend it’s Brad Pitt. If you concentrate really hard, it doesn’t seem so bad.”
My anxiety elevated. I really, really didn’t want to do this. Mia saw my face fall and took my hand tenderly, handing me off to the Pot in a regretful fashion. My eyes pleaded with her, but she conveniently had to run off to handle some other priority.
“Hey baby,” the Pot said, his eyes aglow with lust. I forced myself to look him in the eye. “You’re a pretty little one. I bet you’ve been waiting on that luscious ass all day for a guy like me.” He laughed – a deep, guttural laugh, clearly turned on by my discomfort. I swallowed and closed my eyes, drumming up images of Brad Pitt while feigning a smile. I could do this. Yeah, I could. As long as he didn’t –
“I think I’d like a special treat tonight, Miss Titty.” Ugh, he always called us that. “Show me to the Mud Room.”
The blood drained from my face. I considered running; running away and never coming back. I was sure I could get my job at the grocery store back – I certainly wouldn’t be called “Miss Titty” there! But remember what I mentioned before about being ambitious? Well, as sickening as it was, I didn’t want to be weak. I had committed to this career and, damnit, I was going to kick ass at it. I gingerly took his hand and led him to the semi-private room at the back of the club. It was hidden behind a faux door, reserved for those with serious stacks of cash.
At least I’ll make a killing tonight, I thought.
I’m guessing you’re wondering what the Mud Room is? I’m glad you asked! (insert sarcasm font here)
The Mud Room was, well, not strictly legal. From the law’s perspective it was borderline prostitution, but since no sex was technically “had” in the room, it was difficult to get busted for it. Still, it was kept under the rug. To be honest, I enjoyed it under normal circumstances.
Um, what? Why, you ask? Well, the Mud Room was a room dedicated to the pleasure of the stripper. (Don’t ask me why it’s called the ‘Mud Room’ – I can only assumed it’s meant to be derogatory). On an off-day it was torturous, but if your libido was active, it was nice to be able to get your own hard-on every once in a while. It was a chance to enjoy a little pleasure after spending hours focusing on the pleasure of others.
The goal of the Mud Room was to give your stripper an orgasm. The rules? There was to be no removal of the stripper’s bottoms (toplessness was fair game), the stripper was to do as commanded by the patron (within reason), and, shockingly, the stripper was not allowed to touch the patron – that included sitting on him, kissing him (well that rule was pretty standard across the board), or any other kind of touching. It was, however, the only room where the patron was allowed to touch the stripper, so long as it was executed softly and gently. The room was monitored by two bouncers, ready to jump in at any indication of discomfort from one of us. If things got rough, it was taken care of in an instant. And it happened on occasion. But the activity stayed off the radar because, despite the fact that there were orgasms in the room, there was no penetration.
Romantic, isn’t it? Lol.
So back to my sob story: off to the Mud Room I went with this awful, smelly, pit-stained man. He opened the door for me, copping a feel of my ass as I walked by, and found a chair near the end of a row of about five men, all caught up in the ecstasy of the dimly-lit room.
Given that this room was likely thought up by a horny stripper, it always shocked me how much the men enjoyed it. There was something about the challenge of making a woman roar when she couldn’t touch them that made them crazy. I don’t think any rooms needed regular cleaning like this one did…
The Pot sat down, his eyes scaling my body inch by inch. He reached out his enormous hand and delicately touched my purple bottoms, flipping the sequined ties between his fingers. I begrudgingly swirled my hips around, moving in and out of his waiting palm, twisting my fingers nervously in my hair, and awaiting my next instructions.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
I’m sorry, what? You hate women? I thought. I held my tongue. My eyes shut tightly, I found my image of Brad Pitt naked on the beach, and complied.
Addicted yet? Click below to download and read the rest of the story on Kindle.
Or, give Ellie more time to convince you by reading Chapter 2(b) here.