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Cindy looks up at Belle like she’s two seconds away from punching her in the face, and it actually feels kind of nice that someone else is taking over my rage so I can just worry about freaking the fuck out.
“I’m buying her a plane ticket out of the country, Belle. That’s what she needs right now. She just said I love you first and got nothing in response. Ariel is not the type of woman who says it first, and especially not the type of woman who gets nothing in response. I got you, Boo,” she tells me, blowing me a kiss.
I nod, hoping I know where my passport is.
“Oh, for the love of God. She’s not leaving the country. This isn’t the end of the world. Didn’t we just finish celebrating her getting her groove back?” Belle asks, snatching Cindy’s phone out of her hands.
“That wasn’t celebrating, that was torture!” I remind her.
“Women are predisposed to postpone the emotion of confessing their love,” Belle informs me, raising her arm up in the air and out of Cindy’s reach when she tries to grab it. “It’s an inherent protective mechanism, giving us time to accurately assess a partner’s mate value. You’ve spent enough time with him, and you have accurately assessed him and come to the conclusion that you love him. There is nothing wrong with that, and you aren’t leaving the fucking country because of it.”
I bite down on my bottom lip as she moves closer to me and rests her hands on my shoulders.
“Did you mean it? Do you really love him?” she asks quietly.
I don’t even have to think about it, I just quickly nod my head.
“Then man the fuck up and own it! Your groove is officially back, you just had sex in a car out in a parking lot with the man you love. And if he doesn’t feel the same way, which I’m absolutely positive he does, Cindy and I will both douse him in gasoline, light him on fire, and dance around his ashes. She might even pee on them.”
Cindy smiles, and she comes over to wrap her arm around my waist.
“I would definitely pee on them, but Belle’s right. I got a little ahead of myself and went right into protective-girlfriend mode without thinking. This is a good thing. You opened up your heart and let someone in again. He makes you happy. He gave you great sex hair, and I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume he gave you great sex along with it,” she muses.
“So great. Holy shit it was amazing,” I sigh, my loins quivering like a fucking heroine in a historical romance.
“Well, there you go then,” Belle smiles. “Who cares if you said it first? You’re a strong, independent woman who speaks her mind. And now her heart. Let’s get you into that costume, get your sexy ass out on that stage, and remind him how loveable you are.”
She moves away to grab the costume she tossed onto the chair, and I shake my head at her when she holds it out to me.
“I’m not wearing that thing.”
“Yes you are! That’s what we do. For our first strip, we each wear these stupid costumes we wore to the Halloween block party when we all became friends and lived happily ever after in friendship land,” Belle reminds me.
It’s true. Both Cindy and Belle wore their respective princess costumes over the sexy outfits, strutting on stage in those poufy, satiny ridiculous things, and then ripping them off and tossing them into the crowd. Granted, my mermaid costume wasn’t full of lace and atrocious—it’s more on the slinky side—but still. They needed to wear those costumes out on stage to build up the courage to take their clothes off in front of a room full of people. They needed those few minutes to get their bearings and ease themselves into being hot and seductive and full of feminine power.
“I don’t need it. I’m fucking hot and sexy and I’m going to walk out on that stage with confidence. I don’t need to cover myself up and ease myself into this shit. I’m going to charge out there and show them right from the start that I’m worth their dollar bills and catcalls. All the fucking dollar bills and catcalls,” I tell my friends with a smile.
“Hell yeah you are!” Cindy shouts.
“Fine, I will allow it, but only because what you’re wearing right now is totally turning me on,” Belle adds as I turn towards the dressing table and stare at myself in the mirror.
As far as stripper outfits go, it’s not pasties over my tits and a G-string, but I feel great in it. I feel hot as hell and I know my attitude will make everyone out in that audience forget that I’m not wearing something as risqué as most strippers.
