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Not the sexy things you thought were going through my head as I rub myself on the crotch of some 50-ish Wall Street guy with a receding hairline and a pretty big paunch, is it?
I turn my head back toward the guy a little to give him some attention. “You like that, baby?” I ask with a slight pout. Inside, I’m wondering if his wife knows where he’s at. I saw the ring on his finger. I wonder if he has a son or daughter and if he’s put away enough for college. Will his kids have to take out student loans because Daddy gave me their book money this semester?
“Could you, uhm, maybe turn around a little bit, darlin?” Mr. Wall Street asks me, bringing his hands up, but remembering what I said about touching. “I kinda want to see, uhm, your breasts.”
Sure. They all want to see my breasts. They want me to mash it on their faces. They want to stick out their tongues so they can play with my nipples. Whatever.
“I like it just fine sitting here,” I say to him and turn back, grinding my ass on his crotch a little faster.
There have been a few times I’ve made a guy cum just by grinding on him. That’s been funny. He’s had to walk around with a giant wet spot. Especially if his friends were here. Once it was just a guy. He came in his pants. I seriously didn’t even know he did until I felt his pants get all wet. I mean, his cock must have been tiny because I couldn't feel anything. Anyways, he just went back to his table and ordered another beer. Sitting in his own cum. That’s the kind of people that come to these clubs.
“But, your breasts…”
I don't let the man finish. I need to establish who’s boss.
“Do you see that line over there, hon?” I ask him, gesturing my head to the line of guys waiting to ask me to give them a dance. “If you don’t like this, you can go back to the end of the line.”
Surprisingly, Mr. Wall Street has more self-worth than I give him credit for. He pushes me off gently as I feel his hands on my back force me into a position where I’m standing.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Can I have my money back?”
The song isn't even half over and he’s got a legitimate point. But it’s people like him that attract the attention of the floor manager and the House Mom. I know all eyes are on me as I reach into my heels and pull out the wad of cash I’ve collected, peeling off a $20 note and turning around and walking away toward the bar. I can hear the collective groans of at least half a dozen people as they watch me leave. Guys who were waiting their turn to get their cocks stimulated by my hot ass.
Whatever. I seriously don't have any fucks left to give them right now.
I order a glass of wine at the bar, and sip it contentedly for a minute.
“Misty,” a voice says and I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. “You left a lot of guys unhappy on the floor.”
The face associated with the voice sits down next to me. It’s the House Mom—Yasmine. Every club has a House Mom. We tip her out at the end of the night. In return, she takes care of the girls. She gets us dinner. She makes sure we don't get too drunk. Sometimes she helps with our outfits and tells us when we’re up on the main stage. But more than anything else, she makes sure that we make money for the club.
“It’s not really the best idea to just walk away when you have people lined up for you – especially when some girls have no one to dance for,” Yasmine says again.
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. “I needed a break,” I say.
“You’ve been needing a break since you started, Misty,” Yasmine says, using my stage name again. My real name is Ashley Lane. But on the floor, it’s like I have a pen name. And it’s only professional for her to use it. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
That’s the rub, isn’t it? I graduated cum laude from Yale University. Sure, Art History may not be Engineering, but it’s still Yale. What am I doing at a strip club?
“I need the money, Yasmine,” I say to her for the millionth time. “You know that.”
“Isn’t there anything else you could be doing to make money instead of making yourself miserable every night from 8 pm to 4 am?” Yasmine asks, as she too orders a glass of wine. “This can’t be good for you.”
It’s not a question I haven’t asked before.
But there is one unavoidable truth in America for a woman today that is kind of depressing but still hard to escape.
That truth? Sex will always sell.
No matter what you end up looking like, women can always make money selling some form of sex. Which is basically what I’ve been reduced to because of my financial situation. A sex worker.
“I just wish I could find something that pays like this that didn't involve…” I begin, looking for the proper words, but struggling.
“Having to deal with men?” Yasmine asks, as if she’s in my head. I look up at her because she hit the nail on the head. She smiles at me.
“If I didn’t have to deal with ugly guys all night, I could still do this,” I tell her. “Hell, I could do a lot more.”
Yasmine pauses for a moment, as if thinking to herself. I wonder what’s going through her head.
