AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
TANYA
“Another night for the books, huh?” Lisa, one of the makeup artists, smiles before letting out a tired sigh. She cracks her back and then her neck, and I try not to wince at the loud pops. How can that possibly be good for you? But I’m careful not to let my skepticism show, especially since we’re both beat.
“Yeah, it’s been a long night,” I say in a sympathetic voice. “Go on, get out of here! I’ll do the clean-up,” I offer.
She shoots me another tired smile and nods before getting up.
“Thanks, girlfriend. I’m going to head home to grab a long, hot shower. Then, I’m going to fall onto my bed and black out because I have to be back here by 7 a.m. tomorrow morning!” she exclaims dramatically. “Can you believe it?” But before I can answer, my co-worker’s grabbed her cosmetics bag and slung her backpack over one shoulder. “Goodnight, Tanya!” she exclaims with one last wave.
“Goodnight, be safe!” I call to my buddy as she departs. Then, the door slams and I’m officially alone. I let out a quiet sigh and smile as I turn to look at the mess of costumes that are piled up on my own cart.
I work as a wardrobe assistant for Thunder Strike—a male revue located at the Corinthian Hotel here in Vegas—so it’s my job to make sure that all the costumes used during the show are put back in their rightful places after we’re done for the night. They need to be cleaned and pressed too, and believe me, it can be all hell on Earth if things aren’t done just so. As a result, I’m here late at night, early in the mornings, and pretty much every weekend too. Yep, if you’re looking for me, then Thunder Strike is the best place to check.
But I like my job, most of the time at least. It can be chaotic at times, but it’s also fun. The guys are hot of course, and I love ogling them. But they’re built like Olympic athletes whereas I’m just me, meek and quiet Tanya Grimes, with a twenty extra pounds on my frame and mousy brown hair.
But I enjoy my position, even if the chaotic to-and-fro gets to me sometimes. To be honest, I like it best when it’s quiet, like now, and I’m the only person backstage at the moment. The silence is actually great for my productivity because there are no harried co-workers trying to work under pressure, and no male dancers strutting around half-nude with their thing-a-ma-jigs hanging out. Yes, the guys flaunt them, and they’re not embarrassed about it because at this point, we’ve all seen everything.
But I better get to work otherwise I’ll be stuck here sorting and mending until 6 a.m. if I’m not careful. Slowly, I look over the clothing rack in front of me. Honestly, I’ve seen some of these costumes a million times, but I can never get over just how ridiculous they are. There are male banana hammocks in every color you could imagine, from hot pink to baby blue to neon yellow to checkerboard black and white. Some of them are covered in glitter or sequins, some are fashioned out of a sultry mesh material, and one of them even has a plastic banana jutting out from the front like it’s a fake cock. It sounds cheesy, but trust me, the female audience loves it.
Then there are the props, like the capes, swords, helmets, soldier uniforms, and crown, in addition to the white loincloths for the ‘Majesty of Egypt’ routine. Trust me, those loincloths go flying up when the guys gyrate, and again, the ladies love it because you can see those anacondas swinging during that particular set.
Then, there are my favorite costumes: the look-alike Armani suits for the ‘billionaires’ dance set. It’s inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey, but Christian Grey these men are not because at the end, the dancers rip off their suits so that they’re wearing nothing but bow ties and cuffs. It’s classic Chippendales and trust me, the manly bulges get the women screaming once more. Hell, quite a few ladies have fainted during Thunder Strike shows, so we’ve had to call the paramedics more than once. In fact, sometimes the paramedics just hang out backstage because they know there’s a good chance someone’s going to hyperventilate and require medical assistance at some point during the revue.
But it’s all in good fun, and Thunder Strike’s the most popular male show on the Strip. They say it makes loads of money for the hotel, but I’m just a lowly wardrobe assistant, so I wouldn’t know.
I hum while sifting through the costumes, examining them for damage and sweat stains, marking problem areas with tape and even pulling some items off the rack for additional dry-cleaning if needed. Goodness, this particular banana hammock is torn at the crotch, and I have a feeling I know who it belongs to. It’s this new guy nicknamed Thor, whose package is so huge that his tip literally pokes out and hangs down to his knee. Oh yeah, it’s a challenge for us wardrobe assistants, and trust me, Thor knows how to dance to make it swing like a pendulum too.
But that’s the thing—dancing. I love to dance even though I’m a curvy girl, and sometimes, I wish I could get on-stage myself. Not in a Speedo of course. Instead, I’ve always wanted to be a Vegas showgirl in those slinky, glittery outfits, high heels, and feather crowns. I want to do high-kicks to show off my long legs, and then maybe a little strip tease just for fun. Not a full-on striptease, oh no, because I’d be too embarrassed. But maybe a little shimmy here, and a come-hither smile there.
But who am I kidding? It won’t ever happen because at 5’4”, I’m too short for the job. Showgirls generally have to be 5’7” to 5’8” in order to create the right visual when they dance in a line, and let’s be honest. Those girls are lithe and beautiful, whereas I’m pudgy and dumpy with a few extra pounds. I definitely don’t have a showgirl physique, and even if I could diet my way to a smaller size, what’s the point? It’s not like I could grow three inches.
Still, I’ve always loved moving to the beat, and suddenly, inspiration strikes. Everyone’s gone for the night. It’s silent here backstage, and of course, the practice rooms should be empty too. This would be the perfect time to dance by myself without anyone seeing.
I put a silvery tie back on the costume rack and then slink down the empty hallway. The fluorescent lights flicker a bit as I come upon the rehearsal rooms. Deftly, I open one door and peer inside. It’s empty, dark, and deserted, with absolutely no one in sight.
Perfect.
Before I even realize it, I’ve slunk inside and turned on the little stereo system. A jazzy samba plays, and my hips sway to the beat as I lift my arms with bliss. What’s the harm in enjoying myself? They always say “dance like no one’s watching,” so this is my chance right?
But what people don’t realize is that I want to do more than dance. I want to do a little showgirl routine that includes taking off my clothes, and slowly, I begin to strip sensuously, revealing my curves as I sway in front of the mirror. Big breasts, thick hips, and a glistening pussy. It’s incredibly sultry, and I giggle as I look at myself in the mirror. No one’s here … so I’m going to enjoy myself to the max.
2
STONE
I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans as I skulk down an empty hallway, drifting like a ghost. Well, that is if ghosts could be 6’4” and 220 lbs. Ghosts are wraithlike and intangible, and yeah, I’m solid and muscular, so I guess I’m not very ghost-like, come to think of it.
But strolling through the hotel late at night is a habit of mine because it’s quiet this time of night, and I like to see what belongs to me. As the owner of the Corinthian Hotel, I like to walk my territory, and 3 a.m. is as good of a time as any. It’s peaceful and only the occasional greeting from a bellhop disturbs my wanderings. My mind clears during these nightly strolls, and I’m able to step back a bit and view my pride and joy from a different angle during these walks, even if I’m still on premises.
After all, it’s not exactly easy owning a hotel. I spend my days in meetings that last far too long talking to dozens of competing stakeholders, and lately, my Inbox has become totally unmanageable. Does this happen to other people? I literally gave up, and asked my secretary to take over my email. So now, everyone who thinks they’re getting a reply from Stone Thompson, is actually getting a reply from Pamela Gould. Pam’s doing a great job, and honestly, no one’s the wiser, so to hell with it. I might as well stick with this system.
But there’s no sense in complaining either because this hotel is my brainchild, and my ego is wrapped up in its success. Revenues, profits, permits, taxes, payroll, and all that bullshit are worth it when I look around the Corinthian and realize that I built this place. Every lightbulb, every chandelier, hell, every toilet bears my mark and I love it. It’s perfection from the ground up, and the stress was totally worth it.
But then my nose wrinkles as I skulk around backstage behind the auditorium. What’s that smell? Shit, it must be a combination of hairspray, sweat, cologne, and, if I’m not mistaken, tanning oil. It’s good to know that my dancers know what they’re doing because no one wants to patronize a male revue with flabby, pasty dudes. But dang, that Hawaiian Tropic smell is overpowering with its coconutty stench.
I shake my head, trying not to breathe through my nose. At least the show makes a lot of money, and brings screaming female crowds almost every night of the week. But then, I stop myself. The last thing I need is to start thinking about is profit margins at this time of night. I stress about that shit non-stop during the day, and right now, I want to relax.
