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Like afrog.
The woman grabs my feet and pushes them toward me, further spreading my legs, and I want to die from the embarrassment. But the worst is yet to come.
To my horror, with gloved hands, she roughly pulls apart my labia, spreading hot wax on one side with a stick. After a few seconds—maybe longer, I’m not sure—she removes it with a violent tug, taking with it one half of my pubic hair and I’m sure several layers of skin. I scream from a pain so intense a wave of nausea passes over me, and before I know it, she does the other side, then pushes my knees to my chest so she can get to my ass.
How will I be able to sit?
“Stop breathing like that,” she scolds. “You’ll hyperventilate.”
She puts a cool compress on my screaming crotch and lifts my head to help me take a sip of water. I want to cry over what seems like a little act of kindness, her small effort to comfort me, but the truth is the woman is just doing her job. She doesn’t give a crap about me.
This initial torture is followed by a couple hours of trimming, tweezing, filing, and painting, a breeze after my rough start. As if on cue, Dominika shows up and looks at me with some semblance of satisfaction. “Better. This is better.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I ask for another ice pack for my crotch.
The spa lady gets one while Dominika tosses my robe at me. I follow her to a dressing room with racks of what look like very skimpy clothing, and a long table lined with chairs and makeup mirrors.
“This is Stacey. She’ll get you ready for your shift.”
And she leaves me with a small, pretty woman whose hair is pulled back so she can put on her makeup.
In between applying her false eyelashes, Stacey looks at me sympathetically. I want to fall into her arms. She has no idea what it means to come across someone nice in this place.
Or maybe she does.
* * *
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Charleigh
“Hey,” she says. “I’ll show you how to do your makeup and then help you choose an outfit.”
It’s all I can do not to cry. Stacey is patient and tries to make small talk, but I can only manage one-word answers. She seems to understand, and while I want to ask her if she’s in the same situation I am, I know if I start talking about it, I’ll lose my shit. I relinquish the ice pack and she helps me into stockings, a short skirt, bustier, and the highest heels I’ve ever worn. I look ridiculous. Like a Halloween costume store’s idea of a streetwalker.
She pats my arms. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to walk far in those things. All you have to do is take orders and bring the men their drinks. It’s pretty easy. Sometimes you even get tips, although we’re not supposed to accept them.” She lowers her voice. “But we all do.”
“Wait, I’m starting now? Serving drinks? It’s not even noon yet.”
She shrugs. “I know. But the club is open twenty-four hours. Members come anytime they want.”
Looking me up and down with approval, she leads me to a lounge where the light is dim and music is playing low. There is a murmur of male voices, nothing loud, just quiet chatting and occasional laughter, and leaves me there. The bartender waves me over.
“So you’re the new girl. Here’s your tray. You’d better take this notepad and pen until you’ve been at this awhile.”
I stare at him, unable to move.
He sighs deeply. “See that table on the other side of the room? The one with the three men?”
I nod.
“Okay. They just got here. Go ask them what they want to drink. It’s that easy.”
I gulp, pulling on my short skirt as if that will afford me a little modesty, and cross the room.
“Looks like someone new today,” an older man with grandfatherly silver hair says, looking me up and down.
I have a feeling I’m going to get used to being gawked at. It will be nice when I don’t even notice it anymore. If that day ever comes.
