Listen to Mad Love by Mabel

(As a writer, I don't believe that everyone who goes to strip clubs are perverts, not do I think that others are saints)

Diane Jewel

Friday night saw the most audience in the strip club. Tired and sweaty men came straight from work to flood the place. As we girls dressed in our new costumes in the changing room, the men outside bantered away, saturating their systems with whiskey and beer.  Two giant bodyguards in skin-tight fishnets stood outside the changing room to stop club members from bashing in.  

Sometimes, drunk people get a little too wild. 

But fortunately (or unfortunately for the men outside), the club had an immovable security system to stop ruckus.  

Today's costume was a bikini set in purple silk.  The leader of the stripper clan dictated that we all wear peacock feathers on our hair.  There was a little purple skirt that they offered, but most of the girls only wanted to wear the matching bikini bottoms.

I withdrew the silk skirt from the clothes cart and covered my ass.  Zoya and Pineapple were fixing their peacock feathers on their heads with bobby pins. 

Zoya grunted, throwing the bobby pin on the floor in frustration.  "I can't get it to stand up."

"It's not a penis to stand up," I interjected at the opportunity. 

 Pineapple jerked her head towards me in mild bewilderment.  "Too blatant, Dickinson.  Calm your tits." 

I smirked.

The older woman Mona Lisa eyed my skirt dubiously.  "Why wear it when someone's gonna remove it for you anyway?" 

Whaaaaat? 

Her words rang frightfully in my ears.  I shuddered at the thought of some stranger touching me.  I don't even let Simon touch me much and I think I really really liked him.

I stood in front of the mirror, hands covering my naked stomach.  It's been a week since I started work here, but I felt like I'll never adapt to this.  I pulled my frisky hair onto my face.  Nobody needs to see me.  

Get the money and move on.  Get the money and move on.  Get the money and move on.  

This has been my mantra since day one to get over my changing-room nervousness.  But once I was out in front of hungry eyes, I'm only thinking of Dixie and money.   

"Hurry up, girls," the leader crowed.  The girls that were patching up their makeup put down their make up brushes to follow us outside.  Outside, where vultures waited for their prays with drooling open mouths.  For us.

We arrived at the stage with a blaze of glory.  Most of the girls sashayed sensually into the jeering crowd, but I stayed on the stage with four other girls.  The DJ plunged a hand at his music system to increase the volume of the song playing.  Nineties Pop rushed to my ears and I moved my feet in rhythm with it.  

There wasn't much dancing to do.  The onlookers only wanted to see us twerk and shimmy around.  They were ready to witness anything that is indecent.  

The speculators get to drop their money in a human-size purple penis structure in the middle of the dancing area.  It served as a money box.  The manager splits the cash and pays a part to each of the strippers, but hoards a huge percentage of it for himself.  But most men liked pinning their notes on strippers' bikinis.  In their heads, strip clubs were places to lose money.  They distributed them with giddy faces, threw them on the stage like confetti and stuck them generously under bras.  On these money notes, the manager can't lay hands.

Zoya stayed back with me even when the other girls started to trickle away. 

When the last ones had migrated into the crowd too, the men's heads turned to me.  I slowly felt their wanton eyes swimming on my body.  I knew they were watching me and they knew they couldn't touch me till I walk down into them.  So instead, they touched me with their eyes.  I gyrated my hips to the side and felt my skirt sway around me.  I watched them react to me.  I revelled in this power.  

Just when they want to make me feel powerless for dancing half-naked for them, I wanted to watch how their eyes widened for me.  I wanted to see them knees-week. 

I didn't like to believe that I was dancing for them.  I liked to think that they were here to watch me dance.  

_

When wallets were empty and their owners were passed out, we stopped dancing.  

Zoya sighed beside me after picking up every money note of the stage.  They counted, split it into two and handed one half to me.  "You did great today." Zoya's hand reached up the pat my back.  

I nodded, agreeing.  I did great. 

"Hey listen, kiddo." Zoya's eyes focused on me with a hint of seriousness.  "I know you're in need of big money.  You won't tell me the reason and I understand if it's personal." Their voice was kind and empathizing.

I stared intently at them, suddenly realizing that Zoya was going to give me important advice. 

"If you want more than this, you gotta go fiddle the men in black." Zoya jerked a thumb towards the very right corner of the club, separated from the dance area by a long pink couch.  Men in coats grinned at the girls sitting on their laps.  Rich men, I noted.  They didn't look as drunk as the others here.  Zoya continued.  "They are smart bastards.  They know you'll wipe their wallets clean if they get too drunk.  But if you tried hard, you can suck money like a fucking vacuum." 

_

"Point your toes," Pineapple scolded and smacked my butt.  I was hanging on the smooth slippery pole, my legs in the air parallel to the floor.  I squeezed my abdomen and tightened my shoulder muscles, holding on for dear life.  

After ten was my pole dancing practice time. 

"This...is so hard," I squirmed.  

Pineapple pumped her hands to encourage me.  "Everything is hard at first." 

In a fierce attempt to get down, I let go of a hand holding the pole.  My other hand conveniently slipped and without warning, I was on the ground.  

I glared up at my torturer.  "What is that pose called again?" 

"V-stand."

"Yeah.  Fuck V-stand." 

"Now get up.  You've only learnt five postures in a whole week." 

"Nooo," I whined.  "Let's take a break." I didn't even have the energy to stand up.  Instead, I pulled my legs closer and hugged my knees.

Pineapple rolled her eyes, did a quick skilful around the pole and left me alone.  Her shimmering blond bob oscillated as she walked.  

Pole dancing was really hard.  It used up all my energy in mere minutes.  

But Pineapple is one of the good dancers and turned out to be a diligent coach too.  She says that she's been training for four years now, ever since she's started being a stripper here.  

There was some hope though.  I got better and better at the turns and postures she taught me day by day, and she believed I'll be good in a month.  But secretly, I had been planning to leave the club the moment I made enough money.

"Whatcha thinking, Dickinson?" Zoya lively voice boomed behind me.

I turned towards Zoya with a twisted mouth.  "Wishing pole dancing was harder," I said sarcastically.

They closed the distance between us and squatted beside me on the floor.  We just stayed like that, enjoying the unjudging, benign silence.  I aimlessly watched Zoya toy with their earrings. 

"I'm sorry I called you a whore," I broke the silence. "On the day we met." 

Zoya head jerked towards me, her mouth forming into an amused smile.  Their purple hair shone darker in the lights.  "Really, Diane?  Apology accepted." 

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Question: Would you rather have seven fingers on each hand or have seven toes on each foot?