His fingers were firmly threaded through my long, dark hair, down near the nape of my neck, tilting my head back to almost meet his mouth, the other hand gently cupping the small of my back, lifting and pulling me closer, my legs spread wide, black patent leather stilettos braced against the back of two chairs, the edge of my g-stringed ass barely brushing past the edge of the stage. He wrapped his hand high around my bare thigh right above the place where smooth skin met silk stocking, rubbing his thumb lightly in that small concave of inner velvet flesh found only on a young woman’s leg just below a man’s greatest desire. Then he leaned into my neck and took a long, quiet breath. With his left hand still wrapped in my hair, he held me posed, young skin pulled taught, back arched, breasts spilling sweetly over the tightly laced bra, he slowly began tucking a neat string of fifty dollar bills around the black lace garter belt skimming my hips, dark eyes locked on mine, open lips a sweet breath away, he silently let me go with a hand softly stroking the side of my face. I was five hundred dollars richer and wet as a river a few minutes later.
I stood up and finished my first set of the evening, nearly two thousand dollars circling my waist as I exited to applause. The marks crowding the house that night ate it up and insisted on paying the pretty girl in the fine, black bustier and garters proper homage, trying to match the handsome man’s generosity. I walked into my cab five grand richer that night for a short six hours worth of work.
Did I mention I worked the mild end of the skin trade way back in the day? Slap the stupid surprise off your face, how in the hell else do you think a smart, good looking, abandoned fifteen year old makes enough money to keep a decent roof over her head? Besides the club work, I had a nice side business bubbling in primo redbud and long, hermetically sealed, strips of pharmaceutical quaaludes. Irony ran rich in Houston back in the late seventies. I could drink myself under the table at most nightclubs in town and out earn a school teacher in one easy weekend, but I couldn’t register for school or rent an apartment without an adult signature. I wasn’t allowed to work at respectable McDonalds or Macy’s, thank goodness, but I could strip in outlaw nightclubs. Excuse me if I don’t have a scintilla of respect for hypocritical government sensibilities that keep trying to manage our lives with a slew of nebby, feel good laws that limit my freedom and grab for my money all these years later. The political class couldn’t smell a rational clue if it was wrapped in rotting meat and shoved up their noses.
I’m betting you want to hear more about titty clubs, drug deals and dancing girls before I assault you with a fine polemic rant skewering the ivory tower intellectuals and obtuse government grunts who create expensively useless ways to save ourselves from the most natural of human proclivities. People like to get high, have sex and generally misbehave on occasion, the officials need to come to grips with that reality. I have never underestimated the power of sex and titillation to sell a product, especially my own, so I’ll indulge the voyeuristically inclined who’ve led sheltered lives and I don’t mind helping out the curious folks who occasionally walk the crooked path on the paying end of the business, either. Hell, I’ll even give you the goods today without the gospel.
I can sum it all up in a few unsexy words – it’s just work. No different than most jobs really, it just pays better, the hours are shorter and the perks can be really spectacular because you happen to work without a shirt. Men have a thing for boobs and they’re willing to pay ridiculous sums to look at them in naughty venues. There is rarely anything truly sexy about the work, the women who excel at it just make it seem that way. Like any ordinary office full of women, only a small percentage put out a brilliant product. A slightly larger group perform adequately and the rest range from barely tolerable to downright awful. The customer’s are viewed with a jaded eye and no small amount of contempt. The ladies are happy to see you walk in the door, but you become objectified the minute you plant your ass in a chair – you men are little more than a ripe cash bag with a face and an annoying habit of talking too much.
Insert drug dealers for women and dope for tits in the above paragraph and we have that gritty subject pretty much covered in spades. Except it’s all illegal if you’re underage.