“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.
Finally, she reaches into her bra, and pulls out a business card. I had no idea she kept things in there, but she hands it to me.
“Take the night off, darling,” she tells me as I take the card. “And call these people in the morning.”
“Simulated Pleasures LLC,” I read aloud.
“Same owner as Scorcher’s,” Yasmine says nodding, referring to the strip club. “Only you can work from home and it’s a phone sex line. They could use someone with as much imagination and intelligence as you.”
I look at Yasmine, grateful. This could totally be it!
“Thank you, Yas—” I’m about to say, but Yasmine has already gotten up from her chair and interrupts me.
“Now go home,” she says. “I’m serious. You’re no good here.”
***
It’s nearly midnight by the time I get my makeup off, tip out the DJ, the makeup girls, Yasmine, the waitress, as well as the club.
I’m waiting on 6th Avenue for a taxicab but tonight, they’re hard to come by. Finally, I see one that stops and I go to get in.