Stripped Bare (Vegas Billionaire 1)
Everything comes off except my panties, cowboy boots and tassels. The lady bits have to stay covered in Washington State and I’m fine with that. I know a lot of girls cross the state line to hit the clubs because you can get naked, but I don’t think I’m comfortable with that. Would the extra tips be nice? Yep, but my dignity is worth more than a hundred bucks. Besides, the diner I work at is close to the border and I’d rather keep my dirty customers on this side of the tracks.
The stripper pole is a cesspool of germs. I hate it, but it’s a necessary evil. Over the years I’ve learned how to do pretty much everything on it. Hanging from the top by my ankles, pulling myself up just by my hands and spinning in every way possible. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out why guys like the pole so much until I dated one who commented on my flexibility. I believe it’s a guy’s mission to see how many different positions he can get your body into while he’s fucking you. It becomes more of a game to them than the actual deed.
One of our handlers picks my clothes up off the stage while I scoop up the money that has been slammed down for me. Some stick it in my G-string while others set it on the stage. Those men are the creepy fuckers. They do it that way so you have to make eye contact with them. They want to see your eyes when you pick up the money they’re paying you to make them hard so they can jack off later in the bathroom because the five-dollar movie they can buy in the restroom isn’t enough.
Backstage I slip a long white T-shirt over my head to keep myself covered. Some women like to let it all hang out. It’s a personal choice that we all have to make. I know I share my body with a room full of men, but sharing it with the men who work here isn’t something I want to do. Most of the male employees want to date us and a few of the dancers do, but not me. I want someone who doesn’t stare at my naked body all night and expect me to act like I do onstage. That’s not who I am. I do this to support my daughter.
When we’re not onstage, the dancers are expected to wait tables wearing our lingerie. The less we have covered up the better because it encourages interest in lap dances. I pay special attention to the guys that creeped me out earlier and try to work the other side of the room. The more they drink, the more dances they buy. The more dances, the more tips. The cycle is endless and you can bet your ass that the drinks are watered down. The owner milks these pervs for every cent they have, our drinks too, as we’re expected to drink with our customers.
“Tips are shitty tonight,” I complain backstage to whoever will listen.
“You should try another club.” The dancer’s name is Rumor. It’s not her real name, as we all go by something fake in this place. Here my name is Catalina. When I first started here, the owner thought I was Brazilian. I loved the compliment and have never forgotten it even though he was probably making that shit up. I don’t know if it was my light blue eyes and brunette hair or the fact that I have a natural set of C tits that made him drool. Either way, I lied about my age when I started and let him believe I had some Brazilian in me.
“The only other club is at the border and I wouldn’t be able to get home each night.” Right now I can take a cab and it will cost me eight dollars. Going to the border of Idaho would cost me most of my night’s tips. It’s not worth it.
“I’m heading to Vegas tomorrow,” Cora, another one of the girls, says.
“Why Vegas?” I ask.
“Because there you can make triple in one night what you make here in a week. The best times to go are spring break when those horny rich kids are looking for action or in May because most weddings take place in June so the bachelor parties are thriving at that time.”
“And you just show up at a club and dance?” The thought of making triple in one night is more than appealing.
“Yeah, most clubs don’t care. Fill out the paperwork and get onstage. They have waitresses and shit, so you literally take off your clothes, pick up your money and leave, or do another set. It’s full-frontal, though.”
“Oh.” By instinct my arms try to cover my already covered boobs.