Dirty Secrets (Get Dirty 4)

“I love their faces and their hard work,” I admit. “Who cares if they make it pro or not?”

Eileen grins. “Exactly. And there are a handful of us who know your gig. We’re just waiting for the stars and babysitters to align so that we can come crash one of your performances en masse. Girl, I plan on making your night by making it rain.” She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

I laugh. Eileen’s ridiculous sometimes. “That sounds awkward as hell, but awesome. I’d put an extra spin in my pole routine just for you.” I bat my lashes at her and we both laugh again. “Anyway, guess I’d better get ready for tonight.”

I head to the back studio to set up. Encore Studio is decent-sized, with three rehearsal rooms lined up along the left side of the building with the lobby and other facilities arranged on the right.

Normally, I like snagging Studio One because it’s in the front with full glass windows, so I feel like we’re performing every time we hold class there.

But for Stripper 101, I’m choosing Three, all the way in the back. It’s almost the same size, but with no windows, it feels cozier. My choreography for this group is a bit risqué, including some good floor work, and I’m betting the ladies will prefer the privacy over flashing their business to everyone on the sidewalk.

I set up the music, dipping back into the nineties and naughty eighties for that slow, sexy RnB that straddles the line between sexy and slutty. Even I get the warm tingles when Janet Jackson sings Anytime, Anyplace, and I’ve danced to it before.

That done, I set up the snack table with the sandwiches and cupcakes the maid of honor dropped off earlier. I grin at the little plastic dicks stuck in the pink frosting on top of the cupcakes, thinking that at least there’s diversity in the coloring. Although if any of the ladies does find that her man has a naturally blue dick, she should take him to a hospital.

Eileen set up a borrowed frozen margarita machine earlier, so it looks like everything’s ready. I change out of my pink leotard and into black booty shorts and a loose tank top with a light sports bra. I could be going to yoga or the gym, but nope . . . Stripper 101 class is in session.

“Okay, ladies. All right, remember, this isn’t about the guy. Trust me, most men are easy. If you just show up and show some interest, he’s gonna be in there like a rocket. Stripping is about the slow seduction, letting the anticipation build and creating tension. You’re dancing for your partner—”

The blonde to my left interrupts me, squealing out, “Jason!”

The bride blushes but finds her balls and says decisively, “Hell, yeah, I’m dancing for Jason.”

I smile at her confidence, something the shy brunette had been lacking an hour ago. She’s beautiful, and Jason’s a lucky guy . . . who’s going to get his world rocked after this session.

“Yes, definitely dance for Jason,” I say, giving her a wink, “but also for yourself. Find your own strength and sexiness in the moves and seduce yourself just as much as your partner. They’ll respond to seeing your arousal more than if you’re focusing on choreography or doing something ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. Just live in the moment and enjoy.”

Pep talk complete, I hit Play on the stereo and watch as the group of twenty-something, giggly girls turn into sexy women right before my eyes. Softly, I coach them.

“Long lines. Point your toes. Use your eyes to direct his gaze . . . that’s it, Sarah.”

The music gets bass-heavy, the lyrics more pointed, and every woman in here is feeling like she ‘Earned It’ as they work the floor, toss their hair, and let their hands trace their curves as their hips sway.

“Great job, ladies. Jason is one lucky man, Sarah.”

She grins and the girls all high-five before grabbing drinks and sandwiches. Lesson’s over. I don’t mind if they toss back the tequila with abandon now. I let the music play, fiddling with the stereo so as not to intrude on their after-party.

I’m about to pull a fade and let them have their time when the maid of honor comes over.

“Hey, Allie? Do you think you could show us how it’s really done? I mean, I feel like I’m definitely better at this than I was an hour ago, but maybe a bit of inspiration would help? It’s not like I’m ever going to be dancer, but I’d like to seem . . . comparable?”

She says the word questioningly, like she’s not sure if that’s what she means, but I get it. Some women freak about their guys going to strip clubs, like the stripper has something they don’t, and God knows, society encourages women to compare themselves enough.