JESSIE AKA CINDY
“Cindy, you’ve got a private dance in room six,” Adrian shouts over the bar.
I’ve finished my stage dances for the night, but I I’m still on the clock for another couple of hours. It doesn’t look like my plan for a break is going to pan out.
“Okay,” I say sounding completely unenthusiastic. I slip off my bar stool, feet already groaning in my ridiculous red stilettos. It isn’t busy for a Friday night but that doesn’t seem to be resulting in any peace for me.
I stroll through the bar feeling greedy eyes watching me. Even after all these months I still haven’t found a way to ignore the way it makes my skin crawl. There are steps at the edge of the dance floor that lead toward towards the back area where the changing rooms and private rooms are concealed behind a large mirrored wall. As I round the corner I adjust the underwire of my bra and look down to make sure my panties and stockings are all in place. I hate red but it’s a firm favorite among the clientele and I always make better tips when I wear it. I’m here for the money so red it is.
I pause outside the room as I always do, wondering who will be inside and hoping that everything will be okay. There are strict rules about what happens in the private rooms but that doesn’t mean that every drunken idiot obeys them.
The handle creaks as I lower it. The room is darker inside than in the corridor and a dark haired man sits on the sofa, waiting for the dance he’s paid for.
“Hi, I’m Cindy and I’ll be your dancer this evening.” I walk forward, putting my hands under my hair and tossing it seductively. He looks up and meets my eyes, but his expression isn’t leering and he doesn’t look me over like the clients usually do, eating up what they see, hands twitching to touch. Instead, he seems serious and slightly uncomfortable. It happens sometimes. Maybe he has a wife and kids at home and feels guilty for needing to spend his money on something so selfish and disloyal. I glance quickly at his left hand but he isn’t wearing a ring.
I sway over to the music system and press ‘play’. The management has a limited selection, all tacky, sexy bump n’ grind tunes that make me cringe when I hear them in the outside world. I turn the volume up and swivel around, going to the place in my head that I use to block out the room; the deserted beach at dusk, sand between my toes, somewhere I can dance without anyone watching.
There’s a pole in front of him and I grasp it high, hooking my leg around to start a spin, putting my body into the positions I’ve been trained to form, the ones that are supposed to be the most alluring. I try not to look directly at the man because eye contact feels very personal and this has to be all about business. The ocean sound in my mind holds strong as I rest against the pole, back arched, hands above my head, sliding down with my legs spread to give him the view he has paid for.
His silence is disconcerting. Not unusual, but I cut him a glance as I finish the pole dance and move towards him to get to the up close and personal bit. My client is good-looking but not in a model-perfect way. There is something about him, an intensity, that makes me fearful of looking directly into his eyes. The hands that rest on his knees look big, strong and capable. There’s at least a day’s scruff on his chin, and his lips, which are set in a grim line, look full and pink. In another place, at another time, maybe he would have given me butterflies, but I never find my clients appealing. Knowing they need to frequent a place like ‘The Kitty Cat Club’ turns me off of even the most stunning of men.
It’s his eyes, though, that bring me back into the room with a bump. They look glassy in the dim light of the room, and sad. I face away, wanting to get back to the seashore, putting my hands under my long blonde hair and bringing my arms up so it cascades down. My ass is level with his face, and the thong I’m wearing leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Barely enough to remain on the right side of the law. I widen my stance, long legs even longer in my four inch heels, and bend over to give him a really good look.
I’ll admit that it’s hard to strip without getting a bit turned on. Lacy lingerie lets in a lot of cool air. Add to that the thrusting, the brushing of your own hand over your skin, the knowledge that what you are doing is most likely making your client hard; it’s a heady combination. It’s probably partly why so many girls end up giving extras. That and the money.
That’s not for me though. No matter how wet I get I keep my body to myself. Eyes are one thing, hands are another.
The next part of the dance is the slow removal of my bra, first slipping straps off shoulders with a wiggle, then tugging so at least one nipple pops out and finally reaching behind and unhooking, allowing it to drop to the floor before pushing breasts together and leaning close to the client.
I turn to start the routine, looking at my spot on the wall. In this room it’s an unidentifiable yellow stain just above the sofa. When I hook a finger under my bra strap, ready to pull, he distracts me with a noise that sounds pained and I looked down.
“Stop,” he says gruffly, as though he’s speaking past a lump in his throat. “Don’t take it off.”
“Is everything okay?” I straighten my bra, moving to stand taller and less seductively.
He looks like he has no idea what to say. “I just…I can’t,” he stutters, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes and pushing his fingers roughly through his thick, dark hair.
“You didn’t like it?” I ask warily, not wanting to get shouted at by the management over a complaint.
“It’s not that. I just…I thought I could do this but...”
“Okay,” I say, taking a step back. “Do you want me to go?”
He sinks right back in the sofa, rubbing his face with both hands looking almost distressed. In the real world, outside of this place, I would sit down next to him, maybe rest my hand on his forearm and ask if he wanted to talk about it, but this is fantasy land and I’m almost naked. I have a feeling that attempting to get closer to him would only make him more uncomfortable. I take a step back.
“No,” he blurts, realizing I’m retreating and he hasn’t answered my question. Then he looks me right in the eyes, the gray of his pupils swimming like quicksilver. “Yes,” he says, reluctantly. “Maybe that would be best.”
As I’m about to pull the door closed I hear a soft ‘sorry’ follow me out.