Jack and Jameson are my only companions when I finally roll out of bed and get ready for work. Something about the sting of whiskey as it goes down makes me feel like I’m not dead yet, like this fight isn’t over, even though my body is switching off and my mind can’t process what’s going on. Tonight we’re doing the old fireman routine before learning a new one for next week. Dancing is everything, I love learning the new routines, stretching my body to its limits but today I couldn’t care less. It’s like someone has put a hazy filter over my eyes and I can’t shake it.

Pulling into the carpark I curb my truck, bouncing around like an idiot as it finally rolls to a stop. August shoots me a sharp look from across the lot and I know I should have walked, but logic wasn’t exactly my strong point right now. My night was off to a great start and it was only going to get worse.

Two hours later I miss my cue to turn around, my steps are too slow and as I go to pull off my trousers, my feet get tangled and I stumble barely catching myself before I faceplant next to D. I’m centre stage and I’ve just bumbled around like a fucking fool. Gio shoots me a look that says “WTF dude?” before he takes his place in the centre, gyrating in his thong and shaking his ass for the screaming crowd.

As the song dies down I make my way off stage, my legs like jelly. My mistake was a rookie one and I know I’m going to get shit for it. I’m trying to keep my head down as I go into the changing room, avoiding everyone’s concerned glances but I end up walking straight into Jag’s back.

“Fuck man. What is your problem?” he shoves me through the door in front of him, but says nothing else as he changes ready to head home. That disaster of a dance was the closing one and usually we’d stay and mingle with the customers but tensions are running high with all my fuck ups lately, and the guys have their own problems too.

“Dude, what was up with that shitshow out there?” Big D says as he pulls on his jeans and shoves a hoodie on over his head.

I avoid looking at him as I wash the flecks of glitter off my chest. “What’re you on about?”

“You looked like a monkey flailing around playing with his banana.”

I throw my t-shirt at D, hitting him squarely in the face. He doesn’t look like he’s playing around though as he frowns at me. “Quit riding me. I’m just dealing with some stuff is all,” I say, ignoring his glare.

“Yeah well, you’re fucking up the routine and making us look like tits out there. You need to get it together man, this isn’t just some fun or a joke— it’s my life. It’s my job and I take it seriously.”

“Look asshole, I said back off.”

D huffs as he throws his bag over his shoulder and goes to the exit, “You need to get a grip, lay off the tequila and maybe you wouldn’t be such a dick.”

Darius, who’s been sat at the mirror in silence chimes in, “D, Sin’s always been a dick. That ain’t ever going to change.”

Jag snorts in response as he leaves. I want to defend myself but it’s pointless, I know that I’m off my game. I fucking hate this. I don’t know why I can’t focus. I need a drink but I know that they’re starting to take note of what I drink at the club. No doubt Betty’s starting up a tab and at the end of the month she’ll hand me a bill. I pull on my clothes and go to call a cab since I’m in no state to drive— my handy little hip flask between dances saw to that, but Gio offers to drive me home where I’m sure there’s some vodka left at the back of a cupboard somewhere. Tomorrow is another day, and I don’t think I’m ready to face it just yet.

Rehearsals the next day are brutal. I literally want to shove screwdrivers into my eye sockets because my head is pounding that much. But I can’t just call in sick because today we’re starting the new routine and I’ll be fucked if I have to play catch up.

“Resentment ruins routines,” Betty says as I keep missing beats during practice.

What the hell have I got to feel resentful over? My torment is over. My devil is in hell where she belongs. This is freedom. But why does it feel like my head is a snow globe someone's shaken too hard? I try to force myself to concentrate but I can't find my rhythm. I down a shot, but there's no buzz, only missed steps and slow moves. What use is an exotic dancer who can't dance? I stomp my foot on the stage angrily and Betty glares at me for a moment. She knows my heads not in it. I can't follow the routine, I can't make my body obey— it's turning on me, the fucking traitor.

I storm off the stage and head to the changing room. I’m done. I can’t think straight today. I’m not surprised when I hear the door open and close behind me, followed by the dull scent of cigarettes and gin.

“Here. This might help,” Betty says in a soft voice.

Glancing at the piece of paper she’s placed on top of my sports bag, I snort. It’s a leaflet for a Latin dance class. I can dance, that’s not my issue. Fuck, I’ve got more moves than Beyoncé so going to a class is a ridiculous idea. Plus it’s at my local community centre, a grotty hellhole hidden away near my apartment. They say it’s closing down every year and yet it’s still open, offering Latin dance classes apparently.

“I’m not going.”

“Listen here Sinclair Asher Beaumont, and hear what I say. You are suspended until you get your ass in gear. And if a dance class can help, then you better get that body God gifted you with, and shake it in that damn community centre.”

“Fuck that Betty. I’m not doing it.”

“This is my house Sin, my rules. So you better do as you’re told boy.”

The door closes behind her and once I know she’s gone I let out a sigh. Then I kick the chair, watching as it topples over with a clang.

I fume for a while, angry at Betty, angry at myself and angry at my mother. I said I wouldn’t let her death get to me but it was, it felt like I was on a rollercoaster and I couldn’t get off because I was stuck mid-air of the loop-the-loop. There was no escaping whatever repressed feelings were resurfacing and screwing with my life.

I don’t hear Jag come in but he gives me a friendly slap on the back and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“What’s got you all twisted these days? It’s not a chick is it?” he asks chuckling before taking a swig from his water bottle.

I say the words out loud for the first time, “My mother died.”

He stares at me for a moment before giving a low whistle, “Shiiit. Look man, I’m sorry— I know you guys weren’t close but that’s still your mom.”

I snort and he gives me this odd look, part pity and part ‘I want to slap some sense into you’ as I lean back against the wall and slide down to the floor, my head in my hands.

“It’s like I can’t control it. I want to be okay, but I’m not.” Sighing I rub my temples, I need control. I need my life back.

“You’re grieving, it’s normal to be all over the place. Take some time to sort your head out Sin and I guarantee you’ll be back eating pussy for breakfast and fucking your way around the club before you know it.”

“I haven’t got a choice. Betty suspended me.”

“Well she is a sly one, you wouldn’t take leave so she made you,” he gives a small laugh as we both think about the woman who runs this club. Betty— hard as nails, cunning as hell and not someone you’d ever want to cross.

Jag finally breaks the silence as he heads back out on stage to finish the rehearsal, “Look, I know neither of us really do the whole ‘feelings’ thing but if you need someone to hang out with and just y’know, talk shit then give me a call.”

I nod as he leaves. I know the guys at the club have my back, I’ve known it from the second I started here, but this wasn’t their issue. It was my problem and I wasn’t ready to share my past with them. There were somethings that even I can’t say out loud and I don’t want to see their faces when I tried. Easier to lock that down and shut it away in the dark place where it belonged. I just need to be that cheeky, fun, charming guy I normally am and everything would go back to normal. I need to be the drunk version of me all the time basically, and there was only one way to do that as I head to the liquor store on my way home.

I wake up and my stomach rolls. Something stinks and I think it’s me. I try to shuffle over and end up flopping on my tile floor, my coordination out of whack. I see the dregs left in the bottom of a bottle of Jack and groan. This is why my body hates me today. My traitorous liver is screaming in protest at what I’ve been putting myself through this last week.

Something needs to change. I can’t keep drinking myself into oblivion each night. I want to go back to work. Seven whole days off is almost like death in the performance world. Plus, I don’t like being left alone with my own thoughts. I feel the acid rising in my stomach seconds before my body heaves and I’m sick. Thank fuck I fell asleep in the bathroom because the mess I’m making of my life is too much for my cleaning lady to deal with.

I hear a soft voice call out my name and I freeze. There’s someone in my apartment. There’s never anyone in my apartment. I swig back some mouthwash and quickly splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection because I know that I look like shit, have done for a few days now. I mean sure, the abs are still there but I’m not sure how long they’ll last with the liquid diet and lack of exercise. I’ve also got this gruff woodsman thing going on, but the bloodshot eyes and pale, sickly face is kinda killing it.

On shaky legs I head out into my bedroom and see a red head wrapped in my sheets. Her makeup is smeared across her pale face, panda eyes making her look like some Halloween freak show as she calls out my name again, this time in greeting.

“Hey baby,” she purrs and my stomach flips, threatening to empty then and there. I don’t know who this woman is, or why the fuck she’s in my bed. My heart starts pounding, and I’m sweating. It could be the booze, or that fact that there’s some random stranger in my personal space. She stretches, my bedding wrapping itself around her tighter, it’s like she’s digging her way in firmly so I can’t get rid of her.

“Who the hell are you?”

She blinks, surprised by my tone. What the heck did drunk me do? What did I promise her?

“I’m Cheri. Don’t you remember?” Her face drops, but only slightly. I see her eyes narrow and I know I’ve messed up. This woman isn’t some fresh faced pick-up from a bar.

“Clearly fucking not lady.”

“You called me.”

“Did I fuck!”

She gets up, standing before me completely naked and unashamed. After rifling around in her cheap black bag she tosses a business card at me. It reads ‘Cheri Louise — Masseuse’.

I take a long breath and exhale slowly, “I paid for sex?”

“No you jackass, you were paying for a massage. I had sex with you because you were hot... and charming!”

She’s pulling on her underwear now but her pretty shaved pussy isn’t doing anything for me today. She’s in my apartment and she needs to get the hell out.

“You invited me here and then the next morning you treat me like shit.”

I run a hand through my greasy hair, “Look — I don’t know what you were expecting. I don’t even remember you.”

A jumper goes on over her perky tits and hey, at least she wasn’t a prostitute, it could’ve been a close call though. She’s dressed in a tight knitted jumper, a pair of figure hugging yoga pants, and let me just say I can see why I banged her. Cherry or Cherie or whatever the fuck she was called obviously worked out and looked after her body. That was more than I could say for myself at the moment.

She stands before me expectant, anger radiating off her. She gives a little faux cough and places her hands on her hips.

“What?”

“Pay up asshole. You owe me £200.”

“Shit you’re expensive for a chick who rubbed my back.”

“Yeah, well, my costs go up if I suck your dick too. Shame you don’t recall that.”

I shrug, a blowjob is a blowjob. I can get one anywhere.

I pay Cherise and jump in the shower. As I lather myself up I think about how my body has always been an instrument, a tool to be used to bring in money, to give pleasure, to keep my mother supplied with her drugs. It was just a shell, a vessel that was daaaamn fine, and I’ve always known how to use it. When I was younger I had no autonomy over it, no control and I was used, abused and disillusioned with the world. Growing up, I finally claimed back what was mine. But I knew, I had learned by then, to use the gifts God gave me in this cruel life. Stripping may not be for everyone, but taking my clothes off is something I've got experience with. It's an art form and I make a lotta cash doing something I was raised to do. Now at twenty eight I finally had an apartment of my own, a car, fuck— I even had savings. Yes, a portion of my wages still went to my mother until a few weeks ago, but that was to keep her out of my life. I paid her to stay away. So why was her death fucking with my head? Why were all these feelings and memories resurfacing when I thought I'd buried them with her, six feet under, covered in damp soil? I thought I had left my past to rot, but evidently that cunt was a zombie determined to dog my every step. As I watch the bubbles disappear down the plughole I decide I’m done with this shitshow, it’s time to get myself back in the game. I can’t let my mother win.