Chapter 22

Christina

A black Mercedes pulls into the valet lane and motions for me to approach. I walk towards the car wearing a tight red evening gown, red lipstick, red heels, and pair of silver earrings that drip off me like frosting melting off a hot slice of chocolate cake.

When I enter the backseat, I notice a man in his 30s sitting inside. He looks clean cut, and wears a nice suit. He smells faintly of sweet tobacco and oak. I give him a smile. "Well, aren't you handsome," I say, stroking my thigh to get him excited for the evening.. "What's your name?"

"I'm Eric," the man says, and extends his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Where are we off to?" I ask, batting my lashes at him in a slightly flirtatious nod. I take his hand, though I wonder if it is not violation of the touching rule. I tell myself to think nothing of it. Carl didn’t touch me, but he was much of a nerd than Eric seems to be. What’s the harm in a handshake?

"We are off to have some fun," he replies with a smile.

The car drives down Las Vegas Blvd before entering the freeway. We drive down the freeway for a few exits before we come to our destination, Olympic Gardens. I’m not new to strip clubs—I worked at the Spearmint Rhino to get myself through college, but Olympic Gardens is a huge strip club housing various floors of dancers. It is definitely a notch above the Spearmint Rhino. I bought my breasts and an education with the money I earned twisting and grinding on men, but I hear that the women who work at Olympic Gardens have bought a whole lot more—luxury cars, homes, and designer goods.

I start to remember my nights dancing, and one night in particular—I wore a pair of clear light-up platform heels, had far too much to drink, lost my grip on the pole, and fell ass first into a man's shot of whiskey. There were embarrassing moments like this, and moments where I felt in total control, petting and purring into the necks of men, giving them the attention they craved, and pocketing more money in a single night than I knew what to do with.

Eric and I walk up to one stage, and place money down. A woman, introduced as "Hot Wheels," takes the stage in roller skates. Twisting in circles and grabbing her tits, she begins to peel her clothes off. She jiggles her ass, spinning fast and stopping in sudden bursts in front of unsuspecting watchers. She gets down on her hands and knees, arching her back like a feisty cat. This girl has a unique brand of allure.

I find her entertaining, but Eric has his eyes on another dancer—a curvy blonde who twisted around the pole with sheer grace and what seemed like a lot of upper body strength. I know that I need to work hard to keep his attention tonight, so lean closer to him and ask him if he likes the athletic blonde, intending to say much filthier things.

"Shall we bring one of these girls back to the hotel room with us?" Eric asks, giving her a mischievous smile.

"Baby, the only woman you need is me," I answer, spreading my legs and showing him pussy.

I see his cock immediately hardening and watch as he begins to stroke it through his pants.

Eric sighs and looks at my pussy expectantly.

I look at the dancers on stage, and my eyes meet one and we shared a brief understanding look — we are in this for the money.

Not all the time, a voice inside of my says.

I like being desired. I like men defiling my body. I like being a slut.

I slide my fingers through my pussy lips, delving inside to stroke my clit and my inner lips for just a moment before I sink them in.

Eric grips his cock tightly and groans.

“Let’s get back to the room,” Eric grunts, releasing his cock. He stands, and I pull my fingers from my pussy to follow him.

Back at Eric's hotel room, I peel off my dress.

Eric watches my every move while he yanks his cock free of his trousers.

I run my hands up and down my body and I walk in right in front of Eric. I put my leg up so that my pussy is directly in his face. I think about Mr. M, I think about David, and everything makes me so wet that the can see a line of my arousal dripping down my thighs.

He groans, clearly pleased, and I start to stroke my clit, moaning loudly. I start rubbing my tits with my free hand, and move back just a little so that when Eric is ready to blow his load, he spray get me without deciding to ram his cock up my pussy, which is no longer on to the table for clients. Well, most clients. Thinking about Mr. M sends a shiver up my spine, but I pull my focus back to work.

Already, Eric’s started to moan, and I speed up rubbing my tits and exaggerate my moans even more. Eric blow his load on my tits, and he breathing afterward like he's run a marathon. That would be more impressive if he’d shot more than a few drops, but, not unlike Carl, he hands me a copious number of tissues. Wishful thinking abounds here. I think about how much David comes and I’m wet instantly, wishing he was coming on me instead. I wouldn’t need the tissues because I’d drink every last drop of him up.

I wipe off, pretending to need all the tissues, and gather my clothes, heading out.

I stand outside of Eric's door and count out the money he gave me as I left. The night is growing cold and I can feel the wind blowing in through my open coat. There should have be $1500 since is at my special no touching rate. But every time I re-count, I keep counting out $1100. It is clear that Eric shorted me $400.

I knock on his door. At first, he doesn’t answer, so I knock with more force, nearly pounding on the door.

Finally, he answers with a crooked smile. "You can't get enough of me, can you?" he says as he opens the door.

"Cut the shit," I reply. "You shorted me four hundred dollars."

"You're crazy," he says. "I paid you, now get the fuck out of here."

"You didn't pay me enough, and that's the real problem," I say, standing my ground. "You paid me $1100 and you know my services cost $1500."

"You're a lying whore," he growls, and slams the door.

I'm pissed. I did what this dickhead asked and I expect to be paid for it. There is no way I am going to let him get away with this. I pace for a minute and then pull the cell phone from my purse. I dial Thomas.

"Hey, Chris,” he answers, after allowing the phone ring for a few seconds.

"Get over here; I need your help," I say, sounding slightly panicked. "A John is trying to short me."

"A John is trying to hurt you?" he asks.

"No, S-H-O-R-T, short me," I say. "This guy is refusing to pay up."

"No one fucks with my girls," he says. "I'll be right there."

It is in this moment that I am thankful I have the muscle of a pimp behind me. Without Thomas, I would be at a loss. But knowing that this will be handled, I leave and head back to my hotel room.

Knowing that I am close to my hotel, I decide to walk down the strip, but after a couple of long blocks, I quickly regret my decision. My feet are killing me and I have no choice but to take off my heels and carry them in one hand.

I walk barefoot past desperate street performers—a man in an Elmo suit, a double amputee playing drums, a man in a homemade costume in the form of Bumblebee, the Transformer, and women dressed in classic showgirl attire. There are people handing out business cards with the images of big-breasted, naked sex workers into her hands, drunk people falling down in the street carrying foot-long neon-blue drinks, the blinking neon lights of the strip flashing all while Vegas flashed its crooked grin.

I start to feel disillusioned. I have never experienced a client like Eric before. All of the previous men never proved to be a problem; overall, they were kind, generous, and kept their ends of the bargain. They never hurt me, they paid in full, and every once in awhile I get a little pleasure out of the interaction, and at the end of the night, it was a mutually beneficial business deal. But my encounter with Eric makes me realize that this is in fact a job with risks—I am risking my well being, and it becomes obvious that the clients can be unpredictable. Eric knew I had a pimp, and even still, he refused to pay in full. What would he have done if I were working alone? I shudder just thinking about this.

I arrive at my hotel, swipe my room key in the elevator, selected my floor, and watch as each number lights up as the elevator climbed higher. The doors open, and I walk out toward my room.

I start to think that maybe I shouldn’t risk it all anymore. Maybe I need to be broke, and try to slip back into my old life. Surely it couldn’t be too hard.

Once in my room, I draw myself a hot bath, taking off my coat and lingerie and carefully submerging myself in the tub. The heat and support from the water make my neck and shoulders relax. I lean back, take a few deep breaths, and closed my eyes, thinking that I will text Thomas tonight and tell him that I’m done being a prostitute. I wonder how Thomas will react. I know he is depending on me, but I can’t let that cloud my judgment. I need to put myself first.

When I finish with my bath, I slip on a silk robe and walk into the room. When I look up, I nearly jump out of my skin. There, sitting on the bed, is the silhouette of a man. Just as I am about to let out a scream, I realize who it is.

"I thought I'd bring this to you in person," Thomas says as he holds out four hundred dollar bills.

"How in the hell did you get in here?" I ask with my eyebrows arched in anger. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Thomas doesn't answer and instead pats the bed and motions for me to have a seat next to him.

"Maybe I want out,” I say, flatly.

Thomas doesn’t blink. He stares at me for a long moment before speaking. "Listen to yourself for a minute. Do you know what you're saying?"

"I do, and I've given this a lot of thought," I say. "I'm fucking up my life. I can't keep doing this."

"No, you'd be fucking up your life by walking away," Thomas counters. "You are one of the highest paid girls I know. You bring in more cash per client than most females out there."

"Maybe it's not all about the money, maybe it's—" I begin to say before Thomas cuts me off.

"Stop," he says. "Just shut up for a minute. Of all the girls I know, you appreciate money more than most. You are willing to put yourself out there and take risks because you know with great risk comes great reward."

"Client are unpredictable, Thomas," I say. "I saw that tonight. It's not easy out there."

"Hey, doll," he says. "That's why I'm here. I've got your back. Didn't I have your back tonight?" He flashes the money in the air, to bring home his point.

"You did, but what if—" I continue and again Thomas cuts me off.

"There won't be a what if," he says, interrupting. "No one is ever going to fuck with you again. I made an example out of Eric.”

"Still, this shit isn't easy," I say.

"Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Chris," Thomas says. He pats my hand.

I consider our conversation. Thomas is right, nothing in life is easy and if he is promising me safety, perhaps it was worth doing. Besides, I recall, it is just for one weekend a month. It isn't like I am prostituting myself every day of the week. I still have a career.

"Fine," I say. "I won't throw in the towel yet. But if I get another asshole client I'm out."

Thomas grins.

I realize that with money, I feel a sense of security and autonomy. I don’t have anyone to depend on for anything if I want it, and if I want something, I can just have it. And it also feels good to be desired, to have the kind of power and influence that I have over men. But how long could I keep this up without another problem arising?

And what will this do to my sort of relationship David? I can’t really say that I’m lying to him, but I don’t think things can or should go on the way they are? And I try to push back my thoughts of Mr. M. There’s entirely too much going on in my brain right now and I resolve to push forward and figure it all out.