Copyright 2002 - 2006 Rachael Ross all rights reservedStory Codes: F/F, M/F, Exhibition, Watersports, Rough, BDSM, Consensual
This story was originally different and my working title was 'Makin' Movies' I've put a link in the HTML version of this story at the point where the original story and this story diverge. So basically you can choose and compare and see how my moods change from day to day. I posted this on SOL as a rather disjointed but complete story called simply "Makin Movies" I expect it will score low. I'll put it on ASSM the same way, probably...or maybe not. I haven't decided. -rr
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The Longest Dance
by rache
Part 1
"Oh!" I looked down at my coffee, stirring a little more sugar in it. "I'm not sure, Jen. I mean I've never..."
My best friend cut me off. "You're the one always saying you want to make some extra money, Rache." She pulled her long blonde hair back in a ponytail and looked at me with her soft blue eyes. "It's up to you anyway."
"What, uh, what would I have to do?" I asked.
Jenny was getting ready for work, putting on a little too much makeup though, I thought. She was pretty enough without it, but I guess being under the lights made her a little self-conscious, I don't know.
"Well, they just want to do a movie, like a couple hours is all it takes. Some guy talks to you, like an interview thing and then you undress and then have sex with some guy. That's it." She was staring in the little mirror propped up against her purse, concentrating on her eyelashes now.
"I don't know." I said again and Jen was getting tired of my indecision.
"It's up to you, Rache. I'm going and I'm pretty sure April's going. They're looking for three girls, I can find someone else, it's no big deal." She stopped talking as she did her lipstick. "Anyway, it's 600 dollars, so let me know tonight, okay? If I don't hear from you, I'll find someone else. Donna would do it, I think. She's pregnant again and needs the money."
"Another abortion?" I shook my head. "She needs to get her tubes tied, is what she needs."
Jen laughed. "Yeah, no shit." She put her red glossy lips next to my cheek, almost but not quite touching. "See ya later, huh?"
"Bye." I was still stirring my coffee.
I thought about it while I tried to do my homework. Jenny and I had lived together since we graduated high school together almost 2 years ago. We were best friends and had been since I was 15 and brand new to Seattle. But we were pretty different from each other, so maybe it's true about opposites attracting. Where she was tall and blond and blue, with long legs and heavy large breasts; I was 6 inches shorter, with black hair, deep brown eyes and a tomboy body, to put it simply. Narrow hips, small breasts, and painfully thin. There were a lot of people, a lot of guys, who thought we went pretty well together. And while we had double teamed a guy or two, Jen was straight as an arrow. I'm bisexual, I guess, although I don't think of myself that way. I tend to tell people I'm hetero with lesbian tendencies. Jen tells them I'm just the opposite.
She didn't really like it the one time I'd convinced her to let me go down on her. I mean she'd enjoyed it enough to cum three or four times, but that isn't the same as liking it. That had been right after graduation when we'd found out little apartment and moved in. I admit all those margaritas we'd drank to celebrate might have had something to do with what happened, because me having sex with Jen was just about the last thing either of us wanted. Sex always ruins a perfectly good friendship. But damn if tequila doesn't make me incredibly horny and Jen too, for that matter. The next day, feeling a little embarrassed, we agreed that tequila was no longer permitted on the premises, and we got busy with just being friends.
I also got busy with school, taking a fairly massive load that first year, and not much lighter this second year. It was going to take just 30 months to get my Bachelor's though and a few years after that I'd have my masters, then...my doctorate was in reach. I didn't always have such clear cut goals, but I did now.
Jen, on the other hand, is of the happy-go-lucky persuasion. She got busy with life, taking a job as an exotic dancer at a club near Sea-Tac airport. She's not a prostitute, don't go thinking that, she'll go fight club on your ass. She does her sets, serves her drinks, performs a lap dance when she has to, and does shower scenes on the weekends. But she doesn't go to any hotel rooms, or give customers head in the parking lot like some girls we know. And maybe that's why I was a little surprised when she mentioned this movie business.
Apparently some guys are doing a series of pornographic movies featuring 'Amateurs' meaning young women who haven't done porn before. They've done something like 40 or 50 of them already, and they're looking to do another one. I guess it's a popular genre, if that's the right word. The movies all feature 3 segments, 3 different girls, and they like to have variety. Hence tall blonde Jen needs small dark me so we can appeal to a broader audience, I guess. I never really considered pornographic marketing issues before. April, who already agreed to do it with Jen, is another blonde, but smaller, a bubbly Canadian girl with nothing but curves everywhere you looked.
They paid six hundred for two or three hours of filming, then that would get cut down to what they needed for the finished product. Sounded pretty easy, really. I didn't mind getting naked, I looked good enough, nor did the idea of having sex with some strange guy really bother me. It wasn't like I hadn't fucked strangers before, and hadn't been paid a dime for it. I suppose my concerns were first, that someone I knew might see the movie, or my picture on the box, or a clip on the internet, or something. You know? I mean what would that be like? Especially if it was my Dad, or one of my Dad's friends or something. Yikes!
And then there was the issue of guilt. Good old fashioned catholic girl school guilt. Would accepting money for doing that make me a model? An actress? Or just a whore? It sounds stupid, I know. Especially considering all the really bad things I've done in my short life, even reveled in, without so much as an 'Excuse me' to God. I mean, there were some days, some weeks and months even, when I could have made a pretty good case for being the anti-Christ. So...I was thinking hard, because Jen was right about one thing. I needed the money.
Mary Magdalene was a whore. Jesus loved her. I know it's a sin, but I've always believed in my heart that Jesus had sexual relations with her. I mean she knew what it was about, right? And she had a thing for Jesus, obviously, and he might have been the Son of God, but he was a man too, with all the strengths and weaknesses therein. So I'm pretty sure when Mary Magdalene slipped her hand inside his robe, stroking Jesus' cock so softly it might have been a warm breeze, he looked into her soft eyes and fucked the hell out of that slut.
Okay. So being a whore was okay.
With that settled, I wrestled with my father. I hadn't tortured him in a week, so I called him.
"Hi Rache." He sounded tired.
"Hi Daddy, how did you know it was me?"
"I have caller ID, now it warns me when you're out of money." I could hear his smile.
"Why'd you answer then?" I laughed.
"Reflexes." He made a clucking sound. "They die hard."
"Yeah, so how ya doin', Daddy? How's everything?"
"The same, I finally got that garage painted. The weather's been good, so maybe I'll get around to the pool house, I don't know."
"Well, don't strain yourself, 'kay? What did you eat tonight?"
"Uh."
"Daddy? Don't tell me it was McDonald's again."
"Well, I was working late."
"You just want me to come over, huh?" I threatened. "I will too, you know it, I'll make a tuna casserole or something. That fast crap is gonna kill you."
"Yeah, I know. How's school?"
"The same, still here."
"Uh-huh, how's Jenny?"
"The same, still here." I giggled.
"And um, what's his name? The professor?"
"Paul? uh...I don't know, we're...you know, in and out."
"Huh?" He sounded shocked and I laughed.
"Not that! Daddy! I swear! Where's your girlfriend?"
"Oh, she's around." My daddy didn't have a girlfriend.
"Uh-huh, okaaaaay...you gotta get out some."
"Yeah. So...what's new?" He got down to it like a good Daddy with a girl in college. "You need money? Everything...uh...okay?" Meaning was I pregnant?
"I'm fine Daddy, really. Hey though, I wanted to ask you something kinda...weird."
"Nothing you could ask would sound weird, Rache...I wake up expecting it."
"Oh! Really?" I gave him a little surprised sarcasm and then waited, counting while I smiled.
1...2...3...4...5...6...
"What did you want to ask me?"
"Well, this guy is offering me 600 dollars to do a movie, called...um..." I read the little card Jenny had gotten from one of the guys. "It's Coed Debutantes" I paused "And I was thinking about doing it."
"Is that..." Ahem. He coughed. "A uh, pornographic film?"
"It might be, I don't know, probably kind of an artsy thing, you know? But I would have to get naked for sure. I was just wondering if, uh, that would totally bum you out, or if you'd be okay with it."
"Rache if you need 600 dollars I can..."
"Well, Daddy, I kind of want to earn something myself you know? You're always on me about that Visa bill, so I thought you'd...like this, maybe."
"Rachael," He sighed. "What do you expect me to say? Honestly? No. Of course I don't want you doing that kind of thing, alright? Don't bullshit me, and don't call me up asking dumb questions. You're 19, almost 20 now, if you want to do porn, go right ahead. But I don't want to know about it, alright?"
"I was just looking for advice, Daddy."
"Then my advice is no. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Daddy? I'm, uh...I'm sorry okay?"
"Okay, Rachael..." Big sigh. "I just don't want you hurting yourself. I love you."
"I love you too, Daddy. I better go, huh."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, oh yeah. I'm fine."
"I love you."
"I know, Daddy. Bye."
And then we hung up. I called the club where Jenny worked, getting Doris the counter girl, and I left a message. I'd do the movie and as soon as they sent me my complimentary copy, I'd autograph it for my Daddy. Maybe ask for a few so I could give them as stocking stuffers to his friends at work. I hated it when he made me cry.
Paul and I had been going through a rough bit. No surprises there, really. He was fucking around, but I didn't know with whom. I hadn't really tried to find out, since it could only make me feel worse knowing who she was. I'd been dating the guy since I was 16, you'd think I'd be used to it. But I wasn't. He'd fooled around on and off the whole time, nearly 4 years, and when I caught him, I broke up. Then, somehow, like magic, I'd find myself calling him, or answering the phone one day and there he'd be. Apologizing and promising.
I wondered what he'd think of me doing porn. But I wouldn't call him to find out, no way. He wanted to fuck around? So be it. I hadn't spoken to him in almost a month and it was driving me crazy. I'd been to some clubs though, acting silly, playing normal and sweet and oh so straight. Once in awhile I'd get lucky and then wake up feeling like I wanted to puke. Saccharine love when I just wanted someone to beat me...
"Oh Rachael, God your so hot! I love your little tits..."
"Pinch them...harder...please! I won't break..."
"Mmmm..."
"Harder...oh shit...come on...do it hard for me..."
"Like this, baby...?"
"No! Harder, bastard...fuck...do it...rip them off..."
"Hey...wait I'm not..."
"You motherfucker...Do it!"
"Psycho bitch! Get out of my car!"
"Asshole!...Faggot!" I'd shout, watching him drive off. I had a few dates like that, enough to know I hated this new century with a passion. Men in touch with their feelings, sensitive guys who thought that no really did mean no. Christ. So I'd settled for men who wanted to 'make love' to me, tender and sweet, asking me if I'd cum because a woman's orgasm was important.
But there had been a couple good ones too, here and there. Like the cop I'd been with twice. He was into sport fucking the chicks who dug the uniform, he'd told me, sitting in a booth at Taco Bell.
"What are you into?" I'd asked, cramming a nacho into my mouth.
"Sport fucking chicks who dig the uniform." He grinned at me, daring me to blush.
"Yeah?" I looked at him. He looked good, even after an 8-hour shift, still crisp and clean. "I just like the handcuffs." I sucked my straw.
"You wanna get a room?" He nodded out the door at the motel across the highway.
"What's wrong with your place?"
"My wife's there."
"Oh." Sluuuuurp! "Let's get a room then."
I didn't even know his name until two hours later. We'd met standing in line, waiting to order. He had no problem trying to rip my tits off; he even handcuffed them once, squeezing the flesh close to my chest with a little ratcheting sound until I felt the cold metal digging into me hard. They'd been pulled painfully close together, with that short chain tight between them. Looking at myself in the mirror that night had been enough to make me cum. Having his cock inside me only made it better.
On our second date, if that's what it was, I asked him to fuck me with his gun. He'd come around after his shift was over, picking me up in his big truck. He had to leave his police car at the station, which disappointed me more than it should have. I'd love to get fucked in the back of a cop car. He handcuffed me, spanked me, and worked on my pussy with his fingers until I was soaked.
"Fuck me with it." I was begging, looking at the big belt lying on the little desk in that cheap motel room. All that utility, just waiting to be used. "Put your gun inside me."
But he wouldn't do it. He made me suck him off instead. And then I asked him again, to put that cold black thing in my cunt. He just laughed and called me crazy, but not so crazy he couldn't fuck me a few times before driving me home at 3am. I guess he knew I was unsatisfied, a little frustrated. He never called me again. Or, maybe his wife found out and killed him, shot him in the balls with his own gun. Fucked him the way he wouldn't fuck me. I like to think so sometimes.
And so now, making a porn flick was just another step along that strange twisted path. I wondered if I'd be dancing in a month, humping chrome for 20 bucks in tips and all the propositions I could handle. I'd considered it, off and on. Jen liked her job, she thought of it as therapy for men, and for some of the girls too.
"You should try it, Rache." She'd tell me. "It's like a little power trip, being up there, all those guys watching, just wanting you so bad." She giggled. "It makes me feel good, sometimes."
"How about the other times?" I'd asked.
"I don't remember." Jen shrugged.
I'd been to the club a bunch of times. Met the girls, met Jen's boss, a nice guy named Ken who looked like he'd be doing anything else but running a strip club. He wasn't fat, or balding, or greasy. He had an MBA and a wife and two kids. He didn't hit on the girls, although a couple had tried more than once to hit on him. He was cute as hell. And he was persuasive.
"Rachael, hi! Great to see you again, you want a drink? Coke?" He'd wave at Doris. "How's school?"
And we'd chat for a few minutes, sitting at the end of the counter while one of the girls danced. Every now and then he'd look at her, or at the other girls, hustling drinks in their little thongs and bustiers.
"Sammi's a great dancer." He'd say, gesturing at a little Vietnamese woman who was grinding it out to NIN's 'The Perfect Drug' with wild abandon. "She pulls down 3 grand a week minimum, and reports two at the most. Asian girls are hot, Rachael. Everybody wants one. You should think about moonlighting."
I'd smile at nod. "Yeah, I think about it, but with my course load I'd be sleeping instead of dancing."
"Just do yourself a favor, Rache, enjoy yourself, whatever you do." Ken would pat my hand gently and smile and wander back to his office to check some books, or behind the bar to check the stock, or into the dressing room to see if his girls were okay. He was always busy, but always relaxed too. He enjoyed his job.
I wasn't sure if I enjoyed anything. I was sitting there, looking at the phone, thinking those thoughts. I should have done some reading, or writing maybe, but I didn't. Thinking about Ken had made me lonely for some reason, the way thinking about those other people hadn't. I decided to go see Jenny dance, have a cherry coke and see the men seeing her. I wasn't sure it would make me any happier, but it was better than sitting around that empty house. I threw on a black cotton skit, a white halter, some little white panties and some black heels. A long burgundy silky trench coat thing that weighed all of 6 ounces, and fluttered around me like angel wings, would keep me safe and warm. For 300 bucks I wore it every chance I got.
It's a long bus ride from our apartment all the way out to Sea-Tac, but I don't mind the bus all that much. There's a certain sense of belonging in that constant transition, going from one place to another. The rest of the world is shut out, except through strange greenish windows, and the whoosh of the doors when they open. People are isolated from each other, insulated by the knowledge that this closeness is temporary and forced. I like it. Many people don't, but I do. People only ride the bus when they have to; I've done it just for fun.
I got off finally, after transferring twice, just a block down from the garish sign that proclaims "Exotic Dancing!" and a smaller one, but still readable from the corner, "No Cover With Room Key!" I've never quite understood if there was some deal going on with the hotels there or not. Maybe something to keep the hookers out of the piano lounge at the Marriot, the concierge sends his guests to the club if they're looking for action.
Across the street there's a little liquor store, a tattoo parlor, and an adult bookstore. They all look terribly seedy actually, and rather out of place. I think Ken mentioned the town was trying to get rid of that particular lot, put an Olive Garden or something there. So the whole family can eat pasta and look at the businessmen wandering into the high class strip club across the street.
Ken's been under a lot of pressure too, but he has the local vice on his payroll, so he knows when he's going to get checked. The cops come in once a month, maybe twice, checking his liquor license, the girl's employment sheets, some customer ID's maybe. Once in awhile they'll put an uncle inside, an undercover cop, to see if he can get a prostitution bust. But Ken runs a pretty clean place, not a hundred percent, but close to it. The girls who hook pretty much do it on their own time and there's no dark corners for 20 dollar blowjobs or anything.
The girls are all 21, or at least have an ID that says they are. Like mine, an Oregon State ID that's real, with a Klamath Falls library card, a Social Security Card, a real live Visa Card, and a OSU student ID that an anarchist friend hooked me up with. They really are mine, I mean its my face on both of the ID's, but the name is Brenda. I didn't have any choice though and it didn't cost me anything, so I don't complain.
Wanna know how you get a real fake ID? ... (I just wrote this big long thing saying exactly how to do it, and then I deleted it! You're nuts if you think I'm gonna put that in a story!) ... Okay, so now you have a new birth certificate, a job history, an education, a bank account, a credit card, a SS number, and a State ID, and you are now somebody else. Like Brenda…
Now, you do all that only if you really want to disappear. If you want to go into the Anarchist's Protection Program. Just don't get caught, because you have violated about 30 state and federal statutes and they are going to burn you at the stake if they find out. The government doesn't want anyone to be invisible but themselves. If all you want is a fake ID to get in a club? Find the guy on campus selling them, he shouldn't be too hard to locate. But be prepared to have it confiscated. Better buy 3 or 4 at least.
It was almost 9pm by the time I arrived at the club, dark and cool, but at least it wasn't raining. I pushed open the door and saw Rambo sitting there, the big bouncer who checks ID's, collects the cover, and walks the girls in and out if they want. Believe me, around closing time they want. Some of the customers just want one more peek, and they sit in their cars waiting…staring. It's happened to me, and I don't even dance. I just stare back usually, but most of the girls working there just want to get home safe and sound.
Rambo looks like Rambo, kind of, he's big and muscular with a special forces tattoo thing on his arm, short black hair and just generally looks like he'd kick the shit out of just about anybody and their 3 friends. I like him too, he's pretty funny, he was in Vietnam right at the end I guess, when everything was really bad. But he doesn't talk about that. He talks about how they used to give laxatives to Vietnamese people, telling them it was chocolate.
"We went to this little village once." He told me. "And they were all Viet Cong, you know, the war was about over so everybody was jumping on Ho's boat anyway. And they were always asking for stuff, food and medicine, and chocolate, man they loved that Hershey's. So one day we started passing out ExLax, cause it looks just like chocolate. The next day we're back on patrol and we come back to this village and all these people, men, women, children, everyfuckinbody is waving their arms and backing away 'No chocolate, Joe! No chocolate!' shit, we coulda won that war if they'd given us more ExLax."
I had to give Rambo a hug before he'd let me in, he does that with all the girls, but I don't mind. He doesn't try to grab any ass or anything, though I wouldn't mind that either. I told him he should let his hair grow out, since he was sporting a new buzz. "Shit Rache, you ever seen what happens to hair in a bar fight?" He shook his head and I could sympathize. A girl named Cynthia had kicked my ass once in school by grabbing my hair and kicking me in the cunt. I don't really remember how bad that kick had hurt, but my scalp was still burning 6 years later.
I went into the large room where the customers sat, and sat down at the end of the bar. Very few people actually sat there, of course, they liked to crowd the two stages, although only one was being used tonight. Doris smiled at me, she was setting up drinks for one of the girls. Doris is older, she'd been a dancer for a long time and now she pretty much ran the place and let Ken worry about business. She kept the girls in line, watched the customers, and kept the bouncers on their toes. She'd been pretty once and still looked okay under the soft lights, but you could tell there'd been some rough miles.
"Hey Rachael."
"Hey Doris, can I get a cherry coke?" I asked. That was a regular old coke and a bowl of cherries. I'd put about six in the glass and stir it up. Like a little kid, I guess, but I liked it.
"Sure. You come to dance?" She always asked me that, like it was inevitable, which made me nervous because her little finger knew more about people than I ever would.
"Nah, I just wanted to get out." I thanked her as she put my drink down on a napkin in front of me and slid the cherries over.
"I gave Jen your message. You sure you wanna do that?" She was wiping her hands and looking motherly at me. That was one of her jobs.
"Uh, I guess, money is money, right?"
"Yeah, it all spends the same. But it ain't all worth the same, ya know?" I just scratched my head while Doris spoke. I didn't know anything about the porn business, but it seemed like one little movie wasn't any big deal. "You got a good head, Rache, that's all I'm saying; you don't need to be using your ass."
"Ah, it's just one job, one movie, Doris, come on. You sound like I'm already some kinda porno queen. There's lots of girls I'm sure that just do it once or twice, get a quick fix and move on, that's all I'm doing, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Hell, you might even like it." She laughed and shook her head and then Candy was there with her tray and an order. "Three buds, a soda and lime, and a noisemaker straight up, please Doris honey." She smiled at me. "Hey pumpkin, what's doin?"
"Hi Candy, just getting some motherly love." I grinned at Doris and she wagged her tongue.
"Well, you start lookin' for sisterly love and I'll be around, huh?" Candy laughed and reached for some ashtrays.
"Incest is best!" I told her and watched as she hefted her tray and rolled her dark eyes at me.
"That's what you always say, but I'm still...waiting!" she sang the last word softly, teasing me.
Candy, whose real name was Cardinelle, looked an awful lot like me. So people had gotten to calling us sisters when I came around, which honestly wasn't as often as I'm making it sound. Maybe 4 or 5 times a month at the most. She was 24 and had a petite body, boyish in the same way mine was, with her narrow hips and small breasts, but her ass and legs were super fine, and her face was so pretty. Her parents had emigrated from Venezuela, but she'd been born here in Seattle. Candy was also a lesbian and made passes at everyone. She'd slept with half the dancers, probably more than half, and one of these days I knew she'd sleep with me too. I was looking forward to it, but the teasing and waiting was too much fun right then I think, for both of us.
That, and also it's nice to have something saved up for a rainy day, you know what I mean? If a time came when I really just needed to be with someone, not for love, or even lust really, but just intimate physical contact, I knew Candy was there. That may not make a lot of sense to some people, but to those who understand...
Jen finally noticed me and gave me a little wave from a table on the far side of the stage. She was sitting with a couple guys, they looked like shoe salesmen from Salt Lake City. The running joke was that the worst pervs always turned out to be Mormons. As far as anyone knew there had never been a Mormon in the club, perv or otherwise, not that anyone would know, it's just a silly club thing. Any guy who is a little too touchy, or starts making propositions involving animals, jelly donuts, or vacuum cleaners is automatically labeled a Mormon, like a secret code:
"See that guy at the stage?"
"Him?"
"No, no...The one with the Texaco cap. He's a Mormon."
"Yeah?"
"Had his dick out when I brought him his beer, tried to tip me with it. I told him if he does it again Rambo's gonna introduce him to Wally."
"What an idiot. Thanks for word."
"Sure. Talk at ya later."
Wally was the side of the building. Hard cold brick and a few guys had bounced off him, some of them 2 or 3 times. But once was usually enough. You get bounced a couple times and you're not getting back in, after the first warning it's criminal trespass to walk through the door.
I think the Mormon thing was started by a dancer named Sheila, who wasn't really Sheila, but a lot of the girls don't like to use their real names and she was Australian, so it fit. Some words just twisted her pretty little ears. Or maybe she was partly deaf, I don't know. But the story is that one of the other dancers had been telling Sheila the exact conversation I told you a second ago, except the other girl hadn't said 'Mormon' at all. She'd said '...He's a moron.' Sheila, wanting to spread the good word, told all the other girls that the guy was a Mormon, with her big green eyes and Billabong accent. No one was quite sure what the guy's religion had to do with it, but eventually everyone had a good laugh, even Sheila, although she felt a little foolish.
After that, all the pervs were Mormons.
Jen got up a few minutes later, coming to the bar for more drinks and to say hi. She was wearing white and the black lights made her glow. "Hey Rache, what's going on?" She looked at Doris. "Another pitcher and an iced tea."
"Bud Light?"
"Yeah." Jen was drinking the tea, the guys would think they were buying her some kind of alcoholic drink. It costs ten bucks for a little glass. "So..." She looked at me. "You're gonna do it?"
I nodded. "Yeah, sure...Somebody's gotta keep an eye on you." I smiled and sucked a cherry.
"Heh, I got all the eyes I need right now." She glanced over her shoulder at her two customers. "I bet you a dollar I'm doing a lap dance in 5 minutes."
"A whole dollar?" I widened my eyes. "Now that's real confidence!" I laughed at her.
"Thanks Doris." Jen watched as Doris wrote Jenny's name on the receipt and stuffed it in a jar. The girl's didn't get paid by the hour or anything. They got half their tips from dancing, half of whatever they made for table or lap dances, plus 10% of the drinks they sold. A good night for Jen was around 700 dollars; a bad night was maybe three hundred. That was the good thing about being next to the airport and all the hotels, a lot of guys came in with the company credit cards and a couple clients. Table dances were 20 bucks a pop, lap dances were 50, and for a good tip a girl like Jen could make a guy cum in his pants. I've seen it happen.
There were a few locals too, guys who lived or at least worked nearby. Some of them were good tippers, but generally they weren't. They'd stop in to feel good, because after a few times everybody got to know them and people relaxed a bit. The girl's would say hi to a guy by name and if it was payday give him some special attention because they always got generous. Some guys had been coming in for years, and they were like part of the furniture, like brothers almost, minding their own business, or maybe hoping someday, somehow they'd get lucky with one of the girls. They all had favorites, and some of the guys would bring little presents, or flowers sometimes.
It was an awful lot like walking a razorblade with those guys though, because they were right on the edge of being inside, but no one would invite them that one little step further, you know? They were always outside looking in, and the girls took advantage of it, mercilessly at times. Until once in awhile a guy would just...wake up. And realize he was wasting his time and his money. Sometimes they got pissed, made a big fuss, but usually they just disappeared. It was a part of the business I didn't totally understand or trust, part of the reason I resisted the idea of dancing maybe. Not that I wouldn't totally use an idiot, I could give a fuck less, but just that I'd rather avoid the temptation.
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End of Part 1 Read Part Two
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