1
Samantha
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to move in this, Tressa.”
I smack my lips as I finish coating them in cherry-red lipstick and glance down at the dress that’s clinging to my body like someone has wrapped me in shiny black Saran wrap. “I can barely walk. How am I supposed to…dance in it?”
“You know, Sam, you’re my best friend,” Tressa says with that tone that lets me know there’s a but coming. “But sometimes I wonder if you have something wrong with your brain. You’re not dancing in it. You’re dancing in lingerie. You’re just wearing that into the club.”
“Er, right.” I frown and twist my body and feel the tiny excuse for underwear that I have on underneath the dress that is so thin and tight it’s basically like wearing another layer of skin. It’s nothing I’d ever be caught dead in. Normally it’s sweat pants, a T-shirt and Uggs. Yes, I still wear Uggs. They’re comfortable.
“You can still pull out if you want,” Tressa says. “I won’t hate you for it.”
“Right. Except that I can’t. Not unless you want us to get evicted next week.”
I’ve been living with Tressa since I was 16 when I ran away from home. You could say my parents were less than ideal. But I’m three months behind on our rent, and now that I’m 18, Tressa came up with the brilliant idea of having me join her at the strip club to make money off of my “fresh virgin ass.” Her words. Not mine.
She’s been dancing for three years now, so she knows the ropes. She’s prepped me on what to expect, but I’m still shaking as we go out to her car. She’s right; I do want to pull out, but I also want to have a place to live and I don’t see any other way of managing that. There’s not exactly a big market for girls who wish they were artists and think they can paint.
Tressa, who looks as calm as she usually does, glances over at me as she drives. “So, what do you say when they ask you your name?”
“I tell them it’s Roxy.”
“And if they ask you if that’s your real name?”
“I tell them they only get to know my real name after becoming a regular,” I reply, remembering what she told me this afternoon. “And if they want to be a regular, they have to have seen me at least ten times.”
“And…?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow. I think for a second, then it comes to me.
“And tip well.”
Tressa nods and clicks her tongue against her teeth. “That’s my girl.”
Tress is my best friend, and I think it’s because we’re complete opposites. She’s everything I’m not: confident, boisterous, comfortable in her own skin and fully aware of her own sexuality.
I, on the other hand, am shy, quiet, and have about as much experience with guys as I do with machine guns. The only reason I even have a boyfriend right now is because of her. Richard, or Dick as Tressa calls him, and I have been dating for a week and a half now. He’s friends with Tyler, Tressa’s boyfriend of two years, and she convinced me to give him a try so we could go on double-dates.
He’s okay, I guess. There’s no spark, but I’m starting to wonder if “the spark” really even exists or if it’s all just a big lie told by Hollywood and romance novel authors to get girls to spend their money.
My hands are shaking as Tressa pulls into the club and parks. Leave it to Beavers. I shake my head. I guess there are more comedians in San Diego than I realized.
“Tressa…what if I make like…fifty dollars?”
Tress looks at me like I’m crazy. “Bitch, you’re nuts. With that body? Those tits? Those lips? You’re gonna make more than I am as long as you don’t do something stupid like puke on a guy or toot in his face! Just keep your shit together, do as I told you, and don’t give any handjobs, no matter how much he offers you.”
We get out and head into the club through the back entrance and into the locker room, where a few other girls are getting ready. I’ve never seen so much skin in my life. Most of them don’t have tops on, and their bottoms are basically pieces of colored floss. I don’t even know where to look.
“Hey, bitches!” Tressa exclaims. God, I wish I had her personality. “This is Roxy. She’s my bff, so if any of you girls give her a hard time, I’ll put my foot so far up your vag that when you have your next kid, it’ll just fall out of your cervix. Got it?”
A few of the girls sneer and give us both the evil eye, but most of them just laugh. Tressa unlocks a locker and puts both of our purses inside, then takes me by the hand and leads me down the hallway to the main room. The music grows louder as we walk, but I barely notice it over the sound of my heart thudding in my ears.
I’ve never actually been inside the club. There are three stages, two small ones on the sides and one big one where a woman in her late 30s is dancing, dressed in assless chaps and a cowgirl hat. And God, does she know what she’s doing. How am I supposed to compete with that? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get down to my lingerie without fainting.
“You’re nervous. It shows,” Tressa tells me, shouting in my ear over the music. “I’ll go find us guys. You wait here!”
Before I can say anything, she’s gone, threading her way through the sea of bodies. It’s mostly men of course, but there are some girls who seem to be having a good time. I stand there fidgeting as three men who look like lawyers in their 60s stop a few feet from me. Their eyes move across my body like coyotes eyeing their prey.
“Hey,” one of them barks. “What’s your name?”
But before I can answer, Tressa saves me. She comes racing back to my side, takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the bar. I almost fall in my five-inch heels. How do girls walk in these? Give me my flats any day.
“Oh my God, you lucked out, bitch. I found you a gorgeous guy. He’s playing all hard to get, saying he doesn’t want a lap dance, but when he sees you, he’ll change his mind.”
Yeah, unless he doesn’t, I think. I guess I should be grateful that my first customer is going to be good-looking, but now the pressure is on. I’d almost rather dance for a creep with low expectations. I take a deep breath and stand up straight, doing my best to make my boobs look good. Tressa pulls me forward, and when I see him, all the air goes out of my lungs.
I’ve only ever seen men like him in magazines. He’s leaning against the bar in a tight t-shirt that looks like it’s ready to tear around his thick, strong arms. He’s got muscles I don’t even know the names of. He’s sitting, but I can tell he’s tall just by looking at him.
My nervousness reaches a whole new level and I pull against Tressa’s hand.
“Tressa! Tressa, no! No, I can’t!”
“Yes you can, bitch,” she hisses. “Stop making a scene!”
She practically drags me over to his side, where another two girls are doing their best to get his attention. But he’s completely ignoring them. His eyes are fixed right on me.
He has the face of a model. What’s a guy like him doing in a place like this? He should be in front of a camera somewhere, sweeping girls from Milan off their feet.