lola can work a pole. sheâs expert at this point; itâs second nature. thatâs the problem with it, perhaps. sheâs too used to the routine. itâs robotic. monotonous. thankfully, most of the patrons who pass through the club arenât dance critics. what they were, usually, were gross perverts. there were some of her regulars who she liked, however. the younger men, usually gang members. eighteen to twenty-one on average. they came for something to do, rather than out of horny-ness. she liked to talk to them, they tended to be charming. she had a thing for bad boys- even if it did worry her, when she saw the shit they got up to outside of the neon decorated walls of dolce vita.
the hand that just clasped around her ass, though, did not belong to a charming young man. she snarled, letting go of the pole in order to scoot away a bit. âyouâre not allowed to touch me unless you pay extra.â she told him, and he grumbled something, but the music was too loud to make it out. she probably didnât want to hear it, anyway. he seems to vanish for a bit, and the men at the table closest to her shake their heads. she sighs a bit, and then sheâs back to work. itâs near the end of the night, and the cold of the metal is becoming unbearable against her skin, mixed with the reason heat in the air. she wills her mind to go elsewhere, as usual. muscle memory takes her around the pole, and up and down it, but her brain is in lolaland, and sheâs just come up with a melody; perhaps the best one sheâs ever thought of. and then she feels it again, a calloused hand snaking itâs way up her inner thigh. she reacts without thinking.
sheâs on a platform, so when she kicks her foot out, her stilleto collides with his face. she turns immediately, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt and pulling him onto her platform, slamming him hard against the pole. âif you touch me again, iâll fucking maim you!" she hisses at him. and then she remembers sheâs at work, this is her job, and itâs one she could lose. so she drops him, and he slides down the pole. a soft buzz fills her ears, and as she looks around, she feels eyes upon eyes staring at her, in shock, awe perhaps? maybe even admiration. she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. somebody laughs. she supposes it was a bit of a funny scene. a young woman, wearing nothing other than heels, a pair of panties and an unholy amount of glitter, slamming a man half her size against a stripper pole and threatening him. sheâs about to laugh, but she catches somebodyâs eye. fuck. somebody from static was here, and if they hadnât noticed her yet, they certainly would have now. her cheeks flare red. she wasnât exactly ashamed of her job, but she didnât want anybody from her label to see her like this. itâs not the best impression. âoh, hi there. iâm lola, iâm signed to your label. also, these are my bare naked tits.â pushing the man off of her platform, she tries to get back to dancing, but her heel suddenly gives way, splintering in two underneath her foot. she stumbles, and her head slams against the metal pole, the sheer bane of her existence. she falls to her knees, clutching her head. sheâs ready. sheâs ready to fucking die.
