A crowd of them swarm the floor like fucking cockroaches-- like kids at a carnival the second the gates open for entry. Men of all ages; some fathers, some sons..even some grandfathers..but usually, all married. Money was the motivator here, and truthfully? I had no time to worry about who has a wife or child, here. I'm here to do a fucking job, and that's all there is to it. Of course it's something other women would scold me for..telling me to 'use my brains' instead of my looks, but it's going to be many years before I have to worry about my face wrinkling up. After graduating Devil's Kettle High, I was nearly directionless; desperate to get out of this small fucking town, and taking on this job as a result. It's fast money, and it can get addictive if not played right-- but luckily, I've got the manipulation skills of a god damn siren to get what I want without even having to remove my top. I've taken three shot already, so I'm feeling particularly loose; hereby predicting my slightly more fluid dance moves will get me some good fucking cash tonight.
I step onto the stage as my name is called; petite feet are rested upon black Valentino heels, and my tight little frame is clad in lavender lace. The crowd shouts and whistles, and with a subtle wink, my hips begin to sway. Manicured digits caress my flesh as I lower myself to the ground, crawling towards the front of the stage. I wear the mask of a nymph, batting cerulean orbs and widening my lush pout into a deviant grin as my body winds about for them to admire. Climbing to my knees, I lean backward, running my hands up my abdomen and over my breasts, tearing the fabric off of my chest; something I've learned with all too much practice. I lean forward again, and scan the crowd. The lights were all too bright and overbearing, but I could see the faint smoke clouding above a man with a cigar. He was but a silhouette, but I smile, and toss the lingerie at him with no hesitance. I stand upon high heeled feet again, strutting to the pole and clasping it between my thighs; with expert precision, I control my frame to slowly grind against it, using my hands to keep myself elevated. I won't bore you any further, but I can tell you that for the rest of my set, every set of eyes was on me with every sensual roll of my hips..and it was plain to see by the amount of money that lie spread across that stage. You're fucking welcome.
The song ends, and take hold of the bills that lie scattered, taking a bow and strutting off backstage. In the wake of my favorite bra's absence, I decide to throw on my black lace one; I put away all the bills, sealing up the bag in my locker..and leave the room to move on out for lapdances. Now, you would think this is the better part, wouldn't you? Being in private with a few dudes and getting paid far more to give a dance? But no..men want to touch you. They want you to suck their cock. They want to do blow off of your tits. They want to wear your underwear. Yep, I've gotten that one before. And then of course...they want your number. You stupid motherfucker! Do you honestly think that I would ever--- Oh..who's that? Cerulean orbs set sight upon a man amongst the crowd, meeting with his russet orbs that lie upon one of the most gorgeous faces I've ever seen in my short fucking life. As I smile and approach him, I realize that the lavender bra is playfully dangling from his fingers. I snicker, hovering above him before I take the garment from his hands. "Sure you don't want to keep it as a souvenir, sweetheart?"
