Stiletto is a dancer, stuck with the early afternoon shift. She makes the best of it, butis it really worth it?
Dead stares through acrid haze-I hate this place in the afternoon; clinking, sweat-soaked long necks, gin-soaked businessmen leaning on the rail or laying back in their chairs, legs spread like they have something to offer.
Gentlemen, I give you Stiletto!
I burst through the curtain and strut to center stage, daring them to look at me.
Cupping the pole between cool palms, I sway my hips in time with the base line that pounds the air and let my gaze circle the room. Searching faces, selecting my prey.
Only a few are focused-eyes traveling up and down my body as I slither around the pole. There you are. I see you with your wad of bills and poorly veiled anticipation all but dribbling down your chin. Let me just slide the straps of my bra down my shoulders, holding my arms close to my body while I finger the clasp between my breasts.
I pause, asking with my eyes, ‘shall I let it fall?’ I press in and up, so that when the hook is released, my nipples spring into liberation.
See how the pole fits between my glittery tits? Watch me now, when I slide down to the floor. I’ll squat, knees bent and thrown wide, and bounce, bounce, bounce, slap my ass against the stage.
Is that you underneath me? Feel my skin smacking against your soft belly? Your six pack? Your jutting hipbones? Is your cock straining to pummel me? Oh yes, I can feel it, and I close my eyes.
Shall I throw my head back and let my hair trail up my vinyl coated calves? Let your eyes follow my thigh; let your mind wander over the shimmer of my boots, glistening red with oil and sweat.
Here. I’ll bend back, place my shoulders on the floor, arch my belly into the air, grasp the six-inch spikes of my heels like handle bars and grind my clit against the cold steel.
I’ll sit up then, and dare you to throw your money on the stage so I can belly crawl your way, slinking like a panther. I gather the wadded bills in my teeth, grasp them between my fingers and run them down my body. Your gaze is glued to my fingers as they delve into that little sequined triangle of fabric-a flimsy barrier between you and paradise.
Watch my hand linger there, fingers fluttering over what surely must be wet just from looking at you. You’re all man, and I’m all shudders and sighs at the thought of what you would do, what you could do, if only you could reach out and lay your hands on me, plant your lips against my flesh.
But not today, not right now. Right now, as the music fades, I’ll stand with pouting lips and apologetic eyes, and back slowly away until I disappear behind the heavy curtains.
Forty bucks. I hate this place in the afternoon.