𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄

1

Heavy hands shoved me into a feminine grasp. The lingering scent of cologne and leather brought me out of my short lapse of consciousness as I was now cocooned in the smell of lavender and laundry sheets.

I was being placed into the hands of a woman I had only seen a few times throughout my childhood, her lips too pink, her face too tired, her eyes too bright with fear as they glared at the man.

And my father, with his scratchy voice and smoothly shaven face getting back onto his motorcycle, leaving nine-year old me behind as a trail of his men rode off into the Arizona night in his wake; the landscape dry, barren and expansive.

That was also the night I started my period, and it somehow made me hate him even more inside that little container home with not enough space to breathe as I placed a pad in my puppy dog underwear, sticky side down.

Some Detroit rapper boomed over the speakers as I made my way through the crowd, slowly slipping into my persona and finding myself cozy and at home. It had been too long since I had been back at the club, and now I was in my atmosphere, now I could do my thing in my niche.

Men let their doubled-vision slide down the length of my body like faux satin or silk, grabbing at themselves or holding up a cup of sick-smelling liquor as if I would indulge with any of these low life's. My hips rock, my foot right in front of the other as I practically model strut through the club, the crowd parting in the presence of the one that they wanted to see the most.

It wouldn't have been enough for me to saunter onto the stage, exiting from the back, no, I will make my way around the entire club, rowdy up the crowds so that they know who they are in the presence of.

Black, shiny masks made of some soft fabric lay delicately on the faces of every stripper at the club, as does mine, eye holes carved for them to see out of the bunny ear masks. Curled lips and rolled eyes meet me from my fellow workers as I finally reach the stage. I let one of the body guards, a thickly muscled man with skin the color of the night, put out a stool for me as the applause in the room ignites.

I have the entire club's attention, from those packed along the black walls to the ones near the bar with thick bottle girls and to the sections of music artists and drunken bachelors. I do a slow spin as the pole emerges from the ceiling and spins like a drill until it reaches the plate in the ground center stage.

The music slows, and the light's dim to a hot pink that sears my eyes up here but looks nice and sultry from the audience. I trail my hand down my hip, over my sturdy, closely-holed fishnet stockings. The black leotard hardly encompasses my round ass and pussy is made of black leather, the top dipping down between my smaller breasts, the hip line cut of a retro 50s or 60s style.

My tall, dark boots clank on the hard floor, as I bounce to the rhythm of the music and the cash begins to fall around me. I grab the pole, inconspicuously testing it so that I am sure I won't bust my ass up while I'm on this stage. Once I am sure that it is sturdy, I begin to worm my way upwards, my body shaking up the pole as I move my body to the beat of the music.

The crowd chants my stage name, the feeling exhilarating as the song reaches its chorus and the cheers are at their loudest. I am the climax of the night.

I am Bunnie.

After my performance, I saunter off the stage, winking out into the crowd as some poor fellow howls out. I'm back stage walking through the tunnel that leads to our dressing area, the girl after me giving my shoulder a hard bump and she barely makes it by in heels she can't walk in yet. I ignore her, looking for my Mother and finding her feeding a girl peanut crackers as she applies electric blue lipstick.

"Bunnie, you did amazing," my Mother assures me although I'm sure she didn't even get to see my performance, "I need you to go ahead and get changed. You're four dances after Kalifornia Kookie," she gestured towards the stage. Hmph, that must be the bitch who can't walk in five inch heels. "Cool," I give her a thumbs up, checking myself out in the door-wide mirror. Darkly tanned skin softened by plain, unscented lotion across my body, an average frame and thankfully my bodysuit flatters my hip dips rather than making them stand out.

Other girls walk around us, all masked as per club standards, but in various states of undress. The air is cold and barely holds the scent of the standard club perfume we all spritz on. I make my way to my locker, popping it open, assured that everything is still in place, and pulling out my next outfit. Since I hadn't been in the club for a few days, I was only doing two dance routines tonight so I won't wear myself out.

My locker has a mirror inside, and I decide that my smoky eye makeup will work well enough with my next outfit, perhaps with a hint of purple along the outer edges of my lids and Christmas-green highlighting the corners of my eyes. I pull out my next outfit, a typical camo G-string, a dark brown, pleated skirt made of leather, and a leather bikini top also in leather over my pierced nipples. I change out of everything I had on for my first dance and get ready for my second set.

I fix my reddish auburn hair into a ballerina bun, glad that I had decided to grab myself out of my bed yesterday afternoon and go and get it straightened.

My deep brown eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I apply the makeup idea I had in mine on top of my old one, watching as it brings my outfit to life. I line my small, round lips with a nude pink color as I poke them out, using a light pink lip gloss over them.

Once I'm done getting ready, I set my face again, spritz my perfume and pull back on my heel boots.

A glance at the schedule and at my cracked iPhone tells me that I have two dances to go before me. After making sure my locker is closed and appropriately locked, I leave for the tunnel all the way at the very back of the dressing area. Here, there is food for the strippers and another area leads to where the bottle girls change, a much smaller area than ours.

By far, the building is fancy. One of the biggest spots in the outer edges of Texas. Right here nooked in the panhandle, we get visitors from all surrounding cities and states, sometimes even Mexico. Surveying the buffet laid out for us as a sole security guard, pale arms crossed across his scrawny chest stands near the entrance into the open room, I can't help but wonder what all this privilege would feel like if it were real

A bowl of naked painkillers is next to the small, cold turkey and ham sandwiches. From experience, I know that the terrible handwriting that scrawled out the word 'PAINKILLER' in Sharpie must have meant to scribble 'HALLUCINOGENIC'. But the person who labelled the bowl probably couldn't have spelled that anyways. I grab one pill because that is what my hand reaches forward to do, and a ham and cheese sandwich to put on a flimsy paper plate since my stomach will be exposed and I don't want to go on stage all bloated up and pregnant-looking. Then I get a lukewarm water bottle, the labels torn off but likely from some off-brand source. I nod at the security guard, but as always his black sunglasses glint back at me, his stature still, showing no indication if the man was even real except the slow rise and fall of his chest in his formal black attire.

I find somewhere to sit backstage in a random folding chair that had been left out. I waste no time eating, breaking my sandwiches into parts so I won't have to smear my lip makeup, making sure that I have fuel in my body before I go back on stage as other girls run around, rushing to get from here to there.

Once I'm finished, I throw away my paper plate, and head back to the dressing area. As soon as my Mother spots me, she shepherds me towards the stage and I struggle to focus on her voice over all the other ones around me.

"Alright, she's almost done on stage," I'm told quickly, "After you're done, make sure you do at least one private dance and then you'll be a step closer to paying off your debt to the club."

The last girl walks off stage, only in a tutu and some heels, pressing her mask to her face, half of it somehow broken as the sounds of the crowd booing can be heard from here. I steady my breathing as I prepare to go back out on stage.

I remember nothing of my second performance, but that's how most of my nights are anyways.