Sin City

1; money for dignity

The beat stops. 

Drops of sweat dribble down my forehead, my skin shiny, glistening in the dimmed stage lights that blind the dark room, illuminating the many faces in the audience, drinks in hands. 

My muscles are tensed, my chest is puffed out. 

There are 3 poles on the main stage of Clemen Street Strip Club. 

The left is Lillith's, the right is Nadia's, and the middle is mine. 

We just finished our routine for the 5th time tonight, and It's left the same deep nausea in the pits of my stomach, but the same large sum of money tucked tightly into the pocket of my designer coat, which is amony many overpriced designer items I've irresponsibly purchased myself.

The stage lights dim farther and reach closer to dark, dark enough for us to dip out through the staircase stage-right and avoid the dirty remarks that circle and fly through rows of seats and bubbles in bud light, followed by the harsh cold laughs of imperialistic egotistic masculinity. 

My sleek black company-issued heels clack against matte stage as I sprint, well as fast one can sprint in 7-inch stilletos, off and out of the spotlight and into the warm safety of the dressing rooms, greeted by the soft fabric of the baby pink entry way couch, legs coated in gold, and lacy curtains hung Infront of changing rooms. 

Uniform is pretty simple here, just look as close to eye candy as humanly possibly and don't leave an inch of skin out of sight. Workplace attire is thrown out the window when they stamp the word hired onto your resume, as long as you maintain your weight and keep the eye make-up on you're set and ready to twist your hips sore. 

Nadia walks in and holds out out her fist to recieve our secret handshake, and I deliver, muscle memory creating the perfect   6sequence symbol of friendship we whipped up on our first ever break 3 years ago: fist fist, twist twist, kiss kiss

The ends of her lips curl up as she rips open a 48 pack of make-up remover wipes, which the boss buys in bulk here, knowing the minute we come bursting through the stage door we want no more than to have clean skin and a sweatshirt covering our every curve and crevice. 

She clears her throat, "So, heard you're too good for us, huh?" 

"What?" I turn around from brushing out my knotted hair, entangled and matted from being tossed around in air all day, and brushed out of my eyes by many manly hands. 

My job may not seem like dirty work, but when you've smelled the breath of a 52 year old married man named Bill who's been chugging beers all night and is on his once a week guys evening  who is holding a 30 dollar bill centimeters from your nose for a strip tease, you'll change your mind and empty your wallet on the floor at my feet as an apology. 

She smirks, a hand making it's way onto her hip as she takes off her blue flowy wig to reveal her godgiven hair which is in actuality a humble brown pixie cut, "You're getting bumped up."

"I'm still not following." I sling my leg over the arm of one of the big comfy chairs in the corner as I wrestle with the endless torment of the straps on my scandalous ensemble also known as the workplace dress code. It's hell, the buttons, the bruises, the clasps and buckles and whatchamacallits.

Nadia was perfection. A ray of sunshine, prime scholar, varsity athlete, future olympian I'm sure. She's sweet and compact, but a master of manipulation who can deliver a nasty look if you cross her. She may have been cheer captain, but she will steer you in the wrong direction; or whatever direction she sees fit. Nadia rolled her eyes, shrugging on her bright red peacoat. "You're obviously the one getting the promotion."