Velvet (Niall Horan)

Bluebirds

DISCLAIMER: I have never actually been to a strip club, seeing as I am only a young teenage girl, but I have done research and have knowledge of them. Therefore, please don't criticize or quote me on what goes on regarding some situations, I improvised. I HOPE YOU ENJOY! (P.s. if you could vote for this story I WOULD BE SO THANKFUL)

The music thumped in my chest, the rhythms controlling my body, moving me up and down, side to side, swooping all over the small dressing room.

I stopped when the music came to a halt, leaning into the beaten up, wooden bureau near the exit, taking in my bold reflection, one last time.

Along the left side of the mirror, a piece of the glass had been shattered and parts were missing all about, making my view not too pleasant.

Working with what I had, my dark eyes narrowed in on my body, gliding up to my face.

I ran my skinny fingers through my long, coarse hair, pushing it back behind my shoulders to show off my chest.

I than touched up the dark brown cheek makeup I had caked on, afterwards licking my vibrant, red lips sweetly, making sure you could see them from a mile away, almost ready to head out.

With one last push up of my tight, pale pink corset top, a slight tug down on my bikini style, leather bottoms, a stretch over on my panty hose, and I was off.

I pushed through the heavy, rusted, metal door, and clomped my stilettos down to the entrance.

I took a big breath before walking through the flapping, plastic, door way, trying to muster up every ounce of confidence I had.

With my head held high, I pushed right into the smokey, alcohol ridden zone.

Breathing in the toxic fume, I moved my way about the small club, acting like I owned everyone, and everything.

I made the room my bitch.

The hard bass of the music had begun again, vibrating through my ears, down my stomach, down to my toes.

The adrenaline was pulsing throughout my veins as I locked eyes with every guy possible, all scattered at the different tables.

Some eyes looked nervous, guilty, others showed darkly of lust, licking their lips, begging me to join their lonely selves.

There were usually three different types of guys who showed up here at The Crescent;

1. The Regular: Here with a few guy friends, just messing around, never usually cause any drama, some might get a little touchy, but know their boundaries.

2. The Nervous Nellie: May be here with a few friends, maybe alone, usually a first timer, doesn't even know where to place the cash, to watch them is quite comical.

3. The King: These are the cocky, confident, acts like he owns the place, usual assholes. He only thinks he's the King, and that all us girls are below him, thinking he can cross the line whenever he'd like. Most of these men show up alone, sometimes with a group, making sure he's known as the leader.

I wasn't stereotyping, it was proven facts.

Although we did have occasionally some odd balls, and a few female customers here and there, the 3 categories basically summed up our facility.

Kings hungrily fought for my gaze,

begging for me to join them, but I just continued to strut towards the bar.

I purposely made my hips sway generously, calling for more attention.

I leaned up on the cold, marble counter top, admiring my friend; top bartender.