When A Playboy Loves

|| 6.

Utianle

Drops of water from the overhead shower pelted my skin, causing me to yelp at the hotness. My fingers quickly moved to adjust the temperature, sighing in relief when the water turned warm. I grabbed the loofah hanging from the door, scrubbing every inch of my body until it felt sore.

Images of the last client I attended to played at the forefront of my mind; the way his stomach peeked out of his white shirt while chubby hands that had previously gone to caress his saggy, hairy balls hovered above my butt and I scrubbed harder, not stopping until the only scent that lingered on my body was that of my bathing soap.

"Madam Bose?" Droplets of water pooled at my feet and I shivered slightly in the large towel that was wrapped around my chest. Pushing one foot in front of the other, I continued that way until I was standing beside her.

Madam Bose's forehead was pressed flush against the locker that housed my belongings and her black gown clung to her body like a second skin. Her chest rose and fell with every breath she took and her eyelids slowly parted open at the sound of my voice; she wasn't supposed to be here.

"Are you up for another private session?" Her eyes trailed from my body to the bundle of naira notes I retrieved from my locker. "We have a first-timer and he is demanding for you; he appears rich and is very young."

Private session was a polite term for VIP clients with lecherous fetishes like making out with your fellow female dancer while they jerked off. Sometimes, it meant extra minutes of sliding down a pole, lap dancing, hair ruffling, head rubbing and, in some cases, going home with the client.

Young men gave the highest tip but they had the wildest requests, the kind that my body could not tend to at this point. The last one I attended to had a spanking fetish, one that saw me unable to sit still for a day or two.

"No, I'm not," we stared unblinkingly at each other with our eyes trying to convey what our lips couldn't. She gave a defeated shrug when I refused to back down, stretching one hand out for me to drop her cut.

Madam Bose and I were brought together by my eagerness to liberate myself from the cuffs of poverty. As a divorced mother of three, she understood my struggles, hence the rules and working hours were a bit more flexible for me. In return, I made sure to requite the required fifteen percent of whatever amount I got. Though it was five percent higher than what she charged the rest, I never complained.

"It means more money for us," she tried again but I shook my head, one hand already fondling with my outfit.

When she left, I stood in my wide-leg jean suspender and a black long-sleeved sweatshirt until I finally mustered the courage to take a look at myself in the mirror. Unlike the confident blue-eyed lady in the exotic dancer gold sequin outfit and matching stiletto heels who sashayed out of this locker room a few hours ago, the woman who stared back at me had tired eyes and an unhappy smile.

She didn't possess the grace Amber Lee did when she took over the stage nor the long Brazilian hair that swayed with every step she took. Except for her eyes whose light had deemed a little, she looked ordinary, easily forgotten.

Masking the emptiness I felt with a smile that was comparable to that of a lottery winner, I strutted to the bar.

The bar was more engaging at this time of the morning, when the alcohol had finally taken over the tongues of men, dissipated the air of superiority that had settled in the club upon their entrance. It was also a chance for me to get extra cash from the pot-bellied men who grew very generous the more inebriated they got.

Their complaints were always the same - why couldn't their wives dress sexily like the strippers or lose some of those body fats or even try to smell good?