messy sketchbooks

a paychecks, a paycheck

you arrived at the cherry plaza a little bit before half eleven. giving you enough time to make yourself look somewhat presentable to your usual customers for a monday evening. 

most of your usual clients were truckers stopping a couple of nights in the city before moving along or regulars who were married men, wanting to let themselves go, while their wives slept peacefully at home, not knowing what they were up to late in 'the office'. 

you sort of liked your stripping job; it paid just enough to cover your apartments rent and maybe now a little extra for some intern clothes to help you fit in more. you thought showing up in your seven inch heels to a place where a bra strap showing was considered risky, wouldn't go down a treat. 

you parked yourself at your station, messy as always. spilt glitter and oil bottles, empty, lipstick stained coffee cups and extra pairs of lacy thongs draped over your chair, welcomed you. you always swore you'd clean it after your shift was over but inevitably ended up hanging out of your ass and only wanting your bed and some type of food to tide you over till breakfast. 

"evening honey! how was your first day at your business thingy?!" your favourite floor girl rose, sprung up next to you. she seemed a little too excited to hear your story about how all you did was grab coffee all day. 

rose was perfect. you always envied her. her small but innocent features got her all the best customers. her doe hazelnut eyes lured them in and her almost twilight hair parted in the middle, entranced them wanting more. 

you on the other hand. thought yourself a different story. not saying you hated your body and wished it could choke but... you hated your body and wished it could choke. 

you always thought your thighs were too large, and your hips/waist not small enough. you hated the way you smiled, laughed and even just your mundane sounding voice in general tended to get on your nerves. but at least being a stripper meant not many men came to hear you talk about your desires and goals. more to only gawk at your assets hiding under minimal laced fabric which glistened under the neon lighting. 

"hiya rose! it was better than i expected! everyone is so lovely, already have a heap of work to do!" of course you lied. you couldn't tell her that you were the coffee girl, who got given an unwanted assignment and that no-one even remembered your name. 

---------------------------

it was that time of your shift. after spending about two hours on the floor, giving who knows how many truckers lap dances for not enough tips. your number was up. 

your song choice; 'you don't own me' by lesley gore was your go to pole song. it was true, no one owned you, you couldn't give two fucks about what men thought about your body, they only ever thought with what's between their legs. 

as you started slowly walking round your pole, as seductively as you could. you spotted a tall, almost brooding stranger walk in. taking a seat at the back of the club, you could tell, even with the lights blinding your vision, his eyes never left you. 

something about this shadow was different you thought, while carrying on with your routine. your eyes also, never left the back of the plaza. his stance relaxed, leaning back, legs a jar. you could view the glisten of what was likely a watch. businessman? you thought. probably married, probably boring. but something enticed you to him.

your song was nearly over, you begun teasing with the lace of your emerald colour thong. fingers hooking around the sides, money flung to the stage floor. this encouraged you more. everyone loved money. and you were hungry for it. twirling round the pole once more, biting your lip as you did. you slid down, the cool metal hitting your exposed back, legs widening into a split.