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Back in the changing room, the girls learned their rotation. Sarah would dance first and Lauren immediately after her. Emma would follow her. Lauren felt sorry for Amber, Becky, and Connie who had drawn the last three slots; they would have to wait tables naked before they’d ever even been up on the stage. Except for those last three, the contestants were all squeezing back into their first outfits.
Sooner than she wanted, Lauren heard Sarah announced. The blond walked out onto stage with music blaring while Lauren watched surreptitiously, hoping to get some hint of how she was actually supposed to dance. There weren’t many men in the club, yet. She supposed that was some consolation, but still . . . was she really going to do this? Strip and dance in front of a bunch of low-class hooligans? She blinked back tears at the thought. This was so humiliating!
She closed her eyes and sighed, silently chastising herself. Hooligans? Will you listen to yourself? That’s the attitude that got you into this mess in the first place. They are men, deserving of your respect, and you are going to entertain them tonight.
A raucous cheer from the crowd brought Lauren’s attention back to the stage where Sarah was naked and whipping herself around the golden pole while grinning hugely. Lauren sighed. How could that woman enjoy degrading herself so much?
She jumped at the feeling of a hand sliding under her skirt. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Lopez said in her ear. “You’re going to do just fine.”
She gulped. “Um, thank you, sir. I . . . I prefer not to be touched though. You said we could enforce that—”
He pulled his hand out. “I was trying to help you.” He showed her a bill in his hand. “I was sticking a ten-dollar bill in your thong. Never mind, now.” He patted her behind through her tiny skirt. “But just for future reference, you girls’ no-touching rules do not apply to me, understand?”
She gulped again. “Yes, sir.”
A sudden silence made her realize that Sarah was done dancing. She looked out again and saw the woman crawling around on the stage picking up a few spare bills. She hopped off, then, to replace Amber as a waitress.
Lauren took a deep breath. This was it. She strode on to stage, trying to hold her head up, as the DJ introduced her. Only when the music started, Little Red Riding Hood, You sure are looking good, did she finally realize what her costume was supposed to be.
She tried to strut around to the beat of the music, but she really wasn’t sure what to do, and the high heels didn’t make it very easy. The crowd responded appropriately: a few catcalls, but more boos. She tried swaying her hips a little and sliding her skirt up and down. That seemed to help. One man even held out a dollar bill.
She bit her lip as she crouched down next to him. The heels forced her to spread her legs wide in order to get low enough for her tip garter to be in his reach. She might as well have not been wearing even that tiny skirt as far as things were concerned from his viewpoint—and all for a single dollar. This felt so degrading. He slid his hand up her inner thigh all the way to the border of her thong before bring the dollar back down to her garter.
Then, the song started to wind down, and she realized she needed to take her dress off. As she started to pull it over her head, tears came unbidden to her eyes. The DJ mixed in some country song, Lap dances are always better when the stripper cri-ies, and the men watching her laughed.
She bit her lip and finished pulling the dress off, then tried to be sensible. If she didn’t win, Don was going to spank her. Hard. And to win, she needed to earn tips. That meant dancing the way these gentlemen wanted.
She dropped to all fours just at the right moment and mock-howled along with the wolf in the song. That brought the dollars out and she crawled over to the nearest group of men holding out their singles. It didn’t escape her that crawling around almost naked and practically begging for dollars was the perfect way to reinforce her position in relation to men. What they wanted was what was important; her value was in the entertainment she could provide them.
The next song started. It was a Bon Jovi one whose title she couldn’t remember, but she mostly just stayed kneeling by this group, knees spread wide and gyrating as she ran her hands through her hair and whipped her head about to the beat. Every man who tipped her felt it necessary to run his hand all the up her inner thigh to the edge of her thong before sliding the dollar back down into her tip garter, but she didn’t complain.
She got lost in the zone and almost missed the ending of the song, but took her lacy bra off just in time. One man casually reached out and tweaked her left nipple, and she jerked away.
“I’m ‘no-touching’,” she shouted over the lyrics to Hungry Like a Wolf. Most of the men looked disgusted and leaned back, tucking their dollars back into their pockets. Lauren paused, unsure of what to do. Were they serious? Nobody would tip her if they couldn’t grope her? She felt the tears coming on again; there was no way she could win at this rate, and that meant facing another punishment from Don.
She crawled over to another group and turned with her butt facing them, shaking it with its thin stretch of fabric her only protection. This earned her a few more dollars—and a swat from someone she didn’t turn in time to identify.
And then the song was winding down. This was it. She was going to have to expose her most intimate parts to these men, and she was sure that she was going to get groped for her effort. Then she had a thought—she crawled over to the golden pole, pulled herself to her feet, and started to seductively twirl around it as she untied the sides of her thong.
She was now completely naked, dancing on a stage in front of a bunch of cheering men. This was officially the most humiliating moment of her life. She had to put up with catcalls, and one man yelled, “Wooh, nice pussy!” but at least no one could touch her here. And most importantly, the dollars kept getting placed on the stage.
The song seemed to by mercifully quickly. Lauren didn’t quite recognize the song and wasn’t sure how to dance to it, so she settled for twirling around the pole—though she doubted the fake smile she plastered on her face was as big as the real one that Sarah had had. A few times she bent over and shook her butt in the general direction of a group of men; she found it extra embarrassing but noticed that more money ended up on the stage every time she did it.
As the last song wound down, she crawled around to collect up her tips, dodging the gropes as best as she could. She hopped off the stage with the last note and tottered over in her heels to the cashier’s window. She counted out the money as she handed it over to go toward her total score. Thirty-seven dollars! Not bad, she figured, for twenty minutes of work. Then she realized she owed $40 for her outfit. Great—she had just paid $3 for the privilege of dancing naked in front of a bunch of men.
She shook herself and tried to remind herself that this was a privilege. She should feel honored to be able to serve men like this, she told herself, but she knew it was a lie. She just felt humiliated.
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