Sex, murder, and my ass.

That’s all that was on my mind when I took the stage. My routine was down to a science, and I rarely spiced it up. Men didn’t care about my acrobatic abilities on the pole or my back hook spin or my ballet hook pose. Nah, that’s too complicated for them. The artistry that I continually witnessed from my colleagues was lost on the barbarians who walked through the door. Pearls thrown to pigs, for the most part. Horny businessmen and fraternity bros didn’t patron Mystique Gentlemen’s Club to admire skill, they came for sex. They came because they’re too lazy to have sex, rather. These men wanted to watch a gorgeous woman they could never have, have sex on stage, with an invisible man. A man that could be him, in some universe, only it’s not a man, it’s a hard metal pole. A pole that probably had more brain waves than most of the douches I encountered. They weren’t all terrible, some of my regulars were actually very sweet, but two summers being a stripper in Miami left me jaded, restless, and ornery. Ironically, I was tragically under-sexed myself. Despite my wonton thigh splits and rubbing my breasts against the pole on stage, my overtly sexual choreography did not, in fact, imitate my personal life. 

Despite my shitty attitude, I didn’t hate being an exotic dancer. Sure, I hated on it, like everyone does their job, but the money was decent, and I loved my fellow dancers. Sometimes I hated my lack of options. I hated that this was my only true avenue to making anything close to real, adult money. Being pushed into a corner and figure-eight sexy-crawling my way to pinch every dollar bill left me with residual flickers of burning anger in my chest. 

But that’s where the murder comes in. 

Tonight, I was wearing Cassandra. My long, pink wig that covered my back, but more importantly, my ears. As if anyone were looking at my ears anyway, I was sure my boss would rage and keep my tips if he caught me with earbuds. The music didn’t matter, though I heard it like faint, annoying radio static in the background. The stage vibrated with everything from cheesy country to 80s metal, but all I heard was The murder weapon was buried four miles south inside an empty potato chip bag. 

Hooking my leg around the pole I twirled, leaning back to expose my decolletage. The only suspect at the time was his wife, who refused to cooperate with authorities. 

Gripping the pole I did a slow squat, fanning out my knees to give my two only onlookers a show. The man with a backwards baseball cap waved a ten, motioning me to come forward. A gaudy large signet ring on his forefinger glinted its red stone under the strobe light. Suppressing my eyeroll, instead of standing, I dropped to my knees and pressed my palms to the cool, black floor. Honey had taught me how to crawl sexy instead of how I originally crawled, like a newborn elephant. Instead, I lowered my chest and poked out my ass, moving in a figure eight motion towards the man’s hungry eyes and waiting cash. It was a slow night, and none of my friends were working. Only two other dancers I’d hardly spoken too due to working opposite shifts usually. Emerald and Bambi each had one man at their stages, while Tiff worked the bar. Thank God Tempest would be DJing tomorrow night. Weeknights were boring as shit lately. My gaze drifted past my customers to the bar and two men on barstools. One was on his phone; the other’s eyes were focused dead set on me. Something inside me jolted awake. 

Typically, this wouldn’t be unusual. I was an exotic dancer in a thong and balconette bra. Men came to watch, and I was accustomed to having eyes roam my naked, curvaceous form. But something about this man’s gaze sent a warm tingle down my spine. He was looking at my eyes, not my body. He also looked different than our regular clientele. A sharp onyx pin-striped suit jacket perfectly skimmed his broad shoulders as his massive hand clutched his amber drink. The suit wasn’t strange alone, but paired with the heavily tattooed skin exposed on his tanned knuckles and climbing up his neck, his muscular form, and the man next to him looking nervously from me to him, it made something sharp prick my chest.

Fingers snapping pulled my attention back to my stage crawl. “Bitch, I’m over here, not at the bar,” a voice barked, eliciting a chuckle from his just-as-slimy companion. 

“Maybe she’s a drunk,” his friend sneered, eyeing my breasts. “Looking for your next drink, sweetie?”

“Do you think she’s got tattoos on her tits, too?” Slime-ball number one replied, still waving his money like he was holding a treat for a dog. 

Pathetic. Gritting my teeth, I inched forward so I could get my cash and get the hell away from these assholes. A sweaty hand fingering the bills reached towards my bra strap, but instead of slipping in the ten, I felt a disconcerting grab at my breast, followed by more laughter. 

My earbud buzzed in my ear. “But what would drive a meek and mild housewife to murder?” 

Our hefty security guard, Tango, was already stomping towards us, so I didn’t have much time, and I wanted to savor this. Without hesitation, I unleashed every gritted tooth, suppressed eye-roll, and snide comeback and channeled it into my move. Grabbing the groping dick-head’s wrist with both hands, I wretched his palm around and towards his face. His scream was nothing short of satisfying as I shoved him backwards, tumbling onto the floor. “No one touches me, you fucking prick,” I spat out, picking up the tens and ones he’d dropped and slipping them into my bra. 

“Fucking whore!” The man shouted, pawing his hat back onto his head as Tango jerked him upright.

Snorting, I sat on the edge of the stage, letting my long stripper heels dangle. “Maybe so, but I didn’t get my ass handed to me by a girl tonight, so there’s that.”