Leashed by Luxury

IX. The Audacious Audition

I've never even worked the lower barrier-to-entry strip club circuit, let alone a burlesque joint. Leave it to Angel to be too hush-hush to give me a proper heads-up. Men probably just assume it's nothing more than playing dress up and shaking your ass until the stockings fall anyway, though. But what, now I gotta have a pageantry "talent" like Ra says? I can't play an instrument or sing, painting's not exactly a transferable skill. Guess I can wing an act like I give a slip or comedic routine. Escorting has been a vaudeville routine when the guy's not giving me anything (answers, laughs, d**k, dollars).

I have to borrow from and bribe girls who just went up and did cringey interpretive dances like Lady Gaga set to silence or polka music. Flooffy boas and elbow gloves. The Vegas headdresses are too gauche even for me. Besides, I haven't "earned" one yet, according to Ra's bikini blonde, Emmi. I collect sparkly junk from behind the stage like a jilted janitor. Tell the DJ to play Uma Kompton's "See Me Dance," as an inside joke to float me through the night.

In a few moments, I'm tied to a dainty chair with ribbon when the curtain parts. I shimmy like a damsel, my hair piled high in a Cindy Lou Who bow to sell the helpless shtick. Somebody's sweaty pantyhose encircling my lotion-shiny shins. There's a smattering of men in the low-light audience. A third are the girls who just auditioned, leaning cross-armed or chattering. I feel less pressure from them versus the awkward eyeing by Angel and Ra. I'm not exactly sure what they want out of me, but the check better make it worth them riding my back.

Speaking of which, I arch my spine to elevate my breasts. Heave and sigh as I wiggle, mic'd up for ASMR porn, I suppose. My li'l jokes about how "I start every morning in my tower like this. A poor, lonely randy Rapunzel."

Emmi musta tied me tight before winking and jiggling off backstage. But that just buys me more time to run out the silly sexy song. To sit and thrust, my calves hugging delicate wrought iron so pale it exaggerates my tan, as I baby-doll whine, "You boys better not be masturbating." Work smarter, not harder.

Once I loosen an inch of lace, I teepee my fingers to slide through, surely rubbing my wrists as pretty a pink as the plush carpet I'll crawl on. Not free yet, just teasing the slack as I lament in a stage whisper, "I learned this one from being a very bad girl. The badge numbers 69692 and 19103 know me well, but can't keep me for long in the back of their cop cars... Didja know flirting your way outta a speeding ticket is illegal? They call it 'propositioning,' but I never seen that on a voting ballot." Receiving some weak applause, I dip my head. On the upswing that I wrench my wrists higher, I fling my waves moonward like a mermaid.

Half out, I hum to the slutpop like bondage is simple as Sunday brunch, kick up the LED hula hoop at my platformed feet. Somersaulting flip, it lands right over my head like a clowness's necklace. "Voila!"

I keep it spinning slowly around my head and throat as I rise from the tuffeted café chair. The stool has such a low back, I can swoop my hands under my bottom, fall back to one-two tap my feet in the air like a synchronized swimmer. The loop of my arms keeps my knees together, frames my bottom as I tilt onto my back, bicycling my legs for a flourish as my skirt line hitches.

A wolfish whistle or two. Surely not Ra, but maybe Angel.

The heart garter comes with me as I pull the ribboned rope up my thighs, over curvy calves and red-bottom stilettos. I floss the fabric cuffs over the heels. Loose, loose, loosening. Can't swing and dance in these, so I kick them to the crowd. "Here, have a souvenir on the house! ...But if I come to collect later, I'm the one with the receipt!"

There are no shrieks of pain, so I surmise I'm still doing good, impaled nobody. I can't see as my eyes are on the canopied ceiling, concentrating with my tongue cartoonishly poked out, as I maneuver my escape. Tuck and spring to pull the band taut against bare feet. Free!

I quickly ball back up, legs spread, panties shown, to distract. Show my hands unshackled only when I stand, cupping my breasts, ribbon loosely ringing my arms like a movie star shawl. "Ta-da!" and I dip into a slink, mimic whatever easy Swan Lake moves I seen on stripper mutuals' TikToks. Gyrate and sway like the smoking(,) hot Holli Would from Cool World.

And did I mention I'm doing this all on the fly with a flashing hula hoop around my waist?

I dare Daddy not to be impressed. For Ra not to pat me on the head like his blonde pet.

In fact, "Isn't it weird how they do this at weddings?" I ask as I toss my red and ruffled garter into Ra's lap.

He raises a bushy brow, but my butt is to him before I can deduce more of an expression. I'm on my knees, gliding through glittery carpet. (Don't think about the wet spots, my mind scolds.) The disco lights dance over my shoulders as I untie my dress. Tug at the long, skinny strings as I bop my hourglass to the beat. I spin to the chorus until I'm unclasped, spotlit with my top down, just chintzy, fluttery boa feathers censoring the most important sliver of my breasts.

I go to dramatically tear away the tickly, sticky stole, but my hand catches on my hoop and the plastic boning of my folded over corset. It clips my wrist, dampening my grip and saving the scarf from coming off. Clink and plink plink plink goes my pearl bracelet! Little beads skitter everywhere, rolling off the stage and onto patron knees like happy little jumping beans. But my face sure does not look happy. More like shock and confusion melding into "...I meant to do that!" since I can't cover up with a quick enough quip besides, "This always happens to me!"

But there's no time to mourn my favorite circlet or how clear my implications of premature explosion came off. I cast off the stupid loop like sticking a landing. Watch it wagon wheel out of my periphery when all attention should be on me. And it is. Because I shrug off the cliché boa to reveal heart-shaped pasties as the high femme finale.

But the reveal is grander than I intend. Than the law allows. Because one of my pasties went flying with the far-flung feather strip.

I may not be the most law-abiding babe, but I tiptoe it, selling "company and time" not "s*x and t**s," because I know slut statutes like how businesses that serve liquor in Pennsylvania aren't allowed to bare full nip or slip.

Yet I hold up a contestant's smile, feigning naive like my vaude character. Like it's just happenstance, I may as well be that innocent girl on the sunscreen bottle accosted by a dog who likes to bite bikini bottoms. Though my pastie surely only came unglued from the car groping. Thanks again, Angel.

But I get the claps. The finger-whistles, the lunges to look closer at that hypnotizing, scalding-pink circle (that totally doesn't sting from ripped adhesive).

I wave and drift down the stage to collect my proverbial roses from Ra. Though his face is impassive. A finger curls under his lip. Always scrutinizing.

Angel's my cheerleader. Even Emmi. Gushing and joking and back slapping. "Extravagant" and "sultry," they say.

Ra? "Passable." "Showing promise." "Almost quaint."

I keep that crowned princess smile on though inside I'm steaming, stewing about how well that went for such short notice. For a favor of his friend. For no solid foundation of financ--

But he slides me a check and I change my tune. Kiss his cheek. Say, "You're so sweet! Can't wait to work again."