Jobs

Act 7 – The Stripper

I’m a stripper, the kind of woman wives loathe and detest. In that knowledge I feel my lowest and dirtiest. However, being with you, holding me close, holding me tight, I feel like a precious jewel. It’s only with you that I feel truly naked. You don’t have to hear my words. Just listen to the sound of my heart beating.

~ Petals Marshall

I’m only covered by four triangular pieces of glittered fabric; two to cover my front, one to hide my pudenda, and another sucked between my ass cheeks which gets thinner the more I dance.

What I’m wearing now is much less. Much, much less than what I was wearing when I was still in catholic school, which I had to leave because I didn’t have enough money to pay for tuition.

Men, businessmen, men from all walks of life and age groups, are howling and slamming the base of their beer mugs against the tables like barbarians. I’m swaying my hips against the pole in the middle of a stage shaped like a star. Each tip of the star has its own steel bar that a stripper can dance around. We each do our routine and vie for attention, lusting after the touch of dry notes and wet dollar bills getting stuffed around the string of our coronary-inducing panties.

Men, oh so many men, and I’m the harbinger of their fantasies, igniting their imagination with sweltering fire as they cross the threshold of what is moral, down to where evil is waiting, coaxing them to open their wallets as they sink deeper in the quagmire of lust. I feel bad for wives who tend to their drunken husbands. But I have to make a living, for to deny myself life is evil in itself. I need to be strong. No. Stronger. For now.

I pity these men. They are filthy, dirty bastards. And in that same light I am also bathed in its darkness, an angel whose wings will never grow back no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I cry at night thinking that I can leave this life and start anew. But I can’t. I can’t anymore. This is where I belong now. A harpy. The devil’s spawn.

I throw my hands above my head, reaching back as I clasp the cold touch of metal stuck between the floor and ceiling. I sway my hips while remembering to part my mouth slightly, as if to give the illusion that I’m breathing harshly like I’m having s*x. The flickering lights are a wash of pink and yellow over my face which, when combined, look orange. Wolf whistling can be heard from the sea of floating heads who are too drunk to remember their names. I sense the dry touch of notes and wet dollar bills stuffed around the string of my panties and I delight in its feeling.

I drop my hips even lower, letting go of the pole as I slump to crawl down the stage and turn on my back, with my heels pushing my body for my head to hang by the edge.

A man. A big man. A big man probably in his mid-thirties does a body shot down my stomach, sucking with insatiable need as the alcohol burns my navel and his tongue.

Aaaaaahhhhhh…I moan at the feeling of hot, hungry lips kissing my belly which is soon followed by the touch of dollar bills getting stuffed near my damped pubis.

Hands. Two hands. Now four. No. Make that six. Three pairs of hands glide down my smooth shins and I arch my back at the feeling of their possession. And like a flower I rise with my neck curved, my eyes closed, and my mouth parted, reveling in the sound of my name as they call me … Petals Marshall.

I crawl back to where my pole is waiting, wrapping my hands around the steel to pull me back up. I sway my hips hypnotically as the music rises, the DJ pumping the volume to a more dizzying track which signals for all the strippers to move to phase two … the stripping part … the part I don’t like.

Sharp pain lances through my heart. Tears, unbidden, swell from my eyes which I wipe with the clandestine movement of my hand as if to brush my dark raven hair away from my face. I cup my hands underneath the healthy curves of my breasts, fumbling with the strings of the glittery satin to free my bosoms. I swallow hard as pain knots tight in my stomach. My heart pounds along with the thumping music as I feel the pull of gravity take away my humanity bit by bit as eyes speculate, darken, and widen to watch as I burn my soul on the stage where I’m dancing.

Lord, if you can hear my silent prayer, please, please save me. I don’t want to do this anymore. I close my eyes to stop myself from crying, knowing that I’m doing this for a reason. Hope springs within me at the thought that I need only do this for a few more months. And in that knowledge I feel the angelic glow of warmth swell from my heart, my wings growing back to hug my body, protecting me in my crude nakedness as I throw my head back and open my eyes to receive the light … pink and yellow lights. But I don’t mind. They’re still light. And I’m free to dream that it means my freedom.

I roll my bottom lip inside my mouth as I keep rubbing my hands in all the right places, my palms squeezing muscle as I gyrate with lasciviousness. I hear my name getting louder, building into a strong, euphoric crescendo. I revel in the sins of our fathers. Bathe in its crudity. Rub my hands down my body as I dance in its glory. Not particularly enjoying what I’m doing, but I know it’s a sight that drives men crazy so I do it.

The lights. The colored lights. The colored lights are dimming. The colored lights are losing their luster as everything builds around me – the thumping music, the dancing, and the howling. I like dancing in the dark, because in its light I feel safe.

I prefer darkness over the harsh lighting of the fluorescents, for I see all my flaws in staggering detail under white light. I see all my sins inked like tattoos underneath my skin, marring my body and tainting its alabaster glow. I see all my emotional scars line every inch of my body down to the very core of my being. No. I will heal. I will. Just a few more months. Just a few more. And as I throw my head back one last time to the dying music and wolfish howls, I know that darkness has consumed me completely. I am beyond recovery now. Till I see the light again.

“One in three women who are sexually active can get cervical cancer,” the good Doctor Lopez tells me, “It’s good that you came to me. You are perfectly healthy … for now,” she puts a hand over mine and I startle, “You just need to be careful because you chose the life of a…” she hesitates, probably trying to assess if I will take offense to what she will say, “…you chose the life of an entertainer,” she smiles, and in her eyes I see compassion and understanding, the kind that I don’t get often every night when men grab my hair as they push their dícks inside my mouth. She lets go of my hand and turns a page on my file, “You say in your records that you’re twenty-one. But I have a mind not to believe that.”

I curl my bottom lip inside my mouth, my throat suddenly dry, “Tell me,” she pulls my balled fist between her hands, “What is your true age, Petals?” That’s not my real name. That’s not me.

“I’m … I’m eighteen,” Just a few more days I’m eighteen, “I’m legal,” I pull my hand away, “You don’t need to worry about me,” I rub the hand she touched as if its scalded. I don’t like it when people like her touch me. Not because I’m disgusted. No. But because I feel like I don’t deserve their kindness. I’m dirty. And they’re not.

I smooth the hem of my plum dress over my thighs, ironing it for some weird reason because I feel like the fabric is getting shorter, like it’s shrinking up my thighs, “Petals. We’ve been through this before. I told you months ago the last time I saw you that I can loan you some money,” Why is she being nice to me? This is only the second time I’ve spoken to her. The first was when I decided that I will strip for money. I paid her a visit with the intent of knowing information about venereal diseases and other complications I can get for doing my profession. Okay, scratch that, it’s not a profession because it’s hardly professional. It’s a job. A job because I give different kinds to men who pay me a lot. Hand jobs, blow jobs, all kinds of nasty jobs. Be strong Natasha. This shall pass. This too shall pass.

“I won’t engage in anything other than oral. I don’t think I can forgive myself if I do,” I announce my thoughts aloud, “Anything else doc?”

Her lips press into a hard line before she sighs. Her eyes are cloudy with an emotion I cannot place nor understand. It’s hard for me to tap into emotions because mine are already overflowing. It’s hard for me to tap on empathy either because it’s an emotion that even I don’t have for myself, “Petals. There are three parts to the human body that are the warmest. The mouth. The armpits. And the lining of our cracks. Surely you’re not gonna have a man f**k your armpits now would you?” she asks and I’m bewildered by her brazen remark, “What I’m saying is … when those men you entertain get tired of your mouth. They’ll go after the next place that is warm. When that happens I want you to get out of that life and come to me when you’re ready. Also, there’s another part of the human body that I believe is the warmest of all. And that is the heart. So please, Petals, if that is really your name, do not let this life make you cold. Because when your heart grows cold you will never feel warm again,” Pain is a tight ball in my chest as I listen to her. I wink to look away but am too late as the first tear rolls down my cheek. I quickly stand and mutter my gratitude as I bolt towards the door, closing it unceremoniously with my heart giving me the hardest kind of pain as I wave a hand for a cab to take me home, back to where a steel bar is waiting, and the sound of wolves.

I forget Natasha and I become Petals Marshall as I grab the pole, extending my arm as I sway around it with my feet together. I spin, and spin some more before throwing my open legs around it for a swing, squeezing my thighs against the metal as I spiral down its base. Months of doing this and it becomes mechanical. At first you are conscious about how your body looks and the way you smile, not being able to put the two together.

But just like what I said, after months it gets easier. You learn to keep your fears bottled inside like a good actor. Like a born comedian casted to play a dramatic role. You learn to keep your true self locked in and assume a different kind of role.

At the corner of my eye is Grum, a bouncer. He is a gentle giant. A kind beast. We don’t really talk much because he’s mute. He can’t speak. He cannot mimic sound. His senses are reduced to sight and feeling, which I think makes him a good bouncer, because a bouncer needs to have a keen sense of sight. And that’s exactly what Grum is. He is a very, very, very observant man.

He’s actually quite handsome. Makes you think of Jason Statham but thrice the muscle and thrice the height. He’s a beautiful ogre. A monolith. A titan.

The DJ spins his track and I pull off sultry moves to vie for more attention. My fellow strippers decided that I should take the middle stage because that’s where most of the money pours in. They understand my situation and are helping me get away from this job, telling me not to forget them once I get my education, and that I should pay them a visit because they tell me that they will most likely grow old doing what we do now. In their kindness I feel the family I never had, and I won’t let my family down. And so I dance. I will dance like no one’s watching. I will dance like nobody’s judging me. I will dance like my life depends on it and that the more I dance the brighter my future will be. I will dance because it’s my only way out of this nightmare, “Petals! Petals! Petals!” the men shout my name and I strip, bearing my soul for the demons to devour me. Each time I do this I cry. But no one really pays attention to a crying stripper. No one.

Darkness cloaks me in its embrace as the colored lights dim. The last person I see clear before I close my eyes is Grum, his face sad as he looks at me, his fists clenching on either side. I shake my head and give him a look that says ‘I’m okay’ as a man goes up the stage to stand behind me and grab my breasts. I let the horny man have his way with me, appreciating the dollar notes he’s stuffing around my string panties, “More,” I moan as he fingers his wallet dry, “More, please.”

Grum is watching me, with eyes that are misted with worry. I don’t know much about his story but he’s very protective of all the strippers. Like he’s a big brother to all of us and it disgusts him that we are being touched this way. I close my eyes because I don’t want to see Grum’s reaction as my client closes his mouth over my breast, suckling like I’m the mother to his baby and my bosoms bear the sap of life. I moan my fake delight, understanding that I’m doing this because of the money. And the more money I get, the faster I can get away from this nightmare and live my dream.

“Petals…” my client murmurs in my ear, “I have more where that came from. Can you suck my díck in the back alley?” he asks and I whisper my compliancy, “Great. Let’s go,” he takes my hand and I crouch to pull my clothes, covering myself in shame as he jumps the stage and turns to lift me down by my armpits. Doctor Lopez’s foreboding words bloom unbidden in my mind.

There are three parts to the human body that are the warmest. The mouth. The armpits. And the lining of our cracks. Surely you’re not gonna have a man f**k your armpits now would you? When those men you entertain get tired of your mouth. They’ll go after the next place that is warm.

I shiver at the thought behind her message and I swallow hard a constricted knot down my throat as my client leads me through the back door and into the dark alley.

My heart is pounding hard and I know it shouldn’t because this is not the first time I did this. This man’s hold on me is possessive and I can feel his nails digging into my skin like the talons of a hawk. I fumble with his belt buckle and push his trousers down the grime of the floor, fisting in my hands a hard fat c**k which I wrap with my lips to suck.

I roll my eyes up and I see his darker ones go even darker as he looks down on me, his mouth forming into an O as my tongue pulls the head deeper to where it meets my throat. I feed on him like some hungry festering maiden, and he’s the king with all the riches, his queen out to buy food in the market, unknowing that her royal husband is being serviced by a slave, “Ungh…Petals, f**k. Suck harder. Shít. Aaahhh…”

I cry. I cry not because he’s big. I cry because I feel helpless and at the mercy of another man who treats me like I’m garbage, “Ooohhh…”

He grabs my hair as I go deeper, his hips jerking and bucking wildly which makes me choke. He is lost as he f***s my mouth. Lost in a sea of pleasure. Drowning in an ocean of velvety tightness as my mouth coats the salty length of his díck. He pushes one last time and he cúms, filling my mouth with warm acidic sap.

I pull away with a gasp, hiding my face as I spit the cúm in my mouth. I hear him shuffling to belt his trousers and immediately I clasp his jeans, “Where are you going? You didn’t pay me an additional!?” His response is a strong slap across my mouth which sends me reeling back.

I flinch in fear as he crouches to meet me eye to eye, “You really think I’ll pay you for blowing me? You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” he spits in my face and he slaps the back of my head.

I retaliate by slapping him hard across the face, and what it does is fuel his anger even more as he pulls me up to stand then throws me against the wall. I collapse in pain and roll into a tight ball, anticipating a kick in the stomach when I hear a loud grunt of anger. The next thing I know my client is being dunked head first down the trash bin, “G—Grum?” his name comes out choked as I will myself to stand.

“Grum…” I cry in his arms. I cry in the arms of a brother I never had. In the arms of someone who I barely know but trust because I have no one else to turn to. He towers over me and cups his hands around my face, his thumbs covering half my cheeks as he wipes the tears away.

He doesn’t say anything but his actions speak volumes. And in my heart I feel every syllable saying ‘I do care for you.’

“I’m okay,” I whisper and give him a smile. He frowns and shakes his head, wiping my tear-stained cheeks, “I’m fine,” I squeeze his hands that are holding my face and he nods, “Let’s go. No one’s watching the other girls,” I tell him even if I know that he does not hear a word I say. I squeeze against him and give him an affectionate hug. It is my only way of saying thank you to the gentle giant, my titan.

Lord, if you can hear me, please let not anything like this happen again. I beg you. I want to live outside of this nightmare.

“Petals. It’s unprofessional in this profession to fall in love and you know that,” Caramel lectures me. She’s a fellow stripper. Her name is Caramel Drizzle because that’s the color of her skin.

“Car, I’m not in love with anyone,” I tell her matter-of-factly because it’s true. I’m confused as to what is giving her the idea that I am, when clearly I’m not, “Don’t mistake a blush with love. This is just makeup,” I pinch my cheeks, warming them with blood, “What did our boss say he wants?”

She pouts in the mirror and runs harlot red lipstick over her pucker, “All the boys are out cold from partying all night. It’s up to us girls to put up the streamers and the banners and shít,” she frowns.

“That’s not a problem,” I smile my compliance, “I’ll take care of it. You go home and rest since you have a shift tonight. It’s my day off and I don’t have anywhere to be or anything to do.”

She kisses my temple as she rises, “You’re an angel, Asha. Get Grum to help you if you need muscle.”

“Surely.”

Caramel jiggles away from the bar, sashaying with an extra kick in her steps. She doesn’t need to tell me because I know she has a date if harlot red lipstick is any indication. I’m left alone in the bar, perched on the barstool as I turn my gaze around the much quieter strip club. The smell of bourbon in the air mixes well with the faint acridness of residual smoke which has clung to every piece of wood, “Hmm…might as well get a move on,” I mutter to myself as I jump off the barstool.

“Grum!” I startle as the gentle giant walks in bearing the streamers in hand, “I’ll help you with those,” I smile and his expression remains blank. His face rarely animates with an emotion. He’s just … I can’t even describe it … like a fleshy robot.

I push my hands out and make a gesture for him to give me the banners. He walks toward me and folds them over my outstretched arms, “Thanks.”

He scratches his head and tries to smile but he is not quite successful. I shake my head and drape the banners over a director’s chair. I make a gesture with my hands for him to dip his face lower. I clasp his cheeks and he tenses, “Relax,” I smile as I appreciate the strength of his jaw line. I run my hands from his temples down to each cheek, appreciating the man before me who people call a monster. He is not a monster. He is a very handsome man. He just happens to be three sizes too big for an average guy, “I’ll teach your face how to smile,” I tell him and a small V forms between his brows.

I roll my bottom lip inside my mouth as I use my thumbs to stretch either corner of his lips going up, “That’s it. Follow my fingertips,” I coach as I stretch his face into a smile, “Yes! Perfect! Hold that right there!” I make a gesture with my index finger for him to hold his position as I scuttle to get the camera phone, “Say cheese!” I snap a photo and his hands shoot to cover his eyes, “Oh no. Grum,” I put the phone down and go to him to wipe his eyes, “Did it hurt?” I ask and he shakes his face in my hands. Aw, such a gentle giant, “Thanks for saving me the other night,” I tell him and his lips part a little, “I know you can’t hear me. But I want you to know that you’re appreciated, alright?” For a moment I think I see emotions in his eyes, but it disappears.

He nods and tries to smile but finds it difficult to recapture what I did with his face earlier. I shake my head smiling and another V forms between his brows, “Let’s go,” I take his hand, “We need to put banners.”

We walk through the doors outside to where the boss wanted the streamers to be put up, “Hmm,” I purse my lips to the side, “Too high and whoa!” I am momentarily surprised as I pull my skirt down to cover my thighs. Grum has decided to lift me and perch me on his shoulder, “Grum! You don’t have to. We just … just get a ladder,” I swallow as I bring my hand around my neck to quell my surprise.

He dips a little to pick up the banners from the ground then gives them to me, “Okay,” I murmur, understanding that there is no need for a ladder, “Just don’t … don’t let go of me, okay?” I tell him even though I know he doesn’t hear a word I say. In my heart I know he can hear me, and if his love for all of us is anything to go by, I know that he will never let go, “Just hold me tight.”

I splay the banner to the awning of the strip club, rolling the tarpaulin down with my fingers and securing each corner with a flimsy rope for it to stretch into full size, “Okay, that’s about it. You can put me down now,” I tap on his head and he looks up at me and smiles. He is smiling! It’s a full megawatt smile!

He very gently puts me down and for a moment my legs pass through a hump between his legs. My stomach clenches tight, understanding what it was that I just grazed. I hear him snarl and hiss through clenched teeth as he turns the other way, “Hey, its okay. It’s … it’s normal?” I shrug, wanting him to believe me and at the same time I ask myself if I believe what I’m saying. I gently wrap my hand around his forearm and realizes for the first time how big it was, “Um, don’t be shy, Grum.”

He nods and I smile, all the while feeling something strange pull inside me to where my privates are, “I’ll go and get us lunch,” I tell him and another V forms between his brows. I make a gesture with my hands like I’m holding a pizza then I bite and chew while rubbing my tummy. His lips pucker into a small O and I smile again. I hold out my hand and we’re about to go inside into the kitchen when I hear a motorcycle rev and pull up to where Grum and I are standing.

“Hey sweet-cheeks,” a biker who’s probably one of our customers throws me an air-kiss. I shiver at the gesture as I feel Grum pull me behind him, “Aw, Petals. Don’t tell me you’re fúcking this guy?” he points to Grum and Grum snarls.

I tug at Grum’s shirt, not wanting to see a fight start between him and an old client, because I don’t want potential loss of business to myself and the strip club, “Grum,” I tug repeatedly at his shirt, “Let’s just go inside, please, Grum?”

He turns around and nods to me and I smile back. We both turn to leave but the biker starts throwing stones at Grum. My titan lets go of my hand and trudges forward like a bull in rage, but no altercation ensues because the biker already revved his engine and motored down the freeway, “Calm down,” I whisper as I grab his one arm with both my hands, “Let’s just go inside, please,” my compassion turns to fear as he turns to look at me with eyes that are heated.

He visibly calms as he sees my face etched with anxiety, “That’s it. Don’t mind him,” I whisper and he nods as if understanding my every word. He covers half my face with one hand and I smile and he smiles too. Not as big of a smile earlier but a smile all the same, “I’ll order pizza,” I announce and his smile becomes permanent.

My hands are m**********g a client in one of the curtained private rooms on the second floor. My lips part as I flick my tongue out to invite the warm salty head into the back of my throat. My jaws are aching. This is just the second man I’m giving a blowjob to and I’m already very tired.

He grabs my hair and dunks my mouth deeper, making me choke as I pull back. I take a huge gulp of air as I resume our activity. His mouth froths with obscene profanities describing how good I am with sucking díck. I don’t give mind to his petty commentary. All I want is for him to cúm and get this over with so I can call it a night.

His body tenses and he grabs hard on my scalp, bucking his hips against my face as he cúms hard in my mouth. I block my throat with an arched tongue to keep me from swallowing. I pull away and with a quick gesture spit the cúm in my open hand which I wipe down the carpeting. He throws a wad of cash in my face and I grab it like it’s my lifeline, holding the money close to my heart as if someone will take it away from me, “You never fail to impress, Petals. Next time I want my díck inside you fúcking you hard,” he forewarns and I just nod in response without looking him in the eye. He leaves me sitting on the ground, thinking to myself the danger that is coming. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.

I go to our makeup room and wipe away my tears along with my dark makeup, contemplating whether I should draft my resignation, which for a second I think is a stupid idea because writing a resignation letter is only for those who work in an office. The only way to get out of here is to walk away through the doors and never come back.

I snap my attention to where I hear something being thrown against the wall. I take my cold towel and dash to where the commotion is happening.

Oh no. Grum! The boss’ men are kicking him down, but why? “Grum!” I call and the two men kicking the life out of him snap to face me. The boss is looking me over with a condescending look on his face, “Boss?” I walk to stand between his men and my titan, “Why are you guys hurting him!?” I slump to pull Grum’s head over my thighs, “He’s not hurting anyone. So stop.”

“Petals…” my boss shakes his head, “A client came in and complained about being dunked into a trash bin. And who else can dunk a man down a garbage can other than Brutus over there.”

I clench my jaw as seething rage wells inside my chest, “It’s not Grum’s fault. That was my client and he hit me,” I tell my story and the boss listens.

The boss exhales and snaps his fingers for his men to leave, “If I hear another word from a customer telling me that your Shrek went apeshít. I’ll have him thrown out. You understand?”

I nod in affirmation of the responsibility I was given. He leaves both Grum and I alone and I take the cold towel I’m using to remove my makeup to wipe his face, “Are you hurt?” I ask but his face is ashen. His eyes registering fear for the first time which is an emotion that I don’t see in him quite often, “You don’t have to do this anymore, Grum. I have enough money. I can help you find other jobs like…” I start thinking but nothing comes to mind. I can’t throw Grum to a circus. They’ll feast on him and throw stones at him for being different, “…you can hurl fish in the market. Oh! You can do construction work, right??”

I don’t know who I am convincing. Am I convincing myself, or him? I pull him to stand up but he’s just too heavy, “Let’s get you home,” I tell him while pulling his arm up. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t budge. And then I realize that he is crying, “Grum?” Something painful grips my heart as I see a big man surrender to his emotions for the first time, “It’ll be okay…” I pull his head into my lap and rub his face to stop the tears from flowing, “I’ll protect you. I love you Grum,” I say those words and I realize that I mean it. And that I’ve always loved Grum and the way he stood up for all of us who were too scared to fight.

I need to do something for him. To make him realize that he no longer needs to feel different. That he is special, and that words are just words and don’t mean a thing and have no way of hurting him. I cup my face in his hands and smile, “I know you can’t hear me, Grum. But I want you to know that I’m screaming every syllable of your name in my heart. You don’t have to hear me say the words. Just feel it,” I place a hand over his heart as I whisper, “Because I love you.”

“P—Petal,” I hear him mutter my name with difficulty and my heart constricts, “P—Petal.”

My eyes swell with tears and I can’t stop them as I look at a man and a miracle, “Grum,” I cry as I hug him in my arms, my heart heavy not with pain, but with overwhelming joy. I cry because I know that I’m not the only one fighting. Grum is fighting to be normal. And that in itself is a miracle. I look in his eyes and I see my fight reflected in them too. And for the first time, in a long time, I see a bright light, and it fills me with hope…