IVY
Grayson and I have been trying out this whole commitment thing for a couple weeks, and I'm doing much better with it than I thought I would. I always imagined my work as a stripper, along with my less-than-holy bonus work as an on-call sex doll, would hamper me from having any relationship. I was wrong.
Grayson is so different from any guy I have ever met. He doesn't judge me for being a stripper and he isn't trying to pressure me out of the other things I do. However, it's becoming increasingly difficult to sleep with a bunch of people when I'm supposed to be with Grayson, but he insists that I work through this at my own pace.
I sit at my vanity table backstage that has my name on it and try to reapply the nail that fell off during my previous performance. I really should get them done by a professional, but I just can't be bothered to do anything more than stop by the Dollar Tree, buy some fake nails, and slap them on myself. As I hold down the nail to my pointer finger, my phone buzzes next to me on the table. Grayson's name pops up and my heart leaps. I eagerly grab my phone and swipe to see what the message says.
Proper date tonight? No money. No sex. Pick you up from your place at seven.
I smile like an idiot at my phone and I just feel giddy. Grayson hasn't paid me for a date since the first time he took me out, but sex has become a regular theme of our relationship. I'm disappointed that he's saying no this time, but I'm more intrigued than anything. I respond to the message and glance at the clock over my shoulder. I have one more dance to do and then I can go home and get ready.
I take a deep breath in and close my eyes for a moment, shifting gears and mentally putting on the persona that is Kitty Swallows. I open my eyes and stare at myself in the mirror, letting out the breath I was holding. "Showtime."
I hear Matthew announce my name to the audience and they all lose their minds—as per usual. I take deep breaths in an out and jump up and down as Matthew recites the same introduction that he gives me every night. I feel like I'm about to start a wrestling match with all the intros and the hyping and the fake name. As he leaves the stage, "Naughty Girl" by Beyoncé starts to play and I hear the crowd cheering.
It's funny, I dance to this song five nights a week and people put money in my underwear and it's sexy and all that, but all I'm thinking about is how hard I danced to this song in my room when it first came out. I was literally seven years old and already shaking my ass in the mirror singing about being someone's naughty girl. I laugh to myself at the memory and sigh, "God, I was born to be a stripper."
I put one leg through the curtain in the hole cut in the wall—which is inconveniently placed and requires some unnatural extension, I will say—and set a foot on the stage. The rest of me emerges and the light shines brightly in my eyes. I can barely see anything, but this dance is essentially muscle memory at this point, so I don't have to worry about falling off the stage.
Grabbing the pole in the middle of the stage, I swing around a few times and wrap one leg around it before sliding down. People toss crumpled dollar bills in my direction as I dance past them and I shove them in my underwear. I roll across the stage to the other side and extend down into a split in front of one guy. One wink in his direction and he practically empties his pockets, gushing "I love you Kitty!" I blow him a kiss and stand back up.
Returning to the pole, the song changes to Ciara's "Body Party" and I climb up the pole as high as I can, holding my legs out and spinning around it slowly until I reach the ground again. As I stand up, I notice a face at the edge of the stage that I know I've seen before. His demeanor is more calm than all of the ravenous males and females gathered around and I'm drawn to him. I slowly make my way over to him and squat down, spreading my legs. He smirks coolly at me, hands me a fifty dollar bill, and it clicks.
