When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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I immediately regretted the decision to come to the Oiled Olive tonight. Groups of girls wearing penis veils and bridesmaid sashes bounced up and down with excitement as they snapped pictures with muscled dancers behind a velvet VIP rope.
One girl sassily bent over like she was waiting for a spanking while two shirtless dudes wearing Christian Grey-esque masks and loose black ties stood ominously behind her. I locked eyes with the taller of the two men, and a strange sense of familiarity rolled over me. There was something about his dark eyes that drew me in.
I tucked a loose strand of red-brown hair behind my ear and looked away.
"Remind me again why I agreed to this insane plan?" I asked Tan, crossing my arms across my chest, feeling so out of place.
The Oiled Olive had a reputation for being the classiest of New York's male strip clubs–unlike Blanche's Boudoir, but that didn't mean very much to me right now. Classy or not, the purpose was the same.
Tan looped her arm through mine as we moved forward in line. Even in the three-inch heels she convinced me to wear, my best friend was still taller than me.
"You came because you want to prove you're not all washed up and to meet a prospective client." I groaned, and Tan nudged me in the ribs. "This is going to be fun! Worst case scenario, we have a few laughs, and we see some hot guys dancing on stage."
I tried not to roll my eyes. "We could have gone to an off-Broadway show and accomplished the same thing with zero embarrassment."
"What's there to be embarrassed about? We're twenty-eight years old, and we've seen plenty of naked men before," Tan said with her enviable easy confidence. "Remember when we lived together junior year and that Theta Chi bro you dated and all his frat brothers did that thing where they took off their clothes for money?"
"That was for charity," I argued.
Before I could protest that I'd never paid to see anyone strip on stage, Tanushree continued. "And don't tell me he-who-must-not-be-named didn't put on your thong and dance around the bedroom. From what you've told me, that man was a total freak."
My cheeks heated once again. She wasn't wrong. Tommy, my most recent ex, had been a total freak. It was one of the reasons I'd looked past his narcissistic behavior. He was the first guy I liked having sex with. Also, I'm ashamed to admit it, but the screaming orgasms he gave me ruined all other men.
In the six months since we'd broken up, I'd dated two other guys. The one I went out with last month was named Steve, and he had a dick so small that it seemed unreal. I know size shouldn't matter, but I mean, it kinda does. Before that, I'd dated a guy who would cum after a whopping two minutes, then blame me for being "too hot."
It was a string of never-ending disappointments that left me daydreaming about Tommy, despite his armada of red flags.
"Didn't you used to call Tommy a vagina whisperer?"
