SCARLETT PARKER
The best thing about being a stripper is the money. The worst thing about being a stripper is the men. The most annoying thing about being a stripper is that you cannot have one without the other. Every time I walk into work, I'm reminded that all I am is an employee to a bunch of oversized, overpaid, over-aged men. How fucked is that?
But then, when I'm feeling like this job is a mistake, I think of what it was like to be a model. I still remember that feeling of dread and disgust in myself when I'd have to sit in a waiting room with a bunch of gorgeous and skinny women who wanted the same job I was up for. I remember going out to eat with my mother, and she'd order a salad with no dressing for me before I could even open my mouth. Comparison, comparison, comparison. That's all the job ever fucking was.
But here? At Pleasing? There are women of all shapes and sizes, and as much as we love to make fun of each other...or I guess I should say, as much as they love to make fun of me for my "small ass", we love to celebrate each other just as much. I've never felt more confident in my life than the day I stripped down to my underwear in the dressing room, and they all raved about my body the way it was. No one winced, no one squinted or pursed their lips in disappointment for certain bits. I was just...accepted.
"What the hell are you doing here before 10 pm on a Friday?" Ash scoffs as I practically throw my tote bag onto my vanity in the communal dressing room.
"It's my best friend's birthday weekend and she's doing a thing tonight," I slump down in my seat and stare at my face in the mirror. For just a second, I consider going out tonight with no makeup on, but I've done that before and I never make as much. Subconsciously, men are much more superficial than women in that way.
"So, how are you feeling on your second week back to work?"
"Mm," I shrug and start blending my foundation into my face and neck with a chubby brush. "It's fine."
"Also, was I imagining it, or was your ex-boyfriend here last weekend?"
It takes me a second to realize who she's referring to, but when I make the connection, I start to smirk without trying. "He was never my boyfriend, but yes, he was."
"Are you back with him?"
"No," I laugh, tilting my head back to coat my lashes until they're clumpy with mascara. "I don't know what the fuck he was doing here."
"Well, I seem to remember he looked pretty pleased while he was watching you," she mimics Bruce's accent. He's always telling us that that's how our customers should look, given the name of the joint and all.
"Yeah, well he's also engaged," my smirk grows into a fuller smile as she gasps with wide blue eyes. "And his fiancé fucking hates me, dude. There's no way in fucking hell that she knew he was here."
"God, I wish I had your life," she shakes her head before leaning into the mirror to apply her false lashes. "I still think you should have stayed with whatever the fuck his name was instead of coming back here, though. That's what I would have done."
I laugh, thinking of Raf in only a positive way. He really was one of the better men that I've been with. "He was probably going to die soon anyway."
"Scarlett!" She cackles. "You're awful."
"Uh-huh," I chuckle to myself as the dressing room door swings open and starts to fill up with all our coworkers. Soon enough, the room smells like vanilla body spray and burnt hair, and there are a handful of different accents battling each other to be heard.
