Chapter Two

"Listen up, ya slackers and sluts," Jamie plays the room like a soundboard and every head turns as the lights dim. "Do y'all want a taste of the East Quay Cuties?"

Of course they do. Why else would they pay a cover charge on a Tuesday?

While the crowd shouts, a thin trail of light appears making a path from our "man cave" to the stage. The path clears and Jamie cross-fades from the house-mix to my song.

"Y'all wanna know who's on tap tonight?"

They roar. My name is among the screams.

"I'ma give y'all a little hint."

The opening of P!nks' 2012 masterpiece, "Slut Like You" titter over the dark room and the regulars lose their minds.

Deep voices whoop and howl. High voices shriek. I hadn't even stepped into the light and someone starts to chant. "Stagg-er! Stagg-er!"

Jamie won't encourage a chant until I'm safely on the stage. "Chaaard Stagger! Coming out!"

That's the cue. A little before my time in the music, but Jamie knows I don't give a shit. I'm no ballerina.

I step out of the man cave and into the light walking with a confident swagger into the mob. Their roar drowns out all trace of the music. By the time I start dancing, they're a frenzy of lust. Most of them keep an awed distance, as if I'm something beautiful and contagious to be witnessed at a distance, as if the heat of my body burns.

Still, I encourage audience participation. Lean into the groping of a very drunk group of nurses, beckon those pink-faced boys, offer lewd hip-swivels to the bride-to-be who is absolutely coming for my dick until her maid-of-honor protects me.

I spend too long in the masses. The other Cuties dart to the stage, afraid the crowd would tear them to pieces.

Isn't that part of the appeal?

Jamie gives me the cue to get my ass on stage. "Chard Stagger? Show us…"

The regulars join in. "What you got!"

What I "got" is mania. I'm barely in control of myself, let alone the crowd. I always lose my clothes faster than the other Cuties and I've forgotten which choreography I planned. But I know my business.

There's an art to unbuttoning a jacket to make people scream. Anyone can yank off tearaway pants, but it takes a special combination of hip, knee, and back to pull off sliding them down, threatening to bare your ass, and making people adore you for not following through. I know how to make them squeal and I give it a hundred and ten percent.

When P!nk starts barking commands, I'm on my knees, as naked as the law allows, covered only by the skimpy red strap. At the edge of the stage, shoulders to the ground, hips in the air, cash fluttering down around me.

This bridge is bigger than the cash, though. This moment is for caressing my chest and thighs, for tracing nipples and the divots of my abs while the mirrors reflect everything for the audience in the back. The ones sitting at the high-tops, no longer looking at their tablets.

In this brief and sensual union of dancer and whore, I'm the melting center of the sex-starved crowd. All eyes for me. All minds consumed by my body and their dreams. My movements mold the mob's shared fantasy, my aimed winks and smiles feed the frenzy.

When the song ends, the roar is brain-melting.

Jamie breaks the spell by bringing up the lights and jingling a coin jar into the microphone. "Show him some love, folks. He works for tips. You can also tip Chard on your card at the bar. But look! His friends are here to help!"

The change is instant, like waking up from a dream. The eyes look away from me and to pockets, wallets, and money clips as they seek the means to pay for their pleasure. Three other Cuties join the crowd. If it was anyone but me, they'd come up to the stage and there would have been an excerpt from the actual show, but … well … it's me. There's a lot of cash to collect.

The song vamps as I swivel and dip along the edge of the stage and they pay for the privilege of being near me. Across the elevated catwalk, strutting my way to Jamie's wall of machinery. Normally, I clear my tips into their jar then complete my circuit and make a sexy exit.

Tonight, I say into the microphone, "I owe the bartender a twenty."

Jude looks confused and Paul turns fifty shades of red. He gestures frantically, no . But Jamie rallies the crowd to chant " Pay up !"

This crowd will not be denied.

I take a twenty directly from a patron and carefully arrange it in my thong, then cha-cha my way along the catwalk to the edge of the bar where Paul reluctantly waits. If the bar was cleared for dancing, I could step over— Do it anyway, do it for the bit— but it's not cleared tonight, so I stay at the edge doing a demure little Betty Boop swivel while Paul hides his face and inches closer to take the money.

I drop low and grab his hands, making the crowd laugh and cheer. When it's clear I'm not going to let him escape, Paul relents and takes the bill with his teeth.

The crowd's approval drowns not only the music but also Jamie's voice as they try to announce the revue's times. I saunter back to her microphone. With a gesture from me, the crowd hushes.

I make eye contact with Laur still sitting at his high-top sipping his whiskey. I coo into the mic, "I'll see you all at the show. Starts at nine."

Then I wink and kiss and dart out the fire exit to escape the crowd.

****

The fire escape goes to the alley. The alley wraps around the side of the building and into the man cave. When I step into the familiar darkness, the heat of the club tingles on my skin. The other three Cuties are still working the crowd.

I dab away the sweat with a baby wipe and rub off the tape keeping the thong publicly decent. My plan is to rush upstairs, take a shower, and make Laur sweat.

"Hey, Stagger, you ready for that blow?"

There he is, un-sweatable, leaning in the doorway. The whiskey tumbler refracts the light around a new cherry and straw, but the man himself is only a shadow against the wild dancing lights. How did he get past the bouncer? It freaks me out a little, especially with my luck with stalkers.

"You shouldn't be back here, Laur."

"The owner likes me more than you." He sips his drink and smacks his lips. "So … we doing this here or elsewhere?"

Right here. Right now. Fuck his face against that wall with the dance floor two feet away. Yank down those pants and rail him in front on the dressing room mirror, so he and anyone else in the club who happens to look in can watch the fuck machine that is Chard Stagger in action.

My mouth dries. If I'd been off my meds … if I hadn't been taking my cognitive behavior therapy so seriously … fuck, if I didn't know three other Cuties could wander in here any second…

"Upstairs. Now."

Laur, unimpressed by my authority, doesn't take a step from the doorway. In the backlight, he plucks out the cherry and sucks it off the straw again.

Christ, those lips were going to feel so fucking good.

"You sure you want me? You walk back out there and at least a dozen panties will drop. You're only getting a blowjob from me."

I tower over him and I promise, "I'll change your mind."

He smirks, colder than the ice tinkling in his glass. "Unlikely."

I reach out to caress his face. "I'll be very gentle."

He dodges my touch. "Oh, be still, my beating heart."

Then he drains the entire whiskey sour like it's a shot and then drops to his knees.

Hot damn. It is happening here.

It can't. If even one of those boys saw, they'd run right to Jude to complain about how her mentally unstable sex-crazed cash cow is misusing the space.

Shit. I don't have the self-discipline to stop him. Shit.

I can see the bar and Paul smiling to the patrons favoring him, still blushing. The twenty is tucked into his black shirt like a badge of honor.

Laur stands again, leaving the empty glass at the edge of the door. Disappointment and relief ripple through me. Raging lust pushes out every other emotion and I beat down the desire to hurl him on the couch.

He looks at me, his left eye droops at the edge. "Well, I don't know where the fuck we're going. Lead the way."