5. Lola

Iget a tap on my dressing room door followed by a note asking for a VIP dance--Lola specifically. A new client. That’s the kind of request we crave, the ones that turn a slow night into a big earner. And I know if I give a new client a good time, they will become a Lola superfan and give me plenty of repeat business. I glance at the mirror one last time, not that I have any doubt. I know I look sexy as fuck.

I slip inside the booth, its darkness illuminated by a neon purple glow. Soft leather seats form a semicircle with a table and pole in the middle. The steps up are narrow. My skyscraper plexiglass heels mean I have to take the stairs slowly, but they also make the curve of my instep look sexy and show off my perfectly painted purple toes. Wouldn’t you like to start there and work your way up? they ask, in a way only a good pair of shoes ever could.

I recognize the woman even before I catch her gaze. She sits in her suit, shirt loosened, looking almost casual this time. Drink in hand.

I might have been surprised that it was her, but I’m not. I remember how closely she watched me dance last night. I remember the hunger in her eyes.

It will make a pleasant change to dance privately for a woman. Neither of us speak.

My hands drop to my waist and I pull the knot on my silky robe. The fabric falls straight to the floor in the spectacular way that silk does.

I watch her gaze drag up my body as I stand tall in the center of the table. Her eyes are hazel, I think. Brownish gold with flecks of amber. Beautiful.

Watch me.

The pole behind me rests between my shoulder blades and my hips thrust forward, so she has no choice but to let her eyes linger over my curves--drinking in every dollar she is paying for.

The woman looks composed and immaculate one minute and nervous and flighty the next. She reminds me of a beautiful gazelle as her golden eyes flicker and scan my body. She licks her lips; she is hungry for me.

I’ve done this so many times before. I start into my well-rehearsed routine.

I slide down the pole. My knees spread wide, thighs parting, and my tiny black thong barely hides my sex. My head falls back, hair cascading down my back, and this thrusts my chest forward. The neon light glides over my skin, lighting me up, and my breasts spill from the silky fabric of my bra.

My hands reach up and take the pole, my body rising before I spin. I dance for myself as much as I dance for her. I love to dance and to feel eyes on my body. I let the rhythm pulse through my veins, every thought in my head laced with sex. My leg curls around the cold, thick steel and I gasp as I feel that cool press against my pussy through the silk. I feel myself getting wet and I like it.

My knees find the floor. The steel is polished to perfection, so my inner thighs reflect off the surface as I crawl forward. My eyes meet hers, wide and full of that good girl need to please--but with edges of steel that tell this woman that I could have her on her knees in seconds, worshipping me, if I wanted.

My palms rest against my stomach, sliding upwards and cupping my breasts, lifting their weight before I let them go with a bounce. My fingers continue higher, teasing over my chest to my neck where I pull the string. And finally, my breasts are free and her gaze is on them. I wonder if she realizes that she is leaning forward.

We move in sync as my legs swing from the table. She finishes her drink and sets it aside. My heels find the floor and I turn, so close to being naked except for that tiny slither of black silk that slips between my cheeks. As I bend forward, I feel her hand on my ass. Clients aren’t supposed to touch us. I know she will have read this when she signed up to this, but sometimes I let touching slide and this time is one such occasion.

Her hand feels good on my ass.

I arch my back and push back into her touch and feel her grab a handful of my flesh. Electricity runs through me. My job is sexually charged in general, and at times like this, extremely so.

I spin on one heel, knees rising up onto the leather to straddle her lap. I drop my hips and drag my pussy against her pants. She looks as though she might explode at any second. Her hands are instinctively on my thighs. I choose to let them remain there.

Up close, her face is beautiful. I like the sharpness of her cheekbones and the lovely heart shape of her face. I like her expensive looking hair that is a million shades of honeyed gold glinting in the lights.

She is clearly from a very different world than the one I inhabit, and it seems wild that our paths have collided here. Resulting in my straddling and grinding down on her.

I usually do the grinding for effect only, but right now I’m doing it for my own pleasure. I feel pressure against my clitoris and I like it. I moan involuntarily and watch her eyes widen. Her pupils dilate. She gulps, anxiously.

I know I am very wet and I wonder if she is too.

I wonder if she will think of me later. If she will ache for me. If she will dream about how good I would be to touch, to taste.

My body tells her how good sex with me would be. I would blow her fucking mind.

My hands reach up to the ceiling, stretching my body out, and I rise up higher, moving my pussy away from her lap. I look down, watching my breasts trail upwards against her. I lower my hands to run my fingers through her perfectly blowdried golden hair, guiding her soft chin to the perfect angle so I can feed her desires.

I offer my breast to her lips and I know I am going to let her take it.

My nipple hovers barely a centimetre from her pale pink painted lips.

A couple of seconds pass almost as though she is giving herself permission before she opens her mouth. I sigh, letting her reach out her tongue to glaze my nipple. I lean forward so she can feel the weight of my breasts against her pretty face, drowning her in my femininity. Then I rise higher. Her open mouth tries to take more. I feel the drag of her teeth down my stomach. She is inching closer and closer to my pussy and I can feel her gasps against my skin.

As I stand over her, I lift my right leg and rest my heel on a ledge. My legs are wide open for her now. I reach for her shirt, pulling her to me as I thrust my hips forward. The silky cotton of my thong is the only barrier between my sex and her eager tongue, and I feel her mouth grazing against it, desperate to take a bite. The heat of her breath warms my clit.

I look down into her amber eyes as she looks up at me. She is flushed, needy, eager, and wanting. And so am I. I want her to take that taste and yet—I pull her back. Our allotted time is just about finished anyway, but that is not the true cause of my abruptness. She reaches up and her fingers run down my stomach, hooking in the band of my panties. A wad of bills is tucked inside.

I feel a disappointment that I never have before. This was a transaction--an exchange taking place at the same time that my mind and body had drifted. I had started to believe it was something else. I flash her the famous Lola smile, step out of her space, and slip away, shaking away the feelings as I walk.

What was I thinking, anyway? I have no idea who that woman is, but she is here for one thing and one thing only—just like every other girl and guy who have come through the door before and everyone who will come after.

I sit down heavily in front of the mirror as I wipe away the makeup. I’m done for the night. I have time for another dance, but I no longer have the will nor the motivation in me. Plus, I made plenty on that last one. I slip the bundle of money from my panties and slam it down harder than I intended on the dresser. Maybe I really am getting too old for all this shit, I think with a sigh.

Then I notice it. The note wrapped up under the band. I peel it out slowly, my fingers unfolding the soft pink edges, because of course a girl like her would have pastel notes to pass to strippers in wads of cash.

A name and a number. Did it need more? No, it’s enough to shake the mood I have been in and a glow runs through me. It wasn’t a payment, she had slipped me a note in the only way she knew how to via the private dance and the tip, and as the pad of my fingertip runs over the piece of paper, I feel the softness of her name fall from my lips. “Willow.”

What should I do with my day off? Spend it overthinking about a phone number? You are absolutely correct. I unfolded and folded the paper so much that if I hadn’t already memorized it, I might not have been able to make the numbers out.

My mind has been going a million miles an hour trying to come up with all the reasons it’s a bad idea to text her. To try and help, I started a list:

1. You barely know anything about her.

2. She is definitely very rich.

3. I bet it is some kink, uptown girl thing going on.

4. Terrible idea to date a client.

5. I don’t even know what she wants.

6. I could lose a lot of tips if I start giving out free dances at home . . .

That one I added to make myself smile, which it did. And of course I had counter answers for them all with a list of reasons why I should text her. And what it all boiled down to was this: What did I want and what did I have to lose?

So, here I am now, taking out my phone, adding her name and number, and typing quickly. I press send without a pause.

Hey Willow. It’s Lola from McLandons. How are you?

I want to curl up into my sofa and die. Except it smells like something already has, so I decide now would be a really good time to not stare at my phone and actually clean up. My apartment is slightly bigger than a studio. And I wish I could say that I kept it in tip-top shape, but I can be messy. Not dirty, but there are things. Everywhere.

The problem with working nights and feeling like a vampire during the day is that you kind of lose your motivation to pick shit up when you could just turn off a light, and taa-daa, the mess is gone. But everything does have a place and it’s just laziness that stops me from doing it, so I push myself to turn my phone over and work through the mess that has spread.

A quick dash turns into a two-hour upend, moving things around and making a list of new things I want to buy that I probably don’t need. I finally collapse on my freshly vacuumed sofa and slowly turn my phone over, feeling the butterflies as I look down to see that little notification box glowing.

Lola . . . I don’t know what I expected, but it suits you. Feeling much better now. Would you like to get a drink sometime? Willow.

I feel my cheeks turn pink, Lola does suit me—it’s why I chose it, but I like that she thinks so as well. I reply.

A drink sounds good. Let me know when and where.

Tonight, 8pm, Suitopia. I notice she doesn’t hesitate to respond.

I will see you there.