Stripped by Jasinda Wilder
Page 17
Catcalls and whistles rise to a deafening din, until Tim quiets them.
“Allow me to introduce…Gracie!”
At least Tim had me use a stage name. The girl standing with her back to a stripper pole, hip popped to one side, hands draped around the cold metal high above her head…that girl is Gracie, a performer. A stripper.
She isn’t me.
My name is Grey Amundsen. But Grey, she doesn’t exist in here, in this slimy, smoky, sex-hazed hole. In here, I’m Gracie.
The curtain sweeps open, blinding me with the glare of stage lights, white and red and purple, and so hot I break into an immediate sweat. I don’t move at first. I let them look. That’s why they’re here, after all. To look at me. To stare at me…to want me.
I’ve been assured they can’t touch me, but that’s little consolation.
I’ve never been wanted, not by anyone. Daddy always wished I was a son, so I could play football and go to seminary like Daddy did. If I was a son, I could have taken over the pulpit of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church. But I was born a girl, so I couldn’t do any of that—an only child at that. I was told to be seen and not heard, to sit properly and be demure. Be a lady, be proper. Sit up straight, mind your manners, and obey your elders. No rock music, no makeup, no boys. That last one was the one he focused on most strictly.
I’ve never even been on a date, never been kissed (except Craig, and he don’t—doesn’t—count).
But, for some reason, Timothy van Dutton thought I had some kind of “innate sensuality” that men would go nuts over, and he hired me. Maybe he just smelled the desperation on me.
The men in the audience get over their shock and begin to whistle and cheer and howl.
“Take it off!” a man at a table near the stage yells.
I circle the pole, holding on to it with one hand, taking long, prancing steps, Broadway-dancer steps, runway model steps. It shows them my legs, lets them see I have style. I’m not just going to peel off my clothes and swing around the pole. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it with some kind of style.
Candy helped me choreograph my routine. Candy is a svelte, black-haired girl a few years older than me, but with a street hardness I’ll never have. She’s not exactly beautiful, not up close, but with enough makeup and the body she has, you’d think she was. Plus, she can do tricks on the pole that make the guys crazy. I’ve seen it. I don’t dare try the things she does, complicated spins and upside-down twirls. Candy was brusque and business-like as she showed me how to move, how to sway and shimmy, how to spin around the pole and slide down it. She and Tim watched me practice the routine before the doors opened tonight. I saw the evidence of my success with his bulging zipper.
I leap into the air and swing my body around the pole, hooking my right knee around it, tilting my head back so my thick blonde hair hangs behind me. My heart hammers like a drum as I spin around the pole several times, and then land on one foot, the other still wrapped around the pole. I feel myself jiggling and bouncing in the skimpy outfit. I’m fighting tears of guilt, shame and embarrassment, but I have to not only keep them at bay, but plaster on a fake smile. I get closer and closer to vomiting with every move.
I’ve choreographed this dance to keep me clothed as long as possible, but the moment comes all too soon. I’ve swung and hung backward and upside down, I’ve slid my spine down the pole so I was crouched with my knees spread wide, giving them a tantalizing glimpse of my crotch.
Now…
Now I have to start actually stripping. I swallow hard, disguising my nerves with an unchoreographed swing around the pole, and then land to stand as I was when the curtain opened: my back to the pole, legs shoulder-width apart, hands over my head. Then, with shaking fingers, I slip the top button through the hole, stride forward to the middle of the stage, untie the knot at the bottom. Now the shirt is loose, and the inside of my cle**age is exposed. Then, just to tease them, I button the bottom buttons. The men groan and lean forward, and I can see hunger and lust in the leering of their eyes.
Then, as the club music rises to a crescendo, I grasp the lapels of the shirt and rip it open, scattering buttons with a dramatic flourish. My br**sts bounce free, and I stand topless in front of a hundred and fifty men.
A single tear drips free to mingle with the sweat on my upper lip.
I’m officially a stripper.
Chapter 7
I’m dressed in a slim navy pencil skirt, a basic ivory button-down shirt, and a pair of heels to match the shirt. My hair is tied up in a bun, and I’ve got minimal makeup on. I’ve never worn a lot of makeup, but I wear even less now since I started dancing at the club.
Dance.
Yeah, I’ve started thinking of it that way. I’ve been there three months, and I’m the most popular dancer by far. All the VIP rooms request me. I do five stage sets a night, and I always pull in at least a hundred dollars per set. I charge twenty per table dance, five for lap dances, and VIP rooms start at one-fifty.
I still get sick before each performance, and I still cry myself to sleep some nights. I hate being a stripper. An “exotic dancer. ” It’s not dancing; it’s lewd provocation. It’s performing to make men lust after me. I’ve been groped more times than I care to count, and propositioned even more. I’ve been offered a thousand dollars to “entertain” a celebrity in private for one hour. I turned him down.
Now I’m going in for my first real assignment with the Fourth Dimension internship. I’ve been learning the ropes so far, filing papers, working in the office, taking dictation, following the real producers around. I worked my ass off to get the internship, and I worked even harder for Fourth Dimension as an office assistant, hoping to get noticed and given work on an actual project. Apparently it worked.
John Kazantzidis is an important producer, known for having a good eye for strong, compelling scripts. He’s worked on some of the best-selling films of the last ten years, including the recent blockbuster film adaptation of The Sun Also Rises. He’s always been polite to me, and he seems to take me seriously as a production student. He’s a partner in the studio, so working with him directly is a huge deal. My classmates are crazy with jealousy.
I wait outside his office until Leslie, his secretary, answers the intercom and sends me through. Mr. Kazantzidis, or Kaz, as he likes to be called, is tall and broad with thick black hair and dark brown eyes. He exudes authority and power and wealth, although he’s not ostentatious. For an older man, he’s very attractive and charming.
Catcalls and whistles rise to a deafening din, until Tim quiets them.
“Allow me to introduce…Gracie!”
At least Tim had me use a stage name. The girl standing with her back to a stripper pole, hip popped to one side, hands draped around the cold metal high above her head…that girl is Gracie, a performer. A stripper.
She isn’t me.
My name is Grey Amundsen. But Grey, she doesn’t exist in here, in this slimy, smoky, sex-hazed hole. In here, I’m Gracie.
The curtain sweeps open, blinding me with the glare of stage lights, white and red and purple, and so hot I break into an immediate sweat. I don’t move at first. I let them look. That’s why they’re here, after all. To look at me. To stare at me…to want me.
I’ve been assured they can’t touch me, but that’s little consolation.
I’ve never been wanted, not by anyone. Daddy always wished I was a son, so I could play football and go to seminary like Daddy did. If I was a son, I could have taken over the pulpit of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church. But I was born a girl, so I couldn’t do any of that—an only child at that. I was told to be seen and not heard, to sit properly and be demure. Be a lady, be proper. Sit up straight, mind your manners, and obey your elders. No rock music, no makeup, no boys. That last one was the one he focused on most strictly.
I’ve never even been on a date, never been kissed (except Craig, and he don’t—doesn’t—count).
But, for some reason, Timothy van Dutton thought I had some kind of “innate sensuality” that men would go nuts over, and he hired me. Maybe he just smelled the desperation on me.
The men in the audience get over their shock and begin to whistle and cheer and howl.
“Take it off!” a man at a table near the stage yells.
I circle the pole, holding on to it with one hand, taking long, prancing steps, Broadway-dancer steps, runway model steps. It shows them my legs, lets them see I have style. I’m not just going to peel off my clothes and swing around the pole. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it with some kind of style.
Candy helped me choreograph my routine. Candy is a svelte, black-haired girl a few years older than me, but with a street hardness I’ll never have. She’s not exactly beautiful, not up close, but with enough makeup and the body she has, you’d think she was. Plus, she can do tricks on the pole that make the guys crazy. I’ve seen it. I don’t dare try the things she does, complicated spins and upside-down twirls. Candy was brusque and business-like as she showed me how to move, how to sway and shimmy, how to spin around the pole and slide down it. She and Tim watched me practice the routine before the doors opened tonight. I saw the evidence of my success with his bulging zipper.
I leap into the air and swing my body around the pole, hooking my right knee around it, tilting my head back so my thick blonde hair hangs behind me. My heart hammers like a drum as I spin around the pole several times, and then land on one foot, the other still wrapped around the pole. I feel myself jiggling and bouncing in the skimpy outfit. I’m fighting tears of guilt, shame and embarrassment, but I have to not only keep them at bay, but plaster on a fake smile. I get closer and closer to vomiting with every move.
I’ve choreographed this dance to keep me clothed as long as possible, but the moment comes all too soon. I’ve swung and hung backward and upside down, I’ve slid my spine down the pole so I was crouched with my knees spread wide, giving them a tantalizing glimpse of my crotch.
Now…
Now I have to start actually stripping. I swallow hard, disguising my nerves with an unchoreographed swing around the pole, and then land to stand as I was when the curtain opened: my back to the pole, legs shoulder-width apart, hands over my head. Then, with shaking fingers, I slip the top button through the hole, stride forward to the middle of the stage, untie the knot at the bottom. Now the shirt is loose, and the inside of my cle**age is exposed. Then, just to tease them, I button the bottom buttons. The men groan and lean forward, and I can see hunger and lust in the leering of their eyes.
Then, as the club music rises to a crescendo, I grasp the lapels of the shirt and rip it open, scattering buttons with a dramatic flourish. My br**sts bounce free, and I stand topless in front of a hundred and fifty men.
A single tear drips free to mingle with the sweat on my upper lip.
I’m officially a stripper.
Chapter 7
I’m dressed in a slim navy pencil skirt, a basic ivory button-down shirt, and a pair of heels to match the shirt. My hair is tied up in a bun, and I’ve got minimal makeup on. I’ve never worn a lot of makeup, but I wear even less now since I started dancing at the club.
Dance.
Yeah, I’ve started thinking of it that way. I’ve been there three months, and I’m the most popular dancer by far. All the VIP rooms request me. I do five stage sets a night, and I always pull in at least a hundred dollars per set. I charge twenty per table dance, five for lap dances, and VIP rooms start at one-fifty.
I still get sick before each performance, and I still cry myself to sleep some nights. I hate being a stripper. An “exotic dancer. ” It’s not dancing; it’s lewd provocation. It’s performing to make men lust after me. I’ve been groped more times than I care to count, and propositioned even more. I’ve been offered a thousand dollars to “entertain” a celebrity in private for one hour. I turned him down.
Now I’m going in for my first real assignment with the Fourth Dimension internship. I’ve been learning the ropes so far, filing papers, working in the office, taking dictation, following the real producers around. I worked my ass off to get the internship, and I worked even harder for Fourth Dimension as an office assistant, hoping to get noticed and given work on an actual project. Apparently it worked.
John Kazantzidis is an important producer, known for having a good eye for strong, compelling scripts. He’s worked on some of the best-selling films of the last ten years, including the recent blockbuster film adaptation of The Sun Also Rises. He’s always been polite to me, and he seems to take me seriously as a production student. He’s a partner in the studio, so working with him directly is a huge deal. My classmates are crazy with jealousy.
I wait outside his office until Leslie, his secretary, answers the intercom and sends me through. Mr. Kazantzidis, or Kaz, as he likes to be called, is tall and broad with thick black hair and dark brown eyes. He exudes authority and power and wealth, although he’s not ostentatious. For an older man, he’s very attractive and charming.