Falling Into Us (45 page)
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
Right now, I’ve got on a pair of cut-off jean shorts, the hems frayed into white threads. Back in Macon, they would’ve called these shorts Daisy Dukes, since they’re cut so short the bottom of my backside is hanging out. I mean that quite literally. My butt is actually hanging out the bottom of the shorts. They’re tight, too, squeezing my thick dancer’s thighs like spandex. I’m wearing a flannel shirt, but it ain’t—I mean, it
isn’t
—much better as far as modesty goes.
It’s unbuttoned down to my cleavage, which isn’t contained by anything at all. There’s only four buttons done up, as a matter of fact, and my boobs strain those four buttons fit to burst. That’s the point, after all. The buttons are supposed to pop. There’s a whole row of shirts just like this one in the corner of the dressing room, since part of the act is to pop the buttons as I rip the shirt open. It’s supposed to be sexy, Tim says. It’ll drive ’em wild, Tim says. He’s the expert, I guess. The rest of the flannel shirt is tied up in the front just beneath my boobs, so most of my midriff is bare. The last bit of the outfit—the costume—is a thick leather belt with a big sparkly buckle, and a pair of knee-high boots. Hooker boots, I’ve heard ’em called. Seems appropriate, I guess, since Daddy would call what I’m about to do whoring myself out. They’re suede boots, the material loose and bunching, with a spindly three-inch stiletto heel that makes me stand a full six feet tall, since I’m five-nine in my stocking feet.
My naturally honey-blonde hair is brushed to a glossy shine and hanging over one shoulder, and my face is caked with a garish amount of makeup. Whore paint, Granddaddy would call it. I never wore more than a bit of lip gloss and some eye shadow growing up, so all the foundation and the lipstick and the mascara and all that feels like a mask. Which helps, in a way, as if the mask of makeup could hide me.
I take a deep breath and force myself out of the chair, swaying on the unfamiliar heels. Tim shoves the door open and holds it for me, but it isn’t for the sake of being a gentleman. He stands in the door so that I have to squeeze past him on my way out. I stifle the urge to deck him when he “accidentally” palms my backside.
“Don’t do that, Tim,” I say, proud of how steady and calm my voice was.
“Do what?”
I fix him with the glare I learned from Daddy, the one that makes most men quake in their boots. Or, in Tim’s case, pointy-toed snakeskin loafers. “Just ’cause I’m doin’ this doesn’t mean you can go touching me whenever you want, Timothy van Dutton. Keep your slimy little paws off’a me.”
Tim leered at me. “Listen to you, Gracie. You sound like a southern belle. I love it. Keep that attitude, it’s good stuff. Now get out there and do what I’m paying you to do.” His eyes harden and his voice goes low. “And don’t you ever talk to me that way again or I’ll fire you, and then I’ll blacklist you.” He smacks me on the backside so hard my eyes water, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
He strolls past me, leaving me to gather my wits and my courage about me. When he’s out of sight, I rub my bottom where he smacked it, realizing with chagrin that he can very well fire me if he wants, and if he blacklists me, I’ll be up a creek without a paddle. I’ve spent a year looking for work to supplement my income from the internship, but without any experience, no one is hiring.
Except Timothy van Dutton, manager of Exotic Nights Gentlemen’s Club, a semi-nude strip club in North Hollywood Hills.
I wend my way through the backstage area, ascend the three small steps to the stage, and stand behind the curtain. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer, my throat closed so tight I can barely breathe, and I’m on the verge of tears. I don’t want to do this.
I don’t have a choice, though. Not if I want to finish my degree and get my dream job as a film producer. I’m down to my last ten dollars, rent is due, my fridge is empty, my car running on fumes, and I need a new power suit for the upcoming internship final assignment.
The generic pop music fades from the house speakers, and the buzz of conversation quiets. Surely the crowd of men on the other side of the curtain can hear my heart, since it’s beating so loud.
“Gentlemen, are you ready?” Tim’s voice echoes over the PA system, reedy and breathy and dripping suggestion. “I have a very,
very
special treat for you tonight. A brand-new act. She’s fresh from Macon, Georgia, a real corn-fed southern girl, and boys…she…is…
hot.
”
Catcalls and whistles rise to a deafening din, until Tim quiets them.
“Allow me to introduce…Gracie!”
At least Tim has allowed me to 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 like Daddy did, and go to seminary like Daddy did. If I was a son, I could have taken over the pulpit of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church, the church Daddy founded back in 1975 and grew into a three-thousand-member super-church. But I was born a girl, so I couldn’t do any of 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 they focused on most strictly.
I’ve never even been on a date, never been kissed.
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!”
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.
I’ve practiced this act in the empty club, and Tim approved it. I saw the evidence of his approval bulging against his 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.
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 cleavage 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 techno music rises to a crescendo, I grasp the lapels of the shirt and rip it open, scattering buttons with a dramatic flourish. My breasts bounce free, and I stand naked 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.
Jasinda Wilder
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