out onstage.
“How much did you make?” Keisha asked Patra.
“Not a fucking lot,” Patra said, simultaneously toweling off and counting her money. “The muthafuckas haven’t had enough to drink yet, so I get all of the one-dollar bills.”
“Gotta work your way up, bitch,” Debra said while at the door, “so you can be just like me.”
“What? Thirty-eight and still shaking my ass?” Patra asked. “Hell, no. I’m getting out of this shit before I get to twenty-one.”
“Same here,” Keisha said. “This shit can get old fast.”
“Yeah, well, I said the same thing back in 1985,” Debra said. “But what the fuck am I gonna do that makes me five hundred a night? Work at Wal-Mart? Nah, you bitches will be right where I am in 2012. It’s your destiny. Better to accept it now than to be disappointed later.”
And with that, Debra left and went onstage. Keisha and Patra could hear the noise from the crowd as they glimpsed Debra. It was as though a pack of wolves had been given some fresh meat. And in some ways, they had.
Chapter 2
The dance is a poem in which every movement is a word.
—Mata Hari
Sean burst through the dressing room doors, unannounced as usual.
“Keisha, Patra, come with me. You’re going to do a private dance,” Sean said, pointing at them both.
“Can you knock, just once in your life?” Keisha asked as she sat in her chair, waiting to go onstage. “You have no manners at all.”
“Why do I need manners when I own this shit?” Sean asked, switching his weight from side to side again.
“Who is it for?” Patra asked.
“Don’t worry about it. Just get your ass up to the room and dance for them.”
Sean left in as big a huff as he’d come in.
“I can’t stand that nigga. I really can’t,” Keisha said, adjusting her bikini. “He always wants us to do a private dance for some fool so he can score some points. But how come we don’t get any extra money? I ain’t here to dance for free.”
“I hear that, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do,” Patra said. “We’ve got to make that money, girl.”
“Yeah,” Keisha said, getting up from her chair and checking her makeup for the last time. “But I’m tired of that bullshit. I fucking hate private dances. That’s why I don’t do them in the club. If this fool touches me wrong, I’m out of there.”
Keisha and Patra left the dressing room and took a quick left up the stairs. Right next to Sean’s office was a private room with blackened windows that overlooked the club. Sean normally rented it out to Lakers and Clippers players who wanted a little privacy with their titties and ass. This way, the players could get their grind on, without the hassle of dealing with the fans, and then slip right back out the back way.
“Come on, come on,” Sean said impatiently. He was standing right next to the door, waving them in.
“Wait,” Keisha said. “I was supposed to go onstage next, and that means I’m going to miss that money. What am I going to be paid for this private dance?”
Sean looked like he’d been sucking on a sour lemon.
“Why you always asking about money? You’ll get taken care of.”
“That ain’t good enough, Sean,” Keisha replied defiantly. “How much are we gonna get paid? I got bills and I’m not wasting my time dancing for free.”
“Yeah,” Patra agreed.
“Look, you’ll get a hundred for the dance plus tips. That’s more than you would get out on the stage tonight. Now stop jackin’ your jaws and start shakin’ your ass.”
Keisha and Patra looked at each other and then adjusted their bikini tops.
“Deal,” Keisha said. Time to go to work.
Sean opened the door, and Keisha and Patra walked in. Marty and Ray were sitting on the red velvet couch, sipping on apple martinis. The room was dim, except for some lava lamps in the corner. When Keisha and Patra walked in, Marty knew which one he wanted.
“All right, girls, show me what you got,” Ray said, leaning back and sipping on his drink.
“Yeah, show me what you got,” Marty said, giggling.
The two women looked at each other and Sean closed the door. Patra walked over to the stereo and turned on the music. R. Kelly began singing, and the two girls began straddling the men, Keisha over Ray and Patra over Marty.
“Lemme see that ass, girl,” Ray said. Keisha turned around and slowly moved her ass in a wide circle, then suddenly started to shake it up and down, making it pop.
“Yeah, baby,” Ray said. “Can I touch it?”
Keisha stopped and drew close to Ray’s face.
“No, baby, it’s all a fantasy.”
As she said that, she let her ample breasts rub Ray’s chin. He smiled awkwardly. In the three months she’d been stripping, she’d never gotten used to how embarrassed the men got when she touched them. It was like they didn’t really know what to do.
“Now, now, baby,” Patra said, removing Marty’s hands from her breasts. “No touching the merchandise.”
“Ah, baby,” Marty said, pulling out a twenty. “Can I get a touch for this?”
Patra slowly swayed to the music like she was in a trance. She took the twenty-dollar bill out of his hands with her breasts.
“Just a little touch, and don’t squeeze too hard,” she answered, still swaying.
Marty cupped her breasts as though he was holding fine china. He giggled again.
While Ray tried to keep his hands to his side, Keisha danced to the music and began her simple routine. She put her ass in his lap to get his dick hard. Normally, that took about two minutes of grinding. Then she took off her bikini top and rubbed her breasts over his face.
“Come on, baby, shake that ass!” Ray said. “Show me what you got!”
Keisha’s mind was elsewhere when she danced for men. When she was on the stage, she looked at the men in the pervert pit—the section surrounding the stage—with utter contempt. They all looked at her as a piece of meat, and she looked at them as human ATMs. After she danced for them, they could go outside and get run over by a car for all she cared. In her mind, they weren’t that important, no matter how she led them along.
“Yeah, baby, yeah. That’s how I like my bitches,” Ray said.
Marty giggled yet again as Patra started beating his face with her breasts.
“I’m doing it all,” Keisha said, rubbing her ass on Ray’s leg, “just for you, baby.”
But the private dances were the worst for her. The men were too close and they always wanted to talk to you. You could smell what they’d last eaten, and the bad cologne stayed with you all night, no matter how much you scrubbed in the shower. It was an unpleasant reminder of an unpleasant business.
“Hey, baby, I can take you out of this place permanently,” they all said each night. The dancers called these men “Captain Saveahoes,” as in “these men wanted to save a ho from the club.” These were the men to be pimped. Sometimes you could get more cash, or maybe even a boob job from them. But you never allowed yourself to look at them as anything but customers. They didn’t want you at home, not with the same issues as every other woman. No, the Saveahoes wanted their fantasy version of you, and no one was that good. So Keisha knew that it was best that