Ineptness at Work

I looked at the other girl backstage with me. "By myself? I have to go onstage by myself? No one said anything about being out in front of all those people by myself."

The girl looked at me and rolled her eyes. "You gotta be kidding me. This isn't Broadway, honey, you're a stripper. The guys out there only have the eyeballs to watch one girl at a time."

As my music started, Edwyn Collins' "A Girl Like You," she shoved me full force on the back. I stumbled, reeled onto stage.

On stage now, I looked into the audience and froze. Instead of just the bartender and bouncer, who I was accustomed to, being the only ones in the room, the off stage area was packed. Wolf whistles, cheers, and cat calls greeted my arrival. I stood frozen, center stage rear, trying to peer through the bright lights and make sense of what was there. "Hey, honey, you're out there, show some more skin," a deep male voice called.

"Yeah, shake it, girl," another added.

The bright lights beat down on me, causing a sheen of sweat to break out all over my body. I couldn't actually see any of the men in the audience or even distinguish bodies to tell how many were out there. But I knew they were leering, staring, dissecting me as I stood on stage in a trance.

Shuddering, I tried to gather myself enough to allow me to dance, move, do anything before the song ended. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, allowing my body to take over and my mind to shut off. My body found the beat of the music and remembered the moves of my routine without any input from my brain.

My top hat tilted rakishly as I spun around and reached for the shoulders of my shirt. I intended to jerk and release the tabs holding the shirt together but when I pulled on the shirt nothing happened.

The shirt didn't release. I stopped in mid-gyrate and pulled harder. Again nothing happened. I braced my feet, got a really good grip on the shirt and pulled with all my might.

The shirt ripped in two with an audible sound, much like the tearing of paper in the middle of a silent test room. I was glad I couldn't actually see the faces of the men in front of me. Spinning around, I shook my ass at the audience and threw the shirt to the back of the stage. I would retrieve it and try to fix it when my song was over.

Spinning back around, I stalked over to the center stage pole. I began to do the typical stripper moves, acting like I was fucking the pole to the loud, raucous delight of the male audience. My skirt rode up, revealing my ass cheeks to the audience. Reaching back, I unhooked the skirt one-handed and tossed it away.

I was now about as naked as I was going to get. Nine inch spike heels pushed me up into the air and made it almost impossible to dance. I had practiced for weeks in order to be able to walk, much less dance in them. A g-string covered or uncovered as the case maybe my nether regions while a skinny bikini top covered my breasts. I still wore my satin gloves, slippery on the pole, and the top hat but that was the extent of my clothing.

The song neared its end and I turned, pulling my gloves off with my teeth and using them in a way they were never intended for. Slapping them into one hand as the song ended, I turned on a spike heel and, wiggling my ass for the benefit of the audience, sashayed off stage.

Behind the curtain, far off stage, and in relative safety, I dropped to the floor. I drew my knees up to my chest and rested my tired arms on top of them. "I am never doing that again," I gasped out.

"Honey," the other stripper said, "ya gotta go do that again in an hour."

I groaned and lay my head on top of my arms.