You would think that I would get used to the music, the lights, the smell of spilled alcohol seeping through the dirty linoleum floors, and smoke lingering in the air, but I never do. The smell still turns my stomach with each small inhale. Luckily for me, the color of flashing strobe lights across my face blind me from seeing anything beyond the stage, making it almost bearable, and blocking out the view of eager men sitting before me. Hoots and drunken clapping fill the space as dollar bills fall onto the stage like confetti just as I jump up and grip the pole near the top with both hands to perform a fireman spin. The back of my right leg clenches the shiny, slippery metal as I swirl around seductively. My calf muscle burns from the grip I have on the pole as I descend to the stage floor, my neck arched back and my hair almost grazing the floor when I slide down slowly.
Just as Cardi B sings through the speakers ‘Oh he’s so handsome what’s his name’, my long, slender legs touch the ground, ending the song in the splits, my seven-inch platform stilettos glittering in the lights. Sweat coats the back of my neck making my long, brown hair curl at the ends and all I can hear is the ringing in my ears, my chest heaving after that grand finale.
“That’s right, baby! Shake that ass!” Some random guy shouts, laughing when his friends make catcalls.
Faceless, drunken, rowdy strangers reach out to grab me with their filthy hands but I’m already heading towards the stage exit in a slow stride. The yearning to run always hits me hard after each time I’m on stage. If I broke into a jog, it would get me attention I don’t want or need. Sometimes I wish my body wasn’t curvy, that my five foot seven didn’t make my legs look shapely and long. That my body would have stopped growing mid-teens, instead of growing breasts that drew every guys’ eyes there, and a bubbly ass to make my Latina side stand out. Slightly big breasted, round ass, slender waist, and legs for days brought me attention I have never wanted. What it means to be a woman, the attention you get when you least want it.
Jimmy, the money grabbing sleazeball, comes out of the darkened corner left of the stage and has a broom in his hand to sweep up the rest of the flying dollar bills when I am finally able to step off the platform behind the curtain. I don’t bother collecting any of the money I’ve earned with my body. It all just goes to the Joker’s club members, I never see a dime and am only allowed the necessary items, like for instance the skimpy outfit I’m wearing tonight or my tennis shoes that are being held together with duct tape. I’m basically on display, lined up under the lights like a meat market and it’s only a matter of time before I’m sold into the right greedy hands that Payne approves of.
My hands shake uncontrollably as I step into the dressing room and head right to the vanity just before my shaking legs collapse under me. I sit down on the small stool, staring at my reflection under the bright bulbs and grimace in the mirror at my caked face. Scrubbing viciously on one side of my face like I’m trying to peel a layer of skin away, I wipe the coats of foundation off that I’m demanded to wear. Seeing the stranger looking back at me, it’s me but it’s not. Who is the girl with one side of her face fresh, natural, and the other side hiding behind heavy coats of powder with red stained lips? I can’t let myself stare too long at my face because rage always consumes me without knowing who the hell I am. I see a girl with a heart shaped face, wide lips with a small indent in the middle, high cheekbones from her father’s side along with a natural-born tan skin, smooth as whiskey, but littered from the neck down with deep scars inside and out. The worst of my scars that were inflicted onto my body over the years are now covered up with tattoos. Can’t have a girl roaming the school hallways with scars covering her body, too many people asking questions and it all comes back to me with a beating from dear old Dad.
Tattoos make more sense for someone like me because it’s expected with my background. Everyone at school knows where I come from, it doesn’t go unnoticed that I’m always surrounded by men in vests and bikes. It’s another reason why I don’t have friends. They go running in the other direction even when I keep my head down, fear stretched on their faces from being within walking distance of me. Appearing to be a normal girl during the day and stripper at night is like living with roommates. Bravo to Payne because he got what he wanted. A walking vessel with no one to turn to. My wide, dark brown eyes say one thing in the mirror when I look back at my reflection but they’re screaming at me to run, to find a new life before it’s too late. Calling to me, telling me to just get up and leave, and never look back, but where would I go?
I’m so deep in thought, trying to find the girl who has a glimpse of something, anything, living inside her that I nearly jump out of my body when a hand grips my shoulder, jagged nails digging into my skin.
“A lady never shows her true face so put that fucking makeup back on.” Mom sneers down at me as she leans over my shoulder and grabs the tube of bright red lipstick, sitting down next to me on another stripper’s vanity seat.
She grabs my chin forcefully and twists the lipstick cap off, forcing the tube of red back on my full lips with a trembling hand that shows signs of years of hard drug use as it eats away at her. She does the same thing, grabs foundation, swiping it across my face without looking me in the eye.
“Lorrie, I’m done for the night. I just put on my last show until next Tuesday. I have school in the morning.” My voice comes out calm and reasonable even though on the inside I’m scared like a newborn baby with its first thunderstorm.
Lorrie, Mom, the lady who birthed me is a cold hearted bitch who happens to be a snitch. She always has great pleasure when she reports back to my dad with every little thing I do, even though she would like nothing better than to pretend I don’t exist. It was bad enough when I was a kid, having to figure out how to survive on my own while she was snorting cocaine up her nose with the dollars she used to earn on stage.
“You’re done when I say you’re done. Next song is on in five after CeCe, don’t disappoint me, Tillie. If only you were beautiful, you would be making more money and spending less time on the stage.” Her words used to cut me deep every time but now they only leave a small mark that gets easier to brush off.
I’ll never understand what I did for her to despise me so much, maybe it’s because I was born in the first place? All I can remember growing up is her staring down at me with a disgusted look on her make-up coated face as if I was a constant reminder that she had a child to take care of. She may be a mom but she doesn’t have the warming love of a mother for a daughter to back it up. Hell, I don’t even look like her, I resemble that sick monster I call Dad. It’s been two years since that night in the basement, where they tore me into pieces and fed my flesh to the wolves. She never once came to my rescue even when my screams could be heard from a mile away. I’ll always remember the slow smirk that overcame her face when Doris and I made it to the top stair. Her gaze was all too pleased as she perched on Payne’s lap, looking me up and down like I was the filth beneath her shoe. I felt like it too after that night, no matter how many times I showered. Every limp and drag of my feet felt like stones being tied to my ankles and haven’t been cut loose since then. To say I hate this woman is an understatement. The reminder she likes to throw in my face that I’m just like her and will end up the same makes my heart race and wonder if there’s a way out of this life before I really do turn into her.
“So young, such soft skin, absolutely glowing.” Her shaking hand smoothes down my cheek before scratching her nail over the same spot causing it to sting and draws a droplet of blood. “But that will change soon. Very soon. I’ve been waiting for this day for forever.” She has this slight glint in her eyes that makes my hands sweat because she only ever looks this excited when she’s snorting coke or taking a needle to her vein.
“Waiting for what?” My voice comes out in a scared whisper but I know she hears me over the pounding music because her red rimmed eyes show just how poisonous she is. They sparkle with joy and have me leaning back in my seat to put distance between us.
Without another word, she stands, adjusts her boobs in her skin tight tube top that she really shouldn’t be wearing at her age, and walks away without a backward glance. Leaving dread in the pit of my stomach and making me second guess everything. None of my dad’s men have tried anything like they did that night in the basement but my mouth has been silenced a handful of times to put me in my place. I can work a pole like it’s nobody’s business, seduce a man with a quirk of a smile, and without desiring it… I can suck a cock until a man is pleading to God and coming within seconds. I’ve been cornered and groped without permission, shoved to my knees before a man, lost a lot of dignity, but haven’t been pinned down by anyone since that night. The Prez hasn’t allowed it and I don’t know why that scares me but it does. I feel like I’m constantly waiting, looking over my shoulder for the ball to drop. I see the way the Jokers stare at me like it’s only a matter of time before they do it again. It’s what keeps me in place, scared to live, and breathing out a single word that will only lead to me getting raped again by just a small lift of the Joker’s President’s pinky finger.
The beatings still happen repeatedly like Sunday church, an obedient bone will never be in my body and I think I rebel on purpose just so I can have some control over my life and feel a spark of something from disobeying orders. I sometimes think just taking a blade to my wrist will stop it all, but that’s not my ending. I want to leave this place one day on my terms, not because I was forced to. Somehow, I just know with my bastard dad, my time is running out, and with how my mom looked like a kid on Christmas morning just now… I’m going to wake up so broken beyond repair one day that I’ll just be an empty shell. It’s the same dreadful feeling I had two years ago in that basement.
Whistles and loud laughs of men bounce off the walls when the next song comes on. My cue to get back out there and smile until my cheeks hurt. I bite back a groan when ‘Bad Things’ comes over the speakers. This isn’t a True Blood episode and this song always makes the men get even crazier out there. Learning to dance from Doris, I’ve worked that pole like my life depended on it because it does. It’s either dancing for Hazards Strip Club, owned by the Jokers, or being passed around like someone offering a joint to all the one percenters again because they won’t refuse a chance to get a high from me.
Dropping to my knees at the entrance of the curtains, I start crawling towards the edge of the stage in slow movements with my back slightly arched, flipping my hair while biting my lower lip. I hate this. Nothing is hidden, I wish I could be dressed in my favorite leggings and oversized sweater that is stuffed in my locker, it brings me comfort.
Instead, I parade around in lacy underwear that I’m forced to wear and it doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, all my past bared to the world as horny men gaze at me as if I’m an object and not a person. I love to dance, don’t get me wrong, but only if it’s something I want to do in a carefree way. Not this way. It’s supposed to be sensual and exotic how my body moves but it just makes me feel dirty with all the predator eyes on me.
With a few hair flips, the front row drunks try reaching out to touch me with eager fingers but I slide back on my knees until my front is facing away from them so I don’t have to look into their greedy eyes. With a couple of hip rotations and an eye roll that I know no one can see, I slowly start to bend backwards until my back touches the floor with my legs spread in the air and my body arched off the sparkly black stage. Usually, I’m pretty good at ignoring the gazes on me but I feel one that sends body wracking chills over me. It’s kind of like someone spilling acid down my spine. Tipping my head back, my back arched so it looks like I’m in the throes of passion when in reality it’s completely fake, I see a pair of cold, vacant blue all-too-familiar eyes staring me down from the edge of the stage.
Cruz.
The man that made me bleed when I didn’t want to give him an ounce, a man I once found handsome standing at six feet tall, broad shoulders like he would protect me from anything that came my way. Little did I know he would ruin me, he became my villain when I needed a hero.
My heart stops beating for a second and it’s like he knows because a snail-like smile takes over his face, showing the devil looking back at me. He never comes here, always doing the bidding of Payne without argument like a good little soldier, and hardly looks at me when my father is around, while I try to stick to the shadows at the compound. He always stands too close when we’re alone in the same room, sneaking in touches that feel snake-like but he hasn’t done anything else for two years, just torments me with words instead of actions. Right now, he’s gazing at me like I’m no longer a person, as if I’m owned.
His.
I break eye contact, climbing to my feet, stumbling in my exotic heels towards the pole on shaking legs, and cursing myself for showing weakness. Bile crawls up my throat, pooling in my mouth and I’m counting down how much longer until the song ends. Twenty more seconds. If I run, it’s only going to be reported back to Payne and I’ll end up on my knees in that fucking cold basement with more scars dragging down my body. I’m going to run out of exposed skin one day. I should have listened to Uncle Rig when he told me to stay away from Cruz. His exact words still play on repeat in my head to this day,
“That boy, something isn’t right with him in the head, Tillie, and you stay away from him because a man without a soul is only good at one thing. Not feeling a damn thing.”
I remember it so clearly, sitting on the leather seat of his motorcycle, playing with the handles as he worked under the hood of a GT350. He would always glare at Cruz whenever he was around especially when I started growing boobs. I should have fucking listened when I was fourteen, I could have avoided him like the plague even if it wouldn’t have changed a thing, at least the thought of preparing myself would have made it better for me. It took me having my body violated by Cruz to realize what monster lays beneath.
When the song ends, my feet can’t carry me fast enough off the stage. Bypassing my vanity without stopping to wipe off my makeup, I head straight to my locker and swing it open so hard that it bangs against the metal locker next to mine. Not bothering to even change out of my underwear that sticks to me like a second skin and glitter covering me from head to toe, I quickly shimmy into my skinny jeans and my green sweater that hangs off one shoulder while slipping my feet into my converse in hurried movements. Grabbing my bag from the bottom, I shut the locker door and jump back with a shout stuck in the back of my throat.
“Tillie, you weren’t trying to run away from me were you?”
