by Joanna Angel
I shimmied my bare ass over toward the next guy. This guy was younger—he looked close to my age, but he’d clearly taken a very different path in life. He had neatly trimmed short hair, a clean-shaven face, and a multi-piece suit. He took a sip of a green Naked juice, and it left a green residue on his lips. I licked my lips, hoping to Jedi mind trick him into licking his lips, because the green residue was kind of bothering me, and I wanted it to go away. He did not pick up what I was throwing down, but now he seemed excited that I was licking my lips, so it still worked out to my advantage.
He loosened his tie—I liked that my naked body gave off the kind of energy that made you want to sit back and get comfortable. He handed me a five-dollar bill, and I licked my lips even more, but now slower, trying to mentally communicate that I was capable of giving good and enthusiastic blow jobs.
While I didn’t exactly know this song, I could feel that it had hit its climax and was starting to wind down. I got on all fours, flipped my hair again, and combined all my moves into some kind of stripper finale that ended with my pussy facing the audience. The song began to fade out, so I stood up and went back to the pole—it just seemed to make sense to end where I started. TJ chimed back in over the last few beats of the song.
“Alright everyone, give it up for Naomi G! She’s available for private dances and VIP rooms. Coming up next, it’s Sabrina, Sabrina now coming to the stage.”
I collected my pile of money and my dress. Should I take a bow? Should I curtsey? I felt like I needed a definitive exit here, but as I stood there awkwardly figuring out what to do, another stripper walked onto the stage in pigtails, a short red plaid skirt, and white knee-highs. She gave me a threatening look—well, as threatening as a girl in pigtails could possibly look—and I took the hint and scurried off the stage.
To go back and see Naomi dance to R&B, turn to page 40.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 48.
“Um . . . R&B! Sure!” I said. I picked my absolute least favorite genre of music. I honestly couldn’t even name five R&B songs, but from what I understood, this genre was specifically invented with the intent to turn people on, so I felt like it was appropriate for the task at hand.
TJ nodded and put his headphones back on, scribbling “Naomi G” on his whiteboard. Brandi turned around to exit the DJ booth, and I followed. I was officially a stripper in training. On my training day at Fix, I’d been forced to stand behind a scrawny metrosexual man who was supposed to teach me how to use the cash register for less than minimum wage, but mostly just taught me the reasons how and why everyone drank coffee incorrectly. Shadowing a fellow stripper with perfect breasts and a superhuman ability to make money juggling said breasts was a far better training situation.
I followed her onto the floor. She studied the clientele intently and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Alright well, I know it looks empty, but all it takes is one black card to get you through the day here—and I can smell one in the vicinity.” She continued to scan the room, as if she had some kind of military grade X-ray vision device hidden in her fishnets that sensed how much money each person had in their wallet . . . or to their name, for that matter. I nodded and took mental notes. But my concentration was interrupted by the sound of TJ’s omnipotent voice.
“Coming up now to the stage, it’s . . . Naomi G! Naomi G, coming up to the stage.” It felt so official hearing him announce me. I was an integral part of the strip club ecosystem, and I liked it. Sorry Brandi, we would have to finish this lesson later. I had places to go and things to do.
As I walked onto the stage, a woman with an incredibly large ass was gathering up a pile of dollar bills. She glared at me as if I was somehow imposing on her turf, which put me in quite the conundrum, since I was just following the orders of the disembodied voice that had clearly stated I should be “Coming up to the stage.” I stood in the corner and waited for her to finish collecting her clothes.
A song by Post Malone started playing. I had heard this song many times before, but I didn’t know the name of it, or the words, and I also had no idea that this was considered R&B. I’m still not sure if it is. The woman was taking her time collecting her bills, and one of the customers even handed her a few more dollars while she was bent over cleaning up her cash.
“NAOMI G TO THE STAGE,” I heard TJ say again, with much less finesse than he had before. The woman rolled her eyes and walked off the stage, swaying her ass, leaving me three-fourths of a Post Malone song and my own very flat ass to arouse people with. I was off to a rough start.
There were five men sitting by the stage. Wait, no, there were four. One got up as soon as he saw my unfriendly, large-bottomed coworker on the floor. He followed her giant ass in a hypnotic daze with a large stack of bills in his hand. It’s safe to say I wasn’t his type anyways.
I walked right past the pole and steered clear of it. I was far too flustered to even think about dealing with that pole right now. Instead, I got on my hands and knees and kinda just crawled around. This song had an incredibly slow tempo, and it was difficult for me to move slowly enough to stay on beat. I propped myself up on my knees and ran my own fingers through my hair. I had rather long hair, so it ate up a decent amount of time.
Searching for something else to do, I spread my legs open and did what was basically a reverse cowgirl dry hump of the stage. I transitioned onto all fours and pushed my ass back and forth—now I was dry humping the air, apparently. I was making this all up as I went along, so I decided my quick strategy here was to just keep re-enacting sexual positions and riding fictitious cocks.
Surprisingly, I was getting aroused cycling through my spank bank while looking into the eyes of strangers wearing suits. No one wore suits anywhere in Brooklyn. It felt like I was in a different country. Dollar bills were being thrown at me. I mean, no one was “making it rain,” but I could confidently say they were making it drizzle.
My doggy-style dry hump seamlessly transitioned into a slow motion twerk. I was now teasing the fake cock, taking a break from getting fucked by it, and just making it beg for more. As I shook my little ass, my sparkly dress rose up to my hips, exposing my pussy. It was remarkable to experience the convenience of the stripper dress. I mean, people really underestimate the brilliance of these cheap pieces of fabric. This dress knew what to do. It cooperated so well with my body, and it was miraculous how a piece of clothing could highlight how you look naked.
Now that my pussy was already exposed, I wondered if I should take the damn thing off? I got back up on my knees, with my torso facing the crowd. I slid the spaghetti straps down my shoulders, and the dress delicately dripped down and exposed my breasts. The lighting on the stage illuminated my nipples, and the reflection of the pink sparkles gave them a bit of a glow. The music gave them their own soundtrack. It was literally my boobs’ time to shine. I pushed my B cups together, slowly, to the beat of the “R&B,” and I bounced up and down. At this point, I was summoning an air cock to titty fuck me. It was the realest fake cock I’d ever had between my tits. I looked every audience member in the eyes, hoping that with the power of all of our imaginations, they could feel their cocks in-between my tits, and I could jerk them all off and get showered in a pool of imaginary jizz. The dress remained on my torso, reminding me of the times I’d used a hand towel as a bath towel, and shamefully walked from my bathroom to my bedroom attempting to cover up what I possibly could, only here I was proud of my nudity and the lack of coverage was very much intentional.
I looked straight into the eyes of a man in a khaki-colored suit who had short, spiky hair—but not, like, punk rock spiky hair, like a blatant-product-of-hair-plugs spiky hair. He had a clean-shaven face, a gold watch, a tie patterned with that signature Burberry plaid. He sipped on a nonalcoholic beer, and as my titty fuck move got more intense, he drank his beverage slower. This song was making the entire club move in slow motion. He sipped the last drop of the fake alcohol, sat back in his chair, threw a
few bills on the stage, and I could see him starting to sweat a little. The song wasn’t even over! I was so proud of myself for turning this man on in such a short amount of time. I mean . . . he was incredibly uncomfortable, but that’s to be expected when you’re in the beginning stages of a boner, and you’re also in public, and you’re also in a suit, and you’re also being deprived of any alcohol.
I enjoyed the effect I had on him. It was like a big shot of self-esteem had been injected into my veins, and I felt powerful, sexy. I moved closer to him, and I pulled on his tie. While I wasn’t a fan of hair plugs, I was a fan of Burberry plaid. I loosened his tie, and I felt like this was both sexual and practical, because the man definitely was sweaty. I used the tie to pull him toward me, simultaneously pulling me toward him. I had to make sure not to pull too hard—I knew how expensive Burberry ties were. I unbuttoned his top two buttons, all while maintaining eye contact with him. I swear, something about this “R&B” music gave me the power to unbutton shirts without looking, or asking, for that matter. Now he was transformed into a super ultra-relaxed businessman, and I hoped that made him want to stay a while.
The song ended, and TJ seamlessly transitioned into another song by The Weeknd. This song came out a few summers ago. I remember finding it buried inside of a mix Spotify hand-picked for me, and I thought I had discovered the next big thing, until I realized it was already a radio hit. I didn’t appreciate Spotify sneaking parts of pop culture into my sophisticated indie music playlists without my consent. But, I’ll admit . . . it was a good fucking song. It was also perfect to get naked to, even though I believe the lyrics were about doing narcotics and cheating on people . . . but that’s beside the point. It was time to actually take my dress off.
I stood up as gracefully as I possibly could. I felt like the reveal of my naked body should occur while I was standing up, even though everyone already saw my tits, ass, and pussy. This was still a climactic moment, I mean, there had to be someone out there wondering what my belly button looked like. Hair plug guy followed my body with his eyes as I slid the dress off. It fell to the ground immediately. I was now standing inside of a perfect pink shimmery puddle, naked. I stepped out of it and managed to swiftly kick my dress to the side of the stage. Then I crouched back down into a squatting position so I could get back to eye level with the hair plugs.
After a few slow beats, I realized I was giving this guy a little too much attention and unfortunately his stack of bills was running low, so I moved over to the next guy. But before I shimmied over, I tried my best to mentally relay, “Don’t worry hair plugs, when I’m dancing for these other guys, I’ll be thinking about you the whole time!”
I had long legs, and they were kind of getting in the way at the moment. I was trying to get up close and personal with this small group of suited and booted men, but my five feet of leg kept getting in the way. How do I get my ass and pussy closer to their faces without falling off the stage? I had to think on the fly while still swaying to the beat of the music, but luckily inspiration hit. I got on my back, lifted my legs in the air, and strategically had them land on the shoulder pads of the guy in front of me. My body was like a diagonal plank, with my head on the ground and my legs elevated.
The guy whose shoulders I randomly chose seemed pleased with this development. The placement of my legs gave him a perfect view of my pussy, and he was a gentleman. He admired it, he studied it, and he didn’t touch it. He smiled and threw some bills on the stage, following the journey of my pussy without taking his eyes off it for an instant. I was so consumed with moving to the beat of the music that I forgot I was naked. I know that sounds oxymoronic, to forget that you’re naked because you’re concentrating so hard on showing your pussy to people, but I was dedicated to the task at hand, and any ounce of self-consciousness I’d ever had about my body disappeared. It didn’t matter how big my breasts were, it mattered how I used them. It didn’t matter if stray unshaven hairs were lining my pussy lips, all that mattered was that the man paying to see the pussy got a good view of the pussy.
I felt like I was losing balance, and the song was about to change tempo anyway. I got up and put my hand on the pole. I sort of did my own “Ring Around the Rosie” type thing, which just felt right for this part of the song. After one quick circle, I leaned my back against the pole and slowly slid down it. I spread my legs open and looked down—I never actually got this clear a view of myself. I mean, I’d never had the opportunity to sit in a room with professional lighting and just hang out there with my lips spread open. I mostly had sex in the dark, and masturbated under the covers. I never spent much time in the shower out of respect for roommates and the water bill. This was some nice, necessary time for me to get to know all the little nooks and crannies and folds of my vagina.
It was a little on the meatier side. If it was a belly button, it would be an outie. I could feel the cool, circulated strip club air coming through a vent in the wall and blowing against my clit. It tingled, like it was winking to everyone, letting the whole room know that it was the spot to push on if, in some alternate universe, they had been permitted to make me cum. The thought of these suited strangers reaching their foreign arms out and rubbing my clit and fingering my exposed holes while TJ the DJ continued to spin R&B really got me excited. Such a filthy little secret fantasy I was having here on this stage, and I could tell that everyone could smell my horny scent because the light drizzle of dollars was almost turning to rain.
The song came to an end. A slightly less disgruntled stripper than the one before was on the side of the stage now, waiting to make her entrance. She stood there with her arms folded in a long, dark purple gown, with slits on the sides going all the way up her legs. It was like a bridesmaid’s dress gone wrong. Or right. However you want to look at it.
“Alright everyone, give it up for Naomi G! She’s available for private dances and VIP rooms. Coming up next, it’s Layla! Layla now coming to the stage.”
I quickly collected my dollar bills and crunched them all together haphazardly in my fists. I slid my little dress back on and I exited the stage.
To go back and see Naomi dance to rock, turn to page 32.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 48.
I walked off the stage and felt accomplished. I’d figured out how to be a stripper. I didn’t know what I looked like out there, really, but I felt like I looked awesome. I was holding on to a wad of cash, I had no idea how much. I was sweaty, halfnaked, clutching a dress and dollars at the same time. The sweat from my fingers caused them to shift, and the movement caused several crumpled dollars to fall from my grip. I reached down to gather them, and then even more fell. There had to be a better system for this. I sat backstage, causing an inconvenient fire hazard, attempting to gather up my money and quickly put myself back together.
My face was moist from sweat. If I wiped the sweat off, my meager makeup would come right off with it. But if I slathered on more powder, that would be terrible for my acne-prone skin. I had a whole list of people I was on the fence about in terms of telling them I was a stripper, and my dermatologist was a very low priority on that list. Hopefully she’d prescribe me twice the retinol without asking any questions.
My brief moment of contemplation about skin routines was interrupted by Brandi.
“Good job on stage! You made a couple bucks up there!” She sounded very much like a proud parent, and since I didn’t plan on telling my actual parents about this profession, I appreciated the validation.
“You better get back down there—right when you get off stage is the best time to get dances from these guys,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I replied. I had just danced for them, after all, and I felt like I deserved at least a five minute break, and maybe a coconut water.
“As soon as you get off stage, you gotta ask these guys for dances. They have short attention spans. Once a new girl goes on, they’ll forget about you,” she said. “That’s how you make money
here, you run off the stage, find a lap, and grind on their crotch for twenty dollars a song. Multiply that by a lot of songs, and you’ve got your rent paid.”
I had never calculated my rent in songs. This was a very artistic way of budgeting finances.
“Come on!” she said. I followed her back to the main floor of the club. There were a handful more customers now. Some were by the stage, some by the “bar,” and some just sitting in the red padded seats by the wall. There were multiple signs on the wall explaining that cell phone use was prohibited in the club. Brandi told me this was to prevent any kind of filming or photographing of the dancers or customers. Between the dancers who hid their job from their friends, parents, and lovers, and the customers who hid this outing from their friends, parents, and lovers, it was like . . . none of us were supposed to be here. The strippers and the customers in strip clubs enter into a secret handshake. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears it, did it make a sound? And if a person goes into a strip club and doesn’t text, tweet, or take a selfie in it . . . did it actually happen?
“So, look around the room and see if you think anyone’s feeling you. See, all those guys who were by the stage when you danced are gone now. They either got snatched up by someone else in VIP, or they left! That’s why you gotta get ‘em fast,” Brandi said.
She was right. Where did all my admirers go? I thought we had something special up there. I also didn’t know how Brandi could have such a meticulous mental log of who came in, who left, and who was by the stage when I was dancing, but I supposed it was some kind of stripper sense that gets developed over time. Or perhaps her close pal TJ the DJ had another mini-whiteboard keeping track of it all.