Donkey Club? Which city? What was she talking about?
Sighing, my roomie began to explain.
“You know how I disappear every weekend to see my boyfriend up at NYU? Well, I go up to New York City, but it’s not because I have a boyfriend,” she said. “I’m a stripper at a joint up there called the Donkey Club. It’s not one of the high-end places, but there’s a niche for “school girl cream,” as they like to call it.”
What? I stared at my friend, my eyes wide with shock. What was ‘school girl cream’? It sounded wrong for sure. But Lauren merely shrugged and continued.
“In fact, I often bring a lot of Trinity gear up with me, and that’s my routine,” she said. “My spiel is that I’m a Trinity co-ed, wearing a Trinity bikini and skirt, and it all comes off over the course of a few minutes.”
My mouth hung open. It was true that Lauren owned a ton of Trinity gear but I’d never suspected that it was a costume and props. I’d just figured she had a lot of school spirit and liked to show it.
But the more my friend explained the gig, the more I could kind of see it. Lauren is blonde and gorgeous with a worldly, experienced air. Guys would love seeing her on-stage, parading that perfect bod. Plus, she could pull it off. I’d never even suspected that the boyfriend in New York story was just that – a story. It fit in perfectly with her mature demeanor, and the sophisticated way she smoked cigarettes when we hung out outside our dorm. She seemed to know everything already, despite the fact we were both freshmen.
I took a deep breath and decided not to beat around the bush.
“Do you think the Donkey Club would have room for someone like me?” I’d asked, trying to be brave.
Lauren looked me up and down, taking in my riotous brown hair, curvy shape and alabaster skin.
“I know they do,” she replied confidently. “Come with me next weekend, and you’ll pull in the big bucks, I promise.” I gasped. Could I really do it? I’d nodded silently, too stunned for words before quickly gathering my book bag. Lauren stopped me before I headed off to class.
“You okay with this, Melly?” she asked with concern. “No girl ever sees herself as a stripper. We’re co-eds,” she said wryly. “We’re supposed to be preparing ourselves to be doctors, lawyers, or some other professional shit. A stripper? That’s for girls who don’t have degrees.”
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
“I know,” I said in a quiet voice. “That’s why I’m not so sure about dancing for money,” I mumbled, looking down. “I wanted to make something of myself. You know, to have a real career and not something where you take your clothes off.”
But Lauren merely nodded with understanding.
“I hear you,” she said, “but look at this as a stepping stone. We want real careers. We want to be professional women who wear a suit and type on computers all day. But sometimes, it’s not so easy to get there. Sometimes, you’ve got to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and take dramatic steps to get there. If we don’t do this, then what do we have? Nothing. We’d be no better off than some girl who never leaves the hood,” she said wryly. “Trust me, I know. My mom had me at eighteen, and has never left the Bronx. She’s still living in the same shitty walk-up and working the same shitty job she’s had for ten years as a cashier at the Supermart down the street. It’s sad, right? So when I told her I was going to dance in order to put myself through school, she was totally on board. My mom wants me to succeed just as much as I want it, and that’s what makes me get up on stage every week,” Lauren said fiercely. “The knowledge that this is just a means to an end. Maybe it’s not a pretty means, but it makes sense for girls in our position.”
I gulped.
“I’m not afraid to do honest work,” came my low voice. “But the thing is, what if word gets out? What if people find out?”
Lauren threw her head back and laughed, a lovely tinkling melody.
“Word won’t get out,” she said. “You know how many clubs there are in NYC? Plus, it’s not like you’re going to use your real name. You’re not going to get up on stage and say, “Hey, I’m Melanie and I’m a freshman at Trinity.” You’re going to use a stage name, something like Candy or Amber. Trust me, no one will know it’s you.”
I bit my lip looking at the floor.
“Are you sure about that?”
Lauren got up then and took me by the shoulders before staring me straight in the eye.
“No one can make any promises,” she said in a firm voice. “But trust me, Mel, this is the way to go. What are you going to do otherwise? Work a minimum wage job at Icey’s Donuts? That won’t even pay for books, much less forty-six thousand in tuition.”
The number made me shiver again because Lauren was right. We were girls who didn’t have options, and the only way to drum up some cash fast was by dancing. So I swallowed again and managed a wavery smile at my friend.
“Okay, let’s give it a try,” I said. “When’s the next time you’re going?”
“Atta girl,” smiled Lauren. “Next Friday,” she said. “I dance every weekend because that’s when you get the best tips. And trust me, Mel, you’re going to be fine. After this is all said and done, you’ll walk across the stage with a mortarboard on your head, and you won’t regret a minute of it. In fact, I think after we become powerful corporate women, we should start a scholarship for female students in dire financial straits. We’ll call it the “Melanie and Lauren Dance Fund.” How about that?”
I had to laugh at that one.
“And that won’t give us away? Wouldn’t it be better to call it something like the “Melanie and Lauren Scholarship Fund”?”
My friend threw me a mischievous look.
“Yes, but we have to celebrate who we are. Female empowerment, and all that right? No regrets. Woo-hoo!”
And with that, we high-fived and I swung my backpack over my shoulder with one last laugh. I still had my doubts about becoming a stripper at a club in the city, but Lauren was right. We had no choices, except for hard ones, and if I wanted to earn a degree at Trinity, then I was going to have to dance for men. I only hoped that it turned out okay … and that I wouldn’t have regrets to haunt me for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Melanie
This was turning out to be a bad idea. The weather in the city was awful, for one. A heavy mist saturated the night air, making my brown hair even curlier and frizzier than normal, and I pulled my jacket tight around my shoulders. New York has always been scary to me because it’s so huge, and showing up at this cement block on one side of the West Side Highway put me on edge.
But I suppose it was better than some rural location because at least there were people around. At 9 p.m. on a Friday night, there were plenty of passerby goggling at the club’s giant neon sign with a picture of a donkey braying on it. They laughed and elbowed one another, making crude jokes.
“Let’s see if the New York strippers are hotter than the Wyoming ones,” said one overbuilt cowboy to his friend. Both guys stood out like sore thumbs. They had huge white ten-gallon hats on, plus black leather vests with no shirt underneath. Their muscles bulged like overdone gorillas, and I glanced at them from the corner of my eye.
“No way the strippers are hotter than the ones back home!” crowed his friend. “Besides, I’m not spending my money on some New York hos. We can get the real thing in Wyoming – sweet, succulent, and ready to ride a horse. You know the girls here have probably been with thirty guys by the time they’re sixteen.”
That got to me because although I’m shy, I’m also a feminist. Why is it okay for guys to hook-up with lots of women and for that to be seen as cool? In fact, he’s more of a man if he bags a lot of female ass. By contrast, women who do the same thing are labeled as whores and hookers. That’s not fair, and I stepped up to tell them so.
“Gentlemen, I’ll have you know that I’m eighteen and I haven’t bagged thirty guys,” was my frigid comment. “Sorry to disappoint, but New
York women are not hookers.”
They guffawed, looking at me and then each other.
“Come on, Mel,” said Lauren, grabbing my elbow. “Don’t even bother to talk to these losers.”
But it was too late because the two cowboys were intent on making trouble now.
“Oh yeah?” one grunted while swiping at his nose. “What’s it to you?”
Oh no. Had this guy been using drugs? Sure enough, there was a telltale smudge of powder on his upper lip. No chewing tobacco for these dudes. Instead, they were going at the cocaine hard, and probably felt as impervious as tanks right now.
“Shut up,” his friend snapped. “Don’t talk to this skanky ho. Look how fat she is. She’s bigger than the cows back home.”
I gasped, all the blood draining from my face. How could these strangers call me fat? I’m not fat. Maybe I’m not thin, but I’m not huge or anything either. More along the lines of pleasantly plump. After all, the average American woman is a size twelve, so my size fourteen made me only slightly bigger than average. How could they say that about me?
But Lauren leapt to my defense.
“Shut up,” she hissed, staring daggers at the two men. “Both of you are fucking dongheads with tiny penises. Trust me, I’m a ho so I’ve seen a lot of guys. I know,” she said evilly.
Both guys looked about ready to punch her, but that’s when a bouncer the size of a refrigerator stepped in.
“If you folks ain’t gonna buy, then it’s time to be on your way,” he grunted. “Move along. Clear the sidewalk.”
“What?” shrieked Lauren. “What did I do? It’s these two fucking dongheads who called us names when we didn’t even do anything. They said we were hoes!” she cried. And to my disbelief, tears started rolling down her pretty face. I swear, any man would melt seeing my beautiful friend cry, and the bouncer was no exception.
“Get out of here,” he growled at the two cowboys. “Before I get my gun.”
Of course, the only thing he was carrying was a clipboard, but the guy was so huge that both cowboys trembled in their boots.
“Come on,” one said to the other. “Let’s beat feet. New York sucks.” The one who’d originally insulted us nodded and quickly, the two scurried off with their cowboy hats under their arms. Good. I’d had enough.
“Thank you,” I said to the bouncer, my cheeks flaming despite the cold night air. “We really appreciate that.”
“Yeah thanks!” added Lauren chirpily. Of course, the waterworks had stopped instantaneously, and she flung a long lock of blonde hair over one shoulder. “Lauren and Melanie,” she said, announcing our names.
But we weren’t friends. Despite scaring off our harassers, the bouncer looked at us skeptically before lowering his bulky frame onto a stool by the door.
“IDs,” he ground out.
“Please,” said Lauren haughtily, tilting her perfect ski-slope nose. “Don’t you remember me from last weekend? I dance here, I’ve already been vetted by management. You know me.”
“I don’t care if you’re fucking Mother Teresa,” said the big black guy. “IDs.”
Lauren gaped at him like she was genuinely surprised. But then he seemed to recognize her and with a sigh, pulled the velveteen curtain back. We stumbled in, Lauren with the air of a queen, and me like a mouse trying to find my bearings.
“Stand up straight!” she reprimanded me. “Arch your back! Look glamorous!”
I did as she asked, trying not to feel self-conscious and shy. But of course, that was impossible. The Donkey Club itself was not a vote of confidence. A dirty low-slung bar took up most of the space, with three poles in the center, and spotlights of gold highlighting dancers wriggling and twisting on stage. Peanut shells littered the floor and the clientele weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. I could see a couple missing teeth, some sunburns, steel-toed boots and cowboys hats all around.
“Where do these guys come from?” I asked with wonderment. “I thought we just got rid of the cowboys?”
After all, we were on the west side of Manhattan, in the middle of a concrete jungle, and surrounded by skyscrapers and guys in thousand-dollar suits. Where did they find these rednecks?
But Lauren just shrugged. “Listen, the customers pay and that’s what we’re here for right? We can’t dance at the bigger clubs because they want girls to work three or four nights a week and we’re not local. We can’t get up here that often. You know, school and all.” That was true. We’d taken the bus up from Virginia and it’d been a hellish eight-hour ride, cramped and stuffy.
But Lauren was right again. I needed the money and was willing to do what it took, even if it meant dancing for rednecks. So long as the customers had the cash, then that was all the mattered. Hanging my head, I followed Lauren to the back room, where she knocked before opening the door with a proprietary air. A seedy looking dude in an ill-fitting suit looked up, his hand stilling suspiciously beneath his desk before hastily switching off his computer. No doubt he’d been stroking himself to some porn.
“Ralph,” said Lauren silkily. “This is my friend Melanie.”
“Hey Melanie,” he leered. “What can I do for you?”
Hopefully nothing, but Lauren soldiered on ahead. “You know how Renata quit last week?” she asked. “Well, I figured Mel could fill in on the ‘Dirty Co-eds’ video.”
What video? Lauren had explained that we’d be stripping, but not that we’d be filmed. What in the world? But the plot only thickened.
“You know that new video Jack Strike is filming?” continued Lauren. “Mel would be perfect for Girl 2, you know the one that gets taken for the first time.”
Now I definitely had to interrupt. This didn’t sound like stripping at all. It sounded more like porn. But Lauren glared at me and made a subtle gesture with her hand, rubbing her forefingers against her thumb. Oh right, I needed money and didn’t want to ruin my chances before we’d even begun. Grinding my teeth, I vowed to confront her about this unexpected development as soon as we got on the bus to go back home.
Meanwhile, Ralph leaned back in his chair, so far I thought he might fall over backwards. He shot us a sleazy smile and looked me up and down.
“Strike’s in LA, but he told me to collect audition videos from girls who came in,” he said. “You got one?” he nodded my way.
“Um,” I stuttered. Of course I didn’t have an audition tape. I was here to dance, and not offer myself as a potential performer in the adult entertainment industry.
“No, she doesn’t,” cut in Lauren quickly. “But let’s film one now. It’ll be easy,” she said.
“Sure,” replied Ralph, swiveling his laptop around to face us. “I got a camera embedded here. It’s high-def, so it’ll capture everything. Just start taking it off when you’re ready.”
I turned to Lauren, my mouth open and shocked eyes wide. What was I supposed to do? But she merely reached into her bag and then pressed a dildo into my hand before whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “Don’t worry, no one’s going to see except the producer.”
What? What was I supposed to do with this rubber toy that she’d just passed onto me? Was I supposed to …? Oh my god, no. I couldn’t move for a moment, and merely stared down at the huge fake penis in my hand. It was squishy yet soft at once, and I had half a mind to throw it on the floor and walk out.
But Lauren made that gesture with her thumb and forefingers again, reminding me that I needed money. My heart sank as I stood there motionless. Right. Tuition was due, and there was no way out except the here and now. So with rigid shoulders, I pivoted and turned back to the camera.
“What do I do?” came my low voice, barely audible.
Ralph leaned back in his chair, a red light on the laptop indicating that it was already recording.
“What do you think?” he leered. “Dance. Take your clothes off and let Jack Strike see what he needs to see. If he likes you, he’ll call,” he added casually. “But if all you do is stand there like some dumb l
lama, then you can be sure he won’t call,” Ralph added.
Shit, shit! I didn’t want to do this, but what choice was there? I needed the tuition money badly, otherwise I was going to end up like Lauren’s mom working at the local Supermart for minimum wage. I needed to get myself a degree so that I could become a W-2 employee and not an hourly worker who was utterly disposable.
My face flushed and I looked at Lauren pleadingly for guidance, but she just nodded and gestured purposefully with her hands.
“Go!” she whispered. “Waggle your hips, and bounce your butt a little,” she said, miming the actions. “Dance, dance!”
I closed my eyes, utterly humiliated, but with no choice. Slowly, I edged my trench coat off my shoulders. Per my roomie’s instructions, underneath I’d worn a tiny black bra and panties with high, high heels, showing off my curvy hips, big boobs, the stilettos lengthening my legs.
Ralph gave a wolf whistle, calling out, “Show some tit, work it baby!”
Oh no. I knew I was going to be bad at this, but it was ten times worse with the greasy dude staring. That, and the red light of the recording laptop made me feel so nervous and humiliated. But I had to do this, so I kept my eyes closed and pretended that I was alone on a desert island with a handsome, dark stranger. Make that two handsome, dark strangers with penetrating blue eyes. They were watching me with warm gazes as I rotated my hips. I pinched my nipple through my bra, pretending it was them. Ohhh! That felt good.
Getting into it, I lifted my tits out of my bra cups and suckled one, pushing the puffy nipple in my mouth. Goddamn if I didn’t hear Ralph unzip his fly, no doubt starting up the hand job again.
But I ignored him and kept suckling, swaying my hips sensually for the camera. Turning around, I bent over and pushed my ass back, my cheeks barely covered by the wisp of lace. Tantalizingly, I ran a finger up and down the rim of my underwear, pulling it to the side for a flash of my pussy, a glimpse of that steamy pink flesh. Teasingly, I dropped the cloth back in place, looking over my shoulder at the camera and letting out a low moan of arousal.
Double Love Page 2