by Jenn Marlow
Her coat close to her like armor, she trekked the rest of the way through the empty parking lot and into the building. Immediately, a man with a stocky appearance and short buzzed brown hair greeted her. “Hey, Alex,” he began. She smiled in response and walked past him, not really wanting to engage in conversation. All she wanted was to do her job and leave. Not make small-talk.
She knew he wouldn’t be offended; he knew how she was by that point. His name was Mike, and he was a genuinely good guy from what she could tell—way better than the other guys who worked there. And he seemed to understand her need for distance and that she didn’t really want to talk before an act. It was just the way that she was, and she appreciated his understanding.
She made her way past his stocky brick-like body and into the door he guarded. Employees Only. It’s where all the girls got ready. Soon, there would be more than one guard at the door. Not that Mike couldn’t handle anything that came his way. He was young, and he was large and strong. But there had been far too many instances to take any chances.
She felt better that the guys protected them. Not that all of their patrons were sleazy, but she had definitely seen her fair share of them. She had been working there for three years, and she definitely had a run in or two with some of the douchebags who felt the need to show their asses in places such as The Office.
If she hadn’t already felt like trash for doing this sort of job, some of the guys who came in definitely made her feel like it. In fact, some of the words that slithered off of their snaky tongues were that of pure disrespect, and a lot of the times, what they said was utterly repulsive. But the words were the least of her worries; the words didn’t cause black eyes and fat lips. No one had ever hit her, but she had seen enough of it to be thankful that Mike and the other guys were looking out for them.
As she ascended the stairs to the dressing area, loud music radiated off of the walls and pleasantly tickled her ears. She knew immediately who it was, without even reaching the top of the stairs and setting eyes on her. Ashley.
She was obviously listening and singing along—with quite a lot of enthusiasm—to some sort of foreign rock. Ashley always had foreign music playing and always sang in the language, a language that Alex could never pinpoint even if she had cared enough to try.
Ashley started at The Office a year ago, and before that she had only lived in America for a few months. The story was that she had originally moved to the States to be with her boyfriend. But soon after they arrived, she found him screwing some random woman at their apartment.
Needless to say, their relationship ended soon after. With him apparently being the primary bread winner, Ashley found herself on hard times pretty quickly afterwards. And then she ended up where all broken girls seemed to end up—at least in Alex’s experiences. She ended up at The Office. Although all broken girls didn’t always end up at The Office specifically, they always landed at someplace similar.
On Ashley’s first day, she tried to introduce herself and explain what her given name was, but no one could understand it, much less pronounce it. Thus, the name “Ashley” was born. She created the name to “better accommodate the Americans,” but it made things easier on her, too. People could actually speak to her now, without feeling obligated to struggle and say her name—or avoid the name all together. It even seemed to loosen her up from her original stiff-self. Alex theorized that as “Ashley,” the young woman felt she was impersonating someone else, and because of that, it ended up making her more comfortable. Using that theory, Alex was able to deduce that it was probably easier to be “Ashley” than whatever ridiculous foreign name she was given at birth.
Alex always called her “foreign”—which was probably ignorant—but she didn’t care. She knew that Ashley was actually of some Asian descent, but didn’t really delve any further than that. She didn’t care, to be honest, nor did she think it was wise to ask someone she barely knew what “type of Asian” she was. She never assumed either.
She never called Ashley anything other than Ashley.
She never called her Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Laotian; or any other derivative.
She didn’t care what she was.
She was Ashley.
She was a stripper.
And she was occasionally fun to talk to. It was funny, actually. On her first day, she was shy—incredibly so, in fact. She was so much different than the loose-cannon version she was now. At first, Ashley hated showing off her body. Now, she spoke with vulgarity, drank like a fish, and strutted around in short skirts and crop tops, even when she wasn’t working. She actually loved skimpy attire and the attention it brought, even the crude attention.
When she first dove into the world of stripping and belligerent drunks, she seemed as though she had never done anything like it before. It was almost as if she was forced to come and work there. She even cried the first time she was on stage. Alex wondered if it was an act; because if it wasn’t, she would feel even sorrier for her. Not because she felt pressured to work there. But because she thought she didn’t have a choice. That was the scariest thing for Alex to face. A lot of these women didn’t feel like they did have a choice; and they did.
It always seemed to Alex that all the others put on some poor—and quite pathetic—act that they thought somehow excused their actions. They acted like they had no other choice than to get a job taking their clothes off in front of a crowd of men. The truth was that they did have a choice.
They all had a fucking choice.
Some said that all of them were just poor, pitiful, pathetic women, who fell on tough times and decided that taking off their clothes was all they could get and all that they were good at, but Alex knew the truth.
Alex knew better.
She knew better than that very misinformed perception. Yes, it was true that some women lacked skills. Yes, it was true that some women fell on tough times. Yes, it was true that some women were poor; some were pitiful; and some were just fucking pathetic. And yes, perhaps some of them felt that it wasn’t a choice—not a real one at least. However, it wasn’t true.
Not even a little bit.
They did have a choice.
Everyone had a choice.
The truth was that there were plenty of factories on the outskirts of town and plenty of waitressing jobs on every street in the city. The difference was that those other jobs—the ones that didn’t involve taking off your top—were eight to ten dollar an hour jobs. The Office paid thirty-five to forty. That was the difference and that was the choice they all made; at least that’s how Alex saw it.
Call her a cynic.
Call her a bitch.
She didn’t give a damn.
It was just how she saw it.
She finally reached the top of the stairs and saw the slim woman dancing in nothing but her pink undergarments; her outfit complete with garters on each leg. She was a beautiful woman, Alex had to admit. She had long, black silky hair, and the light seemed to always beam off of it. She was very thin; probably the thinnest of all the other girls. And that was definitely saying something. To Alex, it seemed like all of the girls—if they were standing side by side—looked like a fucking starvation contest. She was the only one who ate; she would almost swear by it.
Ashley’s head bopped comically about and her shiny, black pigtails tossed about like tassels on a child’s bike. And she sang with great volume and intensity, completing the act with a nice little seductive dance against her chair. She was obviously trying to amp herself up for the night’s show. Alex had to admit, the music was catchy—even if she didn’t understand a damn word of it.
“Hey, gorgeous!” Ashley screamed over the music when she noticed Alex reach the step. Alex smiled in response once again and made her way over to her designated makeup counter. She acknowledged it the way she always did. She was passive and uncaring, but it was actually quite something. The owner, Terrence, had spared no expense when building the makeup stations. They were all set up like
something off of a movie set.
Though it made all the other girls feel a little more respected and beautiful, Alex never really let it get to her. She knew what it was, and she knew what she was. “Oh, God. Is she in one of her moods?” Alex heard another female voice call from behind her. She didn’t even have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. She was good at remembering voices, but the voice was one she heard every day and had for most of her life. It was none other than her best friend, Holly.
“Not talking to anyone again. Yeah, sounds right,” Ashley responded, her heavy Asian accent coming out full-force.
Alex rolled her eyes, catching glimpses of the two women in her vanity mirror’s reflection. “I’m not in a mood. I’m just stressed, and I don’t feel like talking,” she responded, a touch of annoyance present on her tongue.
Holly was the only exception to her work and personal life separation. Holly was her friend before this place. With any luck, she would be her friend after, too. And Alex hoped more than anything that the “after” would come sooner rather than later. Holly was the one allowance she would give herself in mixing her two lives together; she never grew close to anyone else and if it weren’t for Holly, no one would likely know anything about Alex.
She was quiet, reserved, and kept to herself. She just wanted to get through the evenings unscathed and without drama. She didn’t want to talk—not ever. If it weren’t for the constant pressure from Holly, she wouldn’t feel the need to defend that part of her.
But she did defend it. She was constantly defending it, in fact, constantly battling the “Biggest Bitch” title that they all likely placed on her. But Alex couldn’t for the life of her figure out what was wrong with going to work and not socializing—especially when your job was of this nature. It wasn’t something to be proud of—at least not to Alex.
“You’re always stressed, but you never want to talk on big show nights because you’re afraid someone’s going to recognize you. You’ve been doing this for years now, and you need to just own it,” Holly said, pumping her chest out in a masculine fashion at the end portion of her eloquent statement.
Part of Alex knew she was right. Tonight was the biggest show all year. They had been advertising it for weeks, and there were “celebrity” strippers coming from all over to perform. Part of Alex always wondered what she might do if a social worker were to venture in and recognize her, or even one of Denny’s doctors. If there was anything she hated, it was not being respected and taken seriously.
And who would respect her if they knew the truth of what she was, who she was? The job itself was degrading to a degree, and she was willing to face that degradation from normal patrons, especially for an average of forty dollars an hour. However, she wasn’t willing to face it from people in other areas of her life, and she wasn’t willing to put Denny in jeopardy because of her chosen profession. It was a constant concern—if she was being honest. However, it was one she had to live with if she wanted to provide the best care possible for Denny and herself without working sixty hours a week.
The job, as embarrassing as it was, was perfect for her based purely on the hours to money ratio. Degrading, maybe to a degree. But it was something she was willing to deal with if she could be with Denny as much as possible. He needed her, yes. But she needed him, too. She wanted to be there for everything, and she hoped that they could beat this disease together.
“Speaking of own, did you hear about what Terrence was talking about?” Ashley asked.
“Oh, about people owning women for their sexual benefit?” Holly responded. Alex’s interest was only piqued slightly until she heard Holly’s response. Now, she wanted to know what they were talking about.
“What? Like a pimp?” Alex asked, turning around to face the women.
Holly, who normally stood close to six feet tall, slouched down to Alex’s seated level, her head directly even with her own. “No. Like sex slavery,” she whispered. Alex furrowed her brow in curiosity.
“Like kidnapping and selling kind of stuff in other countries?” Alex questioned.
“No, it’s happening here… and women are kidnapped, yeah; but Terrence was talking about women actually volunteering to be sex slaves.” Holly seemed to speak with a sense of finality and stood back up, straightened her clothes. But Alex wasn’t done questioning. In fact, she was more confused than ever. Holly turned away from her and pulled her blonde wavy hair quickly into a pony tail. Did she honestly think the conversation was over? Who could let information like that just drop without investigating things further?
“Is that even sex slavery then? Sounds more like prostitution,” Alex knew she was being overly inquisitive, but she didn’t understand. And Alex may not have been the most intelligent woman in the world; but, when she didn’t know something, she wanted to ask questions until she understood. She was never as bright as Denny or her mother, but she always worked hard to understand. And in that moment, she really just didn’t understand.
“Jeez, woman,” Holly began. “It isn’t prostitution because you don’t have any say on what you do or don’t do. You literally sell yourself and they own you. You have a choice, apparently, on whether or not you want to be in for life or just temporarily. But it’s like a minimum contract of three years.”
Alex couldn’t believe what she was even hearing. The idea that someone could own another person just mystified her. She didn’t even think that slavery existed in the States—sex or otherwise—but, apparently, she was wrong. Apparently, some women were traded without consent, and others went in willingly. There was one question on her mind though, and she just had to ask it.
“Why would they choose to be in for life? Isn’t the whole point of this to have money and use it?” Alex asked.
Holly smiled and responded, hunching down to her once again so that she was eye-level to Alex. “You choose someone to get paid while you go in, and every month you’re in, money is deposited—a shit load.”
Alex blinked in response. Women were actually selling themselves for someone else to reap the benefits and get the money? What in the hell was that even about? Once again, women who actually had a choice, martyring themselves in some pathetic attempt to be seen as not having a choice, she thought. She could understand the women that were forced into it physically; but there was nothing forcing some of these women. Some of them were just idiot martyrs with a special snowflake complex.
Chapter 3
The rest of her co-workers arrived, and they all readied themselves for the evening’s show. All sported their costumes for the evening, which weren’t selected by them. They never were. Alex found herself in a school girl’s uniform. She had to laugh at the irony; she was one of the oldest women there. Was it really fitting that she wore the outfit over others? She knew she looked ridiculous, even more than the usual ridiculous in fact. She was twenty-seven and hadn’t been in high school in over ten years. “Men and their stupid fantasies,” she scoffed.
It was the stereotypical uniform, too—plaid skirt, cropped white oxford shirt that barely covered her breasts, large-framed black glasses, white stockings, pigtails, and stiletto heels. It was a poor portrayal of actual school uniforms, and men knew that. That was probably what made it all the more idiotic. What was the point in having a fantasy that was so far removed from reality?
She had actually worn a school uniform back in high school. She wore a plaid skirt; but it was three inches below her knees and far from sexy. She also wore a collared shirt, but it was actually just a boxy cut polo shirt. And her shoes were brown and square. This was almost comical in comparison.
Alex could hear the crowded roars from downstairs, as the club began to flood with patrons. The noise they brought vibrated off every wall and throughout the entirety of the building. She looked at the other girls and skimmed their outfits, hoping that some of them looked as ridiculous as she knew that she did. And they did. They all did—at least to her. But they always looked ridiculous to her…everyone. So,
she knew she was biased.
Her gaze finally fell on Holly, who was nearly completely dressed and beginning to line up. She wore tight charcoal grey pencil skirt and an oxford shirt similar to her own with the same crop-cut. They were probably identical in truth. She wore smaller glasses to her own and her hair was still pulled up into a tight ponytail.
A teacher, she assumed.
Probably her teacher to be exact. They were probably meant to perform together. She scoffed again. It was like a really bad porn movie. So fucking predictable.
It wasn’t long before a blinding fuzziness surrounded her and she let the night just drift away without truly acknowledging anything that she or the other women did. She went full robot and just mechanically went through the evening, without emotion or consciousness. She danced, she was sure of that because she remembered looking out into an audience of men ogling at her and at Holly; but that was all she remembered. And it was all she cared to remember; more than she cared to remember, actually.
The next thing she knew, she stood motionless on stage; the acts were over; and the lights grew in intensity, suddenly, without transition. The bright burning orbs of light blinded her, and then music poured out of the speakers on either end of the stage—even louder than before. It was then that more women flooded out on stage, quite dramatically.
It was as if a runway show was starting, and LED lights in laser point danced across the stage in a synchronous fashion. The women were beautiful, and she hadn’t recalled ever having seen them before and then it hit her. They were the “celebrity” strippers.
Taking it as a cue to get off the stage, Alex and The Office’s regulars collected their tips and darted off quickly, without an ounce hesitation. They were getting off work early, and they were all pretty fine with it. It was even better than getting off work early, actually. They got more money because of the huge promotional event and still got to leave early.