It is 2PM and I sip a cappuccino while I wait for you at the train station coffee shop. We have a date to catch the 3PM train to the gentlemen's club.  The weekend is here and I have invited you to come with me to watch. You resisted at first, or so it seemed. You said you didn’t want to watch other men getting off to me. This response confused me because you loved to tell your friends that you were fucking a stripper who worked at a muffin shop during the week.  “But we could turn it into a game!” I pressed. “It could be like 8 hours of foreplay. You can select my dance card for the evening. Every dime I earn could be at your command. You could be my pimp and at the end of the night, after closing, I will give you the special champagne room customers wish for but never receive to work out all the tension.” At this, a devious grin spread across your face. “Okay,” you purred. “If you insist.”

At 2:30 you approach with our tickets, excitement written over your face and yet cleverly concealed in the air of mystery that follows you like a fog. The initial sight of you always takes my breath away a little. Your tall, lean frame is made imposing by the green liberty spikes and combat boots. Your bondage pants hang at your hips, just slightly revealing the boxer briefs beneath. We are not an obvious match physically speaking. You reflect 1980s trash punk, while my natural hair and plain face give me a “girl next door” vibe. I grin as I remember our first meeting.  You served me drinks while we discussed flesh hook suspensions and extreme body mod. We greet each other and I settle my tab as we begin our journey to the club.

I exit the dressing room into the area next to the stage. I have a few more songs before I’m up.  It takes a minute, but as I assess the room I find you stationed in the far corner at a table abutting the lap dance section.  Something has shifted in your demeanor. As you sit, regarding me with your unwavering stare and furrowed eyebrows you remind me of a spider - but if you are a spider where is your snare? In a bralet, boy short bottoms, and stiletto heels I approach with my usual feigned sexual confidence. “Have you selected the first victim daddy?” I say in a playful and mocking tone to remind him of our game. “Are you sure you want this?” he inquires. I find myself suddenly wondering if we are still discussing the game. “Of course.” I reply with a wide grin. “If you insist” he says in a sing-song tone and nods to a man in a suit at the far wall. After a brief conversation I lead the man back for his dance. As we pass you I get the impression that the man nods toward you, but shrug it off as my imagination.  You have never been to my club before so how could you know any of the patrons?  As I dance for the man I feel your gaze upon me, burning into the back of my skull. Feeling empowered with the knowledge that I hold your gaze, I begin to embellish my movements. Never returning your stare, I relish each sway and stretch, intent on capturing your desire and imagination. At the close of the dance, confident I have achieved my objective, I shoot a provocative glance toward you only to find that you were engrossed in conversation with another woman.  Like the man before, she is wearing a suit and has joined you at your table. I am confused. if you weren’t the gaze I felt, then where was this fire at the back of my head coming from? I peer around the room to see if I can locate the source to no avail. As eyes land on you again you pause your conversation briefly and shift your gaze toward me. A smirk appears at the corner of your mouth and the burning sensation at the back of my head intensifies. What is this? Frustrated and annoyed I do my best to gather myself back to an appearance of confidence and I approach your table. I regard the woman. Her long slender fingers form a platform under her delicate chin and her eyes consume me as I approach. “This is your next dance after your turn on stage if you would like to continue our game?” you say in a sickeningly sweet tone. I return the tone with an acceptance of his challenge. “If you insist,” he sings. With a flirtatious wink I leave for the stage. As I climb the stairs, with each step I begin to feel as though I have forgotten something.  That’s strange I think. I have everything I need for the weekend.  What else could possibly be missing?  I begin to take my turns around the pole and I have never been more graceful.  It is as though I have strings and someone else is choreographing my movements. Each climb, flip and twirl is effortless and smooth and with each movement my body begins to feel less like my own.  I am slightly panicked but I refuse to let it appear on my face. I am in control. 

I exit the stage and approach your table again. As I approach something occurs to me. Though you are sitting as you have been the whole time, I am taken by how much larger than me you seem. As I come closer I am increasingly aware of how much smaller than you I feel. Have you always been so tall? Why do I feel that way in 6” heels? I approach and now I notice I have butterflies in my stomach as though I am meeting you for the first time - and still your gaze burns into the back of my skull. What was that thing I forgot? The woman from before awaits as I approach. She hasn’t changed yet her appearance suddenly seems fine - too fine for me. “Shall we?” she asks as she stands and holds out her hand. My eyes turn to you, “I insist.”

Each dance was with a new finely dressed person granted at your behest.  Throughout the night your gaze never left me and only increased with intensity when your eyes met my own. With each lap dance the feeling that I had forgotten something necessary, something important for the weekend, grew exponentially.  I couldn’t remember what it was but I felt a deep sense of shame. Before long my eyes couldn’t meet yours for the shame I felt for forgetting it. Each turn on stage increased a feeling that my body wasn’t my own but was somehow forming shapes, transitions, and moves of genius I wasn’t capable of and grace that wasn’t my own. Upon being introduced to each new finely dressed person I became increasingly aware of how naked I felt. That feeling seemed strange as I had been dancing for years and though I kept my clothing on tonight more than I had before, somehow I felt increasingly bare and exposed.  Refusing to give up the game, I insisted upon each new dance you found for me, noticing more and more how meek I was compared to you. 

The evening ends and as promised I leave to meet you in the champagne room as the club begins to shut down. As I walk through the door you sit in a chair as though it is your throne - a glass of single malt in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. I begin to approach, and as I do the butterflies in my stomach swarm. You hold me in your gaze and I feel your eyes burning into me, on top of me, and all around me. The closer I get the brighter you are and the more I must avert my eyes. When I finally reach you my knees grow weak and I swoon.  Head bowed and consumed with guilt I feel the shame of forgetting the thing I can’t remember as I stare longingly at your boots. You have changed.  Your clothes now reflect the clientele you had me dance for. You wear a black suit with a red tie and your combat boots have been replaced with leather dress shoes.  “Look at me,” you command. “I gaze up at you and am taken with how pleased you appear with the puddled mess at your feet. Your pleasure sends waves of excitement throughout my body and I nearly swoon again. “My cigar seems a bit dry don’t you think?” you ask. I immediately respond by turning around and presenting you with my cunt. You slide the tapered end of the cigar inside me, gently back and forth, wetting it. You take the cigar and smell it before cutting the end. I pull the torch out of my purse that you gave me weeks ago and light it for you. I don’t even know how it is that I know what to do. “You forgot something.  I expect you are feeling a bit naked without it.” you state as a devilish grin stretches the width of your face. “Don’t worry, I remembered it for you.” The impact of your words weighs me down as my shame increases. How could I have forgotten something so important? And then I feel your hands fastening something around my neck. I feel the leather stretch from collarbone to chin and almost instantly I begin to feel warm, held, and actually a bit overdressed with my stripper clothes still on. I take my place at your feet and open my mouth for your ash. Whatever thoughts I had before this moment are gone.  Everything about where I am currently feels right. At that moment all the suited men and women from the club enter the room.  I am struck with confusion because the club is closed.  I look at you, the question written on my face. “Speak” you command. “How did you organize this? How did you make all of this happen with such short notice?”  You hold your hand up and I fall silent and you begin to chuckle in response to some cruel joke I don’t understand. “Oh you still think this was your idea. You haven’t chosen for some time now darlin. Now stand.” I stand as you do, eclipsed by your presence. You turn me to face the room of my betters and the weight of your arm across my chest makes me long for your embrace. You grab an ass check in your enormous hand and squeeze so hard I am forced to lean on you for support. “Time to get to work whore.”