Taming Mr. Robinson

1. The Masked Seducer

There are three rules to being a stripper.
1. Always act like you enjoy it while dancing with the pole...and if you do enjoy it, good for you.

2. Always give most of the attention to the one who is craving for it. The whistling one. He'd give you a gold tooth when he is done slapping all the money to you pantie strap or cleavage.

3. Never have feelings for a customer.

"The Masked Seducer, everyone!" Comes my closing and I thankfully end with a carousel straddle, earning more whistles and cheering before I slide down the pole, blowing a kiss to the bearded man with a cowboy hat as I seductively leave the stage.

Backstage has always been my favorite part. Sighing with exhaustion, I walk over to my makeup side of the long mirror and sit down, removing the dollar bills from my cleavage, bra strap, and pantie strap.

200 dollars.
Okay. We can work with that for now. I yank off my mask and wig at the same time, avoiding my reflection in the mirror in front of me.
I hated this part. I hated seeing me Marcella Jensen in a stripper changing room. Hated the fact that I'm still the one wiggling my butt for money, even though I put on a mask and a red wig.
I pull off my heels and change to my normal clothes as I grab my bag and jacket.

Do you love this? Is that why you won't get a real job?

Tyler's angry voice echoes in my head and I slip on my earphones as I make my way out the back door to the streets of Orlando.

The late drinkers are still out, whistling with their alcoholic breath while leaning against the wall of the building, others are lighting whatever they've gotten their hands on and the stench of the smoke reminds me of the first time I got the job working here.

They had been clawing at me from every corner and Tyler had given me a hell of a look when he saw the bruises.

Get another job.
He had persuaded.
Anything.
He had begged. But there had been no time. No time for interviews, or little pay given to waiters at the restaurants.
And we needed the money. He needed it most for college funds and we had to pay rent.

I couldn't risk waiting for a 'respectable' job with good pay while my brother got kicked out from his dorm and we had gotten the third eviction notice.

This job was our saving grace...and still is.

He just had to understand.
As if on cue, my phone rings out loud and I open it to see a text from Ty.

Ty: •Where are you? Isn't your time over?•

I linger on the message a little longer to decide if he is just irritated that I'm spending so much time dancing with poles or if he is genuinely worried about me.

Ty: •Marcy?•

I smile contentedly at the second text.
Okay.
Definitely worried.

Me: •I'm almost home. Around the block•

He doesn't reply but I can sense him staring out the window by the time I get to the apartment building. The doorman, Greg, gives me a small, pitiful smile and I'm all but used to it as he opens the door for me. His receding hairline seems to get more obvious with his whitish, grey hair.

"Mornin' Greg." I say.

"Marcy. How are you doing?" He says as I make my way to the elevator.

"Good." I say before the doors slide close and I hit the 3rd-floor button, needing to escape our nightly routine of pity conversation.
Greg had been working here since the big incident and way before that. He was like an old relative that knew too much.