I am a stripper.
A pole dancer, if you will.
I like to dance. The stage. The lights. The pole. Everything. I can't get enough.
I don't dance for the money, not in the strictest sense, but I do get a lot of it tucked into my clothes. And not just ones and fives like most strippers. But fifties and hundreds. I'm that good at what I do. It probably helps that I don't perform at just any strip club, only the high class gentlemen clubs for me. I like the more private, quite atmosphere, you see.
Would it surprise you to learn that I'm a virgin?
Would it surprise you to learn that I'm not a virgin?
I'll let you decide that one.
Because I love it when people judge me. It makes it easier for me to do what I do. They see me dancing on that pole and they think if they've got enough money, they can take me back to their place. Which is true most of the time, we but don't usually end up doing what they think.
I've got a lot of money.
Not a lot of people know this. And those that do assume that it's from my profession. But believe it or not, pole dancers don't get paid that well.
It's almost midnight and I'm about to go on stage. The girl before me is getting a lot of action from the crowd. I scan the men, I'm looking for the richest, the older the better, the ones that look like they keep a lot of cash handy, because plastic is no good to me.
The girls routine finishes and she struts off the stage. The backstage DJ cues my music and I go on. I don't have a routine though, I just dance.
For the first minute or so I scan the men, looking for the one that I want.
I put my back to the pole and grab it behind my head with one hand. I move my ass up and down the pole in tune to the music.
My kind of dancing doesn't drive guys crazy, it doesn't make them scream and yell for more. It just makes them horny. They sit back and enjoy the show, only waving money at my when I get close to the edge of the stage.
I think I've found my guy. He's probably around fifty, with an expensive suit, he's out of shape. Definitely a business man. Perfect.
I turn and hook one leg around the pole and toss my head back while I move my hips against the metal pole like I'm having sex with it. I put that look on my face like I'm aroused and about to get off, guys love that.
The rest of my routine I focus on the older guy. I don't go in for a lap dance or anything, but I keep eye contact with him whenever I can. I watch him pointedly while I grind my hips against the pole, when he meets my eyes I lick my lips. His eyes widen slightly and I know I've got him hooked.
My show is about to finish and I give him one last look before exiting the stage. I nod to the backstage guard to keeps the guys at bay and give him a hand full of my tips. He hands me my beige trench.
I slip the coat on and walk towards the doorway slowly. My guy is making his way towards me.
I hold up five fingers when he asks me my price for the night.
He nods and takes me to his car. What's perfect about business men is that they have a reputation to uphold and they would never get risk getting caught with a stripper. So they take me to private places, without many people or any security cameras. This guy drove me himself, because limo drivers can rat him out. He took me to a nice private penthouse, in through the back.
He groped me a little in the elevator. I didn't mind.
Once on his floor he offered me a drink, they always do. I offer to pour and he starts undressing. I pour myself a vodka and him a scotch, like he asks.
When he disappears into his bedroom I slip in the Viagra-like drug. This is the perfect drug. It does exactly what Viagra does; major hard-on. It even shows up as Viagra on toxicology screens but that's only because the main drug isn't detectable after it's been metabolized by the blood.
The nifty part is that while it's being metabolized, it kicks the heart to serious overdrive, and for out-of-shape fifty year olds, that means a heart attack.
I make sure that the pill is fully fizzled out before I take both drinks to the bedroom. I keep him talking long enough for him to get down at least half of the scotch, that's when I know he's got about ten minutes left.
I use those ten minutes to give him a little warm up dance to get his blood flowing. This when he starts clutching his chest. They all do that, as if it's going to help.
He looks at me for help, as if I should be doing something other than watch him die. When he realizes that I'm not going to help, he tries to reach for his phone. I kick it out of his hand.
He takes a about a minute and half to die, I check his pulse to make sure. Once he's dead I go through his pockets carefully, I pull two thousand out of his fat wallet in hundred dollar bills but leave a few also. It wasn't my best take ever, some guys showed me their safes before they died, and that was always useful. But two grand wasn't bad for one nights work.
I leave and exit the building through the back.