no one spreads dirt on me like I do

“It’s crazy here,” he said, leaning his head to get a full view of the club. His eyes shot up to the camera above us, “I bet they’re broadcasting us right now.”

I looked up at the blinking red light of the security camera, winking at me from its corner. While it seemed like a very risky concept from the standpoint of a million and one liability issues, I couldn’t say the idea hadn’t crossed my mind. What if my bosses were storing the particularly graphic footage on some remote drive? How long did the feed remain stored? Who was in charge of the feed? I was equally curious who spent time watching the feed. Was it open season for any bouncer or floater with a bit of down time? Did managers watch the cameras as they counted money and handled paperwork? Did everyone know who the “dirty” girls were? Was there some sort of code they communicated via walkie-talkie to let male staff know some XXX material was going down in one of the booths? I wouldn’t be surprised if any of those scenarios turned out to be the case. I imagined there was at least some rumor mill-like spreading of spicy tidbits among management. I had no doubt my boss had dirt on me, but luckily, no one spreads dirt on me like I do.

“I’m pretty sure they’re not. They would be breaking all sorts of sex trafficking laws.”

“Yeah… that’s true.” he trailed off, “Do they all watch the cameras?”

“I don’t know. Probably. The feed goes up to the office. I’ve seen it.”

“I bet they’re all watching us now,” he chuckled ominously, “This place is weird.”

“Is it?”

Jamie craned his neck, looking toward the door. I followed his gaze, unsure of what he was looking at.

“They’re coming,” he announced.

I hadn’t seen any movement, but I stood and peeked through the curtains. The club was mostly empty and the handful of bouncers working were all present and accounted for. If anyone was watching, it was a lone manager, likely beating off between counting bills.

“I don’t see anybody coming,” I assured him.

“Do you trust this place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Trust.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I “trust” my club. I trust my club to do certain things under certain circumstances. I generally trust them to turn a blind eye to drug use and strippers performing extras, given an adequate nightly bribe. I trust them to be bastards who will sexually harass me in one breath and shake me down for tips in the next. I trust them to have shady dealings with all the necessary players: the local government, cops, organized crime groups running the neighborhood. I trust them to have a degree of hubris in their dealings that leaves them vulnerable.

“You know…” he said, scanning the club still.

“They’re going to leave us alone. You tipped Axel so much, there’s no way anybody is going to come in without knocking first.”

“What about cops?”

“We pay off the cops and the city. We’re “Silver Tier Donors”. I’ve been to a city brunch, and they know us. They say we “add beauty” to city affairs. Their wives don’t like us too much, though.”

“That’s funny,” he let out a whispering chuckle, “So you think it’s safe?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

He, a high-roller customer, would be fine. I, a lone stripper, might not.

He fished the little baggie from its hiding place between the couch cushions, and continued shoveling snow, inhaling it with hardly any sound. I’ve watched my share of coke heads get high over the years, and usually they do it with a special sort of flare. If they’re doing drugs with a stripper, they sure as shit want to snort drugs off of her tits or ass. They snort loudly, with gusto and flick their tongues out to lick whatever trace amounts they might have missed. Jamie huddled over in a corner and gave me a look that asked me to block the sightline from the security camera. He didn’t look at my naked body hovering over him, all he cared about was doing drugs as quickly and discreetly as possible.

I didn’t quite know what to do. Jamie’s eyes darted around constantly, looking in every direction except mine. Normally, when I’m with a client, I can sense some degree of connection. Even when they’re timid, their bodies respond to my touch, or they inspect my body as they avert their gaze. This was not the case with Jamie. It was almost as if he didn’t see me, and yet I was sitting in front of him, naked as the day I was born. He had also tipped me a generous amount, which typically signaled wanting something off the vanilla menu. A sizable tip either means the person wants extras or they want the ultimate extra: my real-adjacent affection. He and I had briefly discussed what was on my extras list downstairs, and though he had been disappointed that I did not provide vaginal or oral sex, he hadn’t gotten hung up on it. As I sat watching him case out the club, I couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted to get out of this moment. What was the extra he wanted me to provide?

I felt uncomfortable sitting idle, considering how much he was paying me per minute. Perhaps he just didn’t know me well enough. Maybe we needed to establish more of a rapport before he could let himself indulge in touch.

“You said you’re from Florida?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, finally turning to look at me.

“What part?”

“Close to Miami.”

“Ah! You go to the Miami clubs?”

“I’ve been to most of them.”

“Miami has that special hybrid dance club/strip club thing.”

“Yeah… It’s not my favorite. They’re not for everybody.”

“Do you have a favorite club?”

“Clear Heels, it’s… uh… quieter.”

“I prefer a quieter club too.”

Jamie’s eyes had returned to searching the club for possible threats. To be fair, I could understand why the particular booth we’d chosen might be distracting. Most of the walls consisted of one-way glass, and there was a mirror on one side of the couch, reflecting our image onto tinted glass. The variety of lights creating a show for the stage flickered around us as if dancing. Maybe it was an issue of too much visual stimuli? Maybe he would do better in one of the fully closed off booths? If he bought another dance, I decided we would switch to a more remote booth, both for his sake and for the sake of my own personal experiment.

“You know, I can give you a lap dance, right?” I asked, pointedly.

He nodded at me.

“But I’m not going to force it on you if you don’t want it. We can just talk if that feels better for you. Whatever you’re comfortable with…”

It felt like I was equivocating, and maybe I was, but I wanted to get any reaction from him–negative or positive.

“Sure. You can do that,” he replied robotically.

It wasn’t an enthusiastic, “Come over here!” but it was what I got. Jamie made no move to accommodate me in his lap. He sat up straight with his legs stretched out in front of him on the couch. He continued looking around as I awkwardly maneuvered myself on top of him. He was so slight, it was almost hard to find enough lap to sit on. My knees protested, but I played it off, attempting to grind to the best of my ability. I felt as though I was pinning him down as he leaned to the side of me, attempting to maintain his sight line. I hugged him close and slid a hand up his shirt. He made no move to touch me, and as soon as I moved my hand off of his stomach, he slid his shirt back down to cover any exposed skin. If anything, it seemed that the exchange was unpleasant for him, and yet he didn’t resist.

“Is this okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okee…”

“Can I unzip your pants?”

“Sure.”

Under his dark jeans was a pair of black boxer briefs. I felt around, not expecting much. It wasn’t that I expected him to have a small dick, I just didn’t expect him to be hard considering how much coke he was doing. It happens to the longest of schlongs–to most average of packages. Even show-ers become shrinkers. I finally found two lumps I took to be his balls and searched upward. The skin was soft, pliant. I rubbed and rubbed, and nothing. I rubbed some more, feeling a bit of wetness, and a slight something.

My heart leapt with excitement: Was I about to witness a micropenis?! I’ve seen maybe one before, but years ago. Micropenises are a rare event, even at the strip club. I like to think of them as a delicacy–a treat to those able to appreciate the variety of permutations genitals manifest, and boy do I love variety!