An Erotic Fantasy For Strippers

Once upon a time in the near future, there was a young woman named Irene. She was not especially unique in any way. She lived alone in a cozy little apartment in Inglewood with two gray cats. Irene was a stripper, and had been dancing for a few years at the time when this story begins, at a little club on the edge of town. One day, Irene decided she was tired of dancing every night. It had been a good run, and she had made many close friends along the way and put away a considerable amount of savings she hoped to one day invest in a little piece of property inland, maybe in Riverside, maybe Indio if she could find a spot she liked. She decided to apply for a position with a realty firm nearby. She wrote up her application, and at the top she listed “Dancer/Stripper” along with the time she had spent dancing and her vital statistics of her average annual yield, how much she made for the club and how much she managed to make from customers in tips. The numbers were quite impressive, noted the representative interviewing her.

“On any given night, approximately how many customers were you interacting with?” he asked.

“Usually between twenty and forty.” she replied.

“That must have taken quite a lot of confidence and initiative. And about how many people would purchase dances with you on average?” he asked.

“It varied quite a bit,” she gazed upwards, counting internally, “but I would typically dance with eight to fifteen people.”

“Great, so an average of about a third to a half. We like those numbers. Lastly, why do you think you deserve this job more than our other candidates?”

She considered the question and chose her words thoughtfully.

“I have a wide breadth of experience in sales handling clients from a variety of demographics monetarily and otherwise, and due to my history of success in making sales at many price points, I believe I am exceptionally qualified to utilize these skills and learn the new skills necessary to become a successful realtor.” She hoped she had articulated what she had intended properly, but steadied her face into her practiced expression of confident ease. The interviewer shuffled his paperwork as she waited, intentionally breathing deeply to slow her rapidly beating heart.

“I can see you are a very qualified candidate, and from speaking to you just now, I’m confident you would be an excellent fit for our firm.”

She smiled brightly in spite of her effort to contain her excitement.

“Of course, I’ll have to consult the other partners before I finalize this decision, but I’ll let you know now that for me, it’s a yes, Ms. Thompson.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Pierce!” she stood and shook his hand so ebullient she was afraid she might float away.

----

Irene left the office with plenty of time to make her physical therapy appointment at noon. She had purchased a specialty health plan for sex workers which included among other things, physical therapy with a copay of only $30 per session. Her therapist worked with dancers and other people who received sports related injuries. Irene received regular knee tissue massages and compresses, and practiced spinal alignment exercises with the gentle guidance of her therapist, Babatunde, who had worked with many other dancers before and was well acquainted with the injuries she had incurred on the job. She left the physical therapy session feeling relaxed and confident she had received quality care.

----

After her appointment, she realized she had gotten a call from her prospective boss. Her heart quickened. Was it a call to let her down or was she getting offered the position? She dialed their number and held her breath.

“Hello, who is this?” the voice on the other end of the line asked tersely.

“It’s Ms. Thompson. I was returning--”

“Ah yes, Ms. Thompson! This is Debra Wheeling. Congratulations, we would like to offer you the position. We have some paperwork we will be sending you as soon as we receive your confirmation.”

“Thank you so much Ms. Wheeling. I am so excited for this opportunity to work for your firm.” she said, beaming from ear to ear.

“Glad to hear it. Expect an email in the next hour with the final details.”

“I will.” Irene assured her.

“Congratulations again, and have a great day.”

“Thank you so much again, and I will!” Irene jumped for joy, startling an elderly couple leaving the therapy center, but her positivity could not be contained.

---

Since Irene hadn’t been sure she would get the job offer, she had scheduled herself for the weekend shift at her home club. It was a cheerful little spot, cooperatively owned by herself and the other dancers. They all voluntarily contributed 20% of their earnings to paying security, the DJ’s, and bartenders as well as overhead costs for the building, then kept the other 80% for themselves. Irene loved her club, and the many dancers she worked with and had grown to love as real friends. Together they had purchased an old club from the bygone era when clubs were owned by men who had never danced a day in their lives and knew nothing about the concerns of the strippers who ran their clubs. The co-op had renovated the place and fitted the stages with a soft yet durable mat material, like the kind people use to outfit offices where people have to stand all day. The mat was a shiny silver that reflected in the glowing LED lights and was both beautiful and utilitarian. The number of knee-related injuries declined substantially, which lowered the cost of the employee health plan deductible they could all opt into. Irene was sad to leave, after all they had accomplished, but like most Gen Z’ers she wanted to live a fulfilled life and didn’t want to remain stagnant, only ever trying one occupation in her whole life. She wanted to explore, which meant leaving her home club. On her final night, the DJ stopped the music while she was on stage and announced it was her final night, his voice cracked as he informed the club she would be leaving after four years of service. All of her friends came up to the stage and threw money at her, and one of the bouncers brought out a carrot cake that said, “Goodbye Sweetie” in cream cheese icing. She was overwhelmed, and cried with gratitude. Irene was moving on, but she knew she would never forget her experiences in this place, and intended to continue writing “Stripper” on her resumes because she knew how much she had learned and how vital her time had been. She hugged everyone, and ate her cake as everyone celebrated her, and she celebrated herself.