Fantasies and Nightmares

The calluses on Gina’s palms flickered odd colors as the ambient lights strobed above. She thought she might be dreaming, though she wasn’t sure why. The moment the notion crossed her mind, she forgot why she thought it in the first place.

A cavernous festival raged beyond the door at her feet. Just like every other night. It didn’t bug her so much anymore. The dim light masked what might be seen otherwise.

No one cared if you felt broken. No one cared that they themselves might be broken. For those few hours, everything was a blur. And that was okay.

A friend had gotten her into this line of work. Well, a friend of a friend. It was good money. Easy money. Free drinks. Good exercise. Better than working at a gas station, and definitely better than kissing some douchebag-with-mommy-issues’ ass while she pretended to be his secretary.

And there was always the chance some millionaire might stumble into his feelings one night. Or so the other dancers squawked to each other between outfit changes. They were fools to think it—to think that Prince Charming would be caught dead in their little hole in the wall. Still, a girl had to have dreams. Even so, the ones who gave in to that delusion usually ended up shattered.

Gina grew numb to it after a while. New girls came. After a few nights they would leave, most times with a shiny new handy-dandy drug problem. The ones that stuck around usually had mouths to feed.

The pace of the club seemed to have picked up over the last hour or so. Probably a few regulars out there. Those were probably the most dangerous. Smooth talkers. Big spenders. Always with the same ‘let’s make a deal attitude’, all behind the shit-eating grin of a pseudo-car salesman.

“Oh, baby, you’re so beautiful. Let me buy you a drink. Let me take you home. If you were my woman, you’d never have to take your clothes off for money.”

Or.

“Hey sexy, you interested in making some real money. You wanna see what it feels like to be with a real man. I know a couple of ‘em looking for a private show. The money’s great. That is, if you aren’t scared.”

Blah. Blah. Fucking Blah. Bitch please.

It got to the point where she intentionally forgot faces. Forgot names. There was always someone new, ready to invest. So what was the point in even pretending to be attached? Or interested for that matter.

Her thoughts trailed as she pushed through the dressing room door. After her first week, she had mastered the art of flipping that little switch in her brain. The one that made it seem like she cared about the drunk men ogling her body. The one that prevented them from seeing just how monotonous this had become for her.

Confidence was key. More important maybe was the smile she plastered across her face. Make-up helped, but after a few hours it probably wouldn’t have mattered much anyway.

Gina strode through the club like the beaming faerie they believed her to be. A smile for any who noticed. Otherwise, they were all a blur to her. The blaring music made it hard to catcall, and for that she was thankful.

Most in attendance were already preoccupied with private dances. That meant she might have to spend extra time on stage tonight. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t the quick and easy way to pay her rent. Rent she was still a few hundred short of, plus utilities. Good money, my ass.

And she wouldn’t be selling that any time soon either.

She had already made three quarters of a circle around the stage when a leg propped up in front of her. You! The decision on whether he was cute or not was still up in the air. Plenty were cute. Some were even downright gorgeous. Those types were really only after a mindless fucktoy though, and that she could never be.

But this one was a little strange. He came to the club often and spent most of the night drinking with friends. He didn’t grope the girls. Sometimes he didn’t even seem interested at all. Through the rumor mill, the worst she had heard was ‘he’s a bit of an asshole.’ That and—if he liked the dancer—he would buy drinks and dances all night.

When she smiled, he returned it with enthusiasm. Almost too cute. And he was alone. Even better. This lion had yet to be claimed for the night, which worked out from an ethical standpoint as well as a mental one.

“Hey you,” she said as she plopped herself next to him in the booth.

He leaned forward and they hugged. A simple thing, but— A little affection now and again went a long way in this line of work. She did, however, allow herself to enjoy the luxury of his strong arms wrapped around her. The faint scent of cologne masked by the bouquet of a since smoked cigarette. The hand between her shoulder blades, dissected by the strap of her bikini top. Even the way he inhaled her perfume almost felt…natural.

They broke the hug, but he stayed close enough to speak into her ear. “Found any new victims for the night?”

“I thought I just did.” As she pulled away, she let her fingers trail along his neck. He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. That was good.

Some of the regulars—the more conscious ones—knew there was a game being played.