B J v1.2

She said it stood for, Bella Jean. I thought that was pretty creative.

“You’re hot…” She whispered intention into my ear.

“That’s what my wife says.” I said, emotionless.

I wasn’t married. I didn’t have a wife. But I had to pretend like I did. Working at a strip club, The Glass Stiletto, I had to keep my lies straight. That’s what Rick taught me.

“…and most importantly, never, ever, under any circumstance, let them know anything real about you.” Rick advised me on my first day as club manager. “Or they’ll eat you alive.”

“So I got to lie?” I asked, innocently.

“Yeah, Xavier.” Said Rick. “If you want to survive.”

I kept that in mind. Rick was a good friend. A friend who has been an industry club manager for over five years. He was looking out for me. So I listened.

I was Xavier De Los Santos, part-Pilipino, part-Spanish, part-Black, part-Cherokee. I owned a house in Alhambra with my wife, Anna Lisa Kristina and my two children, Xavier Jr., and Stephanie Jane. We had a dog, a cat, and two cars. I played poker on the weekends, watched a lot of basketball, and taught my kids how to swim. I didn’t do drugs, I drank socially, and smoked cigarettes.

In reality, I was part nothing except full Pilipino. I rented a room in a house with three other roommates in South Pasadena. I didn’t have kids. I had no dog, was allergic to cats, and drove a 2000 Toyota Echo. I played poker once a year, watched a lot of talk shows, and didn’t like to swim. I experimented with drugs daily, drank excessively, and smoked cigarettes.

But they didn’t need to know that.

“In all honestly, Xavier,” Rick plainly said. “the more you separate your real self from your Glass Stiletto self the better.”

“How come?” I asked. “I can’t be myself?”

Rick looked at me, concerned. “No. You can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ll get you. They’ll manipulate you, they’ll take advantage of you, and then you’ll get fired.”

I Looked at Rick. Before I could question anything, he voiced, “Listen, Xavier. This ain’t no insurance company, like where Oliver works. It ain’t a call center, like where Jack works. And it sure as hell ain’t like the packing place where Corn works. This is a strip club, my friend. The Glass Stiletto. Naked chicks and a shit load of money.

“People who work here are fucked in the head. All of them. All of us. We got to be. We’re lying to people all the time, getting money for it. We’re telling the girls they’re beautiful and then the next minute we’re telling to dry hump a stranger. We’re telling the douche bags who pay to come in here, these girls actually like getting groped and treated like animals. We’re telling the cops, the city, the government, that we run a respectable business. We’re constantly perpetuating lies so that we can make some dough. That’s pretty fucked in the head, in my opinion.

“So, in order for you to not completely lose it, you got to pretend you’re someone else. That’s what the girls do. That’s what we need to do. Otherwise, you’re just going to go fucking crazy. Literally.”

Rick was a good friend. I trusted him. He was trying to help me.

I just didn’t know what he was talking about. That was, until BJ got me.

White girl. Shoulder length, dark, blonde hair. Thin and curvy. Natural body. The kind designed for teasing. Lips made for kissing. A smile intoxicating. And eyelash cages.

“You’re hot…” She whispered intention into my ear.

“That’s what my wife says.” I said, emotionless.

As I leaned against the bar, asking the waitress if we were good on sodas, BJ pressed her body against my back, and wrapped her lithe arms around me. Her traveling hands played with my shirt collar, my tie, and the beginnings of my neck. Her soft, perky breasts, challenging my shoulders. Her soft lips traced the outline of my earlobe. She was so close to me. She smelled like body heat and expensive perfume.

“What a lucky girl…” she meowed.

“I’m the lucky one…” I said, struggling to remain emotionless. I motioned for the waitress to give me an answer about the sodas. She gave me a thumbs up and a quaint smile.

That’s when BJ’s hands grabbed my belt. And when she nibbled my ear. And then breathed into my neck, “I have a surprise for you…”

It felt like a drug. Almost falling into another kind of consciousness. A numb vulnerability. An acceptance of oblivion.

Then she let go of me.

I quickly turned, doing my best to compose myself, putting the emotionless mask back on, the one that she destroyed seconds earlier. Struggling to not fall in love with how she bit her lip, I replied, “What is it? You’re going to work Monday?”

She licked her lips into a devilish smile. Used her hands to trace the shadows of her collarbone. “Just watch.” she said. And then, slowly, sexily, strolled towards the stage.

I stared. Couldn’t help it. Her pleated mini-skirt. Her black bra framed by the white, button-up shirt, tied in knot right above her navel. Thigh-high boots practically painted on her perfectly sculpted legs.

I could feel my resistance melting, my conviction dissolving. I felt completely helpless.

She won. I was hers.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, coming up to the stage next, I just gotta say, you’re in for a hell of treat!” the DJs, husky, quick, rhythmic, voice barked over the speaker system as the bass-filled music subdued. “She just graduated from high school, my friends! Last week! She’s here now, tonight, to show all of you what she’s learned! Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the lovely…BJ!”

The lights dimmed as the sultry, soft, Portishead song smoked through the club.  Two cross spotlights, one red, the other amber, covered the stage. The soft fog from the fog machines blanketed the otherworldly stage. All eyes were on BJ. She entered the red and amber world. This was her element. She was a goddess. This was where she had complete control.

Her body moved in sync with the song. Slowly. Sensually. Subtly. She smoothed across the stage, stretching her legs, tracing the definition with her delicate fingertips. Her whole body was one sexual angle sequenced after another timed to the feelings of the song. Every single seductive sound that penetrated the soul, she perfectly promoted, physically.

I was lost in her dance. I forgot who I was. I forgot where I was. All that mattered was the hope she would never, ever stop.

She sank to the stage floor, her hair cascading in front of her face. Through those golden waterfalls, she looked directly at me. And smiled a smile that captured me. She crawled towards the edge of the stage, using the song’s rhythm to trap me. She writhed, pulsated, bent, curved, slinked, and slithered, never once breaking her snare upon me.

By the end of the first song, I was hers, exclusively.

By the end of the night, I was hers, financially.

It was 4 in the morning. All the girls had left. All the waitresses, the security, the DJ, the customers, everyone was gone. It was just me, the money, the cameras, and BJ. In my office. Bright, fluorescent lights, ashtray, and lit cigarettes.

She took an inhale of her cigarette. “So can I work Saturday and Sunday night?” She said in a squeaky voice. I was oblivious to her matter-of-fact tone, to her UCLA sweatshirt, to her pony-tail, and glasses. In my mind, she was still the naughty school girl encased in red and amber lights.

“You can have whatever you want…” I whispered. And fumbled with the money, my mind swirling with thoughts of golden hair brushing my chest.

She smiled. Accomplished. “Thanks, babe. you’re the best.” And she leaned across my desk and kissed me on my cheek.

“Say, Xavier.” She began, opening up her purse. “I was wondering if I could get 100% instead of the usual 60%. I didn’t do so hot tonight.” She put on the practiced pout. Which I thought was sincere. Because I was an idiot.

“Sure. Anything you want…” I said, under her voodoo.

And I handed her $2045.

She grabbed it, quickly placed the money into her purse, and walked out of the office. As she turned the corner, she yelled, “I’ll see you Saturday!”

The next day, I got a phone call from Rick.

All I could do was say, “I know…”