When I step into the dimly lit hallway, I swallow hard on the nerves spinning in my stomach.
Am I really going to do this?
What choice do I have? It’s either this or sleeping on the streets. If I get a regular job, I’ll have to wait a month before I get paid, whereas I’ll get tips as soon as I strip.
When I picture myself taking my clothes off in a room full of men, an anxious snort escapes me, quickly followed by the urge to ugly cry.
I’m still trying to come to terms with the absolute horrific turn my life has taken and don’t know if I can deal with stripping for money.
Jesus. I have no choice.
My anxiety keeps increasing as I follow the old man to a backstage area where easily twenty women are getting ready to bare it all.
One of the first things I notice is that most of them have killer bodies and curves in all the right places with tiny waists and long legs that seem to go on forever. Their breasts look way too perfect to be natural.
I watch as they slip into skin-tight dresses, lace bodysuits, and scraps of fabric that barely qualify as clothing. Cleavage spills over necklines, heels add inches to already endless legs, and every one of them looks confident enough to own the room.
Sweet Jesus, I stick out like a sore thumb.
“Get ready and wait your turn,” the old man grumbles before walking away.
Ready?
I don’t own anything seductive enough for a strip show.
Well, besides underwear, but I don’t think plain cotton bras and panties are going to cut it.
My heart keeps thundering in my chest as I slowly make my way to an open spot at the dressing table framed by big bright bulbs.
I open my suitcase and pull out the plastic bag containing my makeup and toiletries.
When I saw how haphazardly Amanda packed my belongings like they were nothing but trash, it made me see red, but I had bigger worries than going over to Austin’s place and smacking the shit out of her.
I sneak a glance at the other women, trying to gauge how they applied their makeup before I get to work.
A man comes in with a clipboard and starts taking down everyone’s names. When I’m last to give mine, I say a little prayer that it means I’ll also be last to strip. “First five are up,” he calls out while pointing at five women.
Shit!
I hurry with my makeup, but instead of turning myself into a sultry stripper, I keep looking more and more clownish.
My hands begin to tremble as my nerves spiral out of control, and when a tear escapes, I swipe it away with my fingers, smearing the powder and foundation.
Get a hold of yourself, Laurie.
Trying to turn myself into a carbon copy of the other women only makes me look like a kid who got into her mother’s makeup bag.
With a frustrated groan, I grab a handful of tissues and start wiping everything off. Foundation disappears first, then the heavy eye shadow and too-bright lipstick.
Once my face is clean again, I put on makeup the way I always do, a little foundation, mascara, some blush, and lip gloss.
My eyes drift to the tiny scraps of fabric scattered around the room, and my stomach twists.
Nope. I can’t walk out there in my bra and panties.
My pulse races faster and faster as I glance down at my jeans and plain white T-shirt.
While the other women all look sexy and confident, I look like I took a wrong turn on the way to the grocery store.