After meatloaf supper at the local diner, Vixen sat in her rented room and looked at her bankbook. She had pretty much gone through the money she had earned making hard-core porn for her father as a teenager, but she had enough left from the summer job for her tuition and books and probably the rent until Christmas. It was going to be close.
She was going to need some income, money to run on. And for food and beer and stuff. She figured that she could live on less than five dollars a day if she was really frugal and stayed away from Starbucks and gas stations. She was glad she neither smoked nor drank, except an occasional beer. After Bud ate Rolling Rock she had switched to local brews including Yuengling which was cheap and other people's which was cheaper.
As she lay on her bed with her right hand teasing her protruding labia and studied the murky ceiling, she considered the choices. Far in the back of her mind she knew that, with a bit of effort, she could find a wealthy man or perhaps a group of men to feed, clothe and house her in return for sex. She really did not want that although the thought teased her from time to time, the thought of being "kept." After all, it was how she had spent the summer. Then the suicide of Taylor Wilkin's crossed her mind and she shivered.
Part-time work at school paid minimum wage and the employment opportunities in the area, except in the summer, were slim and none. Her daycare job had usually netted $50 or $60 a week depending on the hours she had free. But there were three nearby roadhouses out along the Atlantic City Expressway and all three featured dancers and strippers. Vixen was well aware that she had a killer body and plenty of energy. She decided to look into that job before she made any decisions. She had enjoyed displaying her body since she was very young.
Baring herself in public did not bother her, in fact, she often enjoyed the sensation she caused when she took off her clothes. She rolled over and just before she slept she decided to talk to the dean about scholarships. Her pussy quivered when she thought of the dean and his heavy phallus. Her middle finger was in to the knuckle as she closed her eyes.
Vixen had never danced professionally nor stripped except for fun, but she had talked with a number of young women who started that way and later found work with her father. They all had told her to avoid the "bring your own bottle" joints.
She dressed conservatively except for wearing four-inch heels and a push-up bra and visited the clubs, as they were called. Most looked like converted garages or machine shops. None of them was hiring but all three offered her time as a free-lancer, four short dances each hour for three hours at $25 per dance which meant $300 a night. The house fees varied from fifty to eighty dollars a night and all three places let girls keep whatever they made in tips for talking with customers or doing private dances. Lap dancing was not allowed, and dancers were supposed to supply their own music in CD form unless they wanted to use tracks from Gypsy. Tits could be bared but not pussies.
She asked about costumes and was given the e-mail address of places in Jersey City and New York. At each club she sat in her car until she saw a young woman coming to work and asked each a few questions. She decided to sign on at a low-roofed place called the Lazy Kitten for three nights a week, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. She figured she ought to be able to clear a $1,000 a week.
That Saturday Vixen got out her fuck-me heels, fishnet stockings and her Victoria's Secret underwear and then put on a short tartan wraparound skirt and a pleated blouse and dark blue blazer and went to work. The club allowed bare breasts but insisted on at least a g-string bottom and that was how Vixen worked using a Neal Hefti CD for music, music that was often drowned out by the whistles and howls of the audience as she shed her clothes nonchalantly and moved her lush, young body willfully. It took her a good five minutes to doff her blouse, button by button, but her skirt disappeared in five seconds.
"Whirly Bird" got them going and "Cute" brought down the house with many patrons throwing wadded up tens and twenties up on the tiny stage as Vixen gyrated in her V-string and bare buttocks, her big breasts moving in time with the drums as she leaned forward, smiling and licking her lips as salaciously as she could, hands on hips and everything moving with the music. She stretched. She writhed. She kicked and wrapped herself around the brass pole and then tit-fucked it lovingly.
She found it hard not to look at the eager faces before her and constantly reminded herself to smile, wondering what her old ballet teacher would think if she could see her now. She ended each dance down on her knees, arched back, hands well behind her, chin up and eyes closed, a pose she had seen on one of her father's WWII pin-ups. The applause was raucous.
After Vixen got her clothes back on she did some table-hopping and collected twenty dollars or more for each ten-minute visit with the middle-aged patrons, her blouse hanging loosely unbuttoned and her tiny skirt open on one side. By the time she quit at one in the morning and slid her aching feet into her sandals, she had made more than five hundred dollars, a thick wad of wrinkled cash. She paid the club owner and headed for her car.
Halfway across the parking lot a man approached, waved a sheaf of hundreds at her and propositioned her bluntly and in very coarse language. He was pretty drunk and smelled like a sewer. She tried to brush past and ignore him, but then saw there were several other man lounging against the back end of cars.