Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.
How horrible is that, to be twenty years old and wish you could just fast-forward your life?
Thursday night. The club is packed.
I do my stage set and a guy is throwing bills at me, fives and tens. I lower myself down from the pole, onto my knees, and crawl over to her. Remembering the last time, I swish my fake hair out of the way, gracefully flipping it over my shoulder, and lean in. I shimmy my shoulders, squeeze my boobs in her face, prop myself up on my elbows so she's facing my smooth flank to tuck a twenty into my G-string. I gather up the rest of the money and fold it behind the strap of my sandal, making sure to run my hand seductively up my leg, all the way to my crotch.
