the woman said, rubbing up against my oiled thighs, her hand searching for my sweet stick. She slipped a twenty in with the other bills that hung from that tiny piece of ropy fabric like palm leaf fronds. My g-string was an X-rated wallet. I was wearing more cash than I made from a single band performance most nights, and I’d only been stripping for fifteen minutes. That’s right. Stripping. Trevor caught my eye and gave me a look like a character in a Saw movie right before he was about to be eviscerated by set of electric hedge trimmers. Three women rubbed their hands over him like they were buffing a car hood. Fives and tens hung off his g-string, one twenty dollar bill plastered flat against his right buttock, curving to the concavity of his glutes as he moved and bent, legs muscles following the gyration of his hips as he danced. Or, at least, tried to dance. He really sucked. None of the women cared. At the end of the night, we’d count up our tips and if he made more money than me, I’d be ripshit pissed.
