After all, he'd been stuffing a dollar bill into my almost sheer bra. The second time, however, the bastard actually squeezed one of my boobs. “Ricky!” I yelled over the music. A massive man with no neck, and arms the size of my thighs lumbered over. I never knew how he heard us over the pounding bass, but Ricky never missed one of us girls calling for help. “All right, buddy.” He grabbed the guy by the scruff of the neck and gave me a nod as he dragged the drunk away. I made a mental note to thank Ricky after my set was done and then went back to shaking my tits and ass. That's what this was, after all. It wasn't dancing, not for real. It was getting away with pasties and g-string instead of full nudity just so I could call it exotic dancing rather than stripping. It was a thin line, I knew, but it helped me look at myself in the mirror with a tiny bit less disgust. As I peeled off the last item of my clothing – my barely-there bra – I heard the familiar cat-calls as my breasts came into view.
