Page 33 of Shamed
Forcing myself to live like this is one thing, but being here mentally while doing it is another entirely.
I’m notreallyworking at one of the worst strip clubs in a terrible area as an exotic dancer, grinding on a stranger’s lap because I know that’s all I’m worth now. I’m lying in a hammock with the breeze blowing softly through my hair, ruffling the pages of my book as I turn them, a German Shepherd laying below where my toes lazily rub his fur . ..
The safety of my daydream bursts when the man gropes my ass cheek, causing me to jerk to my feet and spin around to face him.
I try settling my heart and will myself not to react too strongly.
“I’m sorry, but you can only touch the dancers onFeel-it Fridays, and only if the girl doesn’t mind.Otherwise, you are to keep your hands to yourself. Do you understand?”
It’s a joke, really, trying to give patrons of this place rules. Nevertheless, it’s attempted anyway, and giving them an option of touching one day a week usually works.
Thank goodness I don’t work on Fridays.
He raises both hands, palms outwards. “Sorry, sorry.”
We’re supposed to give everyone several chances before calling security for help.
But just like the rules, the bouncers here are just as much a joke and hardly intervene.
If someone does manage to get themselves thrown out for the night for not listening and obeying the rules, they often waltz right back inside the next day because security isn’t paying attention.
It’s mostly harmless touching that happens, a natural reaction to the desire we evoke in them, though some girls do get a little roughed-up occasionally.
Nodding, I settle onto his lap again, this time facing him with my knees bracketing his thighs, breasts in his face.
“What’s your name?” he asks my chest.
I hate it when they ask questions, because that means I have to be present instead of escaping into my mind. It means I teeter that much closer to the edge of a panic-induced breakdown—one I force myself to get close to every time I come here.
But a happy customer means they stay longer. They spend more. They leave bigger tips.
It means no trouble.
“JJ.”
“Like the letters?” For someone who didn’t want to have a conversation, he sure is chatty while I’m practically naked on top of him.
I keep my gaze fixed over his head. “Yes.”
“Is it short for something?”
“No.”
At least, not anything I’d tell him. JJ is my dance name, and that’s all he needs to know.
Jayne is the name I go by now, which is my middle name.
I ditched Jennifer two years ago and have tried hard to separate myself from the person I once was.
Jenniferwas the one who was assaulted.
Jenniferwas the one who never went forward when she found out the truth.
Jenniferis the fucking coward.
Not that changing my name really matters.
I’m still stuck with all the same terrible memories.
