Megan Fox sat in her hotel suite, alone. It was past midnight, and she'd just finished FaceTiming with her husband back home.
After unsuccessfully flicking through Netflix, she sauntered out onto the balcony, overlooking the alluring glow of West Hollywood. She knew this neighborhood; she'd been here countless times to shoot movies and visit the array of clubs, but these rarely appealed to her now she was married with two young sons.
Her current movie project was filming at a location nearby, and Megan had been put up in this gorgeous suite for a couple nights. She'd made use of the facilities, indulging in a luxurious bubble bath and polishing off the complimentary champagne.
Despite her wind-down session, and an impending day of shooting, she just couldn't get comfortable. Throwing on a black jersey maxi dress and hoodie with sandals and dark shades, she slipped out for a late night stroll.
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It was mild for a February night, but the champagne warmed Megan to her core. There weren't half as many people around as she had grown accustomed to. She could hear the buzz of Sunset Boulevard a few blocks away, and remembered what it was like to come here as a kid and try to sneak into the bars.
Over the years, she'd learnt to blend herself into the bustle of the general public and walk about unnoticed, but she wasn't worried tonight. Filming didn't commence until the morning, so nobody would expect her to be here. She savored the cool breeze, the peaceful swaying of palm trees as she wandered past row after row of moonlit condos.
Before long, Megan began recognizing houses. She was travelling north up Harper Avenue, her subconscious leading her somewhere she'd never dreamt she would return. The familiar lights flashed on the towering sign, reading "18 & over. Live Nude Girls Girls Girls". The Body Shop. The delicious, dirty hole of a strip club she'd frequented many a time as a rampant, giggling teenager.
She'd talked about this place in interviews, spilling about her foolish girl crush on a certain Russian dancer who went by the name of Nikita. The tabloids lapped it up, relishing the notion that Megan Fox indulged in a scandalous, passionate lesbian affair with a sexy stripper. They weren't wrong. The only issue was that it had all happened in Megan's mind, playing out like a movie as she willed Nikita to even glance in her direction.
Something clicked, and Megan realized she was coasting towards the entrance. A couple of older guys were smoking in the hallway, but they barely noticed her as she let curiosity guide her inside.
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For a midweek night, the place was pretty loud. Music blared as dozens of men lounged around in dimly lit booths, an assortment of scantily clad girls sitting in their laps and twirling around with trays of drinks. Megan's shades made it difficult to see, so she found a quiet corner where she could reflect on her surroundings in peace.
Not much had changed. Five or six dancers swung around elevated poles on separate, spot-lit stages in the center of the club, which was still adorned in cheap, sticky imitation velvet. The girls looked a lot younger than Megan recalled.
A pretty little thing in a PVC bikini took center stage, her petite body slamming against the floor in a rhythm so hypnotic that Megan forgot where she was for a moment. A waitress wandered past her, failing to notice her as she shrunk back into the darkness. Relaxing, Megan removed her hood and unzipped her sweatshirt, her luscious brunette locks falling down around her face.
Feeling the tacky heat against her bare chest, she was suddenly very aware of the fact she wasn't wearing a bra. As she watched the young blonde's hips swaying to the melody, Megan felt her nipples harden beneath her dress. She'd forgotten how erotic this was.
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From the corner of her eye, Megan spied a figure emerging from one of the private rooms, leading a flustered, shy-looking man by the hand back to his seat. Megan couldn't help but stare as the dancer, a tall beauty in a skin-tight silver dress with flowing blonde hair, leant in towards the man as he discreetly placed a wad of bills into her hand.
Megan watched as the skimpy material of the dancer's dress clung against her shapely, taut ass, her sky high heels accentuating her long, toned legs. Megan felt a twitch in her crotch as an air of familiarity encompassed her.
It can't be. Surely not? It's been over ten years...
Her eyes followed the dancer as she kissed the man on the cheek, and headed towards the stage, the other girls slowly dispersing as she approached. Megan felt her heart pacing in anticipation as the spotlights were replaced by deep, red mood lighting.
As a slow, sexy number erupted through the sound system, the dancer unzipped her dress, let it fall to the ground and allowed her body to melt into the pole, facing her dedicated audience. Megan felt every nerve in her body spark uncontrollably.
It is her. Nikita.
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As Megan gazed upon the woman she'd once spent months lusting after, she remembered how it felt a decade ago.
She'd sit at the bar by herself, in a tight fitting strappy dress, applying lipgloss as she waited for some sleazy old guy to buy her a vodka soda. She would smile and flirt for a few minutes in return, but her attention was always firmly directed at the mesmerizing blonde on the stage.
Nikita was a talented dancer; she could charm a snake with her perfectly toned, flexible body. Her thick, blonde curls cascaded down her back like a river of honey, framing her diamond shaped face with its strong yet feminine jawline and stunning, crystal blue eyes.
