Marjam Ch 01

I felt a knot in my stomach like I had never felt before. It's not as if I was about to go on stage for the first time. I had been working as a stripper for four months, and enjoyed the work. This night was different though. I would be working a new club and my boyfriend of nine months was going to be in the audience. I say "nine months" but we've spent the last seven of them apart, and our status was a little unclear at that moment. He didn't know I was going to be there. He didn't know I was an exotic dancer. A stripper. A pole dancer. He would never, in a million years, expect me to walk out on that stage. I was kind of counting on that, actually. I had convinced myself that he wouldn't recognize me. Now I wasn't so sure...I was afraid that I might be in for a very awkward moment.

I knew, intellectually, that I didn't resemble the Amanda of seven months ago. I had lost thirty-five pounds. I was toned. Before he had left I had already been spending my days at the gym, and had dropped three dress sizes during the time we were dating. But the last four months had been a headlong pursuit of sex appeal, fueled by my nightly stripping. Recently, my headlong pursuit had gone into overdrive. In a panic that Max might recognize me, I went on a weekend-long makeover/spending spree with Shelly, one of the girls from work. We flew to Vegas and went to all the places where the showgirls get their "work" done. Shelly got a tanning treatment, I got this skin-lightening treatment that hid all of my freckles and gave me a complexion the color of porcelain. I went platinum blonde and got these amazing showgirl extensions, thick, cascading blonde ringlets down to my ass. I got a temporary tattoo on my lower back, a "tramp stamp" in the colloquial.

Onstage, I felt protected, confident, and the master of my own illusion. By then I had realized how the stage and the bright spotlights, although designed to utterly expose you to the audience, actually serve to obscure you. When you're up there, no one can see you clearly, because the audience is mostly primed to suspend disbelief. They are paying for a fantasy, and they want to make you the object of their fantasy. It doesn't matter how beautiful you are in objective terms, but how willing you are to play along. You get their attention by flaunting yourself shamelessly, yet remaining unavailable. You win them over by rewarding them with a glance, a movement, or a smile. In other words, you show them attention.

As I've slimmed down and simultaneously gotten better at dancing, I seem to be winning more and more people over. Without being conventionally pretty, I seem to have a lot of strip club-patron appeal. I look young (I can pass for 15), exotic (pale and blonde with Asian-looking eyes), and voluptuous (more hourglassy that wineglassy these days). My biggest night, I played a "busty-Asian-schoolgirl," otherwise known as "stripper-marketing-genius."

I was really self-conscious about it at first. I'm not the kind of girl who's used to getting a lot of attention from men. I'm short, and have been overweight since age 11. I had an extraordinarily awkward phase, which lasted until I was 17. I was less than five feet until then. I managed to be overweight, flat chested, and acne-ridden all at the same time. I didn't get my period until 14 and didn't get all me pubic hair until 15. When my breasts finally came, at 16, they exploded, leading to endless bra-buying misery and making me look heavier.

In college I started going to the gym to lose weight, and it was there I started taking cardio-striptease. I was shocked at first to find myself learning how to ride a pole and "thread the needle" (a move where you bend over and thrust your ass out as if you're asking to be fucked from behind, and then reach back between your legs.) But I was good at it and became friends with the instructor, who invited me along to her other job the Squire, and she eventually got me up onstage as a way to boost my self-esteem.

This was around the time I met Max. He never knew about the stripping but I was feeling better about myself than I ever had and it showed. He was a grad student in my field, ten years older than me, and we hit it off instantly. We stayed up all night talking, mostly about our work and future careers. Nine months ago, we kissed for the first time. For two months we fooled around. Seven months ago he got a job as an advisor to the President of a newly independent former Soviet Republic, and he's been there ever since.

Max wrote me, a week ago; to tell me he might be traveling to the States. I asked him when he was coming home. He said he didn't know. But Max's best friend, Saul, knew. He told me that Max was flying into DC and would be attending a bachelor party for his Boss's son. I asked him where the bachelor party was being held. He to told me he promised not to tell, but eventually he disclosed that the party would be dropping by "the highest-end, most exclusive gentlemen's club on the east coast." A little bit of Internet research yielded a club called Maryam.

Maryam was miles away from the gaudy, chrome-and mirror décor of the Squire. It was all sumptuous Victorian wood paneling, draped in velvet, with a theatre-in-the-round type stage with footlights, curtains, and scenery. I'm told they do everything from campy burlesque to live sex shows. I'm also told that the raunchier the show, the higher the echelon of Washington society will be in attendance.

Maryam was so classy that, I have to admit that I, Ivy League student that I am, felt a little out of place there. I'd changed a lot from the mousy honor student of seven months ago. One could even say I fit in very well at the Squire, because I looked like well-fed porn star. This is not to say I was chubby, at all; my waist was only 26 inches. My boobs, however, were disproportionately large and made me look fat in street clothes. As I lost weight, my boobs continued to fill out, to a 34DDD, E, or EE bra, depending on where I buy it. I usually wear minimizer bras, but they tend to spread the volume around, so that you look kind of barrel-chested. When your bust is that big, it makes you look heavier than you are, so a lot of people a school haven't noticed the change that have been going on underneath my baggy sweaters and jeans.

Before I walked into Maryam I felt like I was incognito, in gigantic sunglasses and heavy makeup, protected by my "stripper" persona. Once inside, I felt a little foolish. I was met by an elegant woman in her late twenties who looked at me like she saw right through me. I felt like apologizing on the spot, explaining that this wasn't really "me," that I'm not really a stripper, and that I'm sorry if I put them in a bind but that I don't really do this sort of thing. I was scared to turn back, though, so I stuck with the script.

"Hello," She said, extending her hand, "and welcome."

I took her hand, a little awkwardly, and did a little, genuinely nervous curtsey. "How do you do." I managed to squeak.

"I'm Amy, the stage manager. Would you like me to call you 'Princess' or...."

"Sure, that's what they call me." I said, giggling nervously.

"Well then, let me show you around. Then we can rehearse your piece."

"Um, rehearse?" I asked.

She smiled. "You might find this to be a little different than the work you've done before. We want you for your dancing skills, but I'd also like to see if you can act. Have you ever worked in the theater before?"

" Errrmm...a school play?"

"I think every performer has a bit of the showman inside of them. Lets you and me see if we can tease it out, shall we?"

Four hours later, and there I sat with the knot in my stomach, on a high stool, in the dressing room, being attended to by a makeup girl and a costumer. The program for the evening was a wild fantasy night, with live sex acts. Since I would be doing a solo piece that meant I was supposed to get off onstage. I was assured that I could incorporate my usual dancing, but there would have to be a little more theatricality, and, if I had trouble having an orgasm onstage, some very realistic simulated masturbation would be called for. They'd given me some aphrodisiac tea to help me get in the mood, and I sipped as the stagehands did their magic.

And magic it was. I was utterly unrecognizable. I was wearing what could be described as a burlesque version of a Cinderella dress. It was knee-length, was made of white satin with powder-blue trim, and was generally as frilly and girly as a dress could be. The bodice tightly covered my bust, and had a small pink bow right at the neckline. I had another huge bow tied around my waist, which trailed down the back of my skirt. Underneath I wore a poofy ballerina-like petticoat, a white garter belt with stockings, and a tiny wisp of a lacy thong. I had also been laced into a corset, which cinched my waist to about 22 inches, and the dress was high waisted and fitted to show off the effect. The corset dramatically enhanced by breasts, which were supported by a shelf that pushed them up from below, so they had nowhere to go but up. My new 'do was piled high atop my head, and cascaded down my back in silver ringlets. I had been thoroughly made up. My lips and nipples had been painted hot pink against my alabaster skin, and I wore glittery blush on my cheeks, and thick false eyelashes.

Amy gasped when she saw me. The effect was indeed arresting. I looked like a pornographic babydoll, expressionistic and strangely elegant.

"Princess, did get a look at yourself?" Amy asked, genuinely excited. "You look amazing. How do you feel?"

"Nervous."

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I was about to faint out of fear. The stranger and more cartoonish I started to look, the more afraid I became of being recognized. Of course, this was exactly what I wanted. And therein lies the dilemma. The higher I flew, the farther I had to fall, I realized. If Max recognized me, he would be horrified.

Amy sat down next to me and looked me in the eye.

"Listen, I know who you are. I know that you're not like most strippers, that you have a high IQ and go to an Ivy-League college. You come from a high-powered, successful and loving family and you've never been able to express your sexuality until now. I don't really care about any of that. It's not important.

"I care about my work. And you're perfect for it. Do you know why? Because you're a show-off. An exhibitionist. Being onstage isn't a hustle for you; it makes you feel sexy and that feeling can be very powerful. You need to unleash that tonight. I knew from the picture you sent me that you'd please at least some of the patrons. I knew that you'd be, at least, great eye-candy from the stage. I didn't know you'd play the part so well. I want you to do a good job tonight more than anything."

"Thank you." I said.

"Don't thank me yet. You could flop. You could embarrass both of us. You could get distracted and self-conscious and end up forcing yourself to go through the motions. You could make people wonder who you are and what you're doing onstage."

I nodded, listening intently.

"Listen, I'm not trying to scare you, I'm just telling you the truth. You think that all the showgirl accoutrements disguise who you are, but they don't. Sitting here face to face I see a mousy, insecure girl who puts on airs of indifference and politeness so no one will notice her. And you know what? It works. I don't notice you! You look like the fat girl at the prom that has no date. What I mean is, you're trying to make sure everyone else is having a good time and not feeling sorry for you. The clothes, the makeup, the dancing...it's all just an effort to blend in."

I felt a little ashamed, and a little indignant. Who did she think she was? But I couldn't argue with her. I was happy just to be pulling this off, happy for the tips and the compliments. If I failed to win over all of the customers, it was partly because I held back a bit. It was less threatening to my co-workers that way, and they liked me better. I never really tried to take it to the next level, to give the audience a show they couldn't ignore. I was denying my own desires, which included the thrill of exposing my sexuality onstage.

"Ok" I said.

"There are a lot of smart and discriminating people in our audience; perverts, to a man, but very successful and powerful perverts. They spend their time and money here, at no small risk of personal exposure, because we give them an experience they can't get anywhere else. We give them fantasies they never could have imagined. As the stage manager, this is not an easy thing to replicate week in and week out. It's a feat that involves a keen grasp of psychology, imagination, a sense of drama, and, most importantly, good people to help me pull it off. The set designers and make-up people are the best in the business, so are my actors. Especially my actors. It all depends on them really. Tonight it depends on you.

"The stage act is just a teaser, really. We make our money from the VIP rooms. If you make a good impression you'll be invited to one of them. For each girl the club provides, we earn ten thousand dollars an hour, plus bar tab, plus room rental fee. You'll earn at least $1500 in tips, probably more, just for being there. Any additional services you wish to provide are up to you."

"Let me stop you right there." I said. "There will be no 'extra services.'"

"That's your business, Amanda. You just have to be there. The only thing we ask is that you be courteous and friendly."

"Like a Geisha?" I laughed. "Um...I don't really see myself pulling that off..."

"If it makes you feel any better, you probably won't be invited. There are six VIP rooms and 18 performers tonight. Don't forget, they're the best in the business. These are not pole-dancers working for tips. They're performers who know how to work these rooms, and, at least some of them, at least, are really good at what they do. Most of the patrons are here to see a particular performer and they'll want to hire that performer. Chances are, you'll go home empty handed, as most girls do their first nights. But you never know. What I've found to be the case, though, is that you either have it or you don't. You have it, at least in rehearsal."

"I don't know..." I was intrigued, the butterflies in my stomach flapping a thousand times a minute. Surely, this is where I turn back, I thought.

"Most of the rooms have been reserved by regulars. We're expecting the parties of a couple of politicians and financiers, and an athlete. However, a room has been reserved for the bachelor party of the son of a foreign head of state. He has almost limitless resources and it's his first time here. He'll probably be your best bet. I'll let you know ahead of time where his party will be, so you'll know where to direct your attention."

My heart leapt to hear confirmation that Max would be there with the President's son. This set the wheels in my head turning. I could actually end up in the same room with Max. The news both thrilled and terrified me. But it seemed perfect. I needed to try. And I trusted Amy that I could pull this off.

"Tonight is not the night to blend in, Amanda. This is not the time to be your wallflower self. Tonight is your night to be noticed. Forget about what I said before, ok? This isn't the prom. It's a sex club. And look at yourself; you belong here!"

I looked in the full-length mirror. I could see the magnificent, unrecognizable me, under the appreciative gazes of Amy, the seamstress, and the makeup artist.

"We've made you ridiculously sexy, now act that way! Live your character! I don't know that I could have imagined I'd ever find someone so perfectly suited to play her. I mean, think about it; she's you. She's this shy, homely, lovesick little girl who transforms herself into a brazen, wanton temptress. You get to draw from the shy parts of yourself and the exhibitionist parts."

Why the hell not, I thought. I wanted to do this. I looked incredible. I could move my body as well as anyone. I knew how to work a room. The simulated masturbation scared me a little bit, but I was basically doing that when I danced at the Squire. I'd just have to turn it up a notch. If I risked being invited to a room, then Max would be there, and that's what I wanted, wasn't it? I didn't even mind the idea of doing a little private striptease, or a lap dance, which I had practiced with my coworkers but had never done professionally.

"Ok," I said. "I'll do it."

"Of course you will. You'll be sensational. Just remember how we've rehearsed it. You go on in an hour. Break a leg!"

I stood onstage just before curtain, with the suffocating knot in my throat. On top of everything else, I was horny. I wasn't sure if it was the aphrodisiac having its effect, or the subtle feeling of power knowing I was about to perform for Max in costume.

A childlike, music-box sounding song began to play over the sound system. The curtain raised and the footlights came on. The stage was raised about five feet in the middle of the room. I was surrounded by a darkened lounge, and I could see corseted girls serving drinks, but with the stage lights in my face I couldn't see the patrons at the bar. Most of the audience was behind mirrored glass, in one of the VIP rooms that faced me, level with the stage, all around me in a semicircle. Number two, the second room on my left, was Max's room.

I could see my reflection in his window. I was sitting on an oversized pink four-poster bed, wearing my little girl princess dress. Girly pink furniture, including a dresser, a makeup table, and mirrors surrounded me. I was shocked by what I saw. I hadn't thought about how dark this performance was. I was young-looking anyway, and I really looked like a little girl on that giant bed. It suddenly occurred to me how disturbing this scene could be. I also realized that it was largely in my hands. I was in control of this character; I had to make her come to life as something other than a scared little girl. It was show time.

I looked directly at Max's window and beamed, delightedly. I could see a lot of me in that smile, and I hoped Max could too. I leapt off the bed and did a knee-drop down to the floor, rising to my feet with a little pirouette to show off my incongruous hourglass figure. I bounded over to a wardrobe, on top of which was video monitor that was disguised as a large oil painting. The face of model-handsome prince (actually an actor being filmed by closed-circuit camera) appeared on the monitor. I turned to face the audience and sighed, batting my thick eyelashes, as animated hearts danced around the face of the Prince. I smiled sweetly in Max's direction, and then spun around and bounded over to a makeup table, lit by giant light bulbs. I sat down, primped my hair, and applied a layer of pink lipstick.

A magical, orchestral score started playing. I reached behind the makeup stand, retrieved a tiara and a pair of clear plastic slippers with six-inch Lucite heels, and put them on. The Prince winked at me, and I blushed and coyly smiled back. Although my hands were shaking a bit, I was able to skillfully apply kohl eyeliner, which was the hardest maneuver of the routine. With the eyeliner, my eyes took on a hungry, predatory cast. I straddled the stool and spun around, deviously smiling up at Max's window, introducing myself to him as Princess the stripper.

With a flip of the hair, I looked back at the Prince, who was following me with his eyes, and did a seductive catwalk over to stage left. I started to sway in my satin dress, thrusting my ass toward the Prince as I had learned to do in cardio striptease so many months ago. I spun around to face the Prince, and, with a look over my shoulder, reached back and grabbed a hold of one end of the giant bow and pulled. The outer skirt detached and fell the floor, revealing my tiny ballerina skirt, garter belt, stockings, and wispy thong. As I bent forward I looked through my legs to see, reflected in the mirror, the ivory globes of my upturned ass ringed by the ruffled skirt. As I bent further forward, I could see the tiny transparent triangle of the thong emerge into view. I reached back between my legs and threaded the needle, holding my labia between my two fingers. Falling to the floor in a split, I pitched forward and began spreading myself through my panties, greedily enjoying the sensation. Then I pivoted around to face the audience and walked over the edge of the stage, just under Max's window. Looking ahead at the window I untied the large bow at the front of my dress, which detached the top half of the dress. Facing the audience, I flung it away, revealing my breasts, my rosy nipples barely covered by the ruffled neckline of my corset. I cradled them in my hands, rubbing the nipples as I luxuriated in the feeling. I had never been so turned on onstage.