His Kitty

the break of dawn

Naked bodies, alcohol and drunk men.

It is the perfect way to end the weekend. I step back from the pole, my hand still wrapped around it. My chest rises and drop before I extend a leg toward the thick metal pole in front of me. Every muscle in my leg tightens but it doesn’t holds me back from preforming.

The men cheer—not only for me but for the other working girls who are bare, only a short piece of cloth covering their privates. I hold onto my clothes with my life but parts of it are ripping every night. My skin is exposed though not entirely.

I press my eyes shut, take in a deep breath before my heel meets with the ground. A few grunts arise from the audience as the show comes to an end. It’s nearly three in the morning, the club closes in ten but the hunger still remains in the men sitting in front of the stage, lust and desires growing in their eyes as they wait for at least one of the strippers to approach them and take them to their rooms.

But we have a policy.

No sex.

I turn away from the pole. My hand finally unwraps from the warm metal piece and I walk away from the stage, heading into the back room were my clothes and everything else necessary is kept.

A few other girls join me, laughing and giggling at the fact how much money they had made tonight. Some of them carry dirty cash in their hands while others grab as much as they can before he comes.

I wait for him.

Mr. Honey.

It kills me to wait for him but I have to. He’s treats us all equally and doesnt have favorites unless like the hungry men outside.

I doubt any of those men are leaving anytime soon. The show goes on, at least for a few minutes more or until Mr. Honey arrives. When he does, he shuts it all down, tosses the horny, unsalvaged men out and distributes the profit among us—strippers.

“God!” Viola walks in, straight to the dressing room where I stand. She heaves in a breath and then tosses away a few things over the counter. “That man was disgusting! I’m not stripping for an old ass grandfather anymore.” She whines and her hands flatten over the counter while she stares at her reflection.

“Yeah, it seemed like he really wanted to fuck you.” I whisper to her while packing my own bag.

She shoots a glance at my direction, “Disgusting! Ew. He was grinding up me the whole night. I didn’t even get a chance to make any other tips or take any clients tonight because of him.” She continues, frustration lacing in her voice.

It happens. Usually an old man takes away a strippers time and when we expect them to tip greatly, they end up giving only a few cents which ruins our night.

The other remaining girls rush in the same dressing room. It gets crowded in seconds which only tells that Mr. Honey is here and the men are gone. Just a while longer and we will be on our way out as well.

I can’t wait.

I pack the rest of my bag before zipping it shut and walk farther away from the girls that began to slam at each other. The crowd increases. And I began to loose my breath. I press my back against the wall and soon, Viola joins me with the same expression over her face.

Her hands fold across her chest and she pouts.

“It’s going to be alright. Tomorrow is still there and there are going to be a lot more men you can grab cash from. It’s the weekend” I remind her and she gives me a small smile in return before resting her head over my shoulder.

I let her. She’s the only friend I have here.

I comb through her blond hair while waiting for Mr. Honey to walk in and the dresses and give us our tips. He takes his time but when he comes, he offers envelopes to all of us, filled with cash. They are usually ones or fives but they sum up good at the end of the day.

It’s refreshing for me to see the balance hit my bank after depositing small notes.

Over the weekend, the envelopes are thicker while on weekdays they are thinner. Most of us don’t work on the weekdays, its better to stay at home than to come to a dead club. Morning shifts are different, even harder.

When he reaches Viola, he gives her an envelope and comforts her for a moment, “It’s going to be fine, Viola. If you think an old hag isn’t going to give you money, then don’t shake your ass for him and go to someone else better who can pay for your service.” He tells her—mentors her. He knows everything that goes down in there.

She sighs and then nods her head before taking the envelope and rushing outside with the other girls. All of them prepare to leave for home, some of them walk in groups while others go sole.

I remain the last one in the dressing room. My breath quickens. I know what’s coming next. The silence eats me up alive.

“Jack gave me this,” Mr. Honey says after a long minute of silence. He gives me an envelope, but it’s not the cash—its a letter, a letter from someone. “It was found on one the tables, named to you. It was after midnight. Did you do any extra service for anyone?” He questions, raising a brow at me.

I shake my head. My eyes are glued on the name on the envelope. To Kitty. It’s a stranger—a known stranger. He drops letter every weekend, for two days in a row and they are all named to me.

“No, I didn’t.” I reply to Mr. Honey.

“Alright. If this is a problem, let me know and I’ll handle it.” He gives me the envelope with the cash and says.

I nod my head. The hair over my back rise, trailing all over my arms. I take a ragged breath before buttoning up my jacket and heading out. Viola waits for me near the bar. The club is closed, no one hears the music nor sees the lights flashing above. The bartenders clean up while Mr. Honey locks up the place.

It’s past three.

Viola and I take the back door that exits us from the club and onto the empty streets of the city. The night is still alive. Cars sped through the roads and a couple people are found walking and smoking near the club.

I clutch onto the letter in my hand. My chest tightens and worry spreads over my face.

Another one.

“So, I heard its going to be pouring tomorrow,” Viola says beside me. “Don’t forget to get an umbrella.” She reminds me.

The sky is already dark and the clouds heavy, promising a storm tomorrow morning or evening. When the roads are soaked, business is down, the club barely remains open after twelve and people prefer staying at home than sinking their car in heavy rainwater.

At this part of the city, the roads aren’t well done neither is drainage system. It floods terribly and traffic is worse.

I tear my eyes away from the sky and lower then to the ground. My feet aches from the four inch heels I wear throughout the day. It’s hard but it’s a job I need. It helps me to heal from the past and the girls, they are amazing, especially Viola.

It’s almost four when I reach my building. The building is a ten minute walk away from the club while Viola’s is a few minutes further.

“Alright. Off you go. See you tomorrow!” She loops her arm around my shoulder as we stand at the entrance of my building.

The golden light near the elevator flickers. I sigh and give Viola a smile, “Take care and message me when you’re home.” I tell her.

She nods her head and then walks alone across the street. Its empty around here, there is no one tonight, not even the bike gang that tends to crack few jokes on us every time they find us passing by. The jokes are harmless—not insults.

I watch Viola for a few seconds, she fades into the night. Walking up the stairs, I head into my building and get on the elevator to go on the sixth floor. The reflection shows the state I am in.

Exhausted.

It has been a long night. I can’t wait to get under the sheets and sleep till tomorrow afternoon but only if sleep comes to me.

I step inside my apartment and toss my bag over the couch before removing my jacket. Warm air hits my bare shoulders and legs. I sit down and hold the letter in front of my eyes. My body trembles a little.

I have read the previous letters and they were rather—crude.

It has to be an old man, hopefully someone in the writing field. His words always create a tension within me. They are quite descriptive, his thoughts. The previous letters are flat over the kitchen counter. I don’t know what to do with them.

I tear open the letter in my hand and read it to myself.

Seeing you tonight in that tiny pink body suit makes me want to rip every rhinestone of it and then tear it from your body. I love watching you, kitty. Everything about you is just perfect tonight. But then I see the other men watching you as well, it angers me. Is it wrong if I only want you all for myself? Well, it isn’t wrong in my dictionary. You’ll become mine, one day, kitty. All mine and I would never let another man see what’s mine then.

A sharp breath flees from my mouth. There is no initials, no signatures, not even a name—nothing that tells me about the man who has written these letters. I can only imagine. Something tightens in my belly. I stare at the ink for long, re-reading over and over again.

I can only imagine.