Stripping for His Virgin

PLEASE NOTE: This is a short story :-)

Previously published as "The Self-Conscious and The Stripper"

Available on Kindle Unlimited and as a Kindle E-book for $0.99.

ENJOY!

I think it was a mistake coming here tonight. . .

I thought arriving early would be best. I would beat the crowd and scout out a nice, quiet table without attracting any unwanted attention. I was here for the attention of one person. A man. The Stripper, according to our Trope Designations.

I’m The-Freaking-Self-Conscious, and I was living up to that title tonight. I had hoped for a Trope Designation with a little more pizazz. I even sent an e-mail asking if I could get a new one. They said no. Oh well. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, my title fit.

The doors to the event opened two hours before the official Introduction of Matches. The male attendees were separated from us and from one another. The female guests were given these two hours to meet with the other FMCs. I guess we were supposed to gossip about whatever women chat about. I didn’t care for that.

I only cared to meet one person tonight. I considered showing up five minutes before Match Introductions, but the thought of walking into a ballroom packed with FMCs gave me the hives. From what I overheard, most MMCs reserved a private meeting location somewhere on the estate for their Match Introduction. I was glad my MMC chose that option. When the final chime rang, signaling it was time, the staff would escort me to the place my MMC had prepared. It would be just us.

Until then, I wanted to be invisible, and thankfully, I was. Sitting alone at my little table, I observed everything and not a soul noticed me, except for the server.

I had arrived ten minutes after the doors opened and was the third FMC to arrive. The “Masquerade” was a little misleading. Guests were not required to wear a mask or facial covering but could if they wanted. I opted not to. I never cared for the feeling of having my face covered. Especially after Covid.

The TTMM staff and servers all had masks though, making them easy to find. They welcomed me into a large ballroom, then left me like a toddler dropped off at day care. I was on my own.

At first, I was glad I arrived early. I could see everything about the space, and it was beyond impressive. The ceilings were two and a half, maybe three stories tall. Decorative windows and bold mirrors filled the walls. Extraordinary chandeliers of sparkling lights hung down from black beams.

A large dance floor was at the center of the room. Black and white square tiles made it stand out vividly. A few tall tables surrounded the tiled area like a frame. Women could stand there, having a drink and talking. A handful of tables with seats were few and far between, positioned at the very edge of the room. I found one practically hidden beneath a large banner. It had one chair so no one could come sit with me.

The two FMCs that arrived before me seemed content to mind their own business.

One was dressed in a provocative-yet-modest black gown. The top was a cross-wrap-crop-top, which covered her chest but left her shoulders, arms, and midriff exposed. The bottom of the dress was full and long, and it had some embellishment that glittered in the light. She made no eye contact with me or with anything. She stormed over to a far table and plopped down with her arms crossed over her chest. A server rushed to her side, then practically ran to bring a container of alcohol to the table—a large one. The guest started chugging right from the bottle. I grimaced.

Ohhhhkay.

The other FMC smiled brightly at me across the space and gave me two thumbs up. She wore a rich looking gold gown that looked painted onto her trim body. The front wasskintight, and the back was scandalously bare. She wasted no time requesting a drink either. She was served a cocktail in a long, thin glass. She positioned herself at a tall table close to the dance floor. She stood elegantly and watched the entrance doors. I wondered if she wanted to observe everything or if waited for someone she knew. Did her MMC choose to meet in the ballroom?

TTMM had given me a lot of information about what to expect tonight, but there was still so much that would be a surprise. I had been dreaming about something like this all my life and to attend for free? I was thrilled. Butterflies filled my stomach in anticipation. I wouldn’t know if they were good or bad until morning came.

Time went by, however, and the ballroom buzzed with activity when the first chime rang overhead—thirty minutes until Match Introductions. A loud cheer erupted as women clapped and screamed. I winced at the noise. There had to be at least fifty attendees present now. What had seemed like a large space was now much smaller.

The room was designed to encourage guest interaction. The voices filled the air all the way to the top of the ceiling. The diverse group of women congested the ballroom with their laughter, their poise, their bright smiles and confidence. Okay okay. Not all of them, but enough to make me feel out of place.

There were ten of the most radiant and perfect looking women I had ever seen. Everything and everyone were dull and drab compared to them. I don’t know how I was at the same event as them. I didn’t belong in the same universe as them. It was like an AI model come to life. It was like a Fae Princess from those fantasy books. It wasn’t fair. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them for the last twenty minutes. The more I watched their ease and brilliance the more jealous I felt, and the more doubtful I became.

Like I said, maybe I shouldn’t have come. Why would The Stripper want to meet me when he could meet them?

I looked down at my puckered red gown and tried to smooth away the wrinkles. Only so much could be done while I was sitting down, and I was not about to stand up.

My eyes flicked back to this stunning bombshell. That is how a gown is supposed to fit. She was everything I wanted to be, and I was nowhere close. Her smiles looked genuine but reserved, like she didn’t have to be overly friendly to get people to like her. Her gown looked expensive, silky, and made for her body. I wondered what her Trope Designation was and who her Trope Match was. I wondered if the event coordinator helped her create her look or if her Match picked it for her.

I glanced around the room wondering how many others were like me—here tonight because we always imagined that in the right setting we could be her. I scoffed and looked down. Probably no one. I know most people had doubts, but I swam in them. No, I drowned in mine daily. Just one more way I was different…

“Would you like a refill?” a soft voice asked kindly.

I looked over at the server, then looked down at my near empty glass. I had been sipping this virgin strawberry daiquiri since I arrived. I wanted something to keep me cool when my inner thoughts undoubtedly made me hot with embarrassment, but it was lukewarm now.

“Um,” I answered, letting her know I heard her and was thinking. My eyes flicked to the drink in the bombshell’s hand. What was she drinking?

“Would you like to see the menu again? Or I can make a few recommendations? There is also a recommendation from your Match, if you prefer.”

“No, that’s ok. Um,” I licked my lips and nodded at the bombshell. “Do you see the lady in the red dress, with the lace back? Do you know what she’s drinking?” It was a dark, berry red liquid in an elegant looking glass with a matching regal stem.

“That’s a Kir Royale.”

I blinked. I had never heard of that before. “What’s in it?”

“Champagne, crème de cassis, and raspberries.”

I knew what champagne and raspberries were. But some sort of crème? I sighed, not about to ask. I opened my mouth, ready to order another virgin daiquiri, but the server spoke first.

“Would you like to try that? I bet you’ll love it.”

I shook my head sadly. “I’m only 20. I can’t legally be served alcohol. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

The server leaned in and gently patted my wrist. Oddly it felt more comforting than patronizing, though it could’ve been either.

“Sweetheart, a lot of laws are going to be broken tonight by a lot of people.” My eyes widened at that. “No one is here to follow the rules and stay in their boring, little routine. Not even you. It’s ok to live a little. Tonight is about making your fantasy come true. If you want to be like The Bombshell over there, you can.” She withdrew her hand and stood taller. “If you want to stay true to your nature as The Self-Conscious, by all means, do it. I’ll check on you in about 10 minutes and see if you made up your mind about a drink, okay?”

She took a step to leave, but I stopped her. “I’ll do it. I want to try the . . . The Bombshell’s drink. What was it called?”

“Kir Royale.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, please.”

The server nodded, a warm smile visible under her mask. “Of course, just a moment.”

I breathed another sigh, this one a little lighter and a little easier. I leaned back in my chair and glanced toward The Bombshell. That must be her Trope Name. It fit her perfectly. Perfect. Just like she looked.

But the server was right: tonight was about my fantasy. And while I wasn’t The Bombshell, I could have a drink and pretend. I could imagine, and who knows? Maybe The Bombshell was five or ten years older than me. She didn’t look early twenties. Maybe in another five or ten years that would be me. . .

I doubted it, but for the moment I had hope that someday would be better.

As if by fate, I recognized the song playing overhead: “Better Days” by Dermot Kennedy. A wave of energy rushed through the crowd as the melody ramped up. It seems I wasn’t the only one who knew the lyrics. Most of the women lifted their glasses and sang aloud:

“Your story’s gonna change, Just wait for better days, You’ve seen too much of pain, Now, you don’t even know, That your story’s gonna change, Just wait for better days.”

Tears tickled my eyes. It seems I wasn’t the only one tonight who dreamed of a better day. I guess we each had a fantasy we wanted to experience, even The Bombshell. Maybe, just maybe, I belonged here after all.

And that made me really happy.