Neon & Thorns
As the strong, sweet scent of grape black cigar smoke and the faint musk of old, damp paper filled your nostrils, you instinctively wrinkled your nose. In the rearview mirror, the cab driver’s eyes met yours, a smirk playing on his lips as he abruptly pulled the taxi to a halt. Before you, a neon sign pulsed with an eerie blue glow, proclaiming: “THE ICEBERG GENTLEMEN’S CLUB.”
The building itself mirrored the sign’s theme, draped in blues and blacks, with icy crystal patterns adorning the walls. Heavy, shimmering rhinestone curtains veiled the windows. A long queue snaked from the entrance, a diverse mix ranging from sharp-suited businessmen to hardened, average drug lords, all drawn by the promise of Gotham’s most beautiful and alluring women.
“I don’t know why you pretty ladies work here,” the driver grumbled, his voice thick with a strong Jamaican accent. “This is a dangerous place. You should be home, being someone’s wife.” His hand, dark and grimy, with dirt wedged beneath the tips of his wrinkled nails, slowly reached for your knee. You reacted instantly, bringing up your black, rhinestone-encrusted latex bag to block his advance. He scoffed, pulling his hand back and exhaling a cloud of smoke from his nose, then switched off his meter.
Rolling your eyes, you reached for the door handle. “It’s $56,” he snapped, his voice annoyed and loud. “Pay me now before you open that damn door. A lot of you ‘whores’ like to run off without paying, and I’m not no one’s free ride.”
You retrieved a crisp, new $100 bill from your bag and handed it to him, then pushed the cab door open with a forceful shove. Your 8-inch platform stiletto heels met the wet concrete of the pavement, and you stepped out, pushing yourself forward into the pulsing neon light. It caught your iridescent eyeshade and highlighter, reflecting off your features, and shimmered across the sequined fabric of your backless glitter velvet mini-dress. Heads in the line turned, eyes wide with a mix of awe and raw lust, as if ready to strip you bare on the spot.
You closed the cab door with a definitive click and leaned into the passenger window. “Be here at 4 AM to pick me up, okay? I’m not one of those ‘whores’.” You blew a defiant kiss to him and the gawking line of people, then walked slowly, deliberately, towards the club entrance. Whispers followed you, men’s voices murmuring about buying you out tonight.
You headed straight for the bouncer’s office – a single, stark entrance with an arsenal of guns mounted on the walls, security camera monitors flickering in a corner, and a bulletproof glass partition with jail-like bars separating the visitors from the desk. A tall, tattooed man, about 6′2", with glasses and dressed entirely in black, sat at the desk, processing passes and money for entry. He looked up slowly, his eyes raking over your entire body, a slow examination from your soft, lotioned legs, moving upward to your ample thighs, pausing at your waist, and lingering shamelessly on your perfect, prominent breasts. He began to fumble with his words and the papers on his desk, seemingly at a loss.
Another, more experienced bouncer smacked the younger man’s head, then grabbed a clipboard from a filing cabinet. He scrawled your name onto it and pushed it towards you. You saw the signatures of all your friends already listed. With a flourish, you signed your name in elegant curves and handed the clipboard back to the new bouncer. He adjusted his shaggy hair, placed the clipboard down, and immediately started an argument with the older bouncer. “I knew she was a dancer, bro! You don’t have to be hitting people, man!”
The other bouncer smirked and laughed, then handed you a sleek black metal card. “Here’s your debit card for tonight. Make sure they pay before private dances, and if you get cash, don’t pocket it—bring it back here.”
“So we can count it? I’m not new,” you said softly, a hint of steel in your voice.
He took a step back, holding his hands up like a camera framing a shot. “I know you’re our headliner... but even stars get too bright and boom... die.”
You snatched the card and turned, walking towards the back to get ready. As you moved down the hallway, the sounds of women laughing and joking grew louder. You turned the corner and found yourself in the large, brightly lit, hot pink locker room, a kaleidoscope of shiny costumes, and women already dancing, getting drunk, or high, all preparing for the night ahead. You walked to your favourite locker, adorned with plant stickers and a picture of your brown Dachshund puppy, Max. As you admired the photo, a loud laugh erupted behind you. Hands clamped onto your neck, spinning you around as a voice bellowed, “THE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED! THE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED, BITCHES!”
It was Selena, your best friend. She was short but strong, a 27-year-old woman, the best dancer and drinker you knew in Gotham. You grabbed her hands, pulling her into a tight hug. She grinned and playfully squeezed your ass, whispering, “If I didn’t have a man, I’d be your man, ugh.”
You laughed, letting her go. Opening your locker, you put away your bag, then began to peel off your clothes, revealing a rhinestone-encrusted bra and panties set. Everyone in the room looked on in awe. “Guys, it’s the same as everyone else’s, come on now,” you said dismissively.
Selena opened the locker right next to yours. “Yeah, but it looks so good on you, girl, you know that! I don’t know why you act like you ain’t the shit sometimes, especially to women. You can play a man like it’s nothing, but with women, you get weird, you know?”
You closed your locker, smiling at her, then checked your phone to see when your performance slot was. “You know me,” you admitted. “I feel a little shy about women.”
As your time slot approached, you gravitated towards the small cactus plant nestled by a window in the locker room. From the break room, you grabbed a cup, filled it with tap water, and carefully watered your plant, murmuring to it softly. “You’re growing so big and strong. I need to bring you a bigger pot one day, okay?”
Selena rolled her eyes playfully. “Whatever, girl. Just make sure you kill it tonight. We have a lot of investors in the house, and Penguin is gonna be on our asses if we don’t make more money.” She waved dismissively as she headed out to the floor, leaving you with your plant baby.
You ignored her comment as the alarm on your phone chimed, signaling showtime. You let out a slow exhale, then took a deep, calming breath, placing your phone gently by the plant before heading out to the main floor.
The moment you stepped out, the overwhelming scent of rum and stale beer assailed you. The room echoed with the roar of loud, arrogant patrons, the clinking of bottles as bartenders mixed drinks and took orders, and the desperate murmur of businessmen gambling away their companies, their retirements, their very life savings. Red and green stage lights spun wildly, painting the chaotic scene. The air was frigid, the only warmth emanating from the press of dancing bodies and the sheer energy of the crowd, preventing your own from freezing.
You moved slowly towards the stage. Beside it, the DJ pulled a record from beneath his console and dropped the needle. The lights softened, shifting to a gentle, ethereal white, focusing solely on the stage. A song with a soft yet electric beat began to play. You let the music seep into your heart, down through your body to your feet, mentally preparing for the performance.
“Welcome to the stage, our most exotic flower, only at the Iceberg Lounge Gentlemen’s Club!” the DJ’s voice boomed.
You placed your foot on the first step. As you looked out at the throng waiting for your reveal, your gaze snagged on a woman in the front row. Her skin seemed almost pearly under the club lights.
“Come on, girl!” the DJ snapped, pulling you from your trance.
You shook off the strange vision and ascended the steps, reaching the curtain. Taking another deep breath, you let your body relax into the rhythm, striking a powerfully sensual pose: one hand lifted elegantly to your face, the other resting provocatively on your thigh. The DJ hit a button, and the curtain rose, revealing you to the audience. A wave of applause and cheers erupted, men captivated by your body. As the music picked up, you began to move towards the pole, every sway and glide a sexual allure, guiding the crowd’s eyes with your hands, moving like a sinuous snake, thrusting your body towards them and then back.
Finally, you reached the center of the stage where the pole stood. You scanned the crowd; every eye was on you, glazed with lust and desire. And then you saw her again: the same woman from before. She was tall, perhaps 5′8", with long, flowing red hair and equally long legs. She wore a striking green emerald suit and tie, dark shades obscuring her eyes. Under the harsh club lights, her skin shimmered with an unusual blueish hue, unlike anyone else in the room.
As she looked up at you, a slow smirk spread across her lips, and she pulled a thick stack of money onto her lap. Your heart hammered like a racehorse. You quickly looked away, trying to quell the blush threatening to creep up your neck, and forced yourself to focus on your performance. You spun around the pole, executing daring tricks as men showered you with flowers and bills.
Then, you began your ascent, climbing towards the ceiling, preparing for your signature “death drop.” You locked your legs tightly around the pole, leaning back, positioning yourself upside down. Your hands spread wide, a dramatic gesture that silenced the entire club. Everyone held their breath, waiting for your final, breathtaking move.
You looked down. The woman hadn’t broken eye contact once. She leaned back in her seat, a drink in one hand, the other resting casually on her lap, watching you with an intensity that was both soft and razor-sharp. Under her gaze, your breath hitched, and your body, despite the cold, broke out in a sweat, a strange discomfort bubbling within you. You inwardly chastised yourself, refusing to let some random lady make you mess up this big move. You stared right back into her eyes, injecting your own gaze with authority and fierce intensity.
Then, you dropped.
Gravity pulled you down at an exhilarating speed towards the stage floor. Gasps of fear and excitement rippled through the crowd. She didn’t break contact, either. As you slid down the pole, it felt as though only you and she existed in the entire room, as if this whole performance was staged solely for her. You locked your legs even tighter, stopping yourself just inches from the ground, a dramatic halt that brought the crowd to a roaring, standing ovation.
You stopped directly in front of her, your eyes locking with hers. You could see her clearly now: her skin was undeniably green, inhuman, and ivy leaves subtly wove through her long, straight red hair. She slowly removed her shades, revealing a pair of stunning, emerald green eyes. A slow smile played on her lips as she placed the stack of cash on the stage, then rose and walked deliberately towards the bar.
Just then, you realized the next dance was about to start, and the crowd was still going wild for you. You stood, bowed, and blew a kiss to everyone, then walked off the stage. The DJ offered congratulations on your dance and the impressive tips, and you smiled, saying thanks as you headed back to the locker room.
You didn’t see the mysterious lady anymore. But then, a chilling sight: a couple of men entering, blocking the club entrance, guns now visible in their hands. You quickened your pace, rushing towards the locker room door. Suddenly, a hand violently grabbed yours, yanking you backwards. Gunshots erupted.
