GOOD FOR NOTHING: AMBW MAFIA ROMANCE

Jordyn

There were two types of men who regularly visited the strip club I worked at.

Sleazebags and spenders.

On a good night, I earnt so much money that it was worth tolerating the occasional grope or intrusive question from a seedy guy. Other times, the generous spenders were the sleazebags. Rich men, so wealthy and arrogant that they treated human beings like toys. Their sleaziness was always cancelled out by their willingness to spend money though. I lived by this code, along with all the other dancers who worked at The Apex.

However, the night I met Katashi Ishimoto, my moral compass started working different.

“Do you think Jarett will visit you tonight?” Demet asked, as we sat next to each other, applying our makeup in the club dressing room.

The private room was packed full of women of all races and body types. Thick and curvaceous, with stretchmarks. Tall and lithe model lookalikes. The Apex was the most popular strip club in the city, showcasing exotic dancers that catered to the fantasies of all patrons. Feminine voices buzzed, half-drowning out the upbeat hiphop track blasting from the speakers out by the main stage. An array of perfume scents hung in the air, mixing with deodorant spray. Metal lockers clanged shut as the dancers stretched, like athletes preparing for a big match.

At the long dressing table, I leaned forward on the bench, putting on my lipstick with precision. “That’s Deputy Mayor Hudson, to you.”

In the looking glass, I admired my reflection amid the blushing lights and cosmetics infested table. My lips were rich brown -- a shade deeper than my dark complexion. Fake lashes and gold eyeshadow accentuated the roundness of my wide eyes. My wig was firmly glued on, the leopard print spots on the long blonde install matching with the pattern of my two piece dancewear. I blotted my lips carefully with a tissue, removing any excess product. Jordyn Jones wouldn’t return until sunrise. Pretty Kitty was about to start working.

Demet passed me the setting spray. “Bitch, answer the question.”

Taking the bottle from her, I shrugged, “It’s Sunday, so I’m assuming so...”

Behind us, Aaliyah stood up after putting her heels on. She strutted over to the dressing table and grinned at our three faces in the mirror. “You’rehopingso!”

I rolled my eyes, feigning annoyance as I spritzed the setting spray over my face.

Both women were beautiful in varying ways. Aaliyah’s two piece and fluffy afro were a similar shade to her tawny brown skin, giving her a monochrome flare that reminded me of the 1970s. Meanwhile, Demet’s lip fillers and upturned rhinoplasty nose made her look like a long lost Kardashian.

Before the girls could continue making fun of me, House Mom glided through the busy room, leading a young woman to the unoccupied locker beside Aaliyah’s. House Mom was an older lady in her forties. Soft spoken and Latina, she ensured that all the dancers were supported. In need of tampons, a snack, or just someone to vent to? Mom took care of it all.

House Mom patted the free metal compartment and pulled open the small door. “Here, you go baby. Holler, if you need anything.”

The young woman - no,girl- nodded shyly, fixing the strap of her backpack hanging from her shoulder. She wore a puffer jacket that swallowed up her frame, making her appear even smaller. Her facial features were petite, evoking the protectiveness I’d feel over a teenager. Straw-yellow ringlets were tied into a high ponytail, with a baby pink bow. The girls and I exchanged judgmental looks. She looked entirely too young to be working here.

“Be nice, ladies,” House Mom told us. “Look after Maddison, it’s her first night dancing here. They’ll look after you Maddison.”

Mom walked off to help repair a tear in another dancer’s costume.

The new girl waved at Demet, Aaliyah and I awkwardly. “I, er, prefer Maddie.”

“How old are you?” Aaliyah wondered. A lot of girls who wanted to dance at The Apex lied about their ages.

We watched Maddie take off her backpack and stuff it onto her locker. Aaliyah assisted with the task, noticing that the girl was having trouble. “Thank you, er... twenty one...”

Demet chuckled, “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m in college,” Maddie said defensively. She adopted a more confident posture, unzipping her coat and removing her arms from the heavy garment. Underneath, she wore a pink choker, babydoll mini dress, garter and six inch heels.

I twisted around on the dressing table bench, moving my legs so I was sitting to face her. “What are you studying?”

I wanted her to feel at ease. Getting her to talk about a subject she was well versed in was a way of doing that. Back when I’d been younger and more idealistic, I’d hoped to attend college and graduate with a degree in Business Administration. Evidently, life had other plans for me.

Maddie rolled up her coat and stored it inside the locker space. Rolling her shoulders, she closed the metal door. “Biology.”

I nodded, impressed, “Cool. You’re super smart.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Demet jumped in with a question of her own.

“Yeah...” Maddie fiddled with the hem of her dress. She did a poor job of hiding the loving smile on her lips. A pink hue crept up her neck, contaminating her cheeks. Uh-oh. I’d been her once. Young, naive and deeply in love with a boy who’d name I no longer cared to remember. Safe to say, it didn’t last. But now I was older, hotter and wiser.

“Whoever he is, break up with him,” I advised. Standing up, I strolled over to the new girl and took her under my wing. She needed guidance. I gestured for her to follow me, out of the dressing room and into the hall connecting to the main floor. Demet and Aaliyah sashayed after us, their heels clicking elegantly on the floor.

Maddie’s jaw dropped at my suggestion, but she was too scared to say anything.

I shook my head, laughing, “Don’t give me that look, girl.”

The new girl found her tongue. “But...”

“You’re about to gain a bunch of clients - many of them men - who are going to spend money for your time and services,” I explained. “A boy in college won’t stand a chance. Let him go before he gets jealous.”

“But—”

“What’s your name?”

The new girl frowned, looking back around Demet and Aaliyah toward the dressing room. Was she having doubts about dancing here already? “Maddie...”

“No, she means your dancer name,” Aaliyah clarified, holding onto Maddie’s upper arms and steering her forward. “I’m Brown Suga.”

Demet fluffed up her hair with her hands, giving it more volume. “Turkish Delight.”

“I go by Pretty Kitty,” I introduced myself.

Maddie’s eyes widened, mouthing my alias in disbelief.

“Hey, don’t judge.” I tilted my head to the side. “It’s catchy and memorable.”

“Oh, I wasn’t...er,” Maddie gulped. “Baby Doll. My name here is... Baby Doll.”

We stepped out onto the main floor, into the night world of pink and purple lights. At the centre of the space, a massive stage with three poles branched out into a runway that cut through the seating area. In comfortable armchairs, patrons sipped from their glasses, appreciating the closeup view of the dancers on the platforms. Other dancers mingled in the audience area, collecting tips or sitting on laps. Bodies flocked at the bar on the edge of the ground floor. The bartenders worked quickly, pouring shots and serving cocktails. The second floor balcony stretched around the space in a semi circle, providing patrons with a top down vantage point of the main floor.

The girls and I split off into different directions. Swinging her hips, Brown Suga made a bee line for the Jamaicans. Turkish Delight held hands with Baby Girl, leading her to a table occupied by a group of Caucasian, middle-aged business men.

Setting my sights on the DJ, I retrieved a couple of bills tucked into the bottom of my dance wear. I sauntered to the booth, winking at a heavily tattooed Asian man who was sitting alone and assessing my body. In a city rife with organised crime, The Apex was a neutral zone. The club was one of the few spaces where politicians, legitimate entrepreneurs, civilians and gangsters could all relax without a fight breaking out. Love of alcohol and beautiful women was a great equaliser.

I reached the booth, where a skinny, dark-skinned man was controlling the music for the night. A pair of headphones hugged his neck and he bopped his head to the beat of the song thudding out of the sound system. Fluent fingers turned the knobs extending from the booth’s panel, mastering the technological settings.

We exchanged a grin as I paid him. “Gimme the best you’ve got!”

The DJ saluted me before I headed for the main stage. Climbing the steps, I synced my stride to the opening beats of his exclusive mix of Kiss Land by The Weeknd. I wrapped my fingers around the pole centre stage, letting the cool steel and dark, sensual lyrics take over me.

I rolled my hips, slowly undulating my entire body in time with the song’s hypnotic bassline. My performance started off with a basic backward bend. Holding onto the pole with one hand, I arched backward, my hair brushing with the stage floor and my vision of the club tipped upside down. I eased myself back up gradually, hooking my knee around the pole and pulling my body up into a front spin. Seamlessly, I transitioned into a stag hook spin, moving a little faster and stretching my leg outward. Showing off, I slid forward into a scissor sit. The pole hit the junction of my thighs, chilly against the crotch of my tiny dancewear bottoms. Holding onto the metal with just one hand, I displayed the length of my toned legs and my flat stomach. I breathed in through my nose, and out through my mouth, maintaining a tight grip on the pole and tipping upside down. Toes pointed and calf resting on the metal, I bent my other leg outward in a perfect arc... executing a perfect butterfly.

Drunk on the tempo, attention and money bills raining all around me, I graduated into a sequence of more advanced moves whilst still upside down. Flaunting my flexibility, I hoisted myself higher into the air, I widened my legs into a wide ‘V’. The music slowed down midway through, yet the patrons kept throwing money at me. Paper notes floated all around me like confetti. Welcoming the adoration, I switched from an aerial invert into an upside down split. It wasn’t the most extreme move I knew, but she was a guaranteed money maker.

Coming down from the high, I slid back down to the ground. Pulling off a basic carousel spin on the pole, I then finished my performance with a pirouette spin. I crawled along the bill scattered floor of the stage, covered in a thin film of sweat. I locked eyes with the men staring at me from their seats right by the stage. Smiling at them, I collected their money from the floor, pretending as though I wasn’t out of breath.

I wasn’t too bothered about what people thought about my job. To some I was a dirty stripper who set feminists back by centuries, to others I was an exotic dancer goddess who empowered women across the globe. Regardless of the opinions, there was no denying the athleticism required to do what I did. Walking around in six inch heels and a picture perfect smile all night wasn’t for the weak.

After picking up the bills, catwalking through the seating area and socialising with regulars, I glanced up the second floor balcony. In the early hours of a brand new day, the club was at full capacity, with both levels packed full of patrons. Amongst the crowd, Angélique, the owner of the club stood at the balcony rail. Despite the stuff heat, the doll wore a floor length, mink fur coat. Long red manicured nails curled around the rail as she overlooked the empire she’d built from scratch, back in the eighties when she went by her deadname.

Our eyes met, and Angélique sent me a cryptic signal with her left hand. To outsiders, she appeared to give me a nonchalant wave. But she and I both knew that the twirl of her wrist was a direct order to go to the club’s third floor.

Jarett Hudson was here.

Leaving the main floor, I passed an area of seating belonging to a party of Jamaican men. Aaliyah was sitting on the lap of a brawny man with thick locs and a mouthful of gold teeth. Her back was pressed to his chest as she gyrated her ass on his crotch. The dancer nodded at me, and I nodded right back, communicating a mutual respect for one another.

I disappeared into a quiet hallway, following the neon arrow signs pointing to the stairwell. Whilst I ascended the multitude of steps, the sounds of my heels echoed through the hollow space. The loud music coming from the main floor was muffled by the thick walls. The higher up I ventured in the building, the more the noise faded out. Pushing through the ache in my ankles and thighs, I arrived at the third floor.

This level was for VIPs. Patrons who paid extra for privacy.

Up here the main floor’s music was a distant memory. A security guard was posted in the dark hallway, waiting with his arms crossed. Like a moth to a flame, I gravitated to the doorway at the end of the passage.

“Hi, Steve,” I greeted our security guy.

A friendly voice left his harsh-looking mouth, completely at odds with his bull-faced demeanour. “Kitty.”

I parted the stringed bead partition obscuring the doorway, and stepped into the private room. Red lights, a hedonistic shade of red bathed the entire vicinity and sleepy R&B vocals caressed my ears. On a plush couch, a man sat with his arms propped on the backrest. As I slinked over to him, his blue eyes latched into the inward curve of my waist and the outward flare of my hips. He ran his tongue over his thin lips when I straddled him on the couch and settled on his lap.

Lightly, I ran my hands down his chest, just to watch the excitement play out over his flushed, bearded face. “I missed you,” I whispered.

His fingers dug into the cushioned surface of the couch, demonstrating his self-control. The rules were simple. No touching.

“I wish we could see each other more often,” he shared. Genuine longing laced his arousal.

“You’re a very busy man.” I smoothed my hands over his shoulders, bringing my face down to his, so that our lips were just a breath apart. “The city needs you more than I do.”

The public knew him as Jarett Hudson, the Deputy Mayor of Portwest City. He was forty-five years old, ultra conservative and a married father of two daughters. But to me, he was just Jarrett. Old Fashioneds were his favourite drink. The watch he wore religiously was a family heirloom passed down to every first born son in his family. His relationship with his wife had gone stale after the birth of their first daughter, Eliza. Jarett was tired of playing second fiddle to Mayor Berger.

“Do you think I could win?” Jarett ran a hand through his hair, messing up the groomed quiff of his dark blond hair. “If I ran for Mayor at the next election?”

I walked my fingers up the path of his striped tie. His suit jacket was folded neatly over the armrest of the couch. The top button of his shirt was up buttoned, representing his relaxed state. Hope welled in his expression, eager for my support.

"I would vote for you,” I lied, feeding the part of him that needed nourishment. Politics was a game of liars and cheats. Didn’t matter which party they were from, politicians were all the same. They craved power. We, the ordinary people of Wessport City, were just chess pieces that the ruling class manipulated into voting for them. What made Jarett marginally better was the fact that he paid me well.

He flashed me a crooked smile. “Well then, that’s all the motivation I need.”

“‘Mayor Hudson’...” I rose from his lap, testing the name on my tongue. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Jarett looked disappointed by me pulling away, but he calmed when I turned around and played with the strings of my top. Standing in the space between his knees, I pulled the bow midway down my naked back and drew the leopard print piece away from my breasts.

“Definitely all the motivation I need,” Jarett murmured, appraising the skimpy material covering only half of my buttcheeks. He drank in the sway of my hips, and how I flung my top onto the rugged floor. Bending over, I carried on my private dance, ready to entertain him for the rest of the night.

For certain days of the week, I considered myself a nocturnal being. The night hours were my peak, which meant that mornings were for sleep. When 5AM rolled round, the lights turned off, the music stopped and the club lost its spark. The guests were long gone, retreating to the normalcy of their day jobs or the wives waiting for them at home. Unlike them, I had nobody and no responsibilities calling my name. Only an empty apartment and a cosy bed.

In the dressing room, I scrubbed off my makeup and redressed. I jumped up and down, pulling my jeans up my thighs the rest of the way. Yawning, I looped the buttons through the holes then grabbed my bomber jacket from where it lay at the bottom of my locker. Slamming the compartment closed, I hauled my handbag over my shoulder.

“See you on Thursday!” On my way out, I waved at the dancers and pressed my cheek to Demet’s. We gave each other air kisses.

I shuffled down the hallway, joining the queue coming out of Angélique’s office. When I finally got to the front of the line, I gave her the fat wads of cash I’d earnt during the night. The owner counted the money, using a machine that sorted through the bills. After taking her cut, she handed the stacks of cash back to me and said, “You did good.”

I wished her and House Mom a ‘good morning’, then left the building.

The sidewalk was deserted, and the chill of the early hours made me shiver. Zipping my jacket all the way up, I crossed my arms to conserve body warmth. Although my ankles felt tender, I walked as fast as I could in my flip flops. I couldn’t wait to get home and take my wig and fake lashes off.

I put my head down, bracing myself for the trek back to my car. Good parking was hard to find in the section of the city. The architecture was a combination of old and new. Historic brownstones with front steps lived under the stoplight of LED street lights. The lampposts were smothered in stickers and posters, advertising clubs and adult services. Turning a quiet corner, I took a second to look up at the yellows and pinks creeping up into the grey blue sky.

Bad idea.

Measured footsteps tapped on the concrete a few yards behind me.

Speeding up, I kept looking ahead.

Almost there.

I looked across the street at the identical row of brownstone houses. In my periphery, I noted some of the features belonging to the man walking behind me. Tall. Tattooed. Asian.

Almost there.

Another man - similar in build and appearance - darted out of the shadows of a doorstep, sprinting down the front steps of a brownstone and right up behind me.

Almost—

A pair of hands seized my arms, robbing me of agency.

I’d been to self defence classes, so I was well prepared for a scenario like this. But, the shock wiped my mind clean. All the techniques I’d learnt were irretrievable and my survival instincts kicked in. Jamming my elbow back, I aimed for my kidnappers gut. However, the contact I made with a pudgy surface - a stomach - caused no harm. Not even a grunt. I struggled against his hold, refusing to stay still and kicking my feet. My flip flops flew off, somersaulting on to the gum spotted sidewalk. The beginnings of a scream pierced the street, however he clapped a hand over my mouth. I bit into his fingers, ferociously. I wouldnotbe tamed.

The taste of his leather gloves weighed down on my tongue, making me gag. My bag slumped down my arm, lugging into my side. I was losing energy, and the will to keep fighting.

Sagging in exhaustion, I let him drag me toward a classic, black car parked nearby and stuff me inside.