LA Private Dancer: Chap. 3— A Nice Boy
Author’s Note: The title of this chapter says it all. This serial is shaping up well. I suspect I’ll get to 8 to 10 chapters. Lots of hotness and fun to come. ;-)
It had been two months since I’d had a VIP customer.
I had cut off Jason. Like too many men with his status, he thought his wealth and his familiarity meant he got to control me.
It didn’t.
I won’t get into the details, but he’d done something that hadn’t been negotiated, and when I’d called him on it, he’d made some remark to the effect of, “Bitch, you get paid, don’t you?”
Nope.
I had liked Jason, and had he taken a different approach, perhaps our relationship could have continued, but I knew the work I did and knew men like him extremely well.
Without even gathering up my clothes, I had walked out of the Champagne Room, had a quick chat with Jeremy, the guy heading security in the VIP section that evening and never had to see Jason again.
I understood he’d come to the club asking for me for months, but never once had the management asked me to take him back.
It was just one of the things I liked about the club. They trusted my professional discretion.
But time in between VIP clients was hardly a period of destitution.
I wasn’t the club’s best earner — without question, that title belonged to the scandalously hot and ballet-graceful Taylor, a recovering Morman from Utah with killer blonde locks and tits that were real and spectacular.
Taylor aside, I was in the elite tier of the club’s dancers, and depending on the night, I could earn as much as two large.
Working as many as three nights a week, it most certainly paid the bills.
It was on one of these nights I met Jack.
Who’s Jack, you ask?
Well, he was hardly a VIP client. Every now and again, a girl who does the work I did craves some degree of normality, and while Jack had attributes that were off the charts in several areas, the one thing he didn’t have was millions.
I’d recognized Jack from campus. He’d been a senior on UCLA’s volleyball team. We’d had a few classes together and shared a few glances but had never talked. As I would come to learn, Jack wasn’t a player.
On the contrary, he was shy, and like most boys who had grown up in an era of TikTok and Tinder, he had all but zero inclinations about how to talk to a woman in person.
To my surprise, he’d been in the club on a Saturday night. His future brother-in-law was getting married to his sister, who was eight years older than him.
I’d seen him before he’d seen me.
Now a word to the good reader about what actually happens in a Champagne Room in your typical strip club in America.
In a few words, it isn’t an orgy. Guys have fun and get rambunctious, but unless they want to get tossed from the club or a lot worse, they keep their hands to themselves, and they don’t get too salty with their language.
Depending on the girls involved and depending on the money in play, there could be a little girl-on-girl action, and if all the right moves are made, the groom could get swept away for his own private audience where private things could happen, but this was the rare exception.
Unlike porn and erotica novels, not every groom-to-be looks to have his dick sucked by a stripper in the lead-up to his wedding, even if this was a legal thing in strip clubs in California — because nothing says lifelong matrimony like shooting your load into the mouth of a perfect stranger a week before getting hitched.
In the case of Jack’s future brother-in-law, things had been pretty tame.
I’d caught the three girls who’d worked their room and asked about the tall and handsome younger guy with the shaggy dirty blonde locks. The word was that he’d been downright respectful.
As it went for men in strip clubs in their early twenties, ‘respectful’ was indeed rare.
I was 24 and if Jack was a senior, he was 22 or thereabouts. It had been a long, long time since I’d been involved with someone my own age. My profession — and that’s what it was, just didn’t allow for this kind of relationship. The brains of most young men just couldn’t comprehend the dynamics of dating someone who was in my line of work.
I had dated a couple of nice guys my age, and it had been refreshing as long as it had lasted, but the moment both guys found out what I did to pay the bills, it was over, and both times, it hadn’t been pretty.
Which is what drew me to Jack. The bachelor party would be sticking around a bit longer, and it was my turn to go on stage.
That Jack would recognize me wasn’t in question. I was a natural beauty, so the look I sported on campus wouldn’t be that far off from the look that would be on display when I started my favourite three-song routine.
How he would react would determine what, if any, next steps I would take, whether it was here in the club or the classroom.
“Hey,” I said as I fell into the seat beside Jack near the back of the lecture hall.
Turning his head to the right, Jack’s remarkable olive green eyes opened in surprise as he saw who sat beside him. To his credit, the words that came out of his mouth were non-plussed: “Hey.”
I stuck out my hand. “Nice to see you again. I’m Brit.”
He stuck out his hand. “Nice to see you too. I’m Jack.”
Smiling my cutest smile, I said, “I know. I see your picture and name here and there on campus. You’re on the volleyball team. Jack Ryder, Middle, whatever that means.”
His hand still holding mine, he said, “Is Brit your real name?”
No doubt, because the question came off sounding more douchey than he hopefully meant, he quickly added, “Cause I like it. I mean, it’s pretty.”
“It’s my real name,” I said and then moved my eyes from him and looked at our still-joined hands.
Following my gaze, on realizing our hands were still touching, he quickly withdrew his gentleman’s grip as though I was on fire and said, “Sorry. That was creepy.”
“I kinda liked it, actually,” I said, still smiling and once again staring into his alluring eyes.
Before he could respond, our professor swept into the room and, on reaching the lectern, spoke loudly in the microphone: “Ten seconds, folks. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”
Together, our eyes left the prof and reconnected with one another. Before I could get up and move back to my usual seat, he said, “Do you want to go for a coffee after class?”
“Phew! I thought you’d never ask. I’d like that. At Jimmy’s?” I suggested.
Now smiling and looking every bit the dashing varsity athlete he was, he said, “Jimmy’s is great. I’ll wait for you after class, and we can walk over together.”
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