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Raven

I slept with him.

It’s pretty much in the unspoken rule book of stripper code 101 not to sleep with the patrons. How could I be so careless? If anyone else saw us, they’d be expecting the same treatment from me. I’ll get the reputation in the club of being the stripper who fucks. Of being a ho. I’m so not a ho in real life, either.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I promised myself I never would. Yet, somehow, I found myself so turned on I couldn’t think of anything other than sticking the huge man’s cock inside me. Blame it on losing control in the heat of the moment because once I started, there was no stopping it. I was dick-na-tized; I had to be.

I’d shamelessly rubbed my pussy and body all over that gorgeous hunk of man-beast. What was I expecting him to do? Not stick his dick inside me because there were people around? If anything, I took advantage of him. I was already planning on fucking him whether he’d thrust his cock inside me fully at that moment or not. I’d have made it happen. He’s a customer, one who was drinking and celebrating with friends. Of course he’d fuck me, given the option. I’d have fucked me too.

Powerhouse.

I’ve heard the other strippers talking about him on more than one occasion. How he’s a catch, how he cares for them, and is kind to all women. Why does the thought of him doing anything for my co-workers fill me with so much irritation? Is it because I want him to treat me the way he does them? Like I’m the sweetest person he’s come across all day and he has nothing better to do with his time other than listen to me complain about whatever problems I’m facing in the moment and then expect him to protect me from something? Ugh, I’m not a woman needing his help, nor his protection, and realistically I’m sure he has better things to do. It’s ridiculous for me to expect him to care about me. He doesn’t even know me.

Although… he spoke to me. He signed. I haven’t met a man as gorgeous as he is who knows anything about ASL, let alone to try and use it with me. The guys I come across have been tools, and I have no interest in their dipshit drama.

Ballet consumed my life when I was younger, so any potential male candidates I came across in the program ended up being gay. I suppose I can blame it on being in a smaller area where the boys who were actually interested in females were busy playing football rather than spinning around and stretching alongside me in dance class. There was zero sexual chemistry between me and the other dancers, so boys took a backseat in my life for the most part growing up.

Then my accident happened, and men were the furthest thing from my mind while I attempted to heal and learn to live all over again. Now, however, I can’t claim the same while working in a strip club. Men are literally everywhere, and I’m not sure any of them are the type I want to think twice about. Let alone fuck. Or attempt to have an intelligent conversation with.

Aside from one. And of course, everyone else has their eyes on him too.

My coffee finishes brewing, so I busy myself fixing a cup. Plain, black, and strong. Sounds like I’m dreaming up a man, but alas, a fresh cup of coffee will have to suffice. I add a few drops of my latest organic essential oil blend I’ve made. Each has properties to somehow aid in hearing loss. Oregano, basil, ginger, lavender. I cycle through different mixtures, hoping one day I will discover the blend that works for me.

One bad fall, doing what I love the most, and it’s changed my life. I should be a prima ballerina right now. Not a stripper. I’ve worked so hard, and for me to lose it all. It wasn’t even my fault. The fall—no, the drop…

“No,” I say aloud, feeling the vibrations carry over my tongue and lips.

I shake my head for good measure, take a sip, then breathe deeply. Inhale and exhale. I will not allow myself to spiral, not today. I may not be a ballerina dancing in the company of my dreams, but I get to dance every single day I choose to. Not everyone has the same opportunity as I do, so I will not cheapen it with a pity party.

To top it off, I make money doing what I love, losing myself in the emotions of dance. I should be grateful. This is the hand I was dealt, and I’ve done what I’ve had to-to adapt. My injury doesn’t define me; my handicap doesn’t define me because it’s not a weakness. I’ve become stronger because of it, more resilient. I know how to communicate without using my voice; my other senses are amplified, and it’s forced me to learn other methods of dance.

Some of them I love.

Yep. Today I choose to be thankful. To be strong.

My abuelita is proud of me, that I’ve kept going. She doesn’t know it, but her support some days has been the only thing to get me up and moving around. With another deep inhale, I move to my yoga mat and begin my stretches. I have work tonight, and my body needs to be limber.

I can’t help but wonder, as I take my favorite spot on my mat and relax my muscles, if Powerhouse be there tonight too. He comes in a lot, but I wonder if it’ll change now since we’ve slept together. Will he expect it again? Or will it be the opposite and he’ll disappear completely?

One night, while Roxy was spiraling, she admitted to me that she wished the giant biker looked at her the way he does me. I thought she was being ridiculous and that she was only witnessing lust. I couldn’t recall him giving me special attention, but then again, I’ve hardly looked at him in passing. Don’t get me wrong, I saw him, several times. It’s hard not to notice his looming presence when you’re on stage and you accidentally flick your gaze out at the crowd.

He’s the only one I ever see, and it’s enough to rattle my nerves every single time, so I’ve learned to stop looking.

Could I have been blind since I started working there as well? I pride myself on having exceptional senses, but it seems I haven’t been paying attention to someone who has apparently been giving me most of theirs.

With a centering exhale, I lay on my back and do a raised hip thrust. I concentrate on lifting and holding, needing my pelvis, back, thighs, and core to all be on the same page. The stronger I make my body, the more in tune I am, the better I dance. The less I fall, and in return, I keep myself injury-free. I never want to hurt as much as I did before—my head, my ear, nor my mind and heart.

You ever been physically hurt while your soul was crushed at the same time? I give it zero stars and do not recommend.

My fists clench at the negativity, and I force myself to push it from my thoughts. I’ve got to concentrate, because one thing’s for certain: if Powerhouse comes in tonight, I only want him looking at me. I may not be able to hear the deep timbre of his voice, but I can certainly show him with my body exactly how he’s making me feel.

Of what he’s making me crave.

Him.