Pole Dance (2 page)

“No,” I said as I zeroed in on the pen-point going in and out of its casing. “I mean, yes, I’m a full-time student.” Nervously, I re-crossed my legs and watched his shadowed eyes as he followed my attempts to settle myself in the luxuriant tan leather of one of his visitor chairs positioned directly in front of his ocean-sized desk.

“Have you ever danced professionally before, exotic or otherwise?” he asked. I knew this was a crucial question and felt my stomach tighten as I desperately searched for the right words to say. I stared into the depths of his amber eyes hoping to gain an inkling or a hint of what might be the right answer.

"How 'bout gymnastics? Been involved in that?" he continued.

As soon as my brain had accepted the idea of working at the club, I had been doing research on pole dancing. First I spent hours online at the College library flipping through You Tube to see what was involved and making notes on the basic moves. Then I practiced as much as I could, working out the stiffness as I tried to stretch my muscles into the splits and folding my head down to my knees without bending them. While I wasn't sure I could pull off the 'Bamn' (making a wide vee with your legs while holding yourself up on the pole), I had been practicing my 'wiggle' and 'booty clap' moves, though, and felt kind of confident in my abilities with those.

“Uhm,” I stalled. “Well, no, not exactly professionally,” I hedged. “I took dance and gymnastic lessons as a kid. You know, stuff like tap, ballet and modern dance." I paused, my mind racing on how to give him the 'hook' that would get me the job since his beautiful warm eyes were not giving away any information.

"But whenever I dance I seem to get a LOT of attention!” I was so hoping he would notice what I consider to be my award-winning smile and perky attitude instead of my woeful lack of experience for the job as evidenced by my resume and responses.

Jake dropped his eyes to my legs that were presented beneath my scant denim skirt, a skirt I typically wore with leggings or thick tights, before he resumed his study of my painfully short but carefully crafted resume and clicked his pen again. I waited, counting his pen-clicks before his next question, feeling the trickle of nervous sweat rolling down the center of my back at around click thirty-five.

$300.00 was a LOT of money, especially for only one session’s work, I reminded myself.

I felt pinpricks on my skin as his eyes again seemed to zero in on my legs and travelled up to the cute, 1960-ish peasant-style, gauze top that I snagged last week for $2.50 at the local charity store. I was guessing he was trying to determine what amount of padding my bra might include and I drew back my shoulders to show him that what he saw is what his customers could expect. But I could feel the tell-tale heat of my blush as I tried to brazen out his perusal, the redness creeping up my chest clear up to my hairline.

What I hoped he couldn’t see were the pearling of my nipples as he looked at my breasts. I could feel it, or rather what his eyeing had caused. Which was the swelling from his unrelenting gaze, first in my dusky colored nipples and then the hardening of the points themselves. And, as those pink points firmed, I became aware of my heart beat thumping between my legs and my pussy moistened as he continued to contemplate my breasts. I had often imagined being looked at in this way and even had read about how a female’s pink parts will become engorged and the labia dampen to a well-directed gaze of someone one you find attractive or to actual physical stimuli. Okay, so I had highlighted that portion in my high school's junior year 'Sex Ed and You' textbook. I'm a long time highlighter gal, what can I say? I was, however, a little surprised at the direct line between my nipples and the now quivering flesh between my legs.

Couldn't remember that little tidbit being in the book.

“While I can appreciate that you could entice the local, untried fraternity boys, I don’t think you are quite what we are looking for in terms of a dancer,” Jake said with a lopsided smile as his eyes seem to hesitantly rise to meet mine. His voice was along the lines of a growl. Honest to goodness, it seemed to rumble and tumble and exited his mouth as a growl. The timbre of his voice was like running your hands over burned out velvet--rough yet almost achingly smooth at the same time.

Jake looked hotter than hot.

But his voice was even hotter.

I was guessing that his half-smile was there to soften the blow of his rejection and my heart plummeted to my knees seeing the dream of only working one job washing away from me like a pail quickly being moved out to sea in the tide. My mind raced to come up with a witty response, something clever to prevent him from turning me away from the opportunity of earning such a large sum of money. But I could think of nothing in response; nothing to sway him toward acceptance, as my eyes darted around the room for inspiration.

Turning my head, I saw an brass pole on a raised platform tucked among the shadows in the cavern of his office and an idea began to form.

“What if I showed you that I can do it?” I asked breathlessly. “Would you hire me if I could get you h-hot from just dancing?” I stumbled over my words with this question. A question I had never thought I would ever think, much less utter.

There were a couple of beats of silence as Jake's eyes held mine, hopefully weighing my suggestion. My heart was thundering heavily as I waited, watching his head tilt in deliberation as if he weighed his verdict, before his honeyed gaze hooked to mine.

“Okay, Darlin', go for it,” he replied as he flipped switches that I saw were embedded in the top of his large dark wood desk. The rest of the room was plunged in darkness and a beam of bright light was now centered over the shiny, metallic pole.

“What song is it that you want?” he asked. “I’ve got it all on the iPod.”

Furiously, I ran through everything I knew in my head. This was my make or break time and this man had probably been everywhere and had probably seen all of that and more. I needed something to really capture his attention and make him sure to hire me. I knew I couldn’t choose something that had been around the block, nothing from anything I’d heard as background in commercials or at the movies I’d seen or even what was popular on the radio. My mind raced with what to pick—a song that would set me apart from other dancers yet show him, the man with my future in his hands, that I was worthy of dancing in his club and making the money I so desperately needed. I thought of and discarded multitudes of songs at a screaming pace as I looked into his shadowed eyes.

“Moby's Porcelain,” I answered softly knowing without a doubt and with every molecule in my body that it would be the perfect choice of presenting to Jake what I was capable of in art of seductive dance.

Fumbling with his iPod as he looked over his shoulder in my direction and with his left eyebrow raised in question, I heard him mumble that a girl my age shouldn’t know about Moby's music.

Lifting myself from the chair with a small frown towards the sky-high platforms I was trying to control as I stood, I bravely asked, “Appreciating good music has an age limit?".

What Jake couldn’t see in the darkness that thankfully now surrounded his desk were that my knees shaking hard enough to topple me. I stood slowly, literally peeling my thighs away from the leather of the chair as I attempted to balance myself on my borrowed four-inch strappy silver sandals. Stripper interviews called for stripper shoes and I had borrowed them from one of my neighbors in the hopes that they would help show me to be the 'burgeoning star' that could earn a lot of money per session. Although, I was now having my doubts about their usefulness seeing how they would probably only reveal my inexperience in not just dancing for money, but in wearing heels in general. Low heeled boots or simple flats were more my speed in footwear.

I finally found my balance and tottered on as I tried to sexily make my way to the stage—a short six strides away from the desk area but it might as well have been six miles. I could hear myself thumping as I moved in the heavy shoes and reminded myself to add more hip-sway in an effort to appear sexier and more worldly.

I could see the circle of light clearly showing where I was to be performing my interview, but my bravado was leaving me with every step I took and in spite of my internal coaching. The light was startling in its brilliance as it pointed down from the ceiling and shot off the shiny brass floor-to-ceiling pole showing me exactly where I was supposed to be. I saw that there were mirrors on each wall surrounding the pole and added highlights to the dancing area.

I approached the platform that would determine the rest of my financial life as a college student and raised one leg to step up onto the 12 inch raised platform as the beginning bars of Moby’s keyboards started.

“I’m not ready, yet,” I threw over my shoulder with one foot on the stage and the other, awkwardly on the floor with my ass unfortunately, and what I was sure was unattractively, pointing his general direction.

“Sorry”, Jake replied. “Let me know when, yeah?”

Whether it was the apology, his casual ‘yeah’ or the softness of his deep voice, I’ll never know; but I gained strength in Jake’s response. His calm tone rode along my panicked nerve endings and seem to fortify my resolve.

I managed to get myself up onto the little stage and stepped into the area behind the pole that was steeped in darkness. I grabbed the pole and realized it was a spin pole which should, if my research was correct, make it easier for me to do spins around it.

My knees were still shaking and my stomach muscles were quivering as I heard Jake banging around in the area in front of the pole. I shielded my eyes to see what all the noise was about only to discover he was dragging a chair over to sit about 8 feet from stage center. He obviously wanted to capture the full experience of my yet to be discovered pole-dancing expertise.

I waited for him to settle and then breathily said, "Okay, now" as I took what I hoped was a dramatic pose there in the shadows. Jake pointed his remote over his shoulder and then made himself comfortable in his chair by extending his long worn jean clad legs and crossing his feet at his ankles, his clasped hands resting comfortably on his well-formed chest.

With the notes that began one of my most treasured songs, I pointed my right foot toward the pole using my outstretched hands in motions moving to capture the surrounding light and bring it towards me as I slowly undulated, hip-rotating into the light and to touch the pole. As the initial piano kicked in, I began to pretend the pole was the man of my dreams, the one I longed and yearned for, the one I would, without question, give myself to totally. The song continued as I dipped, stepped and swayed around it teasingly lost the sweet sounds of the music.

In my fantasy, I grew bolder and began caressing the shiny length of brass, lightly stroking one hand and then the other up and down its length in assurance that 'he' was the one I wanted as my hips gyrated invitingly . I coyly turned my back to the pole as I unthinkingly closed my eyes and leaned against it. Slowly reaching up one arm up over my head, I pressed my back against 'his' shiny cold exterior, slightly swaying to move my hair away and expose my neck and shoulder as if to give access to 'his' touch. Provocatively, I bent from my hips, my hands sliding down my thighs yet keeping my knees locked as I slowly rubbed my ass against 'his' firmness moving from side to side. Wiggling without thinking, I felt the globes of each cheek rub against the hard pole, catching a bit as it bunched the denim of my skirt between the cheeks of my ass. As the notes swelled, I twirled, pranced and shimmied, hair flipping and spinning around me. But I never removed a hand from pole as I rotated around using both my hands and thighs to grip it as I rubbed, dragged and touched my quivering pink pieces to its shiny surface. In my fantasy, my moves were designed to entice and invite a response from this inanimate object as I found myself caught up in my hallucination of seduction.

The chorus found me hooking a leg around my stalwart "lover" to spin in a deliciously slow circle allowing my head to fall back, my hair to hang to my waist and present the arch of my neck as I slowly rotated, feet lifted, using only my hands and thighs lowering myself down the pole. I was lost in the power of the song's hypnotic, seductive tones and in my own imagination. There was a bright blast of light against my eyes and I slowly open them but saw nothing but my own visage in the mirrors. Squatting, I dropped my ass to my heels and daringly opened my knees to straddle the cold brass but still aware enough of my audience of one to point my crotch away from his direct gaze but still be reflected in the mirrors surrounding the pole.