After receiving terrible news about the future of her career, a NYC ballerina becomes a choreographer at a failing male strip club to make some extra cash and spice up her life. What she doesn't expect is to fall for the one man who doesn't want his...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I walked up to the address Maren sent me, ready to drown my shitty day in a six-pack of abs, I had to do a double take. The building was crammed beside a takeout restaurant and a nail salon. There wasn't even a sign. If this was a strip bar, it was doing a terrible job of advertising it.
There were no beefy guys out front to welcome me. No red carpet. No ambiance at all. I'd have walked right past it if I hadn't been looking for it.
"This can't be the right place," I muttered, but my phone disagreed.
Maybe it had a speakeasy vibe, I thought.
I studied the entrance, which was sunk five steps beneath the sidewalk, and peered down the dirty steps into the cluttered vestibule.
Two women who were old enough to be my nani were puffing on Virginia Slims in front of a blacked-out front door. No shade to them; live your best life, girls. Seventy and standing outside a strip club was an absolute mood.
I sent Maren a quick text.
Tan: I'm here. I think. Where the fuck are you?
When she didn't immediately answer, I cursed under my breath. "Excuse me," I called down to the women standing outside the door, "but is this Blanche's Boudoir?"
A rat scurried out from behind the stack of wooden crates they were standing beside, and I had to suppress a shriek. New York City rats were big enough to take you down at the knees and drag you underground. Not that I was afraid of that very thing happening.
But I was.
"This is Blanche's, alright," a woman with a bleach blonde pixie cut said. "Home of the first male strip club in the city."
I raised my eyebrows. First male strip club? Well, it clearly hadn't undergone any renovations since it opened. Maren had said this place was kinda trashy, and I thought she was being judgmental. Turns out, Maren was just telling the truth. In fact, kinda trashy was a nice way to describe this place.
Now who was being the judgmental one? I asked myself.
Looks could be deceiving. So what if the place was run down? The inside was probably nice. Maybe not as nice as the Oiled Olive–the upscale strip club where Maren's boyfriend West used to work–but nice enough.
"You comin' in, sweetheart?" the taller of the two women asked as she stubbed out her cigarette.
I rolled my shoulders back and gave her a bright smile. Rats be damned. I was here to see some hot men. "You bet your ass I am!"
The older women eyed me as I walked down the stairs. I was feeling overdressed in the vintage mini skirt and camisole I scored on my latest thrifting trip compared to their leggings and oversized t-shirts with Blanche's Brawds printed on the front.
