A Pole and a Gun

1 - I'm Alive

♧ TRIXIE

Las Vegas.

The city of lights, the city of second chances, also known as Sin City. Marketed as the entertainment capital of the world, where gambling is legalized, they pour richly alcohol around the clock and every form of adult services is available.

Drunk couples and even drunker strangers can get married on a whim by a variety of impersonators, my favorite the Lady Gaga drag queen, and at the strip they say that's where the money is made. Not for me, though.

I came to Vegas with a dream. Following in the footsteps of my idol, Céline Dion, who had a Vegas residency. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be a dancer. It was the only thing that had been on my mind since I could do a plié. I never ventured to mention it to my conservative parents, who had paid for my ballet lessons as a child, with the sole purpose of a graceful upbringing and who thought that the entertainment industry was tainted. In some ways, it was.

Sadly, my dream had been crushed under the polished Italian leather-clad foot of my manager Chaz, if that was even his name. He saw me dancing one night at a bar on campus and claimed that I had the talent to make it.

So, I quit school, got into a limo with that douchebag, and ended up here. Yeah, stupid girl and all that jazz. It got me to Vegas, though. Right?

Little did I know that with all my glamorous expectations of coming to Vegas, I would end up working in this club, the Pussycat. But here I am, with a pole between my legs, with the hope of one day dancing on a different type of stage.

When I ditched college to follow my dream, I didn't expect my so-called manager to spend all of my tuition money on blow and escorts. Once my piggy bank was empty, my booty got a nice kick out of his hotel and I ended up on the street. Luckily, Jackson took pity on me that night. With the simple question, "need a job, sweetheart?"

Jackson was the owner of the Pussycat exclusive gentlemen's club in the back alleys of the strip and I've been working here now for almost a year. I was a stripper and pole dancer, and a damn good one. Not the aspiration I wanted in life, but hey, when life gives you lemons...

It wasn't the stage I had expected, but it was a stage nonetheless, where I could do my thing and own the space, and earn a decent amount of money.

I was doing the last set of the night. The other girls would be gone by the time I finished, so I channeled my inner Céline, did a good chest bump for courage, and headed out to face the music.

Here, the audience were a couple of greasy looking Italian dudes who seemed to have rented the entire place for a private gathering. I shrug, hoping that it means more tips for me.

Antonia, in reality, Antonio, serves the liquor non stop from the bar and whips her long blue colored wig over her shoulder as I step on the stage. The color brings out her chocolate skin and with her full make-up done, you wouldn't guess that the woman was packing a major surprise between her legs.

When Jackson took me in and showed me the tricks and how-tos of being a stripper, he introduced me to the quirky bartender, Antonia. She offered me her spare room in her apartment and we've been roommates since then.

Dirty Diana by Michael Jackson plays and I make sure I sway my hips enough, pressing my tits slightly forward in the college school girl outfit I was wearing tonight, to grab the clients' attention. Maybe they could pay for a lap dance or a private performance before going home tonight. I needed the extra money to buy some new shoes for my baby, a 1973 second generation Chevrolet Camaro, and some for mommy too. A girl has got to love her a nice pair of heels.

Shaking the thoughts from my mind and focusing on the lights flashing around me, I move sultrily to the music. Right now I wasn't screw-up, college drop-out Patricia, instead I was diva Trixie, and I would show these guys that I worked magic with that pole.

I lower myself to the ground, crawling across the stage. The males dig that, seeing a woman prowling on the ground like a bitch in heat. I do a side pin-up girl, flexing my ass to show off the goodies under my skirt.

Bingo, the catcalls start. With a seductive smile plastered on my face like a mask, I bridge my knees against the cold metal pole. I lower the zipper torturously slow. The skirt was way too short to belong to a college girl; I felt like I had wiggled myself in a freshman size. All to keep the fantasy alive, I guess.

They toss a couple of bills in my line of sight and I continue to crawl over to the balding, sweaty pig that held a fifty in his sausage fingers. Beggars can't be choosers.

Taking the note from him, I make a show of stuffing it into my black thong, seeing his probable pacemaker working overtime.

Giving some attention to his companion, who just adds another bill to my wad from inside his jacket to his outstretched hand, I catch a glimpse of metal hiding in his holster from the corner of my eye.

Damn, Jackson. Letting this scum in was going to ruin it for us all. Luckily, I recompose myself and the bright lights dancing around in the club hide my expression as I continue my routine.

I accept the money from the guy with the gun and shove it in my bra. I remove my tie, flashing my ample cleavage for their viewing pleasure. Fisting the fabric around my palm, I use the tie as a whip, giving him a playful slap on his thigh.

Suddenly, the doors fling open and a group of men barge in. One of them drags our bouncer by the lapel of his jacket across the ground behind him. They had knocked out Beast. Holy shitcakes.

Insults in Italian and Russian start flying around, guns are drawn from inside pockets and belts; and I see Antonia ducking under her bar and Jackson screaming profanities. Until the blast of a gunshot silences my boss and he hits the ground with a sickening crunch.