The big bellied dancer

chapter 1

Bright stage lights illuminated every white stretch mark on my thighs as I gyrated down the pole. My hands still felt greasy from cramming McDonald’s fries into my mouth before my shift. My stomach was bloated against my underwear-sized short shorts. I split my legs for the crowd of cheap men and slid down the stripper pole head-first, stopping only just in time and doing a backbend in platform heels to get back onto my feet. The whole time I was thinking, I really need to fart. Shouldn’t have eaten that Big Mac.

I know, I know. I was kind of a disaster, even factoring in that every single college kid is an absolute mess and if they say they aren’t, they’re lying. I had it worse than usual. I was up to my eyeballs in medical debt as well as student loans thanks to a car crash my freshman year of college that left me in the hospital for almost an entire semester. I was doing my best to climb back to some sense of normalcy, but the only way I could stop from filing for bankruptcy was by shaking my ass for horny men six nights a week. Between all the stress of finances, college, a pandemic, and an uncertain future, I was eating too much fast food and outgrowing my stupid little slinky outfits.

All of my worries swirled through my head as I rocked my body against the pole, tongue out like I was going to lick it. It was a favorite move of mine. I glanced down at the scant amount of bills on the stage. It should have been more. Way more. Lately my income had been dwindling, but I didn’t know why. I’d put on a couple pounds, but nothing drastic. Most of it was sitting in my ass, the best place for it to go.

“Show us your tits, fatty!” A particularly drunken man hollered from the back. I ignored him, swinging up onto the pole again and slowly riding down it in smooth circles in time with the music pouding through the speakers to either side of the stage. My cheeks burned with more than physical exertion, though: the insult didn’t just sting, it brought fear. This particular club was cutthroat. If anyone in management had just heard that? My ass was grass.

I scaled the pole again, trying to lose myself in the pounding music and give the audience the best show I could. I needed this job, needed this pay, needed better tips than what these cheap slime balls were giving me. Come on, come on, come on. I sent up a prayer to any god who would listen even as I planted my platforms on the ground and shimmied for the crowd, showing my deep cleavage.

“Someone get this fat cow off the stage!” the drunk yelled again, waving his arms. Other members in the audience were turning to look at him instead of focusing on me. I kept up my smile, but it was a mask. This was humiliating. Without breaking my dance routine, I scanned the dark room. By now a bouncer should have come by to drag him out of the room. No one had. My stomach dropped, and panic tore through me. I only finished my performance on pure adrenaline. My heart was pounding so hard in my ears I couldn’t even hear the music. I bent to collect my bills when a hand stopped me: the stage bouncer. The fart I’d been squeezing back finally blew, and he and the front row audience members made a face. This could not get worse, but I narrowed my eyes and kept my dignity.

“Oh, now you’re here?” I snapped as he helped me gather my meager pay. He wasn’t handing it to me, and I didn’t have it in me to argue.

“Mr. Sykes wants to see you in the back,” Rodrigo grunted. “Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200.” He held out a meaty hand for me to put the rest of my money in it. I thought about refusing, but knew better. I was in deep shit, and arguing would only make it worse. I relinquished the bills for the final count and headed to the back.

Mr. Sykes was sitting in my dressing room chair. He was so comically out of place - a gangster type in a three piece suit with oily gray hair greased into a rat tail, fat cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth, sitting among pots of glitter makeup, feather boas, and all things pink - I nearly laughed. Nearly.

“You wanted to see me?” It was moments like this that I remembered being 21 didn’t really mean I was an adult-adult. Sure, I had my own bills to pay, didn’t talk to my mom, and figured everything out for myself. I was also terrified and just wanted to go home, get in bed, and never deal with the world again.

Mr. Sykes swiped a thumb over his neck while making a rude sound effect. “You’re done, kid. See Leslie for your final pay.”

Yep, this was it. My absolute nightmare. I had rent and a payment on my medical debt due next week, plus tuition for the upcoming semester coming up in two weeks.

“You can’t fire me. I need this job,” I tried to argue, but my voice was weak and my knees wobbly. Mr. Sykes didn’t even honor my protest with words: he just walked away, leaving me to gather my things and try to beg change off of Leslie, who had an office immediately in front of the back door. She cooked the books for Emerald City, deciding on a whim who got how much pay. I’d been lucky not to deal with her too much: just a flat fee and I could keep the rest, uncounted. This time would obviously be different.

With my duffle bags of shoes, costumes, and stage makeup banging into my knees, I took that final walk of shame to the exit. Leslie was waiting, even though all of the other dancers were scheduled until close. Lucky me. She held out an envelope, not meeting my eyes.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know. There are other clubs,” she said. I took the envelope, then kept walking. Her calloused remarks didn’t deserve a response. This was bullshit and we both knew it. Hot tears were building in my eyes but I didn’t want her to see. My emotions were my own, not to be shared.

I got in the car and opened the envelope. It had $200 in crumpled 20s and a folded up sheet of Burger King coupons. I whipped my head around to glare at the back entrance, but the door was shut and no one was paying attention to me anymore. I was already forgotten.

I put my key in the ignition and headed for home, letting the stress wash over me. It was almost an hour drive back to my college town from the big city. The whole drive, my mind was racing. I had no idea what I was going to do. Life had already fucked me over so bad as an adult that I wasn’t willing to budge another inch. I had to make this work, but I didn’t have a path forward without a job and I couldn’t file for unemployment when I’d been working under the table.

As I finally reached my exit on the highway, my stomach grumbled traitorously. I rolled my eyes, knowing any truly responsible person would have seen the night as a giant neon sign to just lose 5 pounds. OK, maybe 10. But I was exhausted, stressed out, and had just been fired, so what did I do? Got a bag of Burger King with the coupons they’d given me on the way home. I’d figure out everything else in the morning.

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The Big Bellied Dancer is available for preorder on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09T8CTWWP. All sales are appreciated!