The script to my life went as follows:
Woman works at a company for years. Millionaire man cuts her position during the recession. Woman can’t find work. Woman walks into a “men’s club” one afternoon and signs up to be a topless dancer. Man comes in. Woman decides to write a novel about it.
***
He was sitting at a table next to the stage having a cocktail and watching the entertainment, dressed in the same white polo shirt and dark trousers he used to wear to the office, where he would greet me in the mornings with our coffee mugs in hand. He was in his sixties, probably older than my father. Shock and anger settled in. Because of his actions I was here. Sauntering by his table, my heart pounding in my chest, I intended to teach him a lesson. “Your stockings,” he said, following me with his eyes, “are dead sexy.” I turned to face him, expecting him to realize who I was. His hand sensually grazed the lace on my thigh and he introduced himself, as if we had never met, enthusiastically asking me to give him dances. I wanted him to have to spend all of the money in his wallet on me, but I did not actually want to be caught topless stripping for him at this club. Did he recognize me yet? Were we both playing games with each other and pretending to act like we were strangers?
I disconnected emotionally and stood between his trousers, beginning to dance, unhooking my bra, my breasts inches from his mouth and his eyes hooked on my curves in the haze. I set one leg with my high heel on the wall and ran the dollar bill he gave me up the side of my leg, tucking it into the top of the stocking. After song eleven, he asked me to sit and placed his arm around my back. “That was wonderful! So tell me, how long have you been dancing?” I was topless, in nothing except a sparkling thong and stockings with lace trim.
“Not for that long,” I answered. “I’m new.”
“What brought you into the business?”
“I was laid off.”
“What did you do before this?” he asked, curiously.
“I was a writer. For a company.”
“Really? What sort of a company did you write for?”
“I think you may be able to guess…”
I let him piece the facts together and stopped talking. The notion of him finding me dancing at a strip club was crazy, far out, wild. A long pause and then an expression of shock washed upon his face, which drained from color into an ashen hue. He stared ahead at women dancing on the stages and removed his arm from the back of the seat.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We cut some good people, didn’t we? You know, I always thought you were incredibly beautiful. You look different now, of course.”
“I generally didn’t come to work in only a thong. I thought that probably wouldn’t have been well received.”
“No! You’re right. Ha. What do you want to do with your life? What are your dreams?”
“It’s complicated.”
He retrieved his wallet and handed over $220, not even tipping me. “I’ll see what I can do and email you soon.”
“Thank you.” I held the crisp bills and bid farewell to my former boss, watching him exit the front door and disappear into the parking lot, wondering if he would follow through on his words.
***
He wrote two weeks later to tell me how ‘delightful’ it had been to randomly run into me that night and that he thought the best he could do for me now was recommend a book called “What Color Is Your Parachute?” My parachute was definitely the color red, and one day, I fantasized, he’ll be getting a copy of my novel in the mail for some recommended reading.
