Her Forbidden Twin Lovers

Whoever said life was fair must not have been talking about me. Growing up, I was a dreamer. A little girl with raven black, bouncing pigtails who was convinced that Jude McIntyre, my second-grade crush, would one day realize that I was a girl instead of one of the boys. I dreamed he would one day set those mesmerizing ice blue eyes on me and the world would realign. He would sweep me into his arms and carry me off into the sunset and together we would live an amazing life with two-point-five kids.

But that was just a fairy tale, and fairy tales don’t come true. At least, not for people like me.

By the time I turned eight, my world as I knew it had begun to collapse, and dreams like boys and marriage and kids had evaporated. The only concern I had was keeping Dad happy and praying to God to give us another good day.

It was two weeks before my eighth birthday that the doctor diagnosed my mother with an inoperable brain tumor. He gave her two years. She was gone less than six months later.

Nothing mattered after that except getting from one day to the next. If Jude McIntyre or any other boys ever noticed my existence, I didn’t know it. I was too busy making sure the man, who used to carry me around on his shoulders and told silly jokes at the dinner table, didn’t waste away. After Mom had died, Dad became a shell. He went to work only because there were bills to pay. He only ate out of habit, and the blank stare, that never seemed to go away, made me wonder if he even tasted what I laid in front of him.

Dad passed away of natural causes shortly after my eighteenth birthday.

I say it was a broken heart.

He held on only long enough to make sure I made it into adulthood, and then he let it all go to be with Mom. I can’t say I blame him. I miss her, too. I miss them both. But now isn’t the time for crying. What’s done is done. Now, my only concern is carving a path through this minefield called life, and I do that the only way I know how.

The floor-to-ceiling curtains hide my figure from curious eyes as my song of choice filters through the speakers, but I can feel them—touching, craving, yearning... For me.

This feeling used to scare me shitless. The vulnerability. The exposure. But all of that is long gone. Now, all I feel is the rush.

Being a stripper wasn’t my life’s ambition. Far from it. If my parents were looking down on me now, I don’t think they’d be very proud of what their daughter has become, but this job is the key to my survival. Waiting tables doesn’t pay much, but taking off my clothes means the difference between paying the bills and living on the streets. Student housing isn’t cheap, no matter how you slice it. As a bonus, with all the tips I’ve saved up, I will have paid my tuition in full by the time I’m finished with my degree.

Right now, stripping is the solution I’ve chosen, because nothing else makes sense. And, if I'm being honest, I kind of like it.

The sensual beat of Porcelain and the Tramp’s “I feel perfect” signal the show is about to begin. Standing with my feet slightly apart, I watch the dark curtains part in the middle. For one prolonged moment, I remain shrouded in a blanket of darkness. Then, as the lyrics take over, the ruby spotlight exposes me, and my feet begin to move. As I walk slowly forward, kicking my long legs out in front of me, I’m unable to see my audience, but I can feel them.

This is how I do what I do. I am shy by nature, but I learned early on that if I can block out the eyes watching me, my love of dancing is free to take over. At the end of the stage, I grasp the gleaming silver pole and twist, pressing my back into it. The shadowed figures watching my every move hover in the darkness just beyond my reach, urging me on.

Slowly, I slide down the length of the metal bar, my legs bending at the knee and opening wide, exposing the glittering gold strip that serves as a barrier between their eyes and the most intimate part of me.

There is something about taking my clothes off for strangers that I find exhilarating. It’s the knowledge that all those eyes are focused on me, on every movement, no matter how small, and that I affect them. It gives me a sense of control, of power. I push these men to the brink, testing the limits of their willpower, and the only thing they can do is watch.

And give me their money.

Dropping to my knees, I crawl across the stage. Encased in stretchy gold fabric, my breasts sway with each movement, creating a hypnotizing effect. Men can’t get enough of breasts, and thankfully, I have plenty to flaunt.

A few feet from the end of the stage, when I have reached as far as I am willing to go, I stretch my arms across the hard, cool surface, like a cat. Making eye contact with the darkness, I’m aware that whoever is on the other side is meeting my gaze with strained desire. Easing onto my back, I lift my hands overhead and stretch my long legs into the air, opening them wide, and then closing them again. The arch of my back presses my breasts toward the ceiling. Imagining what I must look like—nearly naked, needy and wanting, my body moving and arching, calling for my love to take me here, now—makes me feel edgy and wanton. As if the little clothing I wear is too much, threatening to smother me.

I’m not an exhibitionist, but there are times like this that an almost overpowering need to push past my own limits threatens to consume me. It takes everything I have to pull back.

Rotating onto my stomach, I push up onto my knees, reach for the pole again, and pull myself up. With both hands, I lift myself from the floor and bring both of my legs up, swinging in a full circle. Bills flutter to the stage, and I feel my smile inch up, slow and seductive.

It is then that I feel Him.

I’d noticed Him my first night on the job about five months ago before I learned the importance of lighting. He stuck to the perimeter of the room, choosing the same table in the same dark corner every time. From what I could tell, he had long legs, he was tall and had dark, almost midnight hair. The air of importance that cloaked Him made me peg Him as a professional. Although he alternated between jeans and slacks, polos and button-downs, I remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who should be wearing business suits—sharp, expensive, and tailored.

He isn’t a regular by any stretch, but he’s definitely a creature of habit. I’d only seen him a total of four times before I began plunging the room into darkness—and I’ve only felt his presence a handful since—but I never miss the short glass, two-fingers, neat. My stomach flutters remembering those dark, penetrating eyes focused solely on me, glued to my every move, every sway, reading my body like a book. I’d never been more turned on in my life than the day I laid eyes on him—a perfect stranger.

He is the reason I now perform under the cover of darkness. I know if I had to see those eyes watching me, I’d never make it through my performance without combusting.

Times like this, I wished for a private dance. A chance to get up close and personal with my mystery man, but not knowing only added to the experience.

Asking around about Him isn’t an option. I’ve made it a point not to get close to the personnel. This isn’t the type of place I want to make friends. I came to dance, make a quick buck, and go home. No, the people I choose to associate myself with are classy, intelligent, and would never be caught dead in a place like this. If anyone found out what I did for a living… I’m not sure what would happen, but I’m not willing to find out.

Sensing Him watching me, I feel a familiar thrill tickling my insides. True heat spreads through my limbs, pooling in my stomach and lower as I imagine those dark eyes. What is He thinking right now? Is He imagining me, like I’m imagining him, his hands on my hips, his hot mouth tasting my skin? Pressing my breasts to the pole, I draw my focus inward, silently devoting this dance to Him.

I’ve built up a lot of strength since I began dancing, and I use that power now to pull myself up the pole. Wrapping my legs around it, I lock my feet at the ankles and release my hands. Arching back, my body folds over, until I hang upside down with only my legs to hold me. With my long black hair sweeping the floor, the gentle curve of my throat exposed, and gravity drawing my breasts up to full, round mounds, the effect is nothing short of erotic. When I allow my hands to touch my fevered skin, I imagine they are his, and find myself hoping he is doing the same.

When the dance is over, I collect the cash and hurry off-stage just as the lights come up. Just before I duck through the curtains, I glance toward the corner. My breath is lost the instant those dark pools of black meet mine. My feet continue to carry me to safety, but I don’t miss the seductive curve of his lips, nor the promising wink he sends me.