Wherever the Dandelion Falls by Lily R. Mason

hadn't.
    After a quick scan of the message boards, I decided I wanted to try my hand at a traditional hustle club, where dancers do stage performances and then work the crowd selling lap dances. I was comfortable being naked. It would be fairly dark, the music would be loud, and I'd be in a costume with tons of makeup on. Those things would be mask enough for me.
    I wasn't sure how hard it would be to get a job at one of the dozens of clubs in the city. I decided to pick the area most dense with clubs and try my luck at each one. In the middle of the day on a Tuesday, the bus emerged from the Broadway tunnel and the stripping Mecca unrolled before me. The flashing signs were mesmerizing. The proximity to the Financial District meant these clubs probably had wealthy patrons and would be geared to a more upscale crowd. Hopefully that meant they were less seedy and complied with strip club laws. I knew that clubs that served alcohol were required to have the dancers wearing some semblance of panties, and I knew that prostitution was illegal. But I also knew, from message boards where strippers complained about customers asking for "extras," that laws didn't always translate to practice.
    It occurred to me when I walked into the first club that I probably should have scoped out clubs at night when it was more active. As it was, the first club I walked into had about five dancers milling around, and no more than three customers. That made it seem quaint.
    Farthest from the door was a small black stage with a gleaming silver pole on it. A tall, leggy blonde woman was winding around it to the beat of Rihanna's Jump , and though she was wearing nothing more than a pleather bra and matching g-string, I was mesmerized by the athletics of what she was doing. As she pulled her entire weight up the pole, her arm muscles surged. Then, wrapping her legs around the pole into a precise position, she leaned back, inverting herself and letting her hair graze the floor as her arms ran up and down her torso, squeezing her breasts. My stomach tensed, hoping she wouldn't fall and break her neck. But she didn't. She dismounted gracefully in a variation of a cartwheel and proceeded with a few more spins before removing her bra, tossing it onto what must have been her discarded dress. She ran her hands up into her hair and strutted to the corners of the stage, undulating.
    She was confident, strong, and sexy, the picture of the empowered woman all the strippers on the message boards had talked about.
    The rest of the club was clad in burgundy and black. Around the walls were curved velvet benches with small tables in front of them, and a sort of awning over top from which a curtain was drawn back. I thought these were just tapestries installed for ambience, but when I saw one of the girls get up and draw the curtain back, concealing herself in the bench enclave with a customer, it was clear that these curtains were used to create a more intimate space for giving lap dances.
    The woman dancing onstage finished her dance by removing her panties and crawling on the floor, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs in a wide V, then rolling over again and flicking one of her heels up before sliding back onto her knees. She stood, collected her clothing, and walked offstage to no response whatsoever.
    Considering two of the customers were busy talking to other dancers and the lone solo customer had just stared blankly at her the whole time, I'm not sure what kind of response I had expected her to get.
    When the woman emerged from a side door dressed in her g-string, I walked up to her. She seemed startled to be approached by anyone besides staff, much less a woman.
    "Hi," I said with a friendly smile. "That was awesome."
    She looked my up and down with a critical eye, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears.
    "I was hoping someone could tell me what it's like to work here."
    She bit down an amused smirk and raised her eyebrows. "Ever danced