I go on stage three times that night, and each time afterwards men beg me for a private dance. But I just laugh and shrug, telling them that’s not my style, but even as I say it I bite my lip a little, letting them think that maybe they can convince me. It works, too, because each of these men crowd the edge of the stage when I go on, throwing more money, desperate to show me how generous they are, how much more they’ll give me if I just dance with them when I come off the stage.
After my third dance, though, I don’t come out again, not wanting to see any of those men. Instead, I tip one of the waitresses and ask her to go get Frankie, to bring him back here so that we can sneak out the back.
When he comes through, he doesn’t look directly for me – instead looking around the women’s dre
