SENSUAL SURRENDER

 I wrapped my long, bare legs around the cold stainless steel that was my fortress at the moment as I danced half naked in front of the wealthy onlookers. Drinking a half bottle of Moèt within two hours was proving to be a bad idea. My mind was a vortex, my vision blurry, and my bones liquefied as iridescent lights flashed through my body.

I opened my eyes and observed my spectators who all bore lustful smiles, waving their green bills overhead.  They were all wealthy and powerful businessmen with wives either forty pounds heavier than when they'd first tied the knot to do justice to any sexy lingerie, or simply, the spark was gone.

 As I crawled to the center of the stage, I noticed through my blurry vision, the Mysterious billionaire. As usual, he was sitting alone in his rented boot as he observed me intently. The word I’d use to describe him was…‘odd’. He has never danced with anyone; he merely sat in his booth throughout the night and stared at me, watching my every move. Sometimes, I got the insane thought he was some sort of serial killer who preyed on vulnerable women. If such was the case, he is simply wasting his time.

I’d never seen him up close because I deliberately kept my distance from him. Although Club lights do have the tendency to make anyone look good. But if my distant assessments didn't lie, I'd say he was one wickedly hot son of a bitch. All dark-haired, square-jawed and high levels of intensity. I need to view him up close to be certain, though.  Not like that's ever going to happen.

With alcohol-fueled bravery, I winked at him, flashing a timid smile. His response was a disapproving scowl and he arrogantly averted his eyes. Ouch.

For once, I was only trying to be nice tonight, because I was drunk. And his ass should’ve been glad for it, considering the countless times I rejected his requests for private dances with me, persistent as he was.  No way was I going to dance with him. He was too...intimidating, if that were the better word and strange.

He only dressed in black and no one seemed to have any details about him—well, at least they said they didn’t. It was as if they feared him or something. Thus, I nicknamed him The Mysterious billionaire.

I curled tortuously up my stainless steel fortress, closing my eyes and allowing myself to drift away on the waves of Michael Jackson’s songs, feeling like a Dirty Dalia myself. But the alcohol wasn’t enough to keep the reality away. The reality of why I’d gotten this drunk in the first place. Why I’d subjected myself to this ‘job’, and was now so disoriented.

I awkwardly tried to take off my bra as I felt like breaking the arbitrary rule Scott gave only me.  At the undoing of the first hook, I lost my grip and tumbled to the floor.  I was too soused to even attempt lifting a finger as I sprawled in a heap on the stage,  so I just laid there, listening to Michael Jackson scream like a bitch in my ears, telling me how dirty I was. For some time,  seconds, minutes, or hours, maybe, I remained sprawled on the stage, until I felt hands holding my arms and legs, and my body being carried off the stage.

I soon felt something soft and plush beneath me—the couch in the dressing room, I assumed. I flicked open my eyes and caught a familiar form, the flowering gaze of my pissed off boss. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus on my surroundings. His wavy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his black muscle-shirt stretched helplessly over his fully matured brawns. Scott was a big man. A really big man.

"Dalia, what the hell’s wrong with you tonight, huh?" he growled.

Unable to form a coherent sentence, I groaned. My eyes glanced around the untidy room. Bright round bulbs lined above rows of make-up mirrors; each had a fully or half-naked girl seated in front of it painting prettier faces over their original ones. Feathers and fluffs and bras and various dance costumes were strewn about, as dancers walked in and out.  It seems no one was paying attention to Scott and me, so I relaxed.

Failing to meet his angry glare again, I said, "I just fell on my ass straight from a pole, Scott. Have some pity on me, will you?"

"You fell because you were trying to defy me. I told you: do not remove your bra!!"

"It's a mystery why this rule applies only to me," I said in indignation. "How the hell am I supposed to make money? I'm not allowed to dance with anyone and I'm not allowed to go topless. So what’s the point of me being here?"

Scott looked frustrated. “You don’t need the money. Why do you think you need to be here?"

I stared blankly up at him as if he’d spoken a distinct language. Uh, let's see: because I lost my job merely a week after dumping my good-for-nothing-but-trouble drug dealer of a boyfriend. Had difficulties getting another job. Student loans—debt. My mother's ailment—debt. Three months’ worth of rent owed to Jane, in which I'll be out on my ass if I don't have her rent by the time she’s back from her excursion— more debt.

I closed my eyes and swung an arm across my face. "I won't even attempt to answer that, Scott."

Scott sighed. "It's only ‘because I have to keep my mouth shut, Dalia," he gently removed my hand from my face and looked down at me with an I-know-something-that-you don’t-know expression. "But trust me, you don't need to be here. This job’s not for you."

 "You are right, it's definitely not for me. I’m with you on that. But I do need the money."

Scott grunted in frustration just as a cocktail waitress strolled in with a glass of ice and a bottle of Club Soda. Taking the tray from her, he poured the Club Soda into the glass and sat next to me on the couch, bringing the glass to my lips. "Drink."

I drank without hesitation, because to be honest, I hated being drunk. I needed nothing more than to head home and fall into a deep sleep. "Thanks.”

Scott smiled his signature panty-dropping smile "It’s my pleasure, Dalia." He leaned over to whisper, "Just don't forget me." He revealed that I-know-something-that-you don’t-know expression again, got up and left with a backward glance.

What the heck was that supposed to mean?

As my thoughts tried weaving through my tipsy brain about Scott's unexplainable behavior, I felt familiar arms wrapped around me, and I relaxed into it. "Thanks, Joan. I needed that." 

"Dalia, I know you got some awful news tonight, but I can assure you, Moet is nobody's friend," Joan said, her brown eyes sincere, her caramel skin glowing. "Plus drinking and working don't mesh well. You'll start out doing things that’s just not you, then end up regretting it in the morning."

 I merely gave a "hmm" in response.  Far too intoxicated to take a lecture.

 "I will dress you up and take you home. You seem a little out of it. Sleep is the only thing that can help right now." No argument from me.

After getting dressed and gathering my things, I let Joan steer me through the club towards the exit. Scott popped up in my line of vision.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"Yes, Scott. I can't even stand straight. What do you expect? Am I restricted from leaving the club, too?"

"No, you're not,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “It's just that, you-know-who is demanding a dance with you again."

"Scott, the guy...makes me wary. I'm not going within an inch of him. The fact he's been so insistent on getting a dance with me all week is creepy. Are you sure he's not some Lifetime movie predator type? He's always dressed in black. What if he's one of those cult people who likes to slaughter for the rush of it?"

Scott flung his head back and laughed out. "No, Dalia. I know him very well and he's nothing like that. He's not a member of the club either. He just started showing since you began working here a few days ago. Clubs are not his sort of...thing. His presence here is because of you."

"But, why? How does he even know me?"

Scott shrugged, but the expression he wore told me he knew much more than he was letting on, and I was too lethargic to even think about deciphering anything at the moment.

"Tell him I said no, and he should leave me the hell alone. He’s creeping me out." I tugged on Joan's arm prompting her to move with me. Scott gave a reluctant nod and gave us way.

I was rocked awake from my short-lived sleep when Joan pulled up outside my apartment. "What time is it?" 

"Just a little after midnight." Shifting in her seat, she turned to face me. "You're gonna stop, aren't you?"

"You know me too well," I mumbled. "There's no point if Scott keeps acting like this."

"Yeah, Scott's behavior is a bit out of character when it comes to you. I’m thinking he wants you to quit and get with that scary dude in black who watches you like a damn hawk."

"Nope. Not gonna happen. The guy’s a weird one. I mean, he stares at me all night, but if I smile at him, his face gets all serious and disapproving. And then he sends Scott to ask me for a dance? He's just...ugh, whatever." Joan laughed.

But I didn't, because the joke was lost on me. "I'm not sure what the hell I'm gonna do now. Dancing onstage had looked so easy." I managed a short laugh. "Yet I couldn't even last more than four nights.”

Joan reached over squeezed my arm. "You are strong, smart and fearless, Dalia. You'll figure it out. You always do."

Opening the car door, I clambered out, swaying. The alcohol still had me offbalanced.  Joan rounded the car and came to my rescue, propping my arm over her shoulder. "I got you."

 Joan didn't want me to quit working at the club, but that hustling was just not for me. At some point in my life, I knew I would look back and ask myself, "What the hell was I thinking?"

Tucked away on the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper, Secre X was a private and exclusive members-only gentlemen's club, where only elite businessmen—mostly married and bored—were admitted. It had no more than about thirty members and each member rented their own booth.  Scott made loads from those guys.

Making use of an inherited and honed talent, I sometimes designed and sold costumes to dancers. Joan was one of my regular customers, so I'd stopped by Secre X one night last week with a few pieces she’d ordered. She'd been onstage when I arrived so I took a seat by the bar and watched her performance while I waited. It was at that moment I became like Eve who’d bitten into that deceivingly promising apple; the vast amount of money Joan made onstage had been a deadly temptation for a broke ass like me. Easily, I’d convinced myself with a list of more pros than cons, that it was the easiest and quickest way to pay off my debts. Those thoughts were propelled by Joan's encouragement. However, it didn't take long for me to realize one needed a carefree psyche or a completely inebriated mind to get through a few hours in that kind of gig.

Joan halted with me on my doorstep. "The owner of Narcofax, Dalia.  He’s coming to see you tomorrow night, remember? That’s at least a thousand bucks guaranteed. Show up at work tomorrow, if only just to see him."

True, that gray-headed man did give big tips.  “Maybe."

Taking my bag, she searched around for my keys, retrieved them and opened the door. "And remember if you want anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask me, okay?"

With a nod of acknowledgement, I stumbled across the threshold, closing the door behind me.

"Looks like someone's had a busy night. You're shitfaced."

I glanced up to see Julia and Michael cuddled up on the big black couch in my living room, watching me in amusement.

"You two shitheads still here? Don't you have a home?" I grumbled as I walked rather clumsily over to the leather recliner in the corner and plopped down in it.

"You left us watching Gone with the Wind, girl. You know that movie lasts, like, twenty hours and day. We were just about to leave anyways," Julia said, popping her gum. "You're back early, though. How was your night?"

"Shitty."

Julia Mitchell watched me through big, green eyes, her long, dark hair stylishly pigtailed with red hair ties, her bodacious figure swallowed up in one of Michael’s oversized sweaters. She’d been my best friend, confidante and everything in between for five years. Polar opposites, though. She was from an affluent upbringing and I was from an impoverished, dysfunctional, screwed-up family.

But Julia loved me for me; shared in my tears and laughs—though laughs, for me, were a luxury. That, along with the fact I could be used as an excuse to her parents so she could date my ride or die thug of a friend, Michael.

Michael was unacceptable, ineligible, absolutely not the son-in-law Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell would approve of. He was quintessentially the kind of man all women should steer clear of. Michael Trouble was what I called him. Trouble with a capital T. But I couldn’t lie though, I adored the curly-haired, Hispanic hombre like a brother. And the respects were reciprocated. 

At just over six feet he was athletically built with a unique Spanish swagger to him. He had a large heart-shaped tattoo with massive wings on his arm, and all three of our names were etched in it.

"Just imagine, you own a house with five bathrooms," I slurred, wagging a lazy finger at Michael. "And you," I slurred to Julia, "have enough money to buy one with twice as many bathrooms. So, tell me again why you guys spend more time here where I actually share a bathroom?”

On their own, my eyes closed down, my limbs feeling heavier by the second. "Should just let y'all pay the damn rent when Jane gets back from New York.

Lizards."

"We wish you'd actually let us pay the rent," Michael snapped, his words all curled up with that Hispanic accent.

I ignored him.

"Come on, Dalia. You're stressing yourself out over things we can help you with easily. Nothing's wrong with accepting help sometimes," Julia joined in, her voice a warm, fuzzy blanket of compassion.

"I don't want your money. Neither do I want your pity. Didn't you guys say you were leaving?" 

"Stubborn as always," Michael said, shaking his head. "C’mon, babe. Let's go."

Their steps neared me, and then I felt their kisses on my cheeks. "G'night, pony. See ya in da’ morrow," Julia whispered.

The soft click of the door seconds later confirmed their leave. 

Unsteadily, I got up and headed to my room, launching myself onto the bed without undressing. Oh shoot...

It didn't matter how stoned I was, there was one thing I had to do before I met up with sleep. Reaching over to the nightstand, I retrieved my old, tattered bible and opened to where it was bookmarked. With the weight of sleep anchoring down my lids, the words on the page blurred, but I strained nonetheless and repeated the highlighted words of Proverbs; words I'd been reading every night for the past six years:

Oh God, I beg two favors from you; let me have them before I die.

First, help me never to tell a lie.

Second, give me neither poverty nor riches. Give me just enough to satisfy my needs.

As the last of the words slurred from my lips, my eyes instantly grew heavier and sleep rolled in.