In New York, all I had to do was take the subway. But in this town, the public transportation system is nothing short of lousy. It once took me three hours to go ten miles because I had to change buses four times-- waiting at least twenty minutes for each transfer.
It sucked. And that's why I needed a car. But in true LA style, I also wanted to look cool-- which is why I'm getting a convertible.
The guy wanted $3,000, but I only had $1,500-- so I talked him into letting me have it for $2,000.
Right now, I wouldn't be dancing almost naked in front of these people if I didn't need the cash. I called up a guy I'd done some dancing for and he got me this gig.
It's a private birthday party for some local politicos in the community.
If only the public could see this. Various Councilmen smoking cigars, hiring me to strip for their favorite Councilwoman-- everyone getting all boozed up and screaming with laughter.
Tax dollars at work.
However, the Councilwoman and her female friends are digging me. Money is flying out of their purses and into my g-string like a summer rain.
I'm doing the big finish, gyrating my pelvis in front of the woman's waistline-- when suddenly I see him behind her.
It's Ned, the guy from the DA's office that's working the case against Friday and Gannon.
He sits there with a big shit eating grin on his face, slyly showing me a dollar from his shirt pocket.
Suddenly I'm filled with confusion, because for some reason I want that dollar. Not just any dollar-- HIS dollar.
One of the women turn around to see what I'm looking at. What am I looking at? I quickly touch the woman's face and stare her down, remembering to adore my paying audience.
Sometimes I can have a hard time ending if the woman is really shy, but this Councilwoman is about to rape me.
I grab her hands and pull her forward, leading her through a hallway door. She plays along-- making faces at the crowd with a seductive smile. Everyone cheers.
I turn around and catch Ned staring me down. He's no longer smiling-- just staring. Calmly.
And all I can think about is his dollar.
I want to reach my hand into his shirt pocket and feel the green-- against his chest, against the curve of his muscular pecs.
