At nine o'clock on the dot Dave nodded to the bouncer and ducked through the curtained doorway. He was never late. Once inside, he headed backstage and dropped his bag off at his usual seat and took out his uniform. Most of the other employees left theirs on the hangers in the back of the room, numbers pinned to them to identify who they belonged to, but Dave preferred to take his home. Better to wash it himself and risk his bro seeing it than leave it here to let God knew what happen to it.
His uniform was red—he'd gotten to choose the color, and it was the only one he would accept. It was pre-owned, like most of the uniforms, and slightly worn. He'd made sure to have it washed before wearing it. Putting it on now, he frowned at the clingy material, but the costume was supposed to be snug. It showed more of his chest than he would have liked; it showed more of a lot of things than he would have liked, but that was show biz.
Dave was allowed to keep his shades on while he performed. It hadn't been hard to convince the boss of this, since the shades gave him an air of cool and mystery any girl would like, but he had mostly been concerned about his strange eyes. He didn't mind his friends or Bro seeing them, but complete strangers? Not a chance. The management was convinced (thanks to some verbal maneuvering) that the pigment of his irises would unnerve customers and prevent them from returning.
9:15 was his first show. It took him only moments to check his outfit and hair and slip into his performing shoes, and he was taking his position behind the curtain.
"And now, our very popular blonde, shaded stud, Turntech Godhead!" Eddie introduced him out front, his stage name met by applause and whistling. The crowd was pumped tonight. The curtain parted, the music started, and the lights slowly came up on him. He began to dance.
It was ladies' night, and he was one of the best damn pole dancers this club had seen since Magic Mike.
The pole was like a battlefield and Dave a brave, wise general who had seen many skirmishes in his day. He rode the pole like a pro in time to the music, never offbeat. The woman shrieked and giggled in their seats, throwing money around and catcalling. "Hey sexy, mama's got some sugar for you if you've got some for her!" "Yeah, ride that pole, boy!" "Twenty bucks if you flash us some cock!"
These women's swoons were what Dave loved. The money was always good, even excluding what he got per show from management, but that was only a bonus for Dave. He had skills, and it'd be a crime not to show them off. After teasing the crowd with some suggestive posses on the pole, he moved towards the end of the stage to collect tips from the ladies. They were always sweet to him, winking as they pulled his g-string away to stuff singles into it. There was a skin-colored leotard on underneath that he'd cut up himself so he wouldn't be too exposed, but the women didn't seem to mind. He graciously smirked back to the women, played along with them as they spanked him and trailed their fingers down his chest, then went back to the pole. Now that he had plenty of cash stuffed near his crotch, he busted out his sickest moves, throwing his head back and gyrating against the pole. It drove the women wild, and there was more cheering and catcalling. Music to Dave's ears.
As he danced he looked out into the crowd. Most of the women he didn't recognize by face, but their attitudes and actions were the same as every night; there were the ones who were obviously not getting laid (the big tippers), the wives or girlfriends out for a girls' night (the ones who only stayed until midnight and got trashed), the shy ones who'd been dragged here by someone else (they often refrained from tipping), and the first-timers (usually shy when tipping, many of them probably virgins). Not surprisingly, Rose was present tonight. She often came to watch Dave dance, sitting at the same table in the back center of the room. Rose was watching with polite interest, quietly sipping tea. She and the Thursday night bouncer, T-dog (real name Theo), had become rather friendly since she'd found out Dave worked here, and sometimes on his breaks he'd stop by for a chat. Dave usually did as well as he worked the floor between shows. He always made sure to spare a fist bump for her Fluthulu plush before he left.
After his show Dave counted his cash: a hundred thirty-two big ones. He mentally calculated how many bottles of apple juice that would buy him and enjoyed a private smile.
Rose stayed until eleven, long enough to have a drink or two with her brother and see his 9:50 and 10:35 shows, plus her favorite gothic-themed dancer at 10:50. Dave finished his last show just before two and took his final bow, then changed backstage. Making sure to check the mirror for lipstick smudges over his collar, Dave collected his things and made for home. The club was only a short bike ride away. When he sidled through the door of his and Bro's apartment Bro was laying on the couch in the dark, the TV on softly in the background. Dave slipped silently into his room, dumped his bag, stashed his cash, grabbed a towel and jumped in the shower for a quick rinse.
On the couch, Bro tilted his head towards the hallway and heard the shower running. He smiled. He wasn't fooled by Dave's weak attempts to conceal his absence once a week, and he certainly didn't miss the extra dough Dave seemed to have whenever he needed it. He didn't know where exactly Dave went off to when he snuck out at night, but he did know that Dave was a Strider.
As Bro switched off the TV and got ready for bed, he thought, My lil' bro is such a pimp.