A/N:Okay, second to last chapter before I move to NYC! I like this one a lot guys, and I hope you will too. Thanks to JJ for being such a good editor and cheerleader, and to Jane for listening to me babble on about my story week after week as I try to work out the details.

Optional soundtrack for this chapter is "Shadows of the Night" by Pat Benetar. I have a cool version up on my Tumblr too.

Trigger warning: attempted sexual assault (Violet)

Chapter Four - Shadows of the Night

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Santana had crazy drunk sex and then had a super awkward morning-after, so Britt quietly wrote her name and number on a piece of paper on Santana's desk in hopes Santana would call and they could hang out again. Journalist!Santana found out that Lab!Britt blew her off twice to go out with Vance, who was totally dreamy and nice to Brittany until she slept with him and then he disappeared. Violet!Britt worked her first night in a strip club which was kind of awful and kind of awesome, and we still have no idea where Santana is in that strand. And that's what you missed!

x

I had just closed the lid of my washing machine at the laundromat and settled into the freezing cold bucket chair to catch up on my text messages and emails when the door opened, letting in a gust of air. I wouldn't have looked up if the person entering hadn't been carrying an obscenely huge laundry bag that caused her to hunch over under its weight, another bag hanging from her hand and pinky finger clinging to a bottle of laundry detergent. She looked like a street person, only she was too polished and showered for that.

My heart raced and I flushed cold. It was Santana.

I slouched down in my seat, unsure what to do. She hadn't called or texted me in the last week, which was a clear indicator she wasn't interested in pursuing anything, despite claiming she'd had a good time. Even if that had been the truth, having a good time with someone was hardly grounds for wanting to date them, or even sleep with them again. There was something clean and final about a one night stand. Clean might be the wrong word, especially given the disarray of Santana's apartment. But the finality of it kept things simple.

I didn't know what to do. I stayed slouched and tried not to look up at her. At least not too often. Once a minute or less. Or every half minute. Not more than every ten seconds. I hoped.

How often was I looking? I didn't want to embarrass myself. Maybe if I stayed still enough, Santana wouldn't notice me. Right? Some people were really unaware of their surroundings. I hoped Santana was one of those people.

Santana spent the next ten minutes sorting her laundry into an entire row of washing machines. She had so much built up laundry, she filled six machines. She drizzled detergent down the line, letting half a capful seep into each bin, then went down the line inserting quarters as though they were slot machines. Only after all the machines were vibrating did she walk over to sit down, purse slung over her shoulder. When she was a few feet away, she stopped suddenly, taken aback.

I willed myself not to look up. If we weren't forced to acknowledge each other, this wouldn't be awkward. Right?

I didn't want any awkwardness. Not any more than we'd had already, at least. I slouched lower in my chair, hoping it didn't look forced, giving Santana permission to ignore me if she wanted.

But she didn't ignore me.

"Brittany?"

I looked up and tried to pretend I was surprised. I don't think I succeeded.

"Hey!"

"Santana," Santana said, pointing to myself. "We met at Jules'."

"Yeah, of course," I said.

Santana seemed to relax at my acknowledgement. But then there was silence. How did one start a conversation with a former one night stand? I decided to try.

"How've you been?"

Santana relaxed enough to sit three chairs down from me.

"Pretty good. Midterms are coming up, so that's a bitch, but... You know."

"Yeah," I said, as though I had a clue about what journalism midterms entailed.

"How are you?" Santana asked.

"Great," I said. "Just working and hanging out with my room mate."

"No neuroscience?"

I was surprised that she remembered I had a degree in neuroscience. It was nice to know she had retained some information about me.

"No, no neuroscience," I said with an amused smile. "Just killing brain cells one drink at a time."

I realized how bad that sounded as soon as I said it, so I added, "I mean the customers' brain cells. Not mine."

Santana gave me a funny look, not sure what to say.

I felt embarrassment creep up my neck into my face. "Not that I want to kill their brain cells..."

She gave a forced giggle and leaned over to take something out of her purse, drawing a book into her lap. I took a breath, inhaling discomfort and the residual lint that clouds all laundromats, settling into the tension of sitting for the next half hour in painfully awkward silence. From all the talk I heard at work about one night stands, none of the guys ever mentioned awkwardness this intense.

But then Santana looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry I didn't call."

I didn't know what to think. On the one hand, Santana had wanted to call me. Possibly. If she was being truthful. But on the other hand, something hadn't been quite enough to push her to do it. Maybe I wasn't compelling enough.

"It's okay," I shrugged. "I didn't call you either."

Santana nodded, not acknowledging the fact that we both knew I couldn't have called because I didn't have her number.

We sat in silence, me fidgeting with my phone as Santana read her textbook. After an excruciating few minutes, she turned suddenly. "I did mean to," she said, words rushed and anxious.

I looked up.

"Really. I did," she said, looking at me with determination. "Sorry."

I shrugged. "It's okay."

Santana pursed her lips, unsure. Then she nodded and turned back to her textbook. We sat without talking for another few minutes, the whirring and spinning of the machines emulating my nerves as I tried to figure out what to say. The machines seemed to grow louder as my heart rate picked up, realizing my opportunity to talk to Santana was growing shorter by the minute.

I debated asking Santana out then and there. It wouldn't be so bad, right? The worst she could do was say no. Which, arguably, was pretty bad. But it couldn't be worse than sitting in awkward silence while our laundry spun and sudsed. But I wasn't sure I had the gall. So I opted for lighter conversation.

"You have a lot of laundry," I said.

Santana seemed startled, then embarrassed. "Oh... Yeah. I never do it, even though I live upstairs. Then I don't have any clothes and I have to do like five loads."

"Six," I said before realizing what I'd said.

"What?"

"Six loads."

"Oh..." Santana looked away and I couldn't read her face.

I flushed with embarrassment as I realized I'd just admitted to watching Santana sort her laundry, her practiced pouring if the detergent and insertion of quarters. I'd also admitted acknowledging Santana's presence when Santana walked in, but not greeting her, which made me look awkward and peepish.

"It's okay," I said, anxious to make up for my faux pas. "My record is eight loads."

"Really."

"Yeah. After Girl Scout camp."

Santana gave me a polite smile, then looked back at her book.

It was odd, sitting next to someone who was kind of a stranger, but also knew what I looked like naked and what face I made when I came. That is, if she could remember. Who knew what Santana remembered. She'd seemed more coherent than me, but I had been too drunk to be a good judge of that. I wished that I had slowed down the pace of our drinking at Jules' and just spent time with her. Because she was really beautiful and kind and witty. And smart. And beautiful. Did I say that already? Santana was really beautiful.

My tension grew as the washers spun quicker. I felt my pulse pick up as they whirred, spinning the dirt and grime out of our clothes. I realized that the outfit I'd been wearing when I met Santana was in the washer, getting whatever sweat and lady juices we'd worked up washed out. It was sad that something like my night with Santana could happen and a week later, there was no trace of it.

I wished Santana would talk. Small talk about the weather or her exams or the latest headline in The Chronicle. Anything to not sit in silence and let me spin. I wondered if Santana was embarrassed or overwhelmed or indifferent. Did she feel anything about sitting there with me? Because I felt everything. Hot with embarrassment and attraction, cold and dizzy with nerves, and weary from thinking too hard.

"Did you know that laundromats used to be attached to bars?"

Santana looked up from her textbook, startled. "What?"

"In the seventies. That's where my grandma met her second husband."

Santana nodded slowly. "That's... interesting."

The way she said it made me feel crazy for bringing up something so random. To me it wasn't random. I had been thinking about how awkward I felt in the laundromat and how I should have brought something to do, and how me and Santana had had a few drinks before the hooked up, and how it would be nice to have a drink right now to stop my nerves from buzzing so crazily. I just hadn't said any of that to Santana, so I ended up sounding stupid.

"I was just thinking it'd be nice if they still did," I said. I shrugged and slumped down.

Then I spotted a magazine curled under a chair across the room and was relieved. I hopped up and retrieved it and sat down to read it. I flipped pages blindly before I noticed Santana was watching me.

"Do you like cars?"

I was confused. "I guess."

There was a pause before Santana said, "I was just asking because of the magazine."

I looked down, closing the magazine to see it was Automotive Today. I felt ridiculous now. "Oh... I just wanted something to read."

Santana leaned over and reached into her bag, pulling out a copy of Nylon. "Try that," she said. "It's my favorite."

Being handed a copy of Santana's favorite magazine felt like being given a picture of her as child. I was certain I'd be able to learn something secret about her in the pages, something that would help me figure out why she was the way she was. Why she was so beautiful and so friendly but at the same time totally closed off. Even during sex. All the power and effort she had put into making me feel good made her mysterious and untouchable. She was a maze I wanted to explore.

I timidly opened the magazine, being careful not to crease the onionskin pages or dog-ear the corners. I looked at each image, the rich hues of the ink, scouring every word for clues. Santana's magazine smelled like she did: rich and polished and covered in fabric softener. I studied each page, curious. I figured out that Santana had a secret appreciation for art, and a not so secret appreciation for fashion and beauty. But the magazine was offbeat and edgy, hipster without acknowledging its own hipsterness, with none of the pomp or elitism or snobbery. Well, maybe there was some snobbery.

As I read on, I only grew more confused.

"Your laundry's beeping," Santana said, gesturing with her book towards the machine.

I'd been so engrossed in the magazine that I'd tuned out my surroundings. I'd tuned out Santana in an effort to understand Santana. Maybe I was as self-indulgent as Santana's magazine.

I hopped up, carefully putting the magazine in the hollow of the chair that was warm from my behind, and got up. I removed my clothes from the washer and put them into my hamper, the stiff wetness of the material heavy in my arms.

Now I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to leave, but I hadn't brought enough change to use the dryer. I liked to hang dry my clothes, since it was free and better for the planet. But I didn't want to leave Santana without saying something. I balanced the basket against my hip for a minute. Santana was bent over her book and didn't realize I was standing awkwardly in front of her.

I decided I just had to leave. Santana hadn't called me, and lurking around the laundromat with a basket of wet clothes was strange, even for me. I walked over and picked up my purse.

"Thanks for letting me read your magazine," I said quietly.

Santana looked up. "Oh, you're leaving?"

I nodded. "I like to let Mr. Sun do the rest," I said, tilting my head towards the increasingly heavy basket of wet laundry.

Santana nodded, letting my nursery rhyme language slide.

"It's good for the earth and stuff," I said, looking at the chipped tiles below my feet. "Plus my roommate is gone this weekend, so I can hang my underwear up and she won't care." I willed myself to stop talking as I heard the strange things I was saying. Why was I talking about my underwear? I supposed it shouldn't be a big deal, since Santana had previously removed a pair of my underwear. But it still felt strange.

But Santana smiled. "Oh, okay."

I gave her a strained smile and turned to go. "Good luck with your laundry."

"Yeah, you too," Santana said.

And I left, feeling myself get heavier with each step.

Santana hadn't wanted to talk to me. I wasn't interesting or sexy or mysterious enough. I supposed I should be content to enjoy the weather and opportunity to finish doing my laundry in peace, without having to think of something interesting or sexy or mysterious to say.

I walked home, the uphill trek always worse than I remembered due to the heavy basket I now had to hold with two hands to stay steady. I walked upstairs and set it down, hands red and aching from the effort.

As I was hanging up my clothesline, I heard my phone chime in my purse. As soon as I had checked that the knot was secured to the coat hook in the closet and the other end tied firmly to the curtain rod, I fished out my phone and read the message. There was a message from a 210 area code number at I didn't recognize.

Do you want to get a drink with me later?

A second message buzzed through as I frowned, confused about who the message was from.

This is Santana by the way. And all laundromats should have bars.

I felt myself get dizzy in the best way as I warmed and smiled. Santana really had meant to call. Or text. I typed out a quick Hi! Sure! and pressed Send.

Santana answered Great! Lime at 9?

Sure!

I tucked my phone in my pocket and grinned the entire time I hung my laundry. Maybe there was something exciting about me after all.

A few hours later we were settled into our booth at Lime. She smiled at me and we clinked glasses before gazing at each other over the rims of our drinks. She looked even more beautiful than when I'd met her. Now I knew what she looked like naked too, which made my eyes flit down to her cleavage and follow her when she got up to use the bathroom. Well, I mean, I kind of knew what she looked like naked. We'd been pressed close together and I'd been more drunk than I thought I was, so it was a bit blurry.

I wasn't sure how to start the conversation, so I asked her more about school. She shrugged and let out a frustrated sigh.

"I have to work so many jobs to just stay afloat, I don't feel like I can focus on anything I actually like. Like writing. I end up whoring myself out to anyone that will pay me to string words together."

"So you're a journalistic prostitute?"

"You know what we say... writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for friends, then you do it for money."

"Do you still enjoy it?"

"Sex or journalism?"

"Yes."

Santana laughed, not quite as fatigued this time. "I suppose."

I raised my eyebrows and my coffee mug at the same time, indicating I was doubtful. "If I asked someone to have sex with me and they said 'I suppose' I would doubt their sincerity."

Santana nodded, admitting she had lost her passion for writing. "It's not as glamorous as I thought it'd be."

"Nothing ever is."

"It's hard to feel like I'm struggling to survive in a dying, underappreciated profession. No one told me that was how it was going to be."

I contemplated, running my fingertip around the ring of my drink. "No one thinks about that part when we're doing something for love, huh?"

Santana sighed. "I thought I loved it. But the money part kind of ruins it."

"Do you think there's a happy middle ground somewhere?"

"Haven't found it yet." Santana sighed. "If I could pay my bills with words, I'd be fine."

It was disheartening to see Santana write off her dreams so easily. I gave her a sad smile, wishing she hadn't resigned herself to journalistic whoredom so readily. "I'm sure you're a good writer," I said, grasping at straws. "I'd read your column."

Santana gave me a doubtful look. "Do you even read the paper?"

"Well, no, but I would if there were interesting articles like that instead of news stories about everything that's wrong."

Santana gave me a steady nod.

"I think we should just call the Chronicle 'San Francisco What's Wrong.'" I said. "It'd be more honest advertising."

"I tried to do a piece on honest advertising. My professor said no periodical would want to read it."

I sighed. "Well maybe newspapers aren't what you need to be doing."

"What I need to be doing is paying the rent on my studio."

I gave her a sad smile and she changed the subject.

Once I felt the tingling warmth of the alcohol start to relax me, everything flowed. The drinks kept flowing too, until I was in that happy, giggly haze of Santana and alcohol. I didn't know which was more powerful.

She talked more about journalism school and her undergrad and her experience running Bay to Breakers last year. With a smirk I asked her if she'd run naked and she returned my wicked expression, but then said no, her boobs were not for public consumption. I felt a little special that I'd been permitted to not only view, but touch them.

"Plus," she said, setting her third glass down in the table a bit harder than she intended, "it's always the people you don't want to see naked that decide to go Full Monty at Bay to Breakers."

I agreed and we talked about the Folsom Street Fair, Outside Lands, and Carnaval.

And then I asked about Pride. Despite having had three drinks, she seemed to stiffen.

"I've never been," she said.

My jaw dropped, incredulous. "What?" I squawked. "How is that possible? It's the best party the city has!"

She shrugged and looked down at the table. "Not my scene."

I was mystified. "Didn't any of your girlfriends ever make you go?" I asked, trying to compliment her with my assumption she'd had lots of girlfriends.

Her eyes stayed fixed in the table as she shook her head. "Nope." The word was final and even with two drinks in me, I knew better than to push the issue.

Santana turned and gestured to a waiter, lifting her empty cup and holding up a peace sign, signaling we each wanted another. I was already feeling buzzed, but I wasn't ready to go home. It was nice to let loose with someone besides Justine.

She turned back to me and asked about my work, my family, and all the polite topics we'd already covered in our first meeting. She wasn't repeating questions, but it seemed she was taking a step back from me. Not wanting to lose our progress, I changed the subject to the latest political happenings, and that really got her talking. She seemed to almost ignite, she was so impassioned by the subject and the booze.

Before I knew it, it was midnight, we were drunk, and I was asking her back to my place. She grinned and we paid out our tab and made the brisk walk back to my house. I didn't even care about the laundry hanging up because I was so excited to have sex with her again.

This time I wasn't as drunk, and we went a little slower. I got to see more of her body in motion, which made me unbelievably turned on. Everything about her was supple and blooming and focused on me, which was overwhelming. She was just as untameable as she had been last time, and I didn't have to talk myself into anything. It was good, and by the time we both finished, I didn't feel more than a little buzzed.

I snuggled into her side and kissed her sweaty shoulder, watching her chest rise and fall, naked before me.

"I liked that," I said, loose from the orgasm and the remnants of the alcohol. "You're a great date."

She sniffed and said nothing for a minute, which didn't bother me. She was probably tired. I felt like she'd exerted twice as much energy as I had. There was something animalistic about the way she approached sex that was invigorating and thrilling without being too scary. She was just a bombshell. I considered myself lucky to have been smart enough to invite her into the bar to get Tina's purse the other week.

But then she sniffed again and rolled out from under me. "I gotta go," she said.

Falling into the spot in the sheets where she'd been, I felt something drop in my chest. Not heavy, just disappointed.

"You can stay if you want. I make good pancakes," I offered.

She stood from the bed, reaching for her bra and shirt. "I have stuff I have to do," she mumbled.

I frowned. There was no way she had stuff to do at one in the morning.

She must have sensed my disappointment, because as soon as she had her top on, she turned and pecked me on the cheek, saying, "I'll call you soon, 'kay?"

I nodded without smiling and watched as she went about picking up her pants and putting them on, then collecting her purse and keys. She gave me a strained smile as she left, closing my bedroom door behind her before letting herself out of the apartment.

That was not how I'd imagined our night would end.

x

I slunk out of the hotel and took the bus back home. I hadn't felt so used or humiliated in years. I could only imagine what Vance would tell my boss. He had seemed like the perfect gentleman, yet this morning was further proof that I was a terrible judge of character. If there was anyone in the world I had thought wouldn't bang and bolt, it was Vance. But I didn't know anything anymore. For the time being, I was going to give up.

I hoped Justine would be gone for the day, grocery shopping or flea marketing, but I had no such luck. I tried to be quiet as I closed the front door, but no sooner had it shut, Justine's voice sprang from the other room.

"Brittany Pierce, you little minx, get your ass in here and tell me all about it!"

I didn't respond and had made it almost all the way to the bathroom before she appeared in her doorway.

"Britt?" she asked, seeming to realize something was wrong.

Without making eye contact, I dropped my purse on the floor and said, "I don't want to talk about it." Then I shut myself in the bathroom and took a long shower, trying to scrub the awfulness off me. I didn't feel dirty, but I didn't want any reminders of Vance on me. Afterwards I sealed myself in my room and burrowed deep into my bed, hoping it would swallow me up. And that's when the tears came. They leaked down the creases of my eyes into the pillow, puddling and refusing to dry.

I was relieved Justine let me be for a while. Sometimes she's so intent on teasing or prying, she doesn't pick up on other peoples' feelings. But she did this time. I lay in bed long enough for the light to shift to where it shone in a narrow strip right onto my face, almost blinding me as my tears magnified the light. I was faced with the dilemma of waiting for the sun to move or getting up to rearrange the curtains.

I had almost decided just to lay in the cruel jeering of the sun forever when a soft knock sounded. When I didn't respond, Justine knocked again. When I still didn't respond, she said softly, "Can I come in, Britt?"

"Okay," I mumbled, wiping my face. I knew she would be able to see I was crying, but I didn't want to look too awful.

She walked in, footsteps cautious and slow as something rattled in her hand. I could see in my closet mirror she was holding a plate and a steaming mug with a spoon sticking out of it.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said in an unusually gentle voice. She put the dishes on my desk and sat at the foot of my bed. After a long moment of silence, she put her hand on the mound of my feet and asked, "B, what happened?"

"Nothing," I mumbled. "I'm just stupid."

She frowned, unaccustomed to hearing me talk so negatively about myself. It was hard to justify calling myself stupid when I had a Master's in neuroscience. But the kind of intelligence I was obviously lacking wasn't what had gotten me that degree.

"Did Vance do anything you didn't want him to?" she asked, her voice tinged with protectiveness.

I shook my head, feeling like my brain was rattling in my head from crying. She was asking if I'd been coerced or raped, which I hadn't. I'd consented to everything. And yet I still felt like something had been taken from me.

Justine let out a small sigh of relief. "That's good," she said.

There was a long moment of silence as she looked around the room, not wanting to leave me alone, but not knowing what to say given my unresponsiveness. So I caved. She was worried, and I felt awkward. Even though I was ashamed, I figured I could tell her why.

"When I woke up this morning, he and his suitcase were gone," I said.

Her face fell in a look of dramatic sympathy. "Oh, honey..." she said. "That sucks."

I bit my lip as I felt it start to tremble. Then, feeling too many tears pushing forward to be held back, I covered my face with the edge of the comforter and cried.

"I'm so stupid," I blubbered, shoulders jerking as I started to sob. "I shouldn't have thrown myself at him like that."

"Britt..." Justine cooed. "Wanting sex is human."

I scrunched the comforter over my eyes to absorb the heat that was spreading through my face.

"You didn't do anything wrong. He's the asshole for not seeing that you're worth having breakfast with. Really. Don't let him make you feel bad."

"It was too soon!" I insisted. "I freaked him out, I know I did! I might as well have suggested baby names or honeymoon locations."

"He wanted to sleep with you too, Britt," she assured. "If he's not man enough to face you afterwards, that's on him. Fuck him."

"I did fuck him," I cringed, wanting to laugh, but coming up short.

Justine patted my feet and said, "Good for you. Was it good?"

I let out a gasp of hopeless frustration. "That's not the point."

Feeling too overwhelmed and upset to continue talking about Vance and the hope he'd taken away this morning, my thoughts drifted to my first boyfriend Damon and how we'd spent our weekend mornings. Thinking about that made me remember how something had always been a little empty in my chest since. I missed being wanted.

Crushing loneliness creeped up my chest into my face and I shuddered, trying to stave off more sobs. But it didn't work.

"I feel like I'll never be loved again," I squeaked, letting another wave of crying rattle through me.

"Britt," Justine said, lowering the pitch of her voice. She paused, squeezing my leg through my blankets. "Look at me."

She waited until I pulled the covers down far enough for her to see me.

"You're crazy," she said. "And I mean that in the best possible way. You're crazy because you don't see everything you have to offer. You're smart. You're pretty. You're funny. You're sexy as hell."

I rolled my eyes, unable to believe I was sexy. Vance had seen me at my sexiest and decided to pass.

"You are," Justine insisted, giving my leg an extra squeeze. "And you have such a big heart. Someday someone wonderful will be overwhelmed by how much you love them."

My throat was too tight to say anything in response, so I sniffed, feeling my limbs relax from the seizing of my sobs. I let out a shaky exhale, grateful for Justine and how much she believed in me. I lifted my arm, gesturing that I wanted her to hug me. She smiled and leaned down, placing her head on my shoulder, rubbing one of my arms.

"Thank you," I squeaked.

I felt Justine smile against my shoulder and she said, "Anytime." Then, sitting up, she said, "Want to go somewhere for dinner tonight? We can guy bash until you feel better."

I gave her a fatigued smile and was about to decline, saying I'd rather stay in, when my phone rang in the hall. She walked over to my purse and fished it out. A brief, smug smile crossed her face before she handed me the phone. She didn't need to say anything for me to know why she was grinning like that.

"Shit," I muttered, feeling shame course through me again. I put the phone down on the bed, wanting to avoid the call. I didn't want to face Santana after our run-in the night before.

Justine raised her hand and pointed a finger at me. "Brittany Susan Pierce, you answer that right now or I'm using the itchy soap in your laundry for the next month."

I pouted at Justine and she raised her eyebrows in warning.

Sighing, I slid the call open. "Hi, Santana."

Justine mouthed Good girl as she stood and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Hey Brittany!" Santana chirped. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I was just calling to see if you were still up for hanging out."

I was relieved that Santana seemed to have recovered from her bout of cattiness. I was too tired to play games. I must have sounded like I'd been crying when I said, "Sure."

There was a pause and Santana said, with sudden concern, "You okay?"

I sighed, sitting up. "Yeah."

"Okay..." Santana said, cautious like she wasn't buying it. "Are you sure? Because we can reschedule."

"Um..." I looked around the room, wondering if there was any way to tell her I was tired and ashamed and would have been content to stay in bed alone for the next month. But I had already blown her off twice, so I said, "Yeah, we can hang out. Something low-key?"

"Sure," she said. "Tacos and beer?"

I felt myself warm with relief. Tacos and beer sounded like exactly what I needed. Nothing fancy. Just something good to eat and something to take the edge off. "Perfect," I said.

"Awesome," she said, and I could hear her perking up. "I can't wait."

A few hours later I had enlisted Justine's help in making myself presentable. I was impressed with Justine's restraint for not exploring even one of the possible entendres available to her when I told her Santana and I were going out for tacos. She just smiled and reminded me that our code word was cupcake, and if I texted her about cupcakes, she would call with a "crisis" and get me out of an uncomfortable situation. I gave her a long hug before I left, steeling myself to be kind and apologetic to Santana.

Santana was cheerful and chatty when we met up. She talked about the run she'd gone on that morning, and an interesting article she'd read in the New York Times. I listened and tried to not drag her down with my gloominess. But I guess I wasn't as successful as I'd hoped.

"You seem a little down," she said, tilting her head with a pout as our waiter placed two beers on the table.

I was embarrassed that I was still letting Vance affect me. I didn't want him to have that power. But the truth was I was sad he'd been a dead end.

I gave a fatigued shrug. "I didn't have the best night last night," I said, trying to be vague and avoiding telling Santana I'd slept with Vance.

Santana gave a nod of understanding, then looked down at the table for a moment. "I know what you mean." She raised her eyebrows as she lifted her beer to her lips, then set it down and looked around the restaurant.

My mind flashed back to the leggy blonde woman Santana had been with at Rose Pistola. Had the same thing that had happened to me happened to Santana? Had we both had disappointing dates? It seemed unlikely. No one in their right mind would do that to her.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I wanted to follow up with a comment about making sure tonight was better, but I didn't want to insinuate we were on a date or anything, so I just let it go.

Santana echoed the same heavy shrug I'd given a moment earlier. Then she brightened and looked up at me. "Hey, I have an idea," she said. "We both need a laugh, right?"

I nodded.

She gave a perkier shrug, as if to rouse her spirits. "San Francisco is the place for live comedy. There's a regular Sunday night show at Punchline that starts in an hour. Want to go?"

Maybe it was the way Santana suggested it, with such hope and spontaneity, or maybe because I knew that going home and hiding in my bed wasn't the best thing for me, I agreed.

By the time we walked out of Punchline, legs wobbling as our stomachs ached with laughter, I was floating. The show had been funny, to the point where we'd been doubled over laughing. But I knew that being around Santana and her confidence, receiving her undivided attention, was what made me feel smoothed out from all the crumpling Vance had done.

Something amazing about Santana was that she was unapologetic for liking what she liked. She liked girls and was open about it. She loved journalism and hated the politics of the job. She was a self-made woman and made sure everyone knew that. There was very little she was ashamed of. Considering the unbearable weight of the shame I had felt all day, I was desperate to know her secret. Maybe if I spent more time with her, I'd be like that. Maybe I wouldn't be so shy around Dr. Turner.

I started to deflate at the thought of Dr. Turner. Had Vance told him anything yet? Was tomorrow going to be horrible? The thought of bringing messy sexual gossip into my lustless, professional, analytical workplace made me want to call in sick forever.

My deflation must have been noticeable, because Santana turned to me with a concerned expression.

"You okay?"

I sighed. She was so nice, and had been making such an effort to cheer me up all night. I felt I owed her at least a vague explanation.

"I'm just dreading going to work tomorrow."

"More than usual?"

"Yeah."

There was silence for a moment as our footsteps sounded on the pavement below us as we walked to her car.

"Why?" she asked, cautious.

"I did something dumb and I'm afraid my boss will find out. I just..." I sighed again. "I never seem to do anything right around him. He makes me feel awkward."

Santana's steps seemed to slow and her face remained expressionless. All the humor we'd been filled with minutes before vanished as we walked up a hill away from the lights and noise.

Then she took a breath and paused before saying, "Brittany, I need to tell you something about that article I wrote about you."

I tensed. She seemed to be heading toward a confession. But the article had seemed neutral enough. She used my quotes and explained my job. Had I missed something?

"Do you know why you were picked to be interviewed?"

Now I was on edge. I shook my head.

"A few months ago Dr. Turner's company went through a sexual harassment lawsuit. A PR consultant advised him to have one of his female employees interviewed for my column. Which... led to you."

I was stunned. I didn't want to believe what Santana was saying.

But as I thought about my boss, I realized that she could be right. Maybe. When I got to Turner Research Institute the year before, there had been one other female employee, Katie, the receptionist I'd had to fill in for. A few months ago, she had disappeared without explanation. I tried to think of other reasons for her disappearance. Maybe she'd just wanted something less boring. Maybe she'd fallen in love and moved across the country. Maybe she'd won the lottery.

But then I thought about all the little things about Dr. Turner I had forgiven because he was smart and handsome and successful. As they started adding up - the inappropriate touches, the demotion to phones, the request to date his nephew - I felt myself sinking further.

As if knowing that what she had told me was upsetting, Santana patted my arm.

"Lots of people work for sleazeballs. I just figured you should know who you're working for, you know? I don't want him to take advantage of how much you like him."

I nodded, feeling my body simultaneously cringe and droop towards the concrete.

But for some reason - goddamnit, Brittany - I felt the need to defend him.

"He's not like that. He wouldn't... he wouldn't do that. I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. He's a good boss."

Santana bit her lips and gave a disbelieving bob of her head. She knew I didn't believe what I was saying but wasn't going to call me on it.

We reached her car and she clicked the locks open. I climbed up into the cab of the SUV, my heaviness requiring effort. I sank back into the seat, grateful that Santana turned on music. She asked how to get to my house and I gave fatigued directions.

When she pulled up in front of my apartment, she put the car in park but kept the engine running. She gave me an apologetic smile as I unclicked my seatbelt and thanked her for trying to cheer me up. I was about to say goodnight when she said, "Brittany?"

"Yeah?" I paused with my hand on the door and looked at her.

She took a breath, avoiding eye contact as she said. "I know you're hung up on Dr. Turner. But... I think you should take a long, hard look at him and ask yourself if you like him or the idea of him. Because, I mean, who wouldn't want to be with a handsome, intelligent, wealthy man?"

"You," I said, trying to break the tension that was seeping into every crevice of Santana's car.

Santana gave me a brief, appreciative chuckle. "True. But spend some time thinking about who he is versus who you want him to be. Because he's done some pretty crappy stuff. Maybe it'd be nice to be less into him than you are."

I nodded, the suspicion that Santana was right starting to unsettle me.

"And then, once you've figured that out,' Santana said, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Ask yourself the same thing about me." Her eyes flickered around the windshield before she forced herself to make eye contact as she continued. "I know you don't like the idea of dating a woman because it's harder than dating a man." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "But, that aside, I think you like me. And if that's the case, then it's only fair for me to tell you... I like you too."

I was startled, though I realized I shouldn't be. I knew Santana liked me.

"And not just the idea of you," she added. "I like the whole package."

I sat still, warming with embarrassment at Santana's compliment and frozen with surprise at her bravery. But it shouldn't have surprised me. I knew Santana was brave.

Santana gave me a smile that looked a little sad, as if she was certain her words were falling on deaf ears. "If you ever get over Dr. Turner, I would really love to have a shot with you."

I was unsure how to respond. But Santana put the car back in gear, signalling she wasn't expecting a response. I felt an ounce of relief. I needed time.

"Have a good night, Brittany," she said, more polite than usual, though it was genuine.

I gave her a nervous smile as I collected my purse from the floor. I was so flustered by what she'd said, I couldn't formulate a response. So I settled for saying thank you and goodnight.

I got to work the next morning, stomach clenched with dread as I avoided Dr. Turner at all costs. I shuffled into my desk and buried myself in the drone of data entry. For once, I was glad for the monotony. There was nothing stimulating about my job, but at least there was not much that could go wrong and throw me off more than I already was.

The morning passed without incident, and when I had to walk by Dr. Turner's office on the way to the copier, he didn't look up. I didn't hear anything from him all morning until he called me in to ask about a report I was supposed to turn in by the end of the week. I assured him it was going well, and he nodded, still not making eye contact.

"Oh, by the way, how was your lunch with Vance last week?" he asked, threading his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, finally looking up.

I cringed. Did he know what had happened and was poking around for information? Was he purposely making me uncomfortable? After what Santana had told me, I wasn't sure what he was capable of. I just knew that I found him more confusing.

But he'd only asked me about my lunch with Vance, not what had happened over the weekend, so I gave a strained smile and said, "It was nice." Hopefully that answer would suffice and he wouldn't ask about Vance again.

"Must have been," Dr. Turner said, smirking as he pointed to a vase of flowers in the corner. "Those arrived for you a little while ago."

I looked back and forth between Dr. Turner and the flowers, confused. Had Vance sent me flowers at work? Was that his lame apology for making me feel cheap and disposable? If so, it wasn't going to work.

But I couldn't snub the flowers in front of Dr. Turner. That would be suspicious. So I feigned delight - unsuccessfully - as I walked to the shelf where the vase was resting. I picked them up and gave Dr. Turner another strained smile.

"You play your cards right, you could end up dating a Turner," Dr. Turner said, giving me a stomach-turning wink.

And with that single comment, I knew that Dr. Turner was just as much of an asshole as Santana thought he was.

I avoided eye contact as I hurried away from Dr. Turner and his sliminess.

When I got back to my desk, I debated tossing the bouquet in the trash. But I saw a card tucked between a tulip and a spriggy purple thing and had to know what pitiful apology Vance had made. I needed more reasons to be angry because my anger was helping me climb out of my shame. I opened the card and read the typed message.

For the prettiest, smartest girl in San Francisco. I hope you have a wonderful day.

There was no name attached to it, but I knew immediately the flowers weren't from Vance. If he was going to send me flowers, it would be to apologize, not to wish me a wonderful day. Plus he'd be sure to write his name so he'd get credit for the effort.

There was only one person who could have sent those flowers. Blushing and smiling to myself, I took out my phone and texted her.

Thank you :)

Santana immediately wrote back, For what?

You know, silly, I typed. You really cheered me up.

Any time :) she wrote back. Want to hang out later this week?

I paused, not sure what she was really asking. If she'd asked me out to dinner, I would have assumed she was asking me on a date, which I wouldn't know how to respond to. I had been stupid enough to let a single daisy blind me to Vance's flaws. What flaws would an entire bouquet cover for Santana?

But she hadn't asked me out on a date. She'd asked to hang out, just like we'd hung out twice before. Aside from my nerves and the bombshell she'd dropped on me about Dr. Turner, I'd had a great time every time I'd seen her.

So I wrote back, Sure.

As I slipped my phone back into my purse, I felt good enough to hold my head up high through the rest of my day.

x

Stripping isn't like virginity or getting a tattoo. Virginity is a horrible thing to use as a metaphor, because it is always used to imply you are irreversibly changed by an experience. That is a lie. After my first time, I was still the same girl. I still loved the people I loved and wanted the same things I had wanted before. I didn't feel older or better or wiser. I felt a temporary ache between my legs and a stronger bond with Damon, who took me out to breakfast in the morning like it was a regular Saturday. Because it was. Nothing had changed.

But people have this false belief that once you strip, you're permanently marred. Strippers can no longer reach the pinnacle of human accomplishment or be good mothers or wives or employees. All of that is bullshit. I am still very much the same girl and I still want the same things. I deserve them too. Inside, I know I am good and strong and worthy.

The thing is, the customers seemed to be doing everything they could to tear down that sense of strength and worthiness. On my second night, I ventured toward a table of young men, probably younger than me, who were all wearing polo shirts and khakis and drinking Stella Artois. I figured they would be likely buyers. I chatted them up for a few minutes, asking where they went to college - it was a fair assumption - and trying to boost their egos by subtly feeling their muscles and giggling at their "witty" comments. Some sort of nonverbal bro conversation happened after about five minutes, because one guy seemed to be the chosen bro for the night when his buddies all chipped in to buy him a dance. The bill was folded into my garter and when the next song started, I rose.

And then the boys who were so clean-cut and charming became apes. They turned on their friend, jeering when he made any expression of approval or appreciation of me, or dared to showed any sign of arousal. When I realized he was hard, I did my best to shield that from his friends, though I wasn't exactly excited about it. I felt bad for him. Who goes into a strip club and them teases their buddy for enjoying the entertainment?

When their taunting turned to include me, I wanted to kick the other guys in the balls.

"See if she'll let you touch her boobs, Leo."

"She's totally his type. Tits aren't as big as April's though."

"Maybe if you juice her up she'll rub one out for you. Be a nice change from your hand, huh?"

"You like those thick thighs, buddy?"

I couldn't believe these beer-gutted buffoons were critiquing my body as though my nakedness made me deaf. Three minutes had never seemed so long. I tried to ignore their juvenile jeering, but it was impossible. I closed my eyes, giving myself a second to calm down, but it only make their teasing louder. I felt like a snake trapped in a basket being poked with a stick, forced to press against the confines of my captivity with serpentine grace until the song blissfully faded out and I could rise from servitude and escape.

I decided to steer clear of the younger customers for a while. I saw a middle-aged man alone in a booth toward the back, and after taking a moment to breathe and let the gross entitlement of the frat boys slick off my glittery skin, I approached him with my subtle prey-stalking stripper walk. I slid into his booth and crossed my legs.

"Hey," I cooed. "How's your night going?"

He answered my breasts with a vague, "Not bad."

When I offered him a dance after a few minutes of small talk, he nodded and put a twenty dollar bill on the table. I gave him my best delighted giggle, which sounded fake but never seemed to bother the customers, and stood to close the curtain around us.

Nine Inch Nail's Closer started throbbing through the speakers. It was a good tempo for my "new girl" moves. After my first few undulations against him, I saw his hands fidgeting on the seat. Then, though he knew he wasn't supposed to, he raised them to hold my thighs, creeping up toward my ass.

"Ah, ah, ah!" I admonished, giving him a playful waggle of my finger. "No touching." He exhaled in frustration and I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You know you come here for the teasing."

I leaned back and winked before turning around to grind my ass against him.

I didn't particularly like giving lap dances, at least not the physical sensation of it. It's strange to wriggle against a stranger. But there was one part I did like, and that was how my reservoir of sexual confidence was filled by the men I danced for. Every flash of tongue against their dry lips, every adjustment of their hips and legs while I danced, every wide-eyed stare told me that I was desirable. I filled their fantasy, and in doing so, had become superhuman. I had exceeded the capacity of a real woman in their eyes. And to some degree, I believed it.

But not being a real woman had its limits. Many men thought I didn't have boundaries. So when he placed his hands on my thighs again, I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see.

"Seems you've got some wandering hands there," I said, trying to walk the line of playful and warning as I turned around. "What are we gonna do about that?"

I removed his hands from my body and set them on the bench with a bit of force, letting him know I wasn't going to play around. He complied for a minute, but as the bass of the song became more urgent, his hands lifted up to my legs again, gripping me tight.

I slid my hands under his wrists and tried to splatula his hands off, but he only held me tighter, pressing me down hard against his groin as his fingers dug into my ass. His face set in a determined frown as he lifted forward out of his chair and started attacking my neck with his whiskey-scented mouth. His tongue slid over my neck like a predatory slug as he started jerking his pelvis into me.

I panicked. I was alone in a booth with an aggressive customer. No one could see me. I doubted anyone would be able to hear me if I screamed. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I took his throat in my hand and pushed his head back against the wall as hard as I could, being sure to dig the heel of my hand against his Adam's apple.

"Let me go!" I growled.

He struggled for a minute, during which I pushed harder, and he finally relented. As soon as I could, I reached for his half-empty drink and threw it in his face. He yelped as the alcohol burned his eyes, cursing at me, but I didn't care. I yanked the curtain back, wanting to rip it from the wall entirely.

As I stormed toward the dressing room, I knew I was done. As soon as I was out of sight, I ripped off my shoes and peeled off my eyelashes. Leaning against my locker, I took gulping breaths. I let the fear rush through me as if a barrel of icewater had been dumped over my head. As soon as the coldness subsided, I started to cry. How had I gotten myself into this situation? I was naked except for a pair of skanky panties, alone in a dressing room at a strip club. Crying.

Before I had time to collect myself and count my bills for payout and go home, the door swung open.

It was Summer.

"Having a hard time, Forget-Me-Not?" she asked as she rummaged through her locker.

Angry at her mocking, I turned around so she couldn't see me as I tried to open my locker. But the lock was jammed and I ended up spinning the dial over and over as I tried to mask my sniffling.

She approached me, inflated breasts almost brushing my shoulder as she lowered her voice to a softer tone. "Hey, hustle clubs aren't for everyone," she said, sounding almost sympathetic. "It can be tough."

I sniffled for a minute before I nodded. "I don't even know how I got here," I admitted.

I saw her breasts bounce as she shrugged. "None of us quite remember." Then she turned away and picked something out of her locker. It was a business card, which she handed to me. "Try this place," she said. "It's much more quaint. No direct contact with customers."

I looked down at business card of a random girl who worked at Jezebel Rose, a peep show down the street. I'd seen it, but didn't know anything about it. I wasn't sure what a peep show even was. But if Summer said there was no direct contact, I was interested.

Then Summer paused and reached back into her locker. "This place too. I teach on Thursdays."

The card she handed me was from a pole dance studio called Swivel Fitness with the name Cassandra July on it.

"Is this you?" I asked, flicking the card toward her. "Cassandra?"

She raised her eyebrows, letting me know I'd crossed a boundary. "If you go to her class, you might see there is a striking resemblance."

I nodded, embarrassed I had broken the stripper code of name secrecy. I mumbled a thanks, which I don't think she heard as she closed her locker and tramped up the stairs.

When I finally got my locker open, I packed all my makeup and belongings into my gym bag, knowing I wouldn't come back. As I paid out, I didn't even care that I had only made forty dollars. I was just glad to be done.

The next day I bravely picked up my duffle bag and ventured the same bus route to the club, but walked past it and into Jezebel Rose. The woman working at the front desk greeted me and I asked about working there.

"You'll need to audition," she said, handing me a piece of paper. "Nancy's here now if you're interested."

Knowing I had accessed all my remaining courage to get there and that my courage might not be replenished another day, I nodded.

Ten minutes later I was led into The Box and told to dance for ten minutes while Nancy observed.

The box was set up to be sort of like a fish tank with two poles running through it. Around the small square room were a series windows, some of which were lined with one-way mirrors so I couldn't see who was behind the glass. When a customer entered one of the little booths looking into the box, they would drop quarters into a slot and a shade would lift, revealing whoever was dancing in the box at the time. The only way the dancers knew people were watching behind the mirrors was a small green light that flickered on when the shade was lifted. The windows were low to the ground, rising only to hip-level so the observers could see as much leg, ass, and pussy as possible.

The glass was kept clean on my side, reflecting me as I danced, so it was just like dancing in front of mirrors at home. I liked that; I didn't have to know who was behind the glass, and got to see my body in action. I wasn't exactly a narcissist, but I knew I looked good and loved watching the way my body could bend and stretch, muscles flexing and shifting as I did.

I knew a few minutes into the audition that I had found a job I would enjoy for months to come.

And I did. I was hired on the spot and given my first shift the next day. Confidence replenished, I went home and made dinner for Justine.

Five months later, I was happy with my chosen profession. I rarely dreaded going to work, and took extra shifts when I could squeeze them in. I felt strong in multiple senses: physically, since I was in the best condition of my life, and sexually, since I felt I had so much power. Dr. Turner even commented on how I'd been more aggressive lately. Luckily he liked that. The other Jezebels were chatty in the dressing room, a distinction from the stoniness of the hustle club locker room. A group of us started hiking together on our off days. We'd laugh about the club regulars and exchange recipes and vent our relationship problems. I found things in common with everyone. And on top of everything, I had plenty of cash.

The only thing I dreaded, apart from exhausting shifts in the Private Pleasures booth, was the possibility of someone I knew coming in and discovering my secret. I tried to hide behind copious amounts of makeup and sometimes wigs, but there was no way to completely mask who I was. I was, after all, mostly naked. A few times I had nightmares about classmates watching me from behind the mirrored glass, taking pictures illegally and sharing them with everyone from our neuroscience program. Or, even more horrifying, that a picture of me would end up on the internet and my parents would see it.

I had to keep up the façade of waitressing, even going as far as to bring home "leftovers" for Justine once in a while. I told my parents and sister I was aggressively applying for jobs in neuroscience, when in reality I had no intention of doing so. All the lies and secrets made me lonely. I missed whining to Justine about classes and telling my parents about the latest happenings at the restaurant. But I was financially solvent, physically fit, and rarely bored, so I figured those things came at a price.

Before I graduated from my Master's program, I had always offered to do Justine's laundry while I did my own, because it forced me to sit and study uninterrupted for at least an hour, save for a few breaks to switch machines. Sometimes I hung things dry, but in the winter and when it was exceptionally cold for San Francisco, I had no choice but to use the dryers. I was good about sorting things that needed to be washed separately, and didn't mind looking at Justine's dirty clothes. She's the only person I can say that about. After living with her for three years, we know each other pretty well, and not much grosses us out about each other.

Now that I had graduated, Justine felt she had to return the favor for all the hours I'd spent waiting for our laundry, so she collected mine every week or so and ventured to the laundromat down the street. I had the nagging thought that I should probably do all of it, since I only worked half the hours she did and because I was better at it anyway, but I didn't mind having the apartment to myself for an hour. I spent my hour looking at work shoes online.

I was shocked at how obsessed with shoes I'd become. Growing up, I'd never cared what was on my feet as long as I could walk. But since I had discovered the power of a good pair of heels at work, I had grown increasingly preoccupied with footwear.

I was just about to purchase a shiny, nude pair of Ellies when I heard Justine come in. I tilted my computer screen so she couldn't see it first thing when she walked into my room. Not that she would care I was buying shoes. But she would probably be intrigued about why I was buying things from Discount Stripper.

"Want to explain this?" she asked from the doorway.

I turned around and saw, to my horror, one of my clear, light-up, six-inch heels in her hand.

How had she found it? I kept all my stripper gear in my locker at work or in a gym bag underneath my sweats in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

"Where'd you find that?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound panicked.

"It was in your laundry bag."

"Oh. Uh, weird," I said, pretending to be disinterested. "It's not mine."

"Really," she challenged. "Is this one also not yours?" she asked, producing the shoe's mate.

I paled. It shouldn't have been a big deal, having Justine find my shoes. But it felt like she had walked in on me having sex with Dr. Turner.

My face must have shown guilt, because she raised her eyebrows and sighed. She tossed the shoes on the bed and said, "Must be some crazy restaurant you work at."

She didn't sound threatening. She sounded - well, she sounded sad.

My suspicion was confirmed when she said, "Whatever you're doing, Britt, you can tell me."

I bit my lips, glancing back at the pair of shoes I was about to buy. "I'm - I'm taking a dance class," I stuttered. "Pole dance fitness is all the rage right now."

I wasn't lying entirely. I had started taking classes with Cassandra at Swivel Fitness, and it had quickly become my second home. I loved dancing, regardless of how much clothing I was wearing. I wouldn't say Cassandra and I were friends, though she told me I could call her Cassie. But I knew the day she told me I'd finally kicked my New Girl moves that she liked me. She moved me up from beginner to intermediate and pushed me to master tricks I never thought I'd dare. I'd even started inverting.

Justine folded her arms and looked at the floor. "Are those classes at one a.m.?" she asked.

And I realized, as I looked at her standing in my doorway after she had done my laundry, that she knew I was lying to her. I had cheapened our friendship by not telling her the truth, and she was hurt that I was treating it like it was frail and fickle.

I let out a heavy sigh., "No." A moment of excruciating quiet passed before I mumbled, "I'm a dancer at Jezebel Rose."

Justine bit her lips and nodded, still not making eye contact. "Did you think I'd be mad or grossed out or something?"

I shrugged. "I didn't know what you'd think."

"You think I care what you do to pay your bills?" she asked. She sounded so sad. She shrugged. "You're my best friend, Britt. Not much else matters."

The weight of the guilt pressed down so hard that I broke. I wanted to get up and hug her, but that felt strange, considering I had just admitted to taking off my clothes for a living. So instead I gave her my best guilty look and said, "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"You should have," she agreed.

There was another moment of silence that made me cringe and I hoped one of our phones would buzz or the doorbell would ring or the smoke alarm would go off. Anything to break the tension.

Justine took another step into my room and picked one of my shoes up from the bed, studying it. A little smirk played across her face as she said, "What's it like?"

I was hesitantly relieved. She wasn't yelling or wrinkling her nose or telling me I was being stupid or trashy. She wanted to hear more about my job, just like she would if I were doing hair or yoga instruction or selling puppets at street festivals.

"It's... interesting," I said. "I dance in a glass box with a few other girls. No contact with customers."

She studied the shoe over in her hands as she sat on the bed. The lights flickered on a few times at the motion.

"Can you actually walk in these things?" she asked, sounding reverent.

I giggled, mostly in relief that she was taking my outing so well.

"It's easier than it looks," I said.

"Easier than impossible?" Justine said, looking up at me for the first time in what felt like an hour.

"No, c'mon, you could do it," I assured her, getting up and taking the other shoe in my hand. I stooped, ready to take off her shoes and prove that walking in a pair of Ellies is almost as comfortable as walking in tennis shoes.

I half expected Justine to stop me, but she didn't. By the time I'd fastened the strap around her ankle, she was holding the other shoe out to me to put on her other foot. Her feet were a size bigger than mine, but the shoes still fit.

Once both shoes were on, she stretched her legs out in front of her and tilted her head.

"Try standing," I said. "I'll catch you if you fall."

She took a deep breath and gave me a skeptical look, but stood anyway, one hand on the bedpost. As she transferred her full weight to her feet, she looked down, as though the shoes might explode or start walking of their own volition before she was ready. But they didn't. Hesitantly, she took a few small steps. Then, seeing that it wasn't so hard after all, she took a few more, strides getting bigger and more confident. Then she looked up with a smile.

"You're right. Not that hard."

I grinned back at her. If I had known she would react like this, I would have told her earlier.

Justine paced around my room for a few more moments before she made a dramatic pose with her hand up in her hair.

"Think they'd hire me as a Jezebel?" She giggled, as though the idea was preposterous. Then she grew self-conscious, looking down at her wide hips and sturdy thighs.

"Sure they would," I said, wanting to encourage her. If there was one thing I had gained at Jezebel Rose besides money, it was appreciation for all different types of bodies, which the show managers made a point to hire.

Justine scoffed. "I can't even dance."

I gave her a dubious look. "You think they hire girls because they can dance?"

Justine giggled and rolled her eyes.

"You could totally work there," I said.

Justine looked down at her legs again and said, "Naw... I like working in the nonprofit sector too much. For the money," she joked.

"That is the drawback of stripping," I said, piggybacking on her joke. "Not so much money."

Justine clopped over to my closet where she could look at herself in the full-length mirror. She pressed her hands to her thighs, studying herself as if she wasn't around mirrors often.

"How much do you make?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Depends on the shift. When I'm just in the box, I make thirty dollars an hour. But if I do the Private Pleasures booth, I can make anywhere from two hundred to five hundred dollars a shift."

Justine's eyes went wide. "Jesus Christ, Britt. No wonder you can afford shoes like this." She picked up one of her feet, examining the the way the colored lights twinkled inside the heel at the movement.

She set her foot back down and I felt guilt creep up again. I still wasn't being totally honest with her. I knew that if she somehow ever found out about my arrangement with Dr. Turner, she would be hurt that I didn't tell her.

"I have a side job too."

"So you are actually waitressing?" she asked, looking up at me in the mirror.

I took a breath. This was it. I was about to tell the first person not directly involved that I was an escort.

"No," I said, looking down at my bedspread. How could I explain that I was having sex for money without her flying into a tizzy, worrying about my health and safety? I decided to ease into it. "I have a private client I see once a week."

Justine's eyes narrowed in a frown and her lips puckered for a moment before she said, "Private client?"

I nodded. "Someone I know from outside work. We have an arrangement."

Then Justine's eyes went wide as she realized what I was saying. I braced myself for the spew of words that I knew would come.

But when she spoke, she was hesitant. "Britt, are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?"

I didn't answer the question directly, instead rushing to my own defense. "I'm really careful about it. We get tested, I make him use protection, cash only."

"Since when?" Justine asked. She sounded more curious than angry.

"About six months."

The room was quiet as Justine did some mental math.

"Dr. Turner," she said in a cool, flat voice.

I raised my eyebrows in warning. "My client pays me very generously for my discretion, Justine."

She seemed taken aback by this, blinking a few times before she shook her head. "Right. Right, of course he does," she said, as though she had intruded on a regular kind of business interaction. "Sorry." There wasn't a single note of sarcasm or anger, which surprised me. She paused for a minute before looking right at me and saying, "But you feel safe? Comfortable with that arrangement?"

I gave her a calm-infused nod to convey how comfortable I was with my part-time job. She seemed to settle, looking down at the party heels for a minute before she said, "You have had a lot of skanky underwear in your laundry lately."

"Costumes," I smiled.

"Bet they don't sell those at Spirit," Justine smirked.

I smiled at her and walked over to my dresser, where I pulled out the duffle bag of things I'd kept hidden from her. As I unpacked them, showing her the tools of my trade, I felt like I was taking off clothing that was too tight and putting on my favorite yoga pants. It felt really, really good to tell someone.

Justine got closer to me after I came out to her. She had a deepened curiosity about my life and mind. It didn't feel suffocating. If anything, her unabashed curiosity fueled my own, bringing questions to the surface I'd been too afraid to fully form. She asked me if I enjoyed the sex, to which I answered, Sometimes, but usually not. She asked if I enjoyed Dr. Turner's company, to which I answered honestly that he wasn't horrible, but wasn't someone I'd date. I had few answers for her in terms of his psychology as the pursuer.

That's an interesting word, pursuer. Because in a way, society is set up so men are the pursuers and women are the ones being chased. But as a prostitute and stripper, it was reversed. I was chasing them.

The customers at the peep show were not people I'd give a second glance to on the street. But I had to create the illusion of chasing. That's what I was being paid for, at least. I had to pretend to be aroused by the idea of men in tiny closets with their pants around their ankles, jerking off to the sight of me wavering above them, pretending to be oh-so-turned-on by the tops of the their pasty, hairy thighs as they stroked themselves to my image behind the glass. I even had to pretend to be aroused by the customers I couldn't see.

Men, I had discovered, were turned on by the idea that they were turning me on. The better I could play the part of the wanton girl driven to a state of sexual frenzy by the thought of a man jerking off, the more money they paid to watch me writhe and sway and strut.

Justine and I were lying head to toe on our oversized couch watching Golden Girls one night, finishing a bottle of nice red wine my sober coworker had given me after a customer gifted it to her, when Justine's eyes flashed wide.

"I figured it out," she said. "I figured out why people think stripping is dirty."

I raised an eyebrow, though my face was starting to feel numb and dissociated from the rest of me due to the wine.

"It's because you're an active participant."

I frowned. "Yeah, but I'm an active participant when I sleep with people I'm actually dating too."

"But it's different. It's like, guys are allowed to whistle at us on the street, and we're supposed to take it as a compliment. Which is to say, girls are allowed to be passive sex objects. Somehow society has granted permission for us to get our self-worth from what other people think of our bodies and desirability, you know?"

I nodded. I had no misgivings about the fact that it felt amazing to be desired. That was the high I felt in the box, particularly when one of my regulars of the non-creepy variety visited me. They preferred me over the other dancers, who were all beautiful in their own right. Being desired as something special felt good. Getting paid for it was a bonus.

"But the problem is that men don't want us to be active sex objects. We have to stay still and be amenable to their urges. Right? It's like, a girl can like sex, but only if the guy is willing. If she seeks out sex or does anything provocative, then she's a slut."

"I am kind of a slut," I giggled. "I mean, what's the difference between a whore and a slut?"

I regretted my question, which I had intended to be rhetorical, when Justine launched into a tirade about the potency of language and how the word slut was used as a weapon between females.

"But I'm reclaiming the word, Justine," I said, trying to throw her own revolution lingo into the mix. "You can't tell me not to call myself a slut, just like I can't tell you not to call yourself a freak."

Justine sighed and continued her rant against the word slut, and I buried my nose in my wineglass, trying to figure out how to get back to watching Golden Girls and not engaging in a drunken sociological discussion.

But Justine was right about one thing. The reason I hadn't told my sister or my other friends about my job was because I knew they would all be horrified by my whorified self. They would label me as broken, defective, and irreparably tarnished. But if I did the things I did in the Box in private, they wouldn't care. They would disapprove of my job solely because I had become an active, public sex object rather than a passive, private one. And that realization made me feel like, for just a few drunk seconds, it might be worth telling them, just to start the sexual revolution I thought the world needed. Women should be allowed to be sexual however we want. Active, passive, public, or private.

But that was probably just the wine talking. Brittany, the girl who tried so hard to make people proud, would never start a hometown revolution like that.

So even though I buried the idea deep into the back of my mind, I knew, without the assistance of false eyelashes or Ellies, that Violet would be exactly the kind of girl who would start such a revolution.

Justine turned to me a minute later and said, "Hey, I keep meaning to ask you: would you be willing to let my coworker's girlfriend interview you as Violet? She needs a controversial topic for her school newspaper."

My first instinct was to say no. Aside from Dr. Turner and the girls at the Rose, no one had known about my double life until that week. I was still shy about it, waiting for someone to shame me or tell me I was degrading myself. The threat of my family or grad school friends finding out loomed heavy all around me.

But then I thought about how good it felt to be accepted by Justine and to know that she would be my friend no matter what. I thought about the banter between the girls in the dressing room on breaks and between shifts. And I thought about what a difference it made to me to read message boards about how other sex workers felt about their jobs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pictured a young woman who felt isolated like me reading about my life and feeling better about herself. Even if I wasn't ready to out myself to everyone I knew, I wanted to let women know it was okay to be sexual however they felt best: for themselves, for others, in public, in private, for free, or for profit. And furthermore, that it wasn't an indicator of their moral character or worth as a person.

So I turned to Justine with a confident smile and said, "Yeah. Sure."