Author's Note: This is a peek behind the strip club scene; Erik and Christine come face-to-face. Please read and let me know what you think ;-)

Christine settled into her chair, the fourth in line along the counter that ran the length of the back stage dressing room where all the girls readied themselves for the stage. There was plenty of loud gossip going on, and usually she would join in, but tonight Christine felt particularly worn out.

She sat down heavily and slid off her worn boots. Over four years old, they were her everyday shoes, and such constant punishment was easy to see. They were simple suede ankle boots, at one time they were at the height of fashion, but now Christine would be lucky if she could sell them for $5. The suede had several water spots, and the soles were starting to separate from the heel of the shoe. She slid them off and put them into a cubbyhole below the counter, then she massaged some hand lotion into her arches in the hopes of soothing the latest batch of blisters before she spent the rest of the night on her feet.

The other girls all flurried in activity around her, reminding Christine that she was not alone here, and there really was no time to waste. She brought out her makeup bag and began to layer on dark eyeshadow and mascara; standard dress code for her occupation. She lined her lips with dark red pencil before coating them with enough gloss to grease the mirror.

'I hate this, but there is no other choice...'

Christine shed all her layers of clothing and stepped into her usual work uniform: a pair of thong panties and a lacy bra that was painfully tight against her breasts. She squeezed her feet into a pair of clear plastic pumps. Clear heels, the most notorious sign of a woman that pole danced. She tried not to wince as they pinched her tender toes.

She took a hairbrush and ran it through her pale blonde hair. Frowning, Christine brushed out a tangled knot and groaned as she heard the hair break.

"Diamond, I don't know why you wear your hair so long, it's starting to look ragged,"

Christine glanced up and smiled at the same time she rolled her eyes. "Thanks a lot, Cinnamon, how would I ever get by without you?"

Cinnamon adjusted her breasts within the tight vinyl confines of her Naughty Nurse costume. "You wouldn't be able to walk without someone telling you where to go first. I wasn't trying to be a bitch, but your hair looks like the end of a broomstick. Get yourself a trim tomorrow. Hey, how're my tits?"

Christine turned around in her chair to get a better look. The older woman cupped her breasts and squeezed them together. She sighed, "They look worth every penny, fantastic,"

Cinnamon laughed and began to slick glimmer lotion over her darkly tanned skin. At 34 years old, she was a beautiful woman, but her looks had a mean edge to them. She had been through a lot, her worlds of experience had given her a hard-bitten attitude; she was often harsh, angry, and ready to pick a fight over the smallest imagined insult. Christine didn't care for any of the girls there, but she had learned early on that the best way to deal with Cinnamon was to just agree with her.

"Hell yeah, the best five grand I ever spent." She looked Christine over. "You might want to think about implants in a few years. Gravity takes it's toll on us all, girl."

Christine frowned and placed her hands protectively over her chest. "Um…I'll think about it."

Summer poked her head out of a curtained-off section of the dressing room. "The guys pay more for the girls with tit jobs, Diamond. Give it a few weeks and they'll more than make up for the cost of it." She then emerged from the squared off section and posed to display her Naughty Angel costume, where her own surgically enhanced breasts were proudly on display. "You like it?"

Cinnamon raised her eyebrows. "Nice! You want to do a tag team tonight?"

Summer nodded and ran a hand through her gold hair. "You know it, let's go knock them dead!"

Diamond, Christine, lagged behind for just a moment more. She paused just long enough to review herself in the mirror. She touched her hair and had to admit that it was looking pretty ragged. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had it cut. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything remotely good for herself.

There were dark circles hiding under the coat of concealer that she'd applied, just as there was mounting pain and disgust with herself hiding just under the surface of her smiles and the flirty talk she shared with her clients.

She took a deep breath and willed herself to alter her personality- to get through the night, she had to be Diamond in spirit, not just in name. The alarming anger melted away, quickly replaced with cool indifference and outright determination to earn as much money as she could while she was on the stage.

She began to hope for, rather than dread, a man to want a private dance with her.

Diamond stood from her chair and stepped around a group of other dancers who were adjusting the various pieces to their costumes: the wigs upon their heads, the tassels affixed to their breasts and the straps of their garters.

Diamond stepped past them and strode out onto the stage, to all appearances she was willing and even thrilled to be there dancing for the lusting crowd. She took over completely, ignoring the hard pangs felt in her chest, as Christine died a little more with each night of dancing.

Diamond wiped the sweat from her brow and took a few deep breaths to slow her pounding heart. There had been a bachelor party tonight, and she was sure that she had never worked harder. The men had been sweet enough, and she couldn't help smiling as she recalled the lucky groom. He'd at least had the decency to appear embarrassed as she'd danced for him in front of his friends.

She counted the bills she'd collected over the night and released a satisfied sigh. 'Almost $800 tonight! Hell, it's not like I didn't earn it,'

"Diamond, you about danced your ass off tonight. Holy shit, where'd you learn to move your hips like that? Has Shakira been giving you lessons on the weekend or something?" Crystal demanded as she followed her into the dressing room.

Crystal slipped her long dark hair into a messy bun and quickly pulled on a shirt. More girls began to file into the dressing room, some completely nude, while others were merely topless. Christine felt no shame or embarrassment; she herself was naked from the waist up. It was no great thing to see the breasts of the other dancers, or for them to see hers. This was a strip club, after all.

She shrugged and stuffed the loose bills into the small pink purse that served the one purpose of holding her 'dirty dancing' money. "I just need the extra cash, and you know the best way to get it," she replied, pointing to a sign that was mounted above the dressing room door.

It was a gift from the manager, meant to inspire some form of motivation. It was neon pink, and always blaring the phrase, To make it, You have to shake it!

Crystal shrugged. "You said it, I made about $600 tonight, you can't beat that! The bachelor was a cutie, but his friend was even sweeter. Can you believe he actually asked me out?"

The other girls within earshot burst out laughing, as did Christine. "Did he really? What, did he think he owed you dinner after you spent half an hour grinding on his crotch or something?" Summer asked as she pulled a blue coat over her shirt.

Crystal laughed and smeared some cleansing cream over her face to remove her heavy makeup. She reached for a handful of tissues and wiped them over her face, not only ridding her face of the cream, but also the vibrant blush and eyeshadow she'd chosen for the night. What was revealed was the face of a fine-boned Asian woman; gentle and soft. She was beautiful, no one could deny her that, but she had not been beautiful enough to make it in the world of modeling, though she insisted that she went to several photographer meetings a week.

"I guess so. Poor kid, he thinks he could find a decent woman here! I turned him down gently, the sweet guy. But I'd feel bad if we were to date and when the time came, I'd ask him for money out of reflex, you know? When I date, I date guys who know the score- we go out, he pays. He wants to fuck me, he pays. I can't do anything with these Long Island kids that come in here with 200 bucks, thinking that will impress me." Crystal declared with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Christine wiped away her own makeup, and she avoided looking at her reflection. She knew what she looked like, and didn't want to confront the face of a woman who sold pieces of her soul every night. She wanted nothing more than to just grab something to eat and then go straight to bed.

She glanced at Cinnamon, whose exposed breasts were resting proud and high on her chest. "Cinnamon, have you ever dated a client?"

Cinnamon turned and raised an eyebrow at her. "Me, dating a client? Bitch, you must be on something!" she laughed. "Hell no- and I never would. You know why? They expect you to take your stripper-self with you when you come home," she turned to address the remaining women in the room. "When men know your stage personality, they think you'll be like that at home and in the bed too. No way, fuck that! My boyfriend thinks I work the Starbucks counter inside the Barnes & Noble on 5th and Lennox, and that's what he's gonna keep on thinking."

Candi removed her long red wig to reveal her natural black pixie-cut hair. "He thinks you serve coffee? How long do you think you can keep up that lie?"

Cinnamon shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I was lucky enough to meet me a nice man. He's sweet, but he's dumb. We've been together for a little over a year and all this time he's never wondered why I can't get him a damn discount," she laughed.

Christine smiled at Cinnamon's story and she reflected on the older woman's words. Amid the vulgarity lied a valid point: they were all completely different than what their stage personalities implied. They had lives outside of the club; they had other interests and people to be concerned with. She was no different than them, was she?

She zipped a red sweatshirt over her tank top and shoved her pink purse under one arm. Christine was about ready to leave but there was something on the counter that caught her eye. A little envelope rested in between a bottle of body glitter and a tube of lotion. Christine wondered if there was more money inside, or if it was just another note from a client offering her money for a 'night of her company'.

Christine had become many things in the past year, and though she whored herself on the stage and in the private rooms, she couldn't find it in herself to be paid for sex. It would be the final nail in the coffin to declare to the world that, yes, she had hit rock bottom.

She unfolded the envelope and took out a short note that simply urged her to go to the manager's office directly after the long night shift was over. Christine sighed and wondered what was happening. Sudden fear gripped her. 'Oh God, what have I done? I haven't done anything to upset the other girls, have I? If I lose this job…calm down, calm down, it's probably nothing, just relax and see what May wants…'

Christine shrugged into her cheap windbreaker and regretfully turned down Summer and Candi's invitation for the traditional after-hours meal at the IHOP down the street. Christine gathered up all her things and mounted the staircase that would take her up to the office.

"I see you're quite the popular lady around here," May began once Christine settled into the chair before her desk. "Butterscotch?" she offered Christine the candy bowl from her desk.

Christine nodded, took a piece and popped it into her mouth.

"I saw you working that bachelor party down there- our security cameras never miss a thing. Good job. Anyway, I'm not here for the small talk. There's a man I want you to meet tonight." May glanced at her watch. "I know it's late. Hell, it's coming up on two-thirty in the morning! It doesn't matter, we're all night owls here, aren't we? Go to this address. The man is very important and very interested in you,"

Christine felt rebellion and anger roar within her. 'I'm nobody's whore- I won't let you sell me to the highest bidder,'

"Ms. Valerious, May, I think I need to explain something," Christine began, keeping her voice as level as she could. "Some of the other girls might do that, but I don't, and I never will."

May narrowed her eyes at the girl. "Listen here, Diamond, don't be puttin' your twat on such a high pedestal, all right? Unless you've forgotten, you earned over $700 tonight by shakin' your tits in at a room full of strangers. If you want to live all high and mighty inside of your head, then by all means do, but don't think for one second that I'll be impressed with your sense of dignity. You're a stripper, nothin' but a pole dancer."

Christine felt that she was naked once again, stripped bare by May's cutting words. There was nothing she could say to defend herself, was there? Everything May had said was absolutely true.

The memories she'd tried to block from this past month came back to her in a rush- the smiling, lusting men grabbing at her, reaching to touch her breasts, to pull on her scant underwear to reveal the last uncovered piece of her body, and all the while, Diamond had smiled and encouraged their leering faces. She had smiled and beckoned them to toss more money, always more money onto the stage in return for her body…

"And for whatever reason, you've caught the interest of a friend of mine. He's a lonely guy, and he'd like your company tonight. If you're worried about gettin' slapped around, don't be. I know the guy, he funded this club. He'd never hurt a girl, especially not you." May tried to reassure her. "For some reason, he thinks you hung the moon. He wants to see you- if you don't go and pay him a visit, you can find yourself another job, but good luck. Word travels fast. You refuse this and no other club will take you, I can promise you that."

With May's promise echoing in her ears, Christine clutched the slip of paper tightly as she navigated the way towards the address written on it. 'Why am I doing this…?'

The air was biting and harsh- New York winters were brutal, she knew that, but it wasn't until recently that she knew how horrible it could be without a coat. The walk took a long while- a train ride and over 20 minutes of walking the steel city streets had already given her plenty of time to think, yet she knew that she was trapped, there was no way out tonight.

Not tonight, or any other night. She had given in to May and this man's demand- there was nothing to stop them from making this a regular arrangement. She felt a strong wave of despair wash over her, pulling her down into hopelessness.

'I need that money, and I'll do whatever it takes to get it. If May fires me, and no other club takes me, what'll I do then? They've trapped me! May said he wouldn't get violent, what choice to I have but to hope that she was telling the truth…?'

She looked up and realized that she'd arrived. It was a tall building, nestled comfortably between buildings just like it, all of them of the highest class, facing the vast expanse of Central Park. The people here were the powerhouses of New York wealth- attorneys, architects, CEOs, models, actors and actresses, celebrity designers, pro athletes and doctors. Christine felt horribly cheap and dirty in the face of such enormous power and influence.

"You're a stripper, nothin' but a pole dancer…"

She took a breath and watched as it flowed in the air, a white cloud quickly whipped away in the wind. Christine swallowed her pride and stepped into the warmth of the building lobby. A tall, very muscular black man sat behind a large, semi-circular desk and he looked her up and down curiously. "Can I help you, miss?"

'Save me…'

Christine fumbled for an explanation. "Oh, yes…I'm just visiting a friend. Mr. …" she looked down at the slip of paper. "Mr. Latour. I just need to go up and see Mr. Latour,"

The clerk nodded with a 'don't ask, don't tell' sort of understanding.

He must be used to all kinds of escorts coming through the lobby, Christine thought in humiliated despair. And I'm no different than any of them, I'm a whore now, too, I just don't have the fancy clothes that go along with the job.

"All right. He's on the top floor. I need you to sign in here," the man said, gesturing to an elegantly designed guest book. Christine nodded and ran her fingertips over the gilded pages. She took the pen offered to her- Mont Blanc!- and signed her name before showing him her ID.

The clerk nodded and Christine stepped onto the elevator, wringing her hands out of fear.

The one thing that was purely intolerable with insomnia, Erik decided, was that one could never find anything worth watching on network television. Thank God for satellite!

He stared unseeingly at the screen, watching an infomercial, while he patiently waited for his dinner to finish baking in the oven. Erik was a self-declared odd bird, but he was content in his lonely existence. Or, as content as he could ever hope to be. His mask was on the coffee table, where he usually set it down after a long day of work.

Erik ran a hand over both sides of his face, first the normal side, then the…abnormal side. He lifted his hand higher and touched his hair. Idly, he wondered what he was doing with his life. He did contribute heavily to city charities, and he enjoyed his work, but he had a mounting feeling that some part of his life was unfulfilled.

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone's jarring ring tone. He flipped it open. "Hello?"

May's drawling accent greeted him. "Hello there sugar, has she arrived yet?"

Erik frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I guess I called a little early, huh? What are you cooking?" May asked.

"Well, I…lasagna. You know my sleep schedule too well, May."

"I know your schedule well enough to know that you never sleep," she retorted. "Anyway, she left here over an hour ago. You call to thank me after she leaves, you hear me?"

"May, what are you talking about?" he asked.

Erik turned his head towards his door, and set the television to mute. He heard it again, a soft knocking. "I…hold on a second, May. I think I have a Girl Scout out past curfew," he muttered in irritation as he slipped on his mask.

Erik opened the door and nearly dropped the telephone. Christine stared back at him from the other side of the doorway.