Kitabı oku: «Getting sexy», sayfa 4

Chapter Four
Claudia

Nearly a full week has passed since I went to that sex club with Adam, and I have to say, he’s been really sweet to me. On Tuesday, the very next day, he surprised me with a diamond tennis bracelet, set in platinum. On Wednesday, he gave me this Dior purse I told him I was dying to have—the Vintage Flowers Bag. Yesterday evening, he took me to this park near his brownstone where we had a totally romantic dinner. I swear, I fell in love with him all over again as he fed me chocolate-covered strawberries. He specifically thanked me for working so hard on our wedding, and promised me that it was all worth it because we’re going to have such a wonderful life together.

I couldn’t have had a better week with him. So I’m really surprised tonight, as I’m lying naked on top of him in his bed, when he guides my body off of his, reaches under the bed and produces a fairly large, gift-wrapped box.

Another gift. I can get used to this treatment.

A smile breaks out on my face. “Adam, what is this?”

“Open it.”

Taking the box from him, I sit up. I pull at the ribbon, then the gold wrapping, giggling the entire time. But when I lift the lid and pull out all the tissue paper, my smile fizzles. In fact, my stomach tightens with immense disappointment.

“It’s my gift to you,” he says while gently stroking my arm.

It’s a huge dildo. And I mean huge. It’s got straps on it, as well, so there’s no doubt that this is a strap-on.

But Adam already has a penis. One I’m very happy with.

“I don’t get it,” I admit.

“You remember what we saw last week—at that club?”

How can I forget? My eyes are still burning. “I saw lots of stuff.”

“Remember that woman in the cage, and the guy she was with?”

The visual hits me in the face. Yes, I remember. The woman was wearing the strap-on and screwing the guy from behind.

“Adam…” I laugh nervously as I look at him. “Come on, you don’t want me to do that…do you?”

He sucks on the tip of my finger. “If you want to try it, I’m up for it.”

I stare at him in total disbelief. “Are you gay?” It’s the only thing I can think of to ask. Especially after Lishelle’s disastrous date.

He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Gay? Me? Come on, you know better than that.”

“Then why…” My voice trails off and I shake my head.

“There’s a whole sexual world out there that we have yet to discover. I want to discover it all with you.”

“Are you unhappy with me?” I can’t help blurting.

Adam’s smile is full of love as he gazes at me, and he frames my face with his hands. “Of course not. I have so much love for you, so much passion, that I want to try everything with you. That’s what this is about.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I want us to have the kind of relationship where we can try anything, knowing it will bring us closer together. And I never want you to be timid about suggesting anything to me, because whatever you want to try, I’ll be game.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

I swallow as I gaze into the box. “I’m not so sure I’m comfortable—” I lift the strap-on “—with this.”

“It’s not a world we’ve experienced before. Who knows? Changing roles…it might be fun.”

I really don’t know what’s gotten into Adam. It’s like he’s become a freak.

Or is it me who’s a complete prude? But how can I be a prude? Adam and I have tried every position. We’ve had sex in public places, tried a myriad of sex toys and watched sex videos together. He even convinced me to try anal sex—something I haven’t dared to tell a soul. I thought I would hate every second of it, but I liked it. It was taboo and dirty and turned me on more than I expected.

But this?

I drop the strap-on back into the box and move it behind us. Then I stretch my body out on Adam’s. “Sweetie,” I purr in his ear. “I like being the girl.”

“And I like being the guy. Nothing’s gonna change that. But I saw how much that woman in the cage enjoyed the way she was doing that guy…and I thought…I want that for you. A different kind of sexual pleasure.”

I make a sound of derision.

“Hold on to it until you become comfortable,” Adam tells me. “Maybe you never will, but you never know.”

I don’t see that happening. The truth is, the things I’ve tried with Adam I would never have suggested. And quite frankly, while we don’t do it often, I don’t care if we never watch another porn video. And I certainly don’t want to go to another sex club. Adam turns me on. Him alone. Everything about him.

“I’ll tell you right now, I’m not bringing that thing to my parents’ place. We’ll keep it here. I can just imagine what would happen if the cleaner stumbled upon it, or worse—my mother!”

I laugh, and to my relief, Adam does, too. But Lord, I hope he forgets about this strap-on thing. I can’t help wondering if he’s going through some sort of sexual crisis with all the weird and different stuff he’s wanted us to try in the past few months. I pray this phase passes soon, and we can start our lives in the wedded bliss I’ve dreamed of since I was a child.

Is Diana staring at me weirdly? I can’t help wondering the next morning as we sit across from her in my parents’ backyard. We’re getting together with the wedding planner this morning to go over the final menu. It’s decision day. The week before the wedding, we fly the chefs up from New Orleans to prepare all the items on the menu for us to sample. If there’s anything we don’t like, we can change our minds then, but we need a pretty solid idea of what we’re going with today.

Diana, a graying woman in her late fifties who looks a lot like Diane Keaton, slips her glasses on and opens her planner. “So for appetizers you’re going with the five tomato mozzarella salad, the gumbo and the petite cou-chon baton. What about the main course? Were you still hoping for beef?”

I look at Adam. He’s wearing dark glasses so no one can see his eyes. But I already know what they look like. Red. He got high this morning before we came to meet Diana.

It’s one other change in him I don’t like. In the past year, Adam’s weed smoking has gotten excessive. He says he needs to relax because he’s so stressed with all the planning for the wedding, as well as his aspirations to run for mayor. I understand that, but there’s a limit for everything.

I ask, “What do you think, Adam?”

“I told you what I think. Let’s have beef.”

I face Diana. “My mother and I have been getting calls. People are wondering why there isn’t a beef option.”

“Those people aren’t planning a wedding for six hundred guests.”

“I know, but—”

“Can I make a suggestion?” she asks.

“Of course,” I answer.

“You’ve got onion-crusted American red snapper and pecan smoked Muscovy duck breast. That’s an excellent menu, certainly satisfactory for even the most discriminating eater. If you want to add anything else, I’d suggest another appetizer. The truffled soft-shell crab bisque. There’s plenty of choice for everyone.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I am right,” Diana assures me. “If anyone wants to complain, tell them to come to me.” She smiles sweetly, a smile that says she’s been planning weddings for over thirty years and knows her stuff.

“Can we make a decision on this, Adam?”

“Whatever you suggest is fine.”

I roll my eyes slightly. I swear, I wish he’d get more involved.

“What about the dessert?” Diana asks.

“The best part,” I say. “I think I’ll gain ten pounds before my honeymoon.”

Diana lifts the sheet with the dessert items and their descriptions. Adam and I have a copy of the same sheet to peruse. “Lemon flan,” Diana reads. “Chocolate-fudge Sheba, crème brûlée, Commander’s pecan pie à la mode, praline parfait, Creole bread pudding soufflé and Creole cream-cheese cheesecake.” She lowers the sheet. “You’re choosing two.”

I glance at Adam, but he’s not even looking our way. His gaze is off in the direction of the woods behind my parents’ house.

I reach for his leg under the table.

“Honey?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

Great, he’s not even paying attention! I hide my embarrassment by quickly saying, “We’ll do the Creole bread pudding soufflé and crème brûlée.” I nod. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Diana scribbles some notes.

Is that the right choice? I wonder. “Wait. You know what—if they’re preparing a sampling menu for us, why don’t you add the lemon flan and praline parfait to the list. That way, we can see what we like best before the wedding.”

“No problem.” Diana makes more notes. “You’re paying big bucks for perfection, and I assure you you’ll have perfection.”

At the price she’s charging, we most certainly should have perfection.

“Now for the fun part.”

“Oh?” I say.

“I have a surprise for you.”

I squeeze Adam’s hand. “A surprise. Isn’t that exciting, Adam?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s great.”

Diana removes her glasses, pushes her chair back and stands. “Let’s head to the pool-area bar, because you two lovebirds are going to create your own drink.”

“Our own drink?” I can’t help smiling.

“I brought in a mixologist today and he’ll work with you to concoct a cocktail specifically for you and your guests that they’ll enjoy as they arrive at the reception.”

“That sounds amazing.” I look to Adam, who’s got a cheesy smile on his face. “I had no clue.”

“I like to add some personal touches of my own,” Diana tells us.

Adam and I get up. We follow Diana to the pool area in my parents’ vast backyard. They have a full bar there housed in a Caribbean-style hut. Behind the bar’s counter, I see a white man with shoulder-length blond hair. He’s tanned and looks as if he just stepped off a beach. He’s the type I associate with surfers and a carefree lifestyle.

“I’m gonna like this,” Adam proclaims.

At least he’s interested again. No surprise there. With the amount of drinks we’ll sample, I’m sure we’ll have a nice buzz before noon.

“I’ll leave you two to Jason,” Diana announces, “and I’ll head back into the house, as I have some things to go over with your parents.”

Adam and I slip onto bar stools. Jason extends his hand and we take turns shaking it as we introduce ourselves.

“Jason, you look like you flew in from Hawaii last night,” I can’t help commenting.

Jason chuckles. “Nope, I’m from Atlanta. I work at a bar in Buckhead.”

“Adam and I live in Buckhead.”

“Have you been to Apple?”

“No. That’s the piano bar, right? We keep meaning to check it out. Don’t we, Adam?”

“Yeah,” he responds, and I’m sure Jason must realize he’s high.

“Why don’t you?” Jason asks. “That’s where I am almost every day of the week.”

Jason’s eyes linger on mine, and I wonder if he’s just hit on me.

Adam, however, is oblivious. He reaches for my hand. I can’t help gazing at him with affection. I like when he’s amorous with me.

But Adam doesn’t just link fingers with me, he pulls my hand toward him, stopping only when it’s on his crotch.

Oh my God. He’s hard.

My face flushing, I quickly glance away. “Jason, what do you have for us?”

“Yes, what indeed?” Adam asks.

Jason shrugs. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Oh, we’re pretty risqué. Like to live life on the edge. I’m sure whatever you suggest will excite us.”

OhmyGodtellmeheisn’tpropositioningthebartender!

“I was thinking something fruity,” I quickly tell Jason. “Maybe with vodka, or rum. Something that will make me think of lazy days on an island beach.”

“Got ya.”

Jason spins around and grabs some bottles. If he thought there was anything strange about Adam’s words, he’s chosen to ignore it.

Thank the Lord.

I lift my sunglasses and glare at Adam. He flashes me a devilish smile, one that confirms my worst fear.

What’s happened to you, Adam? I wonder.

What’s happened to the man I love?

On Monday, I’m still feeling very weird about what happened on the weekend with the bartender. I could stay home and ruminate by myself, but instead I call An-nelise and see if she wants to get together for dinner. Nothing fancy, just dinner at my place. Lishelle’s working, or I would have invited her, too.

But maybe it’s good that it’s just me and Annelise. Not only do we have to discuss the wedding photography, I’ve decided to confide in her about my concerns over Adam. Originally, I figured I might broach the subject of Adam’s bizarre sexual appetite with Lishelle, but considering Annelise is in a relationship, she might be the better one to discuss this with. Because I have to talk to someone, or I’m gonna go out of my mind.

I swallow my bite of Caesar salad, then put down my fork. “Annelise,” I say cautiously.

She looks up from her salad. “Yeah?”

I think of how best to phrase what I want to ask, but there’s only one way to say it. I’ve got to say it straight. “Does Charles ever want…really kinky sex?”

Annelise’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just…” I lean forward and whisper, as though there’s a fly on the wall that could hear us. “Adam is into all kinds of weird stuff lately. I’m hoping it’s a phase. But I’m also wondering…is it me? Am I uncomfortable with it because I’m a prude or something? I know times have changed drastically even in ten years, so maybe it is me. Then again…” I blow out a breath. “I know it’s a personal question, but has Charles ever been into…weird stuff? And if so, did he get over it? I guess I want to hear that it won’t last forever.”

Annelise clears her throat. “Wow. That was—”

“A mouthful, I know. And probably too much information. But I need to know if I’m obsessing over this, or if perhaps I need to be more sexually liberated.”

Annelise’s fork clinks against her plate as she lowers it. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have no experience in that department.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “So Adam is a freak—that’s what you think?”

“You haven’t said enough for me to form an opinion. Just how ‘kinky’ are we talking?”

I can’t meet her inquiring gaze. “Anal sex,” I admit shamefully. “Having sex in public places. Not that anyone would see us,” I quickly point out, “but there’s the threat of getting caught. That threat really turns him on. Then on Friday night…” I let out a heavy sigh. “He bought me a strap-on. As a present for me.”

Annelise’s eyes bulge. “What?”

“I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“But I don’t get—”

“He said he wants me to do him.” Now I meet Annelise’s blue-eyed gaze. “Can you believe it?”

Annelise shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Not really.”

I groan my dissatisfaction. “I knew it. I knew this was over the top.” I push my salad away, no longer hungry. “And please, don’t mention this to Lishelle. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“Honey, I only wish I had your problem.”

Now my eyes widen. “What?”

“Maybe a strap-on is a little freaky, but at least Adam wants to have sex with you. Experience it all with you. I’d love it if I had that in my life.”

“Okay, I’m a little lost. No, a lot lost.”

Annelise sighs softly. “I haven’t said anything before because…well, because it’s been too painful. But Charles hasn’t slept with me in over fourteen months.”

I’m so stunned, I can’t even speak.

“Yeah, it’s true. My husband doesn’t even want to touch me. It’s a real boost to my self-esteem, let me tell you.”

“Oh my God.” I reach across the table to cover An-nelise’s hand. “Honey.”

“It’s driving me nuts. I’m at my wit’s end. I’m trying so hard, but he’s always so tired, so stressed. And when I touch him, it’s like he’s a block of stone.”

“I had no clue.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but since we’re talking about sex. I welcome any suggestions you might have.”

“You could always borrow my strap-on.”

That gets a smile from Annelise. We both laugh.

Then I ask, “What have you tried?”

“Candles, nice dinners, wine. All that. Stuff to relax him and get him in the mood. But nothing’s been working. So, last week, I went to a…a sex shop. I picked up this slutty French maid’s outfit. It was raunchy, let me tell you.”

“That didn’t work?” I ask in surprise. I don’t know a man alive who doesn’t get turned on by the French maid fantasy.

Annelise shakes her head in disappointment. “He completely ignored me. Turned on a soccer game, and I don’t think he even likes soccer.”

“Wow. This calls for drastic measures.”

“I know, but what?”

Going to a swingers’ club… But I don’t dare suggest that because I can’t admit to anyone that I went there with Adam, albeit unwillingly.

“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, I hope his stress level lessens. He is working on that big case.”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. And I feel for all those people who got sick from Kitler’s Cookies. I support all the hard work he’s doing. But isn’t sex supposed to be a great stress reliever?”

“I thought so. For Adam it definitely is.”

Annelise sighs softly, and she looks so disheartened that I can’t help but feel bad for her.

“Well,” I begin, “if this is work related, then it won’t go on forever. I know that’s not much comfort now, but tomorrow’s another day. Don’t give up hope.”

“I’m hanging in there,” she says. But she sounds as if she could burst into tears any moment.

Here I was, thinking I had it bad because Adam’s sexual appetite is endless. But maybe I don’t have it bad at all.

Sure, he wants to try everything, but like Annelise said, at least he’s trying it with me. He obviously trusts me with his fantasies, and that says a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’ve been a bit of a prude. Nothing is shameless between committed partners—between two people who love each other with their whole hearts and souls.

Chapter Five
Annelise

All that talk about sex with Claudia over dinner has me totally hot and bothered and completely frustrated. So the first thing I do when I head back home and find that Charles is still at work is lock myself in the bedroom and masturbate.

I imagine that I’m with the Charles from the early days of our relationship. The Charles who was always passionate for me, even when I woke up next to him with morning breath. The Charles who would slip his hand down my pants on a ride at an amusement park, or undo my blouse and fondle my breasts in a movie theatre. The Charles who would know with just a look that I was ready to make love.

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” I mutter as I touch myself, imagining it’s his fingers on me, his tongue tracing circles around my nipple.

I cry out as I climax, happily riding the sensuous wave—but only for a moment. Because immediately afterward I feel cold and empty. So cold and empty I could cry.

I have a husband, damn it. Why do I have to pleasure myself, when I have a man who’s young and should be wild about me?

“Forget Charles,” I tell myself and climb off the bed. I head to the bathroom and start the shower. Maybe cool water will help put out the fire inside me.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower and towel off. I try to forget about sex, but even as I apply scented lotion to my legs, I can’t help but think of the way Charles used to do this for me, his hands moving over my body with aching slowness.

Surely Oprah will help get my mind off sex. For an hour I can feel better about myself by observing others’ miserable lives. I quickly dress in a T-shirt and shorts, then head to the living room to queue up the VCR. I tape Oprah daily.

I rewind the tape for several seconds, then stop and hit play. When the show comes on, Oprah is looking thoughtfully at a teary-eyed woman.

“So what do you think happened?” Oprah asks the dark-haired woman. “Why did the passion in your marriage die?”

The woman looks downright confused. “I don’t know.”

“You have to know,” Oprah insists. “When you think about your marriage, your life—and I’m sure you have—you have to have at least an idea of what went wrong.”

That’s not fair, Oprah, I think. Maybe she doesn’t know. I’m living proof that things can go sour and a person has no clue why.

“The children,” the woman finally answers. “I suppose once the children came along, that’s when the spark started to fizzle.”

“I’ve said this once,” Oprah begins, “I’ll say it again. Women often put themselves last when the children come along. They get so caught up in mothering, they forget their own needs as women.”

“Not all the time,” I say to the TV. I know without a doubt that if Charles and I were to have children, I’d still make room for an active sex life. As it is, we have no kids, so what’s Charles’s damn excuse?

Stretched out on the sofa, I continue to watch the show, though I’m not sure why. This isn’t exactly making me forget about my dismal situation with my husband. But on the bright side, as I watch a series of women talk about their passionless marriages, I know I’m not alone.

I sit up when Oprah announces that she has a surprise for her guests. She does the best surprises.

“I know you’re all here today because you want help,” Oprah says. “And I want to help you regain the passion your marriages are missing. That’s why I’m sending you and your spouses on a four-day getaway to the romantic Canyon Ranch Spa in Tucson, Arizona!”

The couples burst into full-blown smiles and the audience rowdily applauds.

“This spa has everything you can possibly think of for couples. Classes on kissing. How to create exceptional sex.” The audience hoots and hollers. “If you can’t reconnect sexually with your partner after this four-day weekend, then I don’t think you ever will.”

Oh my God. This is it. The answer I’ve been waiting for.

Of course! How could I have been so narrow-minded?

When was the last time Charles and I took a trip together? About a year and a half ago, and we had really great sex then. I have to get Charles away from work, take him on a romantic trip to this place designed for lovers, and there’s no way we won’t recapture what’s missing in our relationship.

I jump off the sofa and head toward the home office. I intend to find out everything there is to know about the Canyon Ranch Spa. I don’t care what it costs. I’d pay any amount to get Charles alone somewhere where the entire object of the place is to have sex.

If nothing else, I’ll be able to figure out once and for all if my husband is attracted to me. If we’re alone together in a sexual paradise and he still can’t get it up, then I’ll have to…

Truthfully, I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to do. I don’t want to be in a loveless marriage, and I do want to have children.

All of which I’m sure will happen, just as soon as Charles and I recharge our marriage. And I’m rearing to go. But I can hear Charles’s protests that work will keep him at home. He puts in more hours than one would think humanly possible.

I know it’s going to be hard to get him away from work, but I’m going to try. One weekend is all we need.

I type in the words Canyon Ranch Spa.

As the page loads, I’m instantly impressed. This place is stunning. Outdoor Jacuzzi tubs, palm trees…This is romantic at its best.

I look heavenward and utter, “Thank you, God.”

Hours later, I can’t sleep.

Beside me, Charles is lightly snoring. He hasn’t touched me, of course, despite the red negligee I’m wearing. I know priests who couldn’t resist me in this outfit, yet Charles is painfully oblivious.

I stroke his arm. “Charles.”

He doesn’t move, so this time I shake his shoulder. I don’t care that it’s two in the morning. I want to make love, or at least talk to him.

“Charles.”

“Hmm?” he finally mutters.

“Sorry to wake you up,” I tell him. But I’m not. I need to talk to him about this, and it has to be now.

“What is it?” he asks in a sleep-filled voice.

“I was wondering…wondering if you might be able to take some time off work soon.”

“What?”

“There’s this place I found out about, and I’d like us to go. It’s in Arizona.”

Charles groans. “Can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I guess so…But I’m excited. Do you know when you will have some time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you check tomorrow?”

“What’s this about?”

Now I hesitate. “It’s about us reconnecting. Going away together so we get out of the routine we’re in.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

My heart is beating hard as I edge my body closer to his. It shouldn’t be, damn it. This is my husband. I should feel one hundred percent comfortable holding him in the night, comfortable slipping my body onto his, comfortable taking his penis into my hands…But I don’t, because I’m afraid he’ll reject me.

Slowly, I slip an arm around him, settling my hand on his warm stomach. My fingers tease the hairs around his navel.

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Charles does something that he hasn’t done in a long time.

He places a hand over mine.

A surge of warmth rushes through my body. I release the breath I was holding on a low moan. The ache inside me is so intense as I trail a finger down past his belly button, straight toward his groin. I feel the mass of hair and already I’m getting wet.

Finally, Charles and I are going to make love.

I cover him with my hand and as soon as I do, he covers my hand again. I press my lips against his shoulder. “Oh, Charles…”

He pries my fingers off of him.

“Ann, it’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”

I stifle my moan of disappointment as I roll over, but I can’t stop the tears filling my eyes.

I’m obviously desperate.

That explains what I’m doing here this afternoon, at my sister’s workplace, instead of at my studio developing the film I’m supposed to. I absolutely hate coming here, because I don’t agree with my sister’s lifestyle, but I have to face it—she gets laid and I don’t, so there’s clearly a thing or two I can learn from her.

Despite the eighty-five-degree weather, I’m wearing a scarf wrapped around my head, and the biggest, darkest sunglasses I own when I walk into the Pleasure Dome, the club where Samera works. When I called and didn’t get her at home or on her cell, I figured she had to be working, because even if she’s on a hot date, she always answers her cell.

The club is dark and smoky, just the way I’d expect a place like this to be. In the middle of the room, a large stage is illuminated with fluorescent blue lighting. For a Wednesday afternoon, I’m surprised that there’s more than a handful of men in the place, and I have to look around to find a table that’s unoccupied. It’s to the very far right of the stage. I keep my eyes focused on the table as I head toward it.

Only when I’m safely seated do I check out the stripper onstage. The woman performing has long black hair and is wearing a garter belt with no panties. The garter is stuffed with cash. I suspect the long black hair that hangs to her ass is a wig. Probably a French maid’s outfit, I think with chagrin, remembering my embarrassment over how Charles completely rejected me.

The woman does this lazy sexy-type walk to the pole onstage. She wraps a leg around it and does this gyrating thing against it, as if it’s a huge penis. I watch her, both mortified and fascinated by the way she moves. After swinging around the pole, she eases her body forward and presses the pole between her very large and obviously fake breasts.

Finally, I slip my sunglasses off, because they’re straining my eyes in the dimly lit room. Surreptitiously, I watch the guys watching her. No man in the place can take his eyes off her. And I have to say, there’s something about the way she’s using the pole that is utterly erotic. Funny, I can see what she’s doing as erotic today, as opposed to before, when I saw it all as filthy and sinful.

Gripping the pole with both hands, the stripper bends her body backward with the ease of a contortionist, giving the guys what must be a delicious view of her heavy breasts. Oh yeah, the men are mesmerized. I even see one of them lick his lips.

Maybe I need to get a pole like this in our bedroom. Surely Charles couldn’t reject me if I were to do this sort of seductive dance. The idea seems absurd, but it’s not half-bad. I could get Samera to teach me the basics…

Now the dancer slides all the way down the pole until she is on the floor. On all fours, she does this catlike crawl to the edge of the stage. It’s all part of her routine, but I can’t help chuckling at how she collects the pile of cash on the stage. A few more extended legs and back arching and gentle caresses of some men’s faces, and then the stripper gets to her feet and makes her exit.

My eyes dart around the club. There are a few topless women working the floor, serving drinks, but my sister isn’t one of them.

The slow music comes to an end, and the loud, pulsing beat of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” fills the club. The next stripper, with wild blond hair and wearing a red leather minidress unzipped to her navel, hurries onto the stage brandishing a whip. It takes me only a moment to realize that it’s my sister.

Her skirt is so short that as she passes me, I see more of her ass than of the red leather. She’s also got these thigh-high shiny black boots on, the kind with spiked heels that must be at least four inches. How she even walks on those things let alone dances in them is beyond me.

The men hoot and howl in appreciation, and Samera slaps her whip against the stage. I glance away. Oh, Sammie. Why do you do it? Why make yourself an object like this?

When I look her way again, money is flying onto the stage. A lot of money. Which pretty much answers the question of why she does it—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.