Island Fever Ch. 15

"Wow..." I gushed, awestruck. "Just for being late?"

She nodded her head once again. "Yes, just for being late. It's SO ridiculous. And when it's your turn to be on stage, you HAVE to be there at the beginning of the song. If not, that's a hundred dollar fine. I could be talking with a customer but if the D.J. calls out my name, I have to end the conversation and be on stage. I have a 60 second window. But the music is so loud and blaring, sometimes it is hard to hear the D.J. call out my name. I have to pay attention."

"No wonder strip club owners have so much money," I said. "They pop you for $70 just to work for them each night, take $10 from every private dance you do and charge outrageous fines. Does not seem to be a way to keep employees happy."

"There is also the $150 fine," Pamela added. "They have never gotten me for it, though."

"What is it?"

"Dancers are allowed to smoke cigarettes in the club, but only at the bar or at a table," she answered. "If any girl is caught holding an open cigarette while out on the floor, it is an automatic $150 fine. We can carry packs or cartons, but not an open cigarette. I don't smoke, though, so they have never had the chance to hit me up for that much."

"That's good," I nodded. "Smoking is bad for you. My brother got lung cancer from years of second-hand smoke while growing up. My mom always smoked. I can only hope that I don't get cancer one day because of it, too. Her smoking was not the main reason my brother got cancer, but his doctor said it was definitely a contributing factor."

Pamela looked concerned. "Your brother. Is he ... okay?"

"Dan is doing well," I nodded. "He beat cancer."

"Good, I'm glad," Pamela breathed.

Having asked Pamela this following question in the past, I already knew the answer to it. But I felt like asking it again anyway. "Do you actually like being a stripper?"

The blonde hesitated for a moment, then made a face. "I always tell people yes, but the truth is, I really hate it. But the money is wonderful. That's why I do it. I made well over $200,000 in cash last year. It was tax-free, too."

"You don't report your income to the IRS?"

"No way," she answered. "Strippers are what is called independent contractors. We don't get checks. We get paid in cash. We are supposed to report our earnings, of course, but I don't want to give up all of the money I would owe in taxes each year. If you do a background check on me, I have been unemployed for the past 11 years."

"You've been a stripper for 11 years."

"Exactly," Pamela nodded. "The government does not know that I am a stripper. They think I am unemployed. So why should I report my earnings to them? I would probably lose 70 or 80 grand a year. That would be foolish."

"Hopefully you never get caught," I offered. "I can see, though, why the money would keep you there. $200,000 plus per year... $4,000 per week, I guess. Tax-free, too. Nice."

"I endure a lot of verbal abuse there," Pamela told me. "A lot of the customers each night get drunk and become disrespectful. But the worst is on Friday and Saturday nights. Though those are the best nights to make money, I hate working them. There are so many 18- and 19-year-old guys who come in. They are wild and unruly. They think they can say whatever they want. I hate them."

I frowned. "Most of them, I'm sure, have no idea how to conduct themselves around a REAL woman like you."

Pamela sulked and continued, "That job changed the way I look at people. I thought that everyone, in the club or even at the mall, looked at me as an object. Nothing but an object. I lost all of my trust in humanity." Her lower lip quivered as she added, "You're the first man, Jeremy, that I have trusted in probably six or seven years."

My body tingled as I asked, "Me? Why is that?"

"Just the way you treat me, and everyone else," she said. "You're willing to sit and talk with me. I can talk with you for three or four hours about anything, and you don't even make a move on me. We have had sex a couple of times with each other, but you still want to talk to me, get to know me. I'm not used to that. You're interested in me. And you care about all of us here. That caring is sincere, and real. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it."

I chuckled and wryly told her, "Anyone would find it interesting to know that a stripper likes to read books about Egyptian artifacts and the mysteries of the Nile River." A question that long puzzled me then popped into my mind. I figured that if anyone could answer it off the top of their head, it would be Pamela. "Why does the Nile flow south to north, instead of north to south?"

"It flows downhill from the high mountains in Africa," she answered. "Very few rivers in the world actually flow south to north, but the Nile is one." She paused and added, "I would love to go on a trip down ... err, up it one day."

Suddenly, I came up with a question that I thought she had no chance of answering. "Why is the sky blue?"

"A clear and cloudless sky in the daytime is blue because molecules from the air scatter blue light more than they scatter red light, or any other light, from the sun," she explained, as I listened in astonishment. Pamela knew the answer to this question, too? "At sunset, the sky appears red and orange because the blue light has been scattered out and away from our line of vision. I believe this is called the Tyndall Effect. Yes ... named after a scientist."

Was there anything that Pamela DID NOT know? What other question could I possibly try to stump her with? I certainly could not think of any better question than the last one. She was a truly amazing person, indeed.

"You're too smart and too classy of a woman to have put yourself through this stripping business for 11 years," I nodded, gently kissing the back of her hand. "One day very soon, hopefully, you will graduate from college and become a teacher. That is your career goal. Lindsay is thinking about becoming a teacher too, you know." I smiled and added, "I bet you have a 4.0 grade point average in college, right?"

"3.8," she corrected me.

"I was looking on the Internet and came across the website for the strip club that you work at," I told her. "You have a bio page in it. It says that you love being a stripper. It also says something about your Bad Girl Playground."

"Don't pay any attention to that garbage," Pamela quipped, making a face. "The club wants their customers to think that we - the dancers - wrote those pages ourselves. Truth is, their website guy wrote most, if not all, of them. I don't get on the computer much but have seen what it says about me. I was angry and upset at first, but it passed. That bio page has earned me a lot of money since it's been online."

"What about bachelor parties and other private shows of that nature?" I inquired. "Seems you have done a lot of them in recent times. What are they like?"

Pamela shook her head and sighed. "Terrible. How would you like to get naked in some strange house or apartment, and give lap dances to ten, 20, sometimes 30 guys that you never even met before? I thank God for my bodyguards. Most girls have one, but I have two. They go with me to all of the private parties and make sure that I am kept safe."

"Shiznittle Bam Snip Snap Snabba," I murmured, repeating the same phrase I had earlier read on the website.

Pamela looked at me strangely. "What?"

I chuckled and shrugged her off. "Oh, nothing." Laughing again, I added, "Bodyguards? Employed by you or the club?"

"The club," Pamela responded. "I actually take a cut in pay for each out-of-club party that I go to so I can have a second bodyguard. It just gives me peace of mind."

"How much does one of those parties cost?"

"Booking a lone dancer costs $400 an hour, or $950 for three hours," Pamela told me. "But some people like two dancers instead of one. That costs $700 per hour. I get paid $205 per hour, no matter what. It is $25 less than all of the other girls because I have that extra bodyguard."

"What do most customers book?"

"One hour," she answered. "I usually leave parties with anywhere from a few bucks to $100 in tips. People go to the website and pick a girl they like, then call the club and make all of the arrangements. I usually give them a call myself to confirm everything. Or, they come to the club directly and pick a girl out. I usually do one, maybe two bachelor or birthday parties each month. Also, I will ONLY do them on Friday and Saturday nights. It gets me away from the wild college kids at the club those nights."

"But you still don't like doing private parties?"

She frowned and shook her head. "Not at all. They are terrible. But ... this is what I do for a living. Strip, that is. I've been doing it for years. I always wanted to get out of the business, but I can't because of the money. I won't leave it until I get a job as a schoolteacher. The money will be much less, yes, but being a teacher has been my life-long ambition. It is what I go to college for. I figure that anything else is not worth the pay cut."

"Does anyone that you go to college with know what you do for a living? Or do they have any suspicions?"

"I don't think so," Pamela replied. "There are strip clubs all over the area for students from my school to go to. The one I work at, it is 31 miles away from where I live. It is 39 miles away from the college campus itself. I could work at a club a lot closer, but the chances of meeting up with someone who actually knows me would be a whole lot greater that way. So, I go the long distance."

Lost in thought, Pamela paused for a moment. "To tell you the truth, I really don't interact that much with the people I go to college with. 90 percent of them are ages 18 to 22, while I'm 30. I basically just keep to myself."

"Guys hit on you, I bet..."

Pamela shrugged her shoulders and countered, "I just tell them that I am not interested. I see enough college kids every Friday and Saturday night at work. There is no way that I would ever date someone that young of an age."

I smiled at her. "You're just a regular girl in a very irregular job. Still, you're above that place. You're better than that, Pamela. Much better. I want you to know that, because I know it myself. You're better than that."

The young woman took a deep breath and sighed. "It seems like I've been an exotic dancer forever. In many ways, I have lost my touch with reality. I find it so incredibly difficult to trust others. It's hard in my line of work."

"Yet you trust me?" I smiled. "It's not even been two weeks since we met. How can you trust me already?"

"I just get this sense about you," she explained. "And, believe it or not, but I've talked to Kristanna about you. She knows you better than anyone else here, correct? You have been friends with her for four years? Kristanna has nothing but good things to say about you, Jeremy."

I chuckled. "I have nothing but good things to say about Kristanna. She is a very special and unique friend."

Pamela glanced downward for a moment and pouted. She took a deep breath and then made eye contact with me yet again. "Camille made me angry earlier."

"What?" I asked, taken off-guard. "What happened?"

"Amy told me that Camille made the comment to her that no stripper is to be trusted, and all of them are hungry for money. Camille even went as far as to say that I am not interested in you because of who you are, Jeremy, but because of WHAT you are - a man with two billion dollars." Pamela's brown eyes flashed as she shook her head in denial. "It got me SO MAD! Camille has NO RIGHT to talk about me, or say things like that, behind my back. NO RIGHT!"

I frowned. "It does not surprise me that Camille would be the one to say something like that. This is just my own opinion, of course, but Camille is a blabber-mouth. She's said a few private things about Devon to the others, too." I smiled and kissed Pamela on the bridge of her nose. "But it doesn't matter, dear. Let Camille think whatever she likes. Let her say whatever she wants. It does not matter."

"I've had more money than all of my boyfriends and girlfriends since I started stripping," Pamela added. "Not two billion dollars like you told Lindsay you have, but much more than any of them, nonetheless. I know what it is like, Jeremy. They want you to pay their car payment. They want to borrow money, but never return it. I know all about it."

I laughed. "They want you to buy them a new house..."

"I'm the least materialistic person you could ever meet," Pamela said. "Aside from my car and penthouse, I don't spend money on anything. I save it. I told you that I have over $600,000 in the bank. All I ever do is stay home anyway. I have always been afraid of the future. I want to save as much money as possible. I don't know what's in the future."

"Sweetheart, you don't have to justify yourself to me. I don't judge you because of your job."

Pamela grunted. "Oooooh ... Camille still makes me MAD! I cannot believe Camille would talk bad about me like that behind my back. Tell Amy that I only like you for your money! I have never said one bad word about Camille, so I have no idea why she would talk about me behind my back."

"Camille and her opinion does not matter," I reiterated. "Do not worry about it, Pamela. I am starting to like her less and less with every passing day. Do not worry one bit about Camille. I do not think that she is a good person."

"I'll try, Jeremy."

I tilted my head to the side and looked at her intently. "You said you were afraid of the future, dear. Why?"

"Because I can't strip forever," Pamela fretted. "I am going to college, studying education. But I am very fearful all of the time I have spent in college may go for nothing. What school is going to hire someone who stripped for 11 years to be a teacher? I have started thinking about that."

"Don't tell them that you were a stripper."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"How so?" I wondered. "You said you are an independent contractor. You have no job. Someone runs a background check on you, it comes up empty job-wise for the past 11 years." I shrugged my shoulders. "The school would never know that you were a stripper unless you told them."

"I'm scared that they would investigate that long gap," Pamela frowned. "I would think, of all places, that schools are extremely thorough in looking into the backgrounds of potential employees - especially teachers." Pamela hung her head low. "I've worked so hard in college. I hope all of that hard work was done for a purpose. I really started to worry about this recently. You would think that a school would be curious as to why someone claims they were totally unemployed from ages 19 to 30, or 31 next year. I ... I will get my degree next year. I can't wait. I just can't wait."

Pamela inhaled sharply, then momentarily closed her eyes. "Hey, I was gonna give you a lap dance, remember? You wanted me to treat you like a customer at the club where I work."

"I don't want you to dance for me anymore."

"Why?" Pamela asked, confused.

"Because you don't like it," I told her. "You said it yourself - you don't like being a stripper. I don't want you to do something that you are not in favor of, Pamela. I was already aware that you did not like being a stripper, but I did not know the true extent until just moments ago. So, I do not want you to dance for me anymore."

She shook her head at me. "No, it's okay, Jeremy. I WANT to dance for you. You're not a drunken customer. You are not a stranger. I know you enjoyed that lap dance I gave you last weekend. I want to give you another."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, positive," she confirmed. "Let me dance for you. But I want to do it inside." Pamela placed both arms in front of her body and shivered here on the outdoor deck. "This island of yours can get quite chilly sometimes ... especially when the wind starts whipping about."

"Very well," I nodded, extending my hand to her. "Let's go back inside - to my personal suite."

-------

Five minutes later, our role-playing game of Pamela the stripper, Jeremy the customer had already begun. All the stacked blonde did was retrieve a pair of high-heeled shoes and a lacey ankle ruffle from her guest room, then return to my own private room and take off all of her clothing.

Now, she stood atop the nearby dresser with nothing but the high-heels and ruffle on. The gorgeous young lady was methodically parading her hot, luscious body about, gently swaying and bumping her hips to an unheard rhythm. At the same time, I pretended to be a customer - seated in a corner chair and silently admiring her. I liked role-playing games.

Pamela's large, D-cup breasts shimmied back-and-forth as she smiled and made eye contact with me. I nodded my head and grinned at her in return, knowing there could not be a more incredibly beautiful stripper in the whole, wide world. Maybe not even a more beautiful WOMAN, period...

At 5-foot-6 and 120 pounds, Pamela sported a fabulous figure that was home to some tight curves and awesome angles. Those bedroom eyes could lure any man into her spell, while that gentle, friendly smile hinted at a unique warmness and sensitivity underneath. With that body, she had made a very nice living for herself in the world of adult entertainment.

Very slowly, Pamela turned her back to me upon the dresser and then bent over at the waist, offering me a tempting glance of her round, tight ass. The 30-year-old wiggled it about for a bit, then spun around on a high-heel and cupped her breasts, her eyes again focused on my face. I smiled at her as my cock began to twitch within my shorts.

Pamela's hips bumped and undulated as she rolled her head about, her long hair flailing every-which-way. Pamela then cupped and squeezed her heavenly breasts as she danced and swiveled about upon the sturdy wooden dresser in just the pair of high-heels and lacey ankle ruffle.

Playing the role of customer, I slowly got up from my chair and made my way over to the dresser. After I reached into my pocket and pulled out a money clip, Pamela grinned and then began squirming and bucking her hips about as if she was in the process of getting drilled during sex.

I pulled out a single dollar bill and held it up for her. Pamela smiled, then spread her legs and knelt down directly in front of me. Her delicate, glistening pussy staring me right in the face, I soon realized what the ruffle was for. She grabbed one side of it and pulled it away from her ankle. I promptly slipped the dollar bill into its rightful place.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she returned (using her standard line at the club), flashing me a million-dollar smile.

"There's more where that came from," I grinned, offering her another dollar. I slipped it into the ruffle, too.

"Would you like to sit and talk for awhile once this song is over?" Pamela asked, being overly nice and cordial. When I nodded my head at her, Pamela made a clicking sound with her mouth and winked an eye at me. "It's almost finished."

She stood up and began dancing and gyrating upon the dresser once again, but suddenly stopped and looked down at me. "The song is finally over!" Pamela squealed, extending me her hand. "Would you help me down, please?" I took her hand into mine and held on tight as she stepped down onto a chair, and then the floor. "Let's find somewhere to sit."

"Sounds good to me," I told her, as we took a seat at the computer table. Now, I would get a taste of the strip club experience. I had always been very curious about it...

"Hi there!" Pamela greeted me, in perhaps the nicest and most warm tone I had ever heard a woman use. "Thank you for the nice tips. I really, really appreciate it."

"You are very welcome," I nodded.

"So ... what's your name, sweetheart?"