Page 21 of For Your Eyes Only
Sitting in the desk chair, I watch as she transforms into an innocent baby-girl, curious and affectionate with her subscribers. Bianca goes farther than I plan to go. When one of her subscribers asks her to strip, she climbs onto her knees and slowly removes her robe, followed equally sensually by the top of her teddy.
She doesn’t show more than her breasts. Instead, she gets on her knees and shows her butt in a G-string, then she rolls around on the bed stroking her breasts as she talks dirty and responds to their fantasies.
Resting my chin on my knee, I realize she wasn’t lying when she told Trip she’s an actress. All she’s doing right now is acting, as far as I can tell, and I wonder if I’ll actually be able to do this. Now that I’m seeing it, I think Glitter Girl might be easier—it’s definitely quicker to do one dance and scoop up the cash.
Finally after a little more than an hour, she says goodnight to her last subscriber and shuts off her computer.
“That’s it.” She pulls on her robe and sits back against the headboard. “What do you think?”
“Are you tired?”
“A little, but it’s really no big deal. I’ve spent that much time chatting with friends online.”
“But you’re not chatting. You’re… acting, and that was a long performance.”
“Still, I made more than eight hundred dollars in tips. That’s about as much as you made last time you danced.”
“I was done in four minutes.”
She shrugs, climbing off the bed. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Speaking of dancing, I have a great idea for your next performance.”
* * *
Tuesday night,I’m back at the Rhino, making the dash from the side of the Denali to the back door. Bianca is with me, holding an umbrella this time, and I have enormous Jackie-O shades on my face.
Still, it seems like the crowd is growing thicker with every passing week.
A male voice cracks as it screams, “Glitter Girl! Glitter Girl! I love you!”
It’s so strange, I actually look to see who’s saying these ridiculous things, but before I catch a look, Bianca whips the metal door open and shoves me inside.
“Are you trying to blow your cover?” Her voice is sharper than usual.
I rub my eyes with the back of my hand as I take off the sunglasses. “How can anyone love me? They have no idea who I am.”
“Which is exactly why they love you. You’re whatever they imagine.” She takes my arm, dragging me to the dressing room. “We need to get started if we’re going to get you covered up properly.”
The costume she dreamed up is a crimson-satin bodysuit that’s basically a series of bows I’ll strategically untie as I dance. It’s really gorgeous, and it was a bitch to sew so the ribbons would line up properly.
“It’s perfect. Just like the one I saw online.” She got the idea from a lingerie store, and she waits as I step into the G-string bottoms.
Two extra-large, flesh-colored triangular pasties cover my breasts. They’re basically the size of a bikini top, and they’ll be hidden by the two large strips of satin that crisscross and tie behind my neck.
We worked out a dance number in which I’ll untie the series of bows, starting with the ones at the top of my calf-high leopard-print stripper heels. Next is the one holding the two large strips covering my ass, then the one around my waist, leading up to the one behind my neck.
It’s inching closer to full nudity, and I’m thinking more about making this my last dance. I still haven’t launched my subscription site, but I've been watching Bianca work hers.
She basically has the same core group of men she chats with each time, which makes it more like a relationship. I don't know if that’s better or worse, but it makes her sessions less exhausting, she says.
It’s not original content all the time. She’s building on what happened in the session before. It feels strange to build relationships with people I don’t know, people I’m using to help me raise money so I can go home and leave them. What other choice do I have?
“Try not to jerk your head, or this is all going to come tumbling down.” Bianca pins my wild curls in an elaborate updo, then pulls a thin nylon cap over it.
“I am supposed to dance, right?”
“Your hair is so heavy. If you’re going to keep doing this, you might consider a shorter cut.”
“My hair doesn’t respond well to shorter cuts.” I reach up to help her fit the platinum-blonde wig over the cap. “We’re going to need a bigger wig.”