Three

                                    

                                          

Natalia
        "Hey, baby," I whisper, my voice throaty. Pulling my white top tight against my body until it shows the outline of my nipples, I sway my hips. Soft music plays in the background as I slide my shirt over my head and end up stuck with my arms in the air, tangled in fabric. 
Grunting and cussing up a storm, I wrestle my shirt off and glare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My tangled hair sticks out in every direction, and lipstick has smudged over my cheek and my clothes.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I moan, slumping onto the tile floor and burying my head in my arms. My private audition at an exclusive club is tomorrow and I'm in denim cutoffs and a Winnie-the-Pooh pajama tee twerking to George Michael. I don't even know how to twerk, and a couple of YouTube videos haven't cleared things up in the least.
The front door slams, and I scramble to my feet, slapping my phone to cut off the music. Flushing the empty toilet to maintain my weak ruse, I wander casually into the hall and wave at Celeste. "Hey there." We get along ok, but I definitely don't know her well enough to subject her to the horror show I just put on.
She flops onto the couch, her cute pink dress fluffing around her knees. "I am exhausted." Her pouting turns into a smile when I turn on the electric kettle and grab a bag of her favorite tea. As I hand her the hot drink, her eyes widen. "Wait a second. Your audition is tomorrow!"
"About that..." I rub my forehead, struggling to sort through my options. "I think I'm going to cancel it."
"Why!?"
"The dancing, the...sexy. It's just not me. I'm more of a customer service type." I can't help but pull a nasty face as I say the words, as if they stink. Because they do.
Celeste practically throws her mug at the table and stands up, all signs of weariness gone. I flinch away, but she grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. "That's nonsense. Strippers aren't magic sex goddesses. They're just women."
Women who can actually coordinate their limbs, I mouth behind her back as I reluctantly follow her to her room, realizing with every passing step that I'm not getting out of this. A glittery top practically smacks me in the face as I enter. "We aren't the same size," I protest, but she doesn't look up from her closet. Finally, she extracts a hanger with a gauzy, silky blouse. I blanche when I realize I can see right through it.
She dumps it in my arms. "Put on your cutest, darkest undies, and wear this with that black skirt and tights you got for job interviews. Meet me in the bathroom."
 Pulling on the pencil skirt makes my heart ache. I picked it out at Nordstrom's right after graduation and wore it to interviews for salons, fashion boutiques, and even secretary positions. Thirty-seven rejections and four dead-end waitress jobs later, the skirt lies crumpled at the back of my closet, along with my dreams. I tighten my jaw and tug up the zipper. It's a little looser than it used to be, thanks to a few months of forced meal-skipping. Maybe now it can lead me somewhere new, somewhere where I can afford some decent food and peace of mind.
Celeste whistles when I enter the bathroom. Peering shyly in the mirror, I shudder at the way the blouse clings to my body and blatantly displays my black bra. But the longer I look, the more I enjoy the way it makes me feel.
"I don't have time to teach you a routine, but I'll do what I can." Celeste hops up on the counter. "I'm your client, ok?"
I giggle, but she frowns at me until I stand quietly. "The most important thing is to make eye contact. Look into my eyes like you can see my soul. Glance down at your body, then back at me. Invite me in. Then unbutton your blouse." Staring awkwardly at her, I fumble with the shirt. "Slower. Take your sweet time." When I stop rushing, it becomes a lot easier to slip the pearly plastic buttons through the slippery fabric.