'You will meet your Aaron Warner today. I’m sure of it.'

The message on my phone screen signified one thing. Chinwe just started reading a novel - a romance novel to be precise - and the male character who currently had her panties in a twist was Aaron Warner.

I rolled my eyes as I replied to her text, telling her to focus on her modeling shoot before dropping my phone in my bag and redirecting my focus back to the mirror. Yes, I know. You probably think I’m boring and a killjoy. But I’d like you to pause for a quick proper introduction before you continue on your judging spree.

One. I don’t give two fucks about what you think. Don’t hate me, it’s nothing personal. It’s just a habit that gradually grew on me after having to pay my bills ever since my parents died in my first year at the University.

Nobody cared to help me and the ones who did wanted something in return. Not even Uncle Pere, my father’s twin brother who was the closest relative I had before I lost my parents. I can still remember how confused I was when I realized that he’d blocked my number on WhatsApp. This was someone who didn’t hesitate to buy me things when my parents were alive, so why then did he refuse to lend me some money after my parents were no longer there when I needed his assistance the most? Everyone deserted me and I was left to fend for myself alone.

I hope you now understand why I said I don’t give a fuck about what you think about me. That’s because even though you didn’t desert me, you weren’t also there when I needed help.

Two. I am a stripper.

Yup, those uncultured people who dance half-naked on poles in an attempt to seduce people.

The kind of people your parents would have a heart attack if they ever found out you had any form of relationship with. They’d even end up disowning you if they got to find out that you had any form of relationship with me in particular as I am a special kind of stripper. The tease.

My job is just as the name implies. I teased people with sultry dances, touches, and whispers and the reason I’m very popular in this club i because, unlike the other teases, I don’t let people touch me. You look but you don’t ever touch. And what drives people more than not having to touch?

Men and women leave my private sessions half-crazed and willing to fuck anything they see that minute which gives my boss so much joy because that meant he would be getting a lot of customers in his sex club. It’s not like it’s easy to not let them touch me especially when I’m aroused myself from trying to stimulate them. The reason I don’t let them touch me is simple. My clients disgust me. Every person paying almost a million naira to let me tease them and not even touch me is processed to my brain as the most foolish person on this earth and even being close to them makes every nerve in my skin crawl.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever booked a private session with me and you were wondering why I didn’t let you touch me even after you could smell my arousal? Here’s your answer.

Three. I don’t believe in love.

I think you should expect this if you’re smart. Only a foolish person would expect a stripper to believe in love. I’ve dealt with all sorts of men. Married men. Men with kids who may be even older than you. Men whose wives would swear on their life that their husbands were currently in their workplace and still won’t believe it even if you show them a video of them salivating at the sight of my bare ass. Men who promised to use their wives or kids as sacrifices to fund my lifestyle as long as I agreed to be their girlfriend.

Can’t judge me anymore? I thought as much.

I also want to apologize if I sound rude, I’m just feeling a little bit emotional. I’m quitting my stripping career today and as much as I hate to admit it, I’ll miss the kind of cash I earned here. I was able to buy expensive clothes, hair, and gadgets and even furnish the house I shared with Chinwe in a year. But I can’t be a stripper forever. I need a job. A job where I would wear cute official outfits instead of being half-naked. A job where I would strut into the office with my head high instead of wearing a mask to shield my identity. A job where I wouldn’t have to endure tortuous moments of pleasuring someone and fighting away their hands when they try to touch me. A real respectful job.

My phone rings, interrupting me from my conversation with the non-existent ghosts in my changing room. I take a glance at the screen and I can’t hold back the groan that leaves my lips. Mrs. Temitope. The personal secretary to the manager of this club and a certified bitch. I think about ignoring the call but then I remember that her office is a stone’s throw away from here and she would come marching here immediately. I pick up my phone and swipe the screen, accepting the call.

“You have a private session”. Typical Temitope. No hello. No good morning, Tarila. No 'how are you doing?'; just straight to dishing out orders and I always maintain the energy.

“I’m quitting today”. I’m not here to work. I’m here to pack my things and she knows it.

“The customers insisted on you”.

I nearly choke on my spit at the mention of customers. I’ve never performed with multiple men before. What if they all try to make advances on me?

“How many are these customers if I may ask?”

“Four”.

“What?!” My shriek is so loud, I’m sure people on the dancefloor heard it. “I can’t perform before four men”.

She sighs and mutters something like 'dumb bitch' under her breath before she continues. “You’re not attending to the four. They booked a private session for their friend. It’s his birthday present”.

It’s no shock to me that out of the many billion things on this mother earth, the only befitting birthday present that is thought of is a ten-minute session with a stripper. I’ve seen the worst scenarios. Last month a man who had just one more week to live walked in there and said a private session with me was his dying wish.

“I told the boss I wouldn’t be working today and he agreed. I’m not doing any private sessions”. I insisted.

“Well after the amount they paid, the boss changed his mind”.

The fact that they’d accepted payment meant that it was settled. There’s nothing I would say right now that would change their mind. I glanced at my already packed bags hanging by the wall and I shut my eyes briefly in exhaustion. It’s really all about money to these people. I’m about to hang up when she adds.

“They added a detailed description “.

Someone adding a description to the kind of teasing they want is new so I stay quiet and listen.

“He’s a virgin who feels sex is overrated. You’re to prove to him that ignorance is bliss”.

“How old is this man?”

“Thirty.”

“And he’s a virgin?”

“I know you would be surprised that they are still cultured people in the world, Tarila”. I can’t help myself. I bark out a laugh at her hypocritical sarcasm. She’s one to talk about being cultured. Someone who has been fucked by almost all the men in this club, including the bartenders.

She clears her throat, probably realizing the reason behind my laughter. “Be there in the next ten seconds. He’s already waiting for you”.

“And Tarila," she adds just as I’m about to hang up, "there’s a tip of two hundred thousand for you if you can satisfy their request”.