The bass thumps through my bones, but I don’t hear it anymore. I feel it. My body moves on autopilot—slow grind, hips rolling, spine arched, hands sliding up the cold chrome pole. I’m in nothing but a black thong and six-inch stilettos, glitter already sticking to the sweat on my tits. The lights catch every drop of oil I rubbed in before my set.

There are maybe fifteen guys in the front row tonight. Regulars, new faces, suits who think they’re slumming it. They all look the same when ...