Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
The male dancers were also wonderful additions, from countries as far flung as Thailand and Denmark, although of course, most of them were gay. Still, the group of us had fun together and there was palpable excitement in the air from embarking on a new venture together.
But things went kaput almost immediately. Instead of a dedicated dance space like they’d promised, we had to commute to a puny rehearsal studio downtown that hardly had enough room for all of us at the barre. Even crazier, management didn’t have a rehearsal schedule set up. Instead, we were getting together to do warm-ups to stay in shape, as opposed to working deliberately towards a specific routine. But the shit really hit the fan when management didn’t make our first payroll. That’s right. Thirty dancers showed up in Vegas, excited to join a new troupe, only to find out that the money wasn’t there.
Predictably, everything went to hell in a handbasket. How were we going to afford rent? Food? Medicine? How were we going to pay for PT and routine check-ups when there was no health insurance? Immediately, the girls began looking for other jobs. A couple became costume designers, while two ladies left to try and get their old positions back. Marlene signed up to work for Delta Airlines, but that still left a bunch of us grasping at straws.
That’s when Club Duality set in. It’s a new gentleman’s club in Vegas where billionaires do whatever they want. My understanding is they operate in a secret location, and that all sorts of debauchery goes on. Drugs, gambling, and drink are par for the course, but allegedly, their biggest vice is girls. Ladies from all over the world are auctioned to the highest bidder at Club Duality, and it’s not as bad as it sounds, from what the other girls tell me. After all, the club isn’t some humdrum strip joint with flickering neon lights. Instead, it’s luxe, exclusive, and very hush-hush, with membership offered only to the most handsome, eligible billionaires. Yes, I said billionaires. Rumor is that you have to prove ten-figure net worth to join, and that the minimum reserve at auction is a cool million. It’s crazy luxe and over the top.
But the club worked out for some of the ballerinas because they met wealthy and generous benefactors while performing at Duality. In fact, my friend Haley is now expecting twin boys as a result of a long-term arrangement. She was sold to a domineering alpha male at auction who paid for her live with him at his mansion, but then the unexpected happened: Haley also met his stepson, and began a menage with both stepfather and stepson. I know, it sounds so fucked up, right? But it works for Haley and her boyfriends, and all three are over the moon about the babies to come.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t perform at Club Duality because I have a bum ankle. Ballet is rife with injuries, and unfortunately, I’ve had nagging ankle pain since like forever. Years of PT, rehab, icing, heat, and stretching sometimes take the edge off, but rehearsing in that tiny space downtown was asking for it. I hit my ankle against the mirror one day because we simply didn’t have enough space, and the injury throbbed back to life. An MRI (which I couldn’t afford) showed a hairline fracture, and my doctor ordered me to stay off it for six months. Walking is okay, but there’d be no ballet, no dance, and definitely no going en pointe. As a result, I couldn’t partake in the billionaire auctions because the club wants the girls to dance in order to show off our lithe, flexible bodies. Ha! At this point, I’m practically limping around like an old lady.
But I’ve always been resourceful, and I took matters into my own hands. Bored one day, I wandered into one of the casinos off the Strip. They’re fun, actually, because they may not have the glitz and glamor of the Bellagio or the Palms, but there are a lot of solid card games and some real money to be had. I saw a bunch of drunk frat boys at a table, and like a woman in a trance, I sat down. Sure enough, I took those boys for everything in their wallets and walked out with five hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket.
That was the beginning. I graduated from the low ante tables to middling ones with geezers who were gambling their social security money away. Drunk frat boys became sober frat boys, which became gainfully employed corporate drones. Slowly, I moved up, refining my technique while honing my game. My presentation became more seductive too because high-ante games don’t exactly take place under fluorescent lights with country music twanging in the background. Instead, they’re exclusive, invitation-only events in private backrooms with top shelf alcohol on free flow. The men are clad in tuxes, while select women swan about in evening gowns cut down to there and up to there. But I don’t care about the clothes or the setting. All I care about are the chips on the table because there’s money to be made, and I need that cash to survive.