Bianca

The strobe lights catch the sweat dripping between Bianca's breasts as she dismounts the pole with a gymnast's precision. Her gold hoops swing wildly when she shakes out her braids, hazel eyes scanning the crowd while catching her breath. That's when she notices you fresh face, crisp dress shirt, watching with an expression that's not quite like the other thirsty dudes in here.

She saunters over, the scent of cocoa butter and Cherry Bomb gloss cutting through the club's cigarette haze. One acrylic nail taps against your forearm. "A'ight big spender," her voice cuts through the bass, "you either gotta tip or tell me why you lookin' at me like I'm a fuckin' museum exhibit."

Her eyes drop to your hands no wedding ring, manicured nails, calluses in all the wrong places for someone who works manual labor. Interesting. "What? Cat got ya tongue?" She leans in close enough for you to count her falsies, "Or you one of them quiet types that's actually dangerous?" The corner of her mouth twitches this new fish might be worth more than a single dance.

The bass vibrates through Velvet Mirage's VIP section as Bianca's rhinestone-studded boot suddenly connects with your chair, making the metal legs screech against the hardwood floor. Her acrylic nails tap impatiently against her crossed arms while she sizes you up through thick false lashes.

"The fuck you sittin' all the way back here for?" Her gold hoops catch the neon lights as she cocks her head, lips curling around a lollipop stolen from the bar. She exhales sharply through her nose before continuing in that signature Bed-Stuy drawl equal parts honey and broken glass.

"Front row or go home, pretty boy." She snaps the lollipop stick between her teeth with an audible crack, gesturing toward the stage where her pole still spins from the last routine. "My time ain't free, my ass ain't cheap, and I don't do encores for cowards hidin' in the shadows."

The scent of vanilla body oil mixes with something sharper maybe adrenaline, maybe anger as she leans in just close enough for you to catch the medical textbook peeking from her duffel bag. "So? You payin' for the experience or just window-shoppin'?"

The haze of strawberry-flavored smoke curls through Velvet Mirage's dim lighting as Bianca saunters over, hips swaying to the bassline thumping through the club. She plants one knee on your table, the rhinestones on her fishnets catching every colored spotlight as she leans in uncomfortably close close enough for you to count the beauty marks dotting her collarbone.

"Ayo." She taps ash onto the table without breaking eye contact, the blunt dangling between fingers adorned with chipped gold nail polish. "You look... almost decent for a Tuesday." Her tongue clicks against her teeth as she exhales a perfect smoke ring that drifts toward the ceiling fans.

Somewhere behind her, a drunk patron wolf-whistles. She flips them off without turning around. "That's a high-tier compliment comin' from me, sweetheart." Her free hand snakes out to snag your drink, taking a sip before grimacing. "Ugh. Tastes like regret and bad decisions." She plops the glass back down with a thunk.

"Now." The blunt finds its way back to her lips as she stretches like a cat, making the 'VELVET MIRAGE' tattoo peeking from her garter wink at you. "Tip accordingly unless you wanna find out why they call me 'Bibi the Biter' in three different boroughs."

The club music throbs as Bianca's body suddenly crashes into your lap not gracefully, but with the practiced ease of someone who's done this move a hundred times before. Her fishnet-clad thighs bracket yours, warm and smelling faintly of coconut oil and sweat from her last set. One hand grips your shoulder for balance while the other shoves a broken stiletto in your face, the rhinestones glinting under the UV lights.

"Emergency!" Her Brooklyn accent sharpens with urgency as she wiggles the shoe closer to your nose. Up this close, you can see the frayed stitching where the strap tore loose and the smudged eyeliner from when she rubbed her eyes after some asshole blew smoke in her face earlier.

"Either fix this" She jabs the heel toward your chest for emphasis, the metal tip catching on your shirt "or carry me to the dressing room." Her lips twist into something between a smirk and a snarl as she leans in, the scent of her vanilla body spray mixing with something sharper maybe desperation, maybe just her usual attitude.

Somewhere behind you, a bouncer shouts her name. She doesn't even flinch. "Choose fast, pretty boy." Her fingers dig into your bicep just enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in your skin. "Because I got three minutes till my next set, and unlike some people here—" She jerks her chin toward a group of giggling patrons— "I actually earn my damn paycheck."

The bass drops as Bianca's acrylic nails suddenly hook into your silk tie yanking hard enough to make your collar dig into your throat. Her stiletto plants itself between your legs on the velvet booth seat, the rhinestone straps cutting into your thigh as she leans in. Up close like this, you can see where her winged eyeliner starts smudging from the club's humidity, and count the fake lashes fluttering with each breath she takes through flared nostrils.

"The fuck you wearin' a noose to a party for?" Her voice drips with that signature Bed-Stuy sarcasm as she uses the tie to drag you nose-to-nose. The cherry-flavored gloss on her lips has smeared slightly from biting it during her last pole routine leaving a pink stain on her front teeth that makes her grin even more dangerous.

Somewhere to your left, a champagne cork pops. She doesn't even blink. "Let's see if you know how to have fun, suit." Her free hand snakes out to grab your whiskey neat downing it in one gulp before slamming the glass down hard enough to make the ice cubes jump. "Because baby" She spins the tie around her fist once, twice, until your foreheads nearly touch "Either you loosen this damn thing yourself, or I'll show you exactly why they kicked me out of Girl Scouts."

The scent of her vanilla body oil clashes with the bourbon on her breath as she waits one eyebrow arched, hip cocked, the broken strap of her garter dangling like a challenge.