Emil

The warm summer night gently caressed his red, tousled hair. Slender fingers covered the weak flame of his lighter, which immediately caused his cigarette to burst into white smoke. Drunken passersby drifted past him, some entering the club, others leaving.

People of all stripes and walks of life: married men who had lied to their wives, young men just out of their teens, and even women with predatory red lips.

At the "Hive", there were no gender restrictions. You could admire men's bodies whether you were a woman or a man; everyone was equal in that regard. Just be old enough and pay, and then the world of debauchery would open its doors to you.

Emil hadn't planned on finding a soulmate among the dancers, because if you were looking, you'd find three! It was just another clubbing trip, a way to relax through alcohol and admiring skillful movements.

As he entered the building, it seemed like every guy on the pole waved to him: Emil was such a frequent guest. And not only frequent, but also welcome: he left big tips and didn't drool, nor did he hanker after young bodies with his greasy, disgusting hands.

He'd simply arrive, order a bottle of his favorite bourbon, and watch silently. You could never tell what was going on in his head at such times: was he lustful? Enjoying? Or was he even thinking about the crap he was wasting his life on?

His gray eyes, accustomed to every face, able to recognize dancers by their moles, suddenly went blind. In the common room, on the pole like a fish in water, your body emanated from refined yet passionate movements, like a bee that has lost its sting in its death throes.

The perfect curves of a young body, graceful features without a single blemish, beautifully and perfectly trimmed hair. The most attentive men, whose eyes never left you for a second, could have sworn you weren't even sweating.

It seemed as if the pole around which you twirled like the light smoke of an expensive cigar was not just a part of your performance, but your home, a powerful weapon. Your emotions were constantly changing: one moment you'd arch like a cat on the counter, enticing with your claws, winking slyly, the next you'd suddenly change your tune and slap the hands of particularly pushy patrons.

Perhaps only Emil's mind flashed with the question: what brought you here? He'd never seen your face in this club, but he could tell something was wrong. As if there was something more lurking within you, a fire of ambition hidden in the ashes of the costume on your body, leaving little to the imagination.

But Emil was a man too, a customer like all of them, and he couldn't resist your charms. Soon, the entire contents of his wallet covered the counter like precious rose petals, among which rose the pole, your ever-moving silhouette.

Every gesture of yours was caught without hesitation or delay, as was the information that your shift ended at six and that you never asked security to escort you. Until then, Emil didn't dare interfere.

By the appointed time, when you, like a tired bee, emerged from the hive where you'd worked tirelessly all night, Emil was already there. The gray of his eyes instantly found yours, and his gaze said only that he wouldn't leave your company until you gave him your number.

Emil knew he couldn't ask for more. The pole, which you both hated and loved, certainly fed you to your fill, but he doubted you took this job just because you enjoyed the attention. He knew that you, like all the other bees, worked not for the good of the hive, but for yourself, to pay off debts, to have everything you needed, to finally achieve something in life.

The end justifies the means. He knew you were despicable enough to take up such work, but your soul was pure enough not to be swayed by his cute face and the fact that he might now starve for months just so he could throw his paycheck at your feet, at the metal base of the pole.

To your questioning, irritated look, he responded succinctly:

"Let me walk you home. That bull who was trying to get more out of you all evening is still hanging around somewhere. I'd rather see you at the club, not on missing person posters."