Free Getting Even by Kayla Perrin

outfit, I think with chagrin, remembering my embarrassment over how Charles completely rejected me.
    The woman does this lazy sexy-type walk to the pole onstage. She wraps a leg around it and does this gyrating thing against it, as if it’s a huge penis. I watch her, both mortified and fascinated by the way she moves. After swinging around the pole, she eases her body forward and presses the pole between her very large and obviously fake breasts.
    Finally, I slip my sunglasses off, because they’re straining my eyes in the dimly lit room. Surreptitiously, I watch the guys watching her. No man in the place can take his eyes off her. And I have to say, there’s something about the way she’s using the pole that is utterly erotic. Funny, I can see what she’s doing as erotic today, as opposed to before, when I saw it all as filthy and sinful.
    Gripping the pole with both hands, the stripper bends her body backward with the ease of a contortionist, giving the guys what must be a delicious view of her heavy breasts. Oh yeah, the men are mesmerized. I even see one of them lick his lips.
    Maybe I need to get a pole like this in our bedroom. Surely Charles couldn’t reject me if I were to do this sort of seductive dance. The idea seems absurd, but it’s not half-bad. I could get Samera to teach me the basics…
    Now the dancer slides all the way down the pole until she is on the floor. On all fours, she does this catlike crawl to the edge of the stage. It’s all part of her routine, but I can’t help chuckling at how she collects the pile of cash on the stage. A few more extended legs and back arching and gentle caresses of some men’s faces, and then the stripper gets to her feet and makes her exit.
    My eyes dart around the club. There are a few topless women working the floor, serving drinks, but my sister isn’t one of them.
    The slow music comes to an end, and the loud, pulsing beat of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” fills the club. The next stripper, with wild blond hair and wearing a red leather minidress unzipped to her navel, hurries onto the stage brandishing a whip. It takes me only a moment to realize that it’s my sister.
    Her skirt is so short that as she passes me, I see more of her ass than of the red leather. She’s also got these thigh-high shiny black boots on, the kind with spiked heels that must be at least four inches. How she even walks on those things let alone dances in them is beyond me.
    The men hoot and howl in appreciation, and Samera slaps her whip against the stage. I glance away. Oh, Sammie. Why do you do it? Why make yourself an object like this?
    When I look her way again, money is flying onto the stage. A lot of money. Which pretty much answers the question of why she does it—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.
    Because I know Samera also loves her job. Long before she got paid to take off her clothes, she got off on wearing skimpy outfits and watching men’s reactions to her. She especially had fun with our mother’s second husband, teasing the poor guy until he broke down and screwed her. My mother kicked them both out, screaming about how they’d both burn in hell for what they’d done. I figure that Samera had heard so often that she was going to burn in hell, she figured she might as well enjoy the rest of her life in the most explicitly sexual way possible.
    Doing a slow twirl, Samera completely unzips her dress. She teases the guys with views of her bountiful bosom—also enhanced by the help of surgery. Surgery I accompanied her to, and tried to talk her out of all the way to the clinic.
    I turn my head. I’m not comfortable watching Samera like this. It’s like my mother’s internal dialogue is stuck in my head, and I can’t get past thinking that what Samera’s doing is completely sinful. I feel awful for her, so awful I’m almost tempted to pray for her soul.
    Snap!
    I jump at the sound of the whip, and my eyes fly to the stage. There’s Samera,