Free I Was Waiting For You by Maxim Jakubowski Page A

respect, not like your average sort of lap dancer …”
    â€œSo, I’m articulate and I can spell and I don’t have a Bronx accent … Does it make me any sexier?” Cornelia asked her customer.
    â€œAbsolutely,” the hedge funder said, with a soft chuckle. “And you have a sense of humour, to boot …”
    â€œThank you, kind sir.”
    His tone changed. His eyes looking darkly into hers.
    â€œListen, you’re fucking beautiful but I just don’t understand why you do this … as much as I enjoy seeing you strip and these private sessions, you could do so much better for yourself … really … I don’t know what brought you here but if I can help you …”
    Cornelia sharply interrupted his hurried flow.
    â€œYOU listen. This is what I do. This is want I want to do. I won’t give you a sob story about my journey to get here. There was no journey. I didn’t grow up disadvantaged, I wasn’t abused or abandoned on some sidewalk bereft of everything following a wounding affair of the heart. I have no bad luck story to bore you with or gain your sympathy or your pity at that …”
    Her head drew back and Cornelia straightened. On the P.A. across the room, on the stage where another girl was now performing, they could recognise the strains of Springsteen’s Born in the USA .
    The man opened his mouth wide, as if to protest against her tirade.
    Cornelia continued.
    â€œLook, I don’t wish to be saved. I’m not drowning, just dancing. Because I like it, because it’s what my body is good at and if the pleasure I provide is worth a few bucks all the better.
    Why is it so many of you men always want to invent some complicated story full of sound and fury to explain why we shake our butts on a badly-lit stage exposing our bodies to all and sundry. I’m not on drugs, I’m not a single mother and I know what my personal vices are and can happily live with them, thank you. And the very last thing I’m seeking is some Wall Street prince to ride in and save me from the gutter. There is no story to tell and no cry for help in my darkness. I don’t need the questions, or the pity. Just try and understand that and we’ll get on fine and I’ll keep on showing you my tits or spreading my legs for your delectation and private fantasies. It doesn’t come free of course, but you know that already, and beyond that I’m not for sale.”
    Her punter was now fully silenced.
    Cornelia glanced at the man-sized watch on her wrist.
    â€œSo, you still want to know the reason I’m a stripper?” she asked him provocatively.
    Puzzled, he said “Yes.”
    â€œI do this because I collect books,” Cornelia said. “And now your time is up. I have to leave now. See you.”
    She rose from the couch and still proudly topless swiftly stormed out of the narrow lap dancing area and made her way back to the artists’ changing room. She was laughing inside from the dazed look on the man’s face, his lips pursed like a fish’s mouth. Because for once she had actually told him the truth. Well, maybe a half truth: the dancing and stripping paid for the basic bills, but her freelance contract killing did actually pay for the rare books she liked to collect. As vices went, she could think of much worse.
    The weather was still mild for the time of year and Cornelia decided to walk home, rather than take a cab. She needed the fresh air to clear the fog of her jet lag. She meandered up Broadway, made a detour through Chinatown and then reached Houston. There was a midnight movie playing at the Angelika, but she decided against it. Somehow she was not in the mood right now for an indie with an emo soundtrack. There was a fifty/fifty chance she would fall asleep halfway through anyway. She noted the film would still be playing for the next few days. There was no rush.
    A nagging feeling of unease had