My Daughter's a What?

Boys. Her lip curled. That was the problem. They were all boys. Even the graduate students who taught some of the discussion groups for her larger classes looked barely old enough to shave.

How could she tell her friend and lover that when she was on the stage at the club, dressed in an outfit that would make her mother faint, she was scanning the crowd for a man who looked like her father.

Daddy. She bit her lip, folding a school-girl outfit with care. It was wrong. But during her last year in high school, as she became aware that her parents' marriage was slowly collapsing, she had become obsessed with her handsome father. The way her mother treated him was shameful. He was always patient, always loving, always kind. And she acted as if he was a disposable water bottle, someone who could be replaced. She had seen for herself the hurt on his face as she rejected him, the way he picked at his lonely dinners after she sent him a text, telling him that she would be staying late at the office. Again.

That obsession had led her to PoleKatz. There, she could let go, could dream that the men ogling her young, nubile body were actually her father. That it wasn't a beefy truck driver staring at her tits and ass, but Jim Snyder. Too many times to count she had rushed off the stage after a set, hurried to the tiny, cramped bathroom the dancers shared, and fingered her horny cunt until she came, one hand held over her mouth to stifle her screams.

Which, of course, made what had happened last Thanksgiving even more mortifying. She had gone over the line. She knew it, and so did Jim. And once over, she had no idea how to retreat gracefully. Christmas had been a nightmare. She wanted, with all of her heart, to apologize, to explain. But she hadn't been able to find the words, and had spent the entire holiday in a tense puddle of misery, waiting for the moment when her step-father would reveal the truth to her mother, and everything would come crashing down around her ears in a flood of anger and recrimination.

"So what are you going to do?" Mica asked.

"Huh?" She blinked back to the present.

"About your dad. Are you going to meet him? Or not?" Her roommate smiled wickedly. "If you do, I want you to bring him back here." She nodded to the framed photo of her family which perched on one corner of her desk. "I want to see if he's as hot up close as he is in that pic."

Despite herself, Allie laughed. "I'll let you know."

"Hmmm." The tall girl rolled back over. "You know what they say about older men.

"What do they say?" Despite herself, she was curious.

"They're patient. And aren't afraid to listen."

*****

"So that about wraps things up," Darryl Young said. "Got any questions for us, Jim?"

"Only about a million," Jim said with a wry smile. He looked at the notes he had taken over the last three days. They filled an entire notebook, and his handwriting had devolved, over the last two days, into an indecipherable scrawl. He opened his hand, flexing his fingers, which had gone stiff. Shoved to one side, his laptop was open to the test version of CloudVision's operating system, and he shuddered. "But they can wait until the conference call on Tuesday. Hopefully some of this can filter into my brain."

"Relax, Jim." On the opposite side of the table, Amy smiled at him. "No one expects you to become an expert in three days. Or even three weeks. You just need to know who to go to for answers when someone on our side of the house has a question or a problem." She waved a hand. "I've been eating and breathing this for the last three months, and I still don't know it all. Don't try to learn everything at once. Take small bites and you'll get there."

"Speaking of food," Darryl said, standing and stretching, "where are you guys eating tonight? You can't leave Raleigh without having some good Carolina barbeque."

Jim glanced at Amy, who shook her head. "I'll pass, thanks." She put a hand on her slightly rounded stomach. "This little guy has been jumping up and down on my bladder all day. I'm going to settle down with room service and a good book before we head back to Kansas City tomorrow. But thanks for the offer."

"Jim?"

He hesitated. He certainly didn't feel like staying in his hotel room for another night, alone with only his dark thoughts to keep him company. "All right. But not too late. We have an early flight tomorrow."

"Great!" The man's face creased in a grin, making him look like a frat guy who had scored a free pitcher of beer. "I'll grab some of the other guys on the team before they split. I know a great place. And maybe we can hit a bar afterward."

Jim was pleasantly surprised by the meal. As a lifelong resident of Missouri, he had the midwesterner's typical bias when it came to barbeque. And Kansas City was the home of several incredible restaurants that specialized in the preparation of ribs, brisket, and other examples of the smoker's art. But The Pit, where Darryl and three of his co-workers had taken him, was cheerfully unpretentious, with low benches on either side of long wooden tables. Big-screen TVs hung in the corners, showing a selection of pro and college basketball games.

The food was great, too. Appetizers of onion rings and nachos were followed by platters of barbeque. Jim settled for a half-slab of ribs with potato salad and cornbread, while others got burnt ends, brisket, pulled pork, or surprisingly, smoked catfish. The sauce was different than what he was used to, having a strong, vinegary taste, different than the smoky sauce he preferred, but still good. And pitchers of beer went up and down the table to wash it all down.

"So what do you think?" Darryl asked. At the other end of the table, the three other men were flirting with the waitress.

"It's fantastic." He leaned back and sighed. "Any more and I'm going to go into a meat coma."

Darryl laughed. "Can't have that happening. The night is still young." He drained his beer and set his glass down with a thump on the table. "Finish up, boys. I'm taking you all to PoleKatz, and the company is paying for it!"

Whoops of glee met this announcement. "What?" he asked, as Darryl called for the check and the rest of the party began to put on their jackets.

"Strip club," Darryl said. "Best one in North Carolina."

He hesitated. He had received the impression, over the last few days, that Darryl and his co-workers had more than a little tech-bro in them. "Um. I'm married, man."

"Oh, come on!" A hand slapped him in the back, and a programmer, Rich, leaned forward, blowing beer fumes into his face. "What's the point of going to church on Sunday mornin' if we don't do some sinnin' on Friday night! PoleKatz!" He cheered, and the other two men followed suit, chanting in unison. "PoleKatz! PoleKatz!"

He shrugged helplessly. "All right. For a little while. But I'm not staying out to one in the morning and closing the place down, okay?" He fixed Darryl with a frown. "I've got a ten AM flight back home. And I'm not going to be spending it in the toilet because I got tanked on cheap beer at a strip joint. Got me?"

"Sure, man." Darryl led him outside. The sun had gone down, but twilight lingered. The cool, moist air felt good after the warm restaurant, and he breathed in deeply. "Only an hour or so. Don't mind the boys. It's hard to stare at a computer screen all day and then go home to an empty apartment, like Rich. And Bobby Ray still lives with his folks. They're Baptists, and if they had their way, all he'd do is work and pray."

Jim grimaced. He didn't want to go to a strip club. But the man beside him could make his life a living hell if he didn't stay on his good side. He could just imagine how things might go -- missed deadlines, unreturned phone calls, ignored e-mails, and quiet insinuations that the faults with the new billing system weren't the responsibility of CloudVision, but caused by an incompetent project manager. "All right," he repeated.

Let's just get this over with.

*****

"Hey there, Cammie!"

Allison turned in the hallway that led to the dressing rooms, recognizing her stage name. "Hi, Piper. Working tonight?"

"You know it." The red-head spun, the hem of her tartan skirt flaring up. "What do you think?"

Allie frowned. "I think you're trying to steal my thunder. Do you really think Sylvia is going to put two schoolgirls on the stage in one set?"

"Relax, babe." The older woman smiled. In the background, a heavy bass beat throbbed, almost drowning out the hoots and catcalls of the men watching the performance on the main stage. "I can't compete with you anyway. You look like you're sweet sixteen. I'm nearly twice that. And my tats don't help. I can't pull off the sexy-but-oh-so-innocent look like you can."

She grinned. "I'm going back to my Scottish roots. I've been practicing a new routine for the past month, and I'm finally ready to trot it out. Ever see a stripper do a highland fling combined with a pole dance? I even have some kick-ass heavy-metal bagpipe music ready to go."

Allie laughed. "Heavy-metal bagpipes? Bullshit. I think you're putting me on."

"Nope. By the time I get down to my g-string, these chumps will be ready to blow the roof off of this dump.

"Hey. By the way, how did things with your father work out?"

Allie hung her head. "Terrible." Jim had shown up at her dorm the night before, every line of his body screaming that he would rather be anywhere else. Even Mica's cheerful friendliness couldn't save the awkward situation.

He had taken her out to eat at a nice restaurant, not too far from campus. But the meal had been interminable. Even the excellent food couldn't save it. Jim had tried to make small talk, but questions about her classes and life on campus had fallen flat. With neither of them willing to acknowledge what had happened last November, conversational topics were few. She had been unwilling to prod her stepfather about his marriage, and he barely mentioned her mother at all. Questions about the project which had brought him to Raleigh had only resulted in short, terse comments. At last, desperate, they had talked about the weather until she thought she would scream. When he dropped her back off at the dorm, they had both been relieved.

Piper patted her back in a motherly fashion. "I'm sure everything will be okay, sweetie. All families go through these sorts of things. Me and my momma used to fight like cats and dogs."

"And you're getting along now?" Allison asked hopefully.

"Good Lord, no!" The redhead laughed merrily. "She wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire. Getting married to Leroy was the last straw for her. And I'd happily run her down in the parking lot, if she ever got her fat ass off the couch."

"Oh." She shook her head. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, you know."

Piper pursed her lips, considering. "I suppose not. But I think your daddy cares a lot more for you than my momma ever did for me."

She looked at her phone. "Shit. I got fifteen minutes before my shift starts. And so do you, baby girl. You better shake that sweet little ass of yours, or you'll be late for your first dance."

Allison followed Piper down the hallway to the dressing rooms. As always, it was crowded, littered with the detritus of several women who were forced to simultaneously cooperate with each other and, at the same time, did everything they could to maximize their own exposure at the expense of the other dancers. Pieces of costumes were draped over every available surface, and the two small tables were cluttered with makeup. Women coming on-shift changed into their stage outfits with no hint of shyness, while those coming off the stage changed into their "floor outfits," ready to go out and take orders, serve drinks, and generally serve as incentives for the men to swill down more heavily-watered drinks and go out to the ATM for more money to stuff into the garters and g-strings of the dancers.

She elbowed her way to the tiny locker where she stored her things. 'Cameron' was scrawled on piece of masking tape on the front. She supposed that, if someone had enough time and patience, they could recreate the lineup at PoleKatz, simply by stripping off layer after layer of tape, revealing the names of those women who had gone before her.

Shaking her head at the dark turn of her thoughts, she stripped naked, then began to put on her stage outfit. White stockings, thigh high, which were themselves clipped to a white garter belt. No panties, of course. Sylvia St. Pierre had made clear when she interviewed for a dancing job that she wasn't going to stand for any false modesty.

"You'll show everything that the good Lord gave you, or I'll bounce you out of here on your pretty little ass," she had said, the harsh light from the overhead fluorescent fixtures making her lined face seem even older. "The men don't want a tease. They want to see the real thing."

Over the garter belt she put on a plaid skirt, barely long enough to hide her ass-cheeks. Then the bra, pale green and lacy, but substantial enough to hide her breasts. Back in the fall, when she first started, she had worn a shelf bra, which exposed her nipples as soon as she took off her blouse. But Piper had advised her against it, telling her that she didn't need the support, and that she had to make the men wait for the right moment.

Over the bra, the blouse, white and tight and short enough to bare a few inches of her midriff. It came with a naughty little black and red striped tie, which she rarely bothered to remove, since finding it on the stage after a dance was such a hassle. And lastly, a red velvet choker around her neck, from which a faux pearl dangled, startlingly white against her dark skin.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror she had put on the inside if her locker door, and slipped into an absurd pair of high-heeled shoes, which gave an extra four inches to her height.

She was about to turn when something slammed hard into her back. She caught herself just in time to save herself from catching her skull a wicked crack on the edge of the locker.

"Sorry!" an insincere voice exclaimed. Turning, she saw a dark-haired girl in a parody of 90s fashion, with parachute pants that could be removed with a quick tug, a chain belt, a pink crop top, and platform sneakers.

"No problem, Millie," she said, keeping her voice poisonously sweet, even though one hand clenched into a fist. Damn the girl, she could have been hurt! "Little too much of the drinky-drinky before your shift?" She mimed taking a swig from a bottle. "Better be careful. You know how much Sylvia hates that."

"You bitch." Millie Vanilli leaned forward, her dark eyes hard as agates. "Why are you even here, rich girl? You're not like us. We need this job. We're not doing it for kicks, or because we're bored. Why don't you go back to your rich-prick college friends up on the hill? We all know that Mommy and Daddy will take care of you. You'll never have to worry about where the next paycheck is coming from. All you're doing here is taking food out of someone else's mouth. Someone who could use an extra shift or two."

As the older woman spoke, the small room became quiet. Allie looked around, expecting support. No one liked Millie. It was widespread knowledge that she worked as an escort on the side, and used PoleKatz as a convenient place to lure men into spending three or four hundred dollars for an hour or two in a cheap motel.

Instead, several women turned away, their faces carefully blank. The only woman who would meet her eyes was Piper, and even she gave a casual shrug, as if admitting the obvious.

Allie's lips tightened. She knew that her family was wealthy by the standards of most of the women she worked with. But she had assumed they judged her by the quality of her work, not by how many zeroes were in her mother's bank account, or where she went to school. Shit, she didn't even like going to Duke! The school was full of trust-fund babies from New York and Connecticut and Massachusetts, content to sponge off their parents while they got tanked on Fraternity Row every weekend. The only reason she was there was because she hadn't had the guts to stand up to her mother, docilely accepting her decision that she would attend the same university her mother had. It was yet another chapter in Mia Nguyen's eternal battle to prove to her deceased parents that the child she had conceived out of wedlock was a worthy heir to their name.

"To hell with you," she snapped at Millie, slamming the door of her locker shut. She slapped a lock across the handle and spun the wheel. "You do your job, and I'll do mine."

A whisper, soft and threatening, trailed behind her as she stalked out, the hem of her outfit brushing against her buttocks.

"If you still have a job."

*****

If Mia ever finds out about this, I won't have to worry about what will happen when I ask her for a divorce. She'll take care of everything herself. I'll be lucky if there's enough left of my life after she fire-bombs it to start over again.

Which was, Jim thought, as he settled onto the bench near the raised stage at one end of the room, slightly unfair to his wife. True, things hadn't been right between them for a long time. But Mia didn't have a vindictive bone in her body.

What she did have, and Jim despaired of ever curing it, was an inner drive which only got stronger as she aged, until it bordered on obsession. It wasn't healthy.

Keep this up, Mia, he thought bleakly, and you'll be dead from overwork at fifty, and nothing to show for it but a million-dollar funeral.

"Here we go." Darryl slid into the booth beside him, bottles of beer clenched in his fists. He set one down in front of Jim, and slid the others across the table, where the other guys were sitting, keeping one for himself. "Got any cash?" he asked. "Better have it ready. If the girls think we're a bunch of tightwads, they'll spend all their time somewhere else." He pointed to the other tables which butted up against the front of the stage. "I tipped the hostess a good fifty bucks to get this table. So don't embarrass me, boys."

Trying not to be too obvious, Jim pulled his wallet out. In these days of Paypal and Venmo, he didn't actually need to carry much cash around. It wasn't like the old days, back when he was in college, when the only other choices were a credit card and a check. He still found it somewhat crazy that he could send money clear around the world by tapping a couple of buttons on his smart phone.

Luckily, he had stocked up with cash before he left Kansas City. In a strange town, you never knew what would happen. And cash was welcome anywhere. So a healthy helping of twenties, fives, and singles met his gaze. He pulled a few out, then put the rest away. He wasn't a cheapskate, but he wasn't going to spend all night at this place, throwing money away in the hope that one of the dancers might rub her boobs against him. He was married, and his wife was better looking then any of the women here, anyway.

"Here we go!" exclaimed Rich from the other side of the table. He whooped as a tall, red-headed woman strode out onto the stage, dressed in a wild parody of a Scottish clansman's outfit, complete with tartan skirt in an eye-bending plaid pattern and a dagger in a sheath at her waist. A leather vest covered her considerable chest, and her face would have been very attractive, if it hadn't borne the signs of years of hard living.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" the deejay announced, as the music grew louder. "Fresh from the hills of Scotland comes a woman who will put the blarney in your stone-''

What?!

"-and the bulge in your kilt. Give it up for Piper Perry!"

The redhead strutted forward, her eyes focused on the room. From the speakers, a horrible wailing began, mixed with a thumping drumbeat and the screech of electric guitars.