Publication date: July 25th 2017
Genres: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance
When his girlfriend joins the army; Theodore Sway is left to raise their daughter on his own. His shitty job barely covers the ever-rising cost of his San Francisco neighborhood. When Lulu is accepted at a hipster private school, Theo is forced to find a better job. He does what any good parent would – he becomes a stripper.
Theo sacrifices his ego, his morals, and his body hair so his daughter can have the kind of childhood he’s always dreamt about. With the encouragement of his not-so-helpful club brothers and Sylvie, his ex-stripper BFF, Sway struggles to maintain balance between his sexy stage persona and his role as the world’s okayest dad.
Most of my parenting skills were derived from animated sitcoms and Adam Sandler movies. My father rarely made a special appearance in my life, so guys like Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin were my mentors. I’ve never strangled my daughter or attempted to run her over with a car, and yet, I’d still take second place to Homer for father of the year.
Because one: I can’t afford a car.
And two: I don’t have a killer job in a nuclear facility that probably offers an excellent benefits package.
Fatherhood has been a learn-as-you-go experience for me. I can’t tell you how many times I wrapped my daughter in a t-shirt and plastic bag because I forgot to buy diapers. Or fed her fish-shaped crackers and apple juice for dinner. And maybe, just maybe, Lulu’s first word was shit.
Could’ve been sit or spit.
Tonight, I’m upping my game. I’m going full Mike Brady. Minus the suit and tie.
Minus clothes period.
If there is one thing television has taught me; it’s this:
Good fathers make sacrifices.
Whether it’s giving up on your dream to play professional baseball or shaving all your body hair, good dads provide a better life for the people they love. Believe it or not, there are men in this world who put their children first. I’ve never actually met one of these unicorns, but I’m pretty sure they exist. If things work out with my new job; I’ll be shitting rainbows by the end of the month.
I turn off the shower, pull a towel from the silver bar on the wall, and perform a sniff test. I try to hit the laundry mat once a week, but when you have to decide between clean towels and eating; a case of ramen noodles wins every time.
The struggle is real; but it won’t last forever. One day I’ll have so many fresh fucking towels I’ll need a closet to hold them all.
Goals are good.
Clean towels are even better.
They planned this. Every second of my time here has been carefully calculated. They feed me, get me a little drunk, then spring the dance on me. Pure evil.
The lighting in the room is already dim; since we’re in a wine cellar, there are no windows. I just have to worry about bus boys and waiters. I check the door one more time.
“Don’t worry,” Rachel says. “I told them we’d let them know if we needed anything.” She moves to the other side of the room and sits alone.
“You’re not going to watch?”
She smiles and crosses her legs.
“I don’t like to share.” Her foot bounces inside her stiletto. I watch her brown heel dangle on her toes, and the room goes quiet.
“Maybe we can schedule a private for later,” she suggests, and I no longer have to worry about having a limp dick.
I would never fuck Rachel, but the idea of dancing for her turns me on. Even after all the humiliation she’s put me through, that woman just does it for me. You always carry a special place for your first.
“Come on!” a woman yells. “I want to see what I’m paying for!”
My song comes on over the speaker, and I’m in work mode. I smile down at Rachel and run my hand across her cheek.
“Later.” I wink. Mostly it’s for show.
Her foot stops moving and her lips part as I turn and walk away. I want her to want me. It’s our sadistic game.
I stroll past the table and consider using it as a stage, but it’s full of glasses and salad plates. Having a crouton stuck to my ass isn’t sexy. I scan the line of women waiting for me to get naked. Usually, I focus on one, but this situation is highly unusual. I decide to work my way down the line.
I move from woman to woman, undressing as I go. When I’m in my boxer briefs, I retrieve the towel from the table. This routine is typically done with whipped cream. The dancer is supposed to spray it on himself then rub the woman’s face in it. Rico sprays it just above his dick. There have only been a few times when someone tried to give him a blowjob. Most women just take the whipped cream in the face and go back to their seats. I don’t think this is one of those times.
I’m not surprised when the towel fits my waist perfectly. These women are fucking prepared. I search the table for something I can use in place of the whipped cream.
Wine is too thin. Coffee creamer might work. I find a little silver dish filled with thick white cream. I dip my finger in it, ranch. I catch Rachel’s eye, and we laugh.
Nicole was born and raised in California. She claims to be a San Francisco native, however she’s lived in both Northern and Southern California. She credits her creativity to the fact that she attended 12 schools between kindergarten and her senior year in high school. Her nomadic childhood allowed her to reinvent herself often. Some might say she was a liar. While others see the stories she told as a coping mechanism. Twelve schools, in six cities, in twelve years – give her a break. Today she channels her storytelling ability into writing novels. Long story short – kids that lie become writers.