When Sin's Deep in My Blood
1
It certainly wasn’t the life I’d imagined for myself, or hoped for, or ever wanted. But my life wasn’t more than me trying to make the best of the cards I’d been dealt. Not everyone has the luxury of doing what they love, some people--- such as I--- do things because they have to. They need to make money in a town full of fiends, a town built of sinners. The new Babylon, if you will for a world full of harlots.
It’s not like I sat down as a child and thought, “When I grow up, I want to be a stripper!” and then was lucky enough to pursue my dream immediately after graduation. It just happened! It was bad luck, and bad timing and a lack of options.
You see, my mom passed away about a month after I graduated, and lucky enough for me in the process of mourning, my boyfriend Ryan, who’d moved to Las Vegas a year prior told me not to worry... I could move from my home in Boston to his apartment, which took care of my homeless situation. My mom was an only child and my grandparents were long since dead.
So I took the money left over from paying final expenses and selling most of our belongings and moved across the country. When I got to Vega, everything was pretty smooth for the first week, until I realized my boyfriend had a terrible drinking problem. One night he tried to rape me, when I got away, he kicked me out (not that I wanted to stay there after that anyhow). The next day, as I went to an ATM for some emergency cash, I found my account had been drained. The fucking asshole!
I’d met one of Ryan’s acquaintances; actually he was more like Ryan’s arch nemesis. The thing is, Ryan also had a gambling problem, and owed a lot of money to a lot of people. Marc Rucker was one of these people, he was 23 and ran his father’s strip club, which was also a front for an underground poker and drug ring. Marc had always been polite to me, so I immediately went to him, explaining the situation and how he was the only person I could think of to ask for help.
He took me into his own apartment right away, offering me a job as a dancer in his club, the only available position at the time. Now he was like my big brother, which was the only reason I put up with working in that place. I brought in a lot of money for him, so a part of me felt that I haaad to stay. The bright side to my dancing was that on Friday’s I got to sing with a band he’d helped me form: Clean Getaway... Note: Fully clothed.
Oh! Shit, sorry! My name is Evelyn Taylor, and I’m now 19 years old. I’m 5’9 with a slender frame, well developed in certain areas (Marc jokes that I have the largest natural chest in Vega). I have green eyes and long bleach-blonde hair with purple, lime green and black streaks through out it. So it’s not really like: Oh my god! She’s blonde... More like: What the fuck is her hair color?!
Yes, I’m a stripper, but just so you know, I start off in my clothes, and strip to a skimpy bikini... I don’t get fully naked. Or topless... (Unless I’m drunk at a party, but hey, that’s Vegas... oh c’mon, it’s a joke.)
Aside from feeling like a whore on occasion, it wasn’t that bad of a gig. Sure, it wasn’t how I pictured myself living, but it put money in my pocket. I made enough to live on my own apartment in Marc’s complex (his father owned the building), it was right next door to Marcy [a/n: Marky] so I was well protected. I also had enough to keep my car insured. My car was a gift from Marcy’s father, Marc Sr. He’d pretty much taken me in as a daughter and for my birthday this year he bought me a white CLK350 Mercedes Cabriolet with purple interior and a white soft-top. It was a very sexy $70,000 car that I got from joking around with Marcy about how “someday I’ll own that car.” There was just something about that artic white that was so gorgeous and irresistible. So Marcy told his father to get me that for my birthday. Now, before you gasp like: Marcy wants you!!! That’s sooo far from the truth. Marcy is gay, that’s probably why he was so easy to trust. He’s not like all these jerk-off guys who’re only in Vegas for one reason, and think that they automatically can give me $50 for a hand-job (which I’d never do). Don’t get me wrong, Marcy loved sex. Just not with woman, and he wasn’t an asshole trying to get it.
It’s not like I sat down as a child and thought, “When I grow up, I want to be a stripper!” and then was lucky enough to pursue my dream immediately after graduation. It just happened! It was bad luck, and bad timing and a lack of options.
You see, my mom passed away about a month after I graduated, and lucky enough for me in the process of mourning, my boyfriend Ryan, who’d moved to Las Vegas a year prior told me not to worry... I could move from my home in Boston to his apartment, which took care of my homeless situation. My mom was an only child and my grandparents were long since dead.
So I took the money left over from paying final expenses and selling most of our belongings and moved across the country. When I got to Vega, everything was pretty smooth for the first week, until I realized my boyfriend had a terrible drinking problem. One night he tried to rape me, when I got away, he kicked me out (not that I wanted to stay there after that anyhow). The next day, as I went to an ATM for some emergency cash, I found my account had been drained. The fucking asshole!
I’d met one of Ryan’s acquaintances; actually he was more like Ryan’s arch nemesis. The thing is, Ryan also had a gambling problem, and owed a lot of money to a lot of people. Marc Rucker was one of these people, he was 23 and ran his father’s strip club, which was also a front for an underground poker and drug ring. Marc had always been polite to me, so I immediately went to him, explaining the situation and how he was the only person I could think of to ask for help.
He took me into his own apartment right away, offering me a job as a dancer in his club, the only available position at the time. Now he was like my big brother, which was the only reason I put up with working in that place. I brought in a lot of money for him, so a part of me felt that I haaad to stay. The bright side to my dancing was that on Friday’s I got to sing with a band he’d helped me form: Clean Getaway... Note: Fully clothed.
Oh! Shit, sorry! My name is Evelyn Taylor, and I’m now 19 years old. I’m 5’9 with a slender frame, well developed in certain areas (Marc jokes that I have the largest natural chest in Vega). I have green eyes and long bleach-blonde hair with purple, lime green and black streaks through out it. So it’s not really like: Oh my god! She’s blonde... More like: What the fuck is her hair color?!
Yes, I’m a stripper, but just so you know, I start off in my clothes, and strip to a skimpy bikini... I don’t get fully naked. Or topless... (Unless I’m drunk at a party, but hey, that’s Vegas... oh c’mon, it’s a joke.)
Aside from feeling like a whore on occasion, it wasn’t that bad of a gig. Sure, it wasn’t how I pictured myself living, but it put money in my pocket. I made enough to live on my own apartment in Marc’s complex (his father owned the building), it was right next door to Marcy [a/n: Marky] so I was well protected. I also had enough to keep my car insured. My car was a gift from Marcy’s father, Marc Sr. He’d pretty much taken me in as a daughter and for my birthday this year he bought me a white CLK350 Mercedes Cabriolet with purple interior and a white soft-top. It was a very sexy $70,000 car that I got from joking around with Marcy about how “someday I’ll own that car.” There was just something about that artic white that was so gorgeous and irresistible. So Marcy told his father to get me that for my birthday. Now, before you gasp like: Marcy wants you!!! That’s sooo far from the truth. Marcy is gay, that’s probably why he was so easy to trust. He’s not like all these jerk-off guys who’re only in Vegas for one reason, and think that they automatically can give me $50 for a hand-job (which I’d never do). Don’t get me wrong, Marcy loved sex. Just not with woman, and he wasn’t an asshole trying to get it.