Somtimes, Life's Not Fair

Without exception, all sexual encounters and feelings in this story are by people 18 or older.

On a Friday afternoon shortly after my tenth birthday I sat at the kitchen table with my head down on my folded arms, sobbing. My mother came over to comfort me – sort of.

"What's the matter, Amy?" she asked, touching my shoulder.

"It isn't fair, it just isn't," I continued to sob, not really answering her question.

"Tell me about it, Amy."

"Well, my friend Jamie dropped a plastic bottle out of her backpack when we were going back to class after lunch. I picked it up but couldn't return it to her yet because the bell sounded and she sits on the opposite side of the classroom from me. So I put it on my desk so that I wouldn't forget it," I replied before stopping to sob some more.

"So what's the problem?" Mom asked.

"Well when Mrs. Morton came by my desk a little while later she saw the bottle – it was for something called 'Alive' I think," I continued before Mom interrupted me.

"Aleve?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's it. So I had to go to Principal Johnson's office with it and he said that it was bad for me to have it and that I had to serve detention all next week." I sobbed some more then lifted up my head to look my Mom in the eye. "I was trying to do the right thing, but now I'm in trouble – it's just not fair, Mom."

"Did you tell the Principal that it was Jamie's bottle?" she asked.

"No, because when he told me that it was something kids weren't allowed to bring to school I didn't want to get her in trouble too," I sniffled.

"Sometimes it may seem that life just isn't fair even when you do the right thing," she philosophized while stroking my head; "but it's God's will."

I didn't see how "God's will" had anything to do with it, but that seemed to be my parents' cop-out response to every question. They never had a solution, just a trite adage.

I was in a total funk until my thirteen year old brother, Rob, came home from basketball practice. He was my best friend, my protector, and my advocate when my religiously severe parents wanted to punish me for one transgression or the other against the Lord, like wanting to put lipstick on.

"Knock, knock, Squirt," I heard his familiar voice as the door to my room opened while I wallowed in self-pity on my bed. As he entered he said "Why the long face?"

"Rob, I got detention all next week for trying to do the right thing," I grumbled, on the verge of another bout of crying.

"Hey, cool Squirt," was his smiling reply. "Now I'm not the only black sheep of the family."

"No Rob, it's..."

"Listen, Squirt, when other people are jerks you can't let it get you down. You need some quality time with your big bro, and you'll forget all about it," he chuckled. Then he started to tickle me until I agreed to play my favorite video game with him. Then he let me win the video game (he said that he didn't but I know that he did). Then he spent the last of his money from moving lawns for neighbors to take me for ice cream even though Mom would have a conniption fit. By the time that I went to bed I was a happy camper.

I had a wide variety of other demonstrations that life wasn't fair throughout my teenage years. These included Rob getting suspended for a week for beating the shit out of three boys in my grade who were harassing me by grabbing my emerging boobs (I was well ahead of my classmates in the tit department) even though the school itself took no significant action against them; and when Rob was sixteen him having to go without a car that he worked hard to buy with his own money when our father let the insurance lapse and it was totaled by a hit and run driver when it was in his workplace parking lot.

I don't want to give the impression that life has been completely unfair to me. I was born with some significant advantages. They included having much better than average intelligence, much higher than average empathy (which I consider a benefit), and good looks.

As far as good looks are concerned, I was born with, and developed by my own sweat, all desirable female physical equipment. My face was pretty enough that I could have become a model as a teen (although my parents would hear nothing of it because "It would be consorting with the devil"). I was constantly hit on by guys who called me either "Killer," as in "killer thighs," or "Busty Betty," because I had a full D by the time that I was seventeen, or "Sultry Sue," because – well because I assume that they thought that I was sultry.

When I was nineteen I got admitted to the college of my choice. My parents had agreed to pay my expenses, which was fortunate since their income was high enough that I didn't qualify for need based scholarships. After my first semester, however, the situation changed. Quite unexpectedly – at least to me – my parents ended up getting divorced. The reason was even more unexpected given the severe religious beliefs that they both espoused when I lived at home – they both were having affairs.

The contentiousness of their divorce, which I refused to be drawn into, plus an inexplicable change in their attitudes about education ("You can get a job at a fast food restaurant and work your way up; a college education is over-valued," according to my father), left me without means to continue the second semester of my freshman year even though I had worked hard and had gotten good grades. "Another 'life isn't fair' moment," I groaned to myself as I shook my head.

My brother Rob came to my rescue once again.

Rob had always worked while going to school and even though he had not graduated from college yet he had saved enough money to cover my first tuition payment for my second semester, and books. He just gave it to me, although I promised to repay him. That bought me enough time to apply for a loan for the second and third tuition payments my second semester; he even co-signed the loan.

"Hey, Sis," he counseled, "you can't go into debt too much for your education. If you can't swing a job to pay for next year's tuition, you need to drop out a year; so get good grades this semester so that you can easily get back in once your economic situation changes. Also, while you can come live with me this summer – returning home is not an option considering what's going on with our hypocrite mother and father – you're still going to have expenses this summer."

"You're right, bro. Got any ideas for employment?" I queried.

"None off the top of my head. Just consider what your strengths are, talk to friends at school about what they're doing, and let me know if there's anything that I can do to help," he responded.

"Thanks, Rob, you're the best."

I got the loan in time to pay my second tuition installment and for my dorm and meal plan. I spent an inordinate amount of time talking to people about part-time and then summer employment to pay my way. One of my friends suggested that I talk to a senior named Gwen Swanson who always seemed to have enough money without getting loans, and who was estranged from her parents. The friend pointed Gwen out to me and said that she often went to the Student Union between classes because she had her own off-campus apartment.

Gwen was really exotic looking. She had long slender legs, shoulder length silky brown hair with auburn highlights, a striking face, and a regal demeanor. Unlike most college students she wore classy and fashionable clothes. She looked eminently successful.

The next day I sheepishly went up to Gwen at the Student Union right after lunch. She was sitting in a booth. I waited until a handsome guy sitting with her left, then apprehensively approached her.

"Hi, you're Gwen, aren't you?" I gulped.

"Yes...," she expectantly replied.

"I'm Amy Boston, a freshman here. I badly need a part-time and/or summer job and one of my friends told me that you were the most successful money-maker on campus and that I should ask your advice. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

Gwen looked me over carefully – I can't actually describe her demeanor as she did that, but it was not hostile.

"Did your friend speculate on what my part-time job was?" she asked with raised eyebrow.

"No – I'm not even sure that she knows. She just said that you really have your act together and that you'd be the most worthwhile person to talk to," I replied.

"I've got a class in fifteen minutes. Why don't you come to my apartment tonight – it's only a ten minute walk from here. Can you do that?" she said.

"Yes; that's really nice of you, Gwen. What time, and what's your address?"

"How about 8:00 p. m.; here's my address," she said scribbling on a sheet of paper.

With that she got up and walked away, giving me a quick smile. Being up close I was surprised to see that she was as tall as I am – five feet ten inches – and that she had the poise of a fashion model. "I wonder if she is a model?" I asked myself, and then thought better of it. "She's not skinny enough to be a model," I mused since she looked much better than someone who starved themselves, like models are known to do. "I guess that I'll find out tonight," I chuckled to myself as I walked to my next class.

_________________

I got to Gwen's apartment building a few minutes before eight. I couldn't fucking believe it. It was about as far from student housing as you could get; it looked like a first class building. It even had a security guard.

"Amy Boston to see Gwen Swanson," I self-consciously told the security guard.

"You're on the list," he said with a big smile after checking a clipboard in front of him. "She's in 3C, elevator on your left."

"Thanks," I said, returning his smile.

Obviously the guard had called up because Gwen was waiting for me with her door open when I got to the third floor. She was now dressed casually in Daisy Duke cutoffs and blouse. She looked HOT (and I don't mean because the air-conditioning was broken; it was working just fine).

"Hi, Gwen; thanks for seeing me," I chimed.

"Would you like a glass of Pinot Noir?" she asked as I walked into her apartment.

Though I was not yet twenty, and I didn't normally drink, I knew that Pinot Noir was wine, and I wanted her to like me so I said, "Sure, if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble," she replied.

I was shocked by her apartment. It had classy furniture with color-coordinated drapes, what looked like original artwork on the walls, and a hardwood floor with an oriental rug. While it was small it gave the vibe that it was really expensive; certainly everything was in good taste.

"Wow, nice digs," I exclaimed as she handed me a glass of wine, while holding one of her own. I was trying not to be star-struck, but I probably didn't succeed.

After some chit chat about where we were from, what courses we were taking, etc., Gwen crossed her long tanned legs and started interrogating me.

"So, Amy, why do you need a job?"

"Well, my parents are divorcing and cut me off. I got a bridge loan from the University and my brother fronted me the first tuition installment, but unless I get a job I won't even make it through the summer. I'm not willing to go into debt $100,000 to go to school. I'll have to drop out."

"It sounds like you don't need just a job, but a high paying one if you expect to afford going to school without loans or help from your parents."

"Yeah – I guess that I do."

"What types of activates did you participate in before college, Amy?"

"Well I was a good volleyball player and was All-Conference when I was a senior in High School; I took modern dance for several years..." I started in. Gwen interrupted.

"When did you take dance, and where?"

"Well, Gwen, I took it from the time that I was eight until I turned fourteen, and a dance school run by a former professional from Broadway. I actually danced in two musical productions at school, and three in Community Theater when I was between fifteen and seventeen."

She seemed satisfied with my response so I continued. "I also was on the yearbook staff, and was the women's sports reporter for the school newspaper for my sophomore and junior years. I also sang in the choir – ugh – from the time that I was little until I was finally able to finagle out of it when I was fifteen." I paused to reflect. "That's about it, I guess, aside from playing other sports in recreational leagues."

"What activities did you like the most?"

"Ha, ha – actually videogames with my brother were number one. However, I also loved both volleyball and dancing in the musicals, although I didn't much care for practice for either – just games and actual performances," I smiled.

"Pretty typical," Gwen said returning my smile. "How is your interaction with guys?"

"Actually, pretty embarrassing most days. I am constantly getting hit on, and whenever I meet a guy the first thing that he normally looks at are my boobs, followed by my ass and thighs." Then with a chuckle I continued "I don't think that I have such a bad face so I don't know why they do that?"

"My situation is similar," Gwen replied with her own chuckle. "I need to get really personal with you if you want my help. Are you willing to answer a few personal questions?"

"Uh...sure," I said, with more apprehension that my voice and response indicated.

"Are you a virgin?"

"No; I'm not real experienced either, though; I've had sex only five times since I turned eighteen."

"How old are you now?"

"About a month from my twentieth birthday."

"Who did you have sex with?"

"This is just between you and me, right?" I replied, I'm sure turning red.

"Our entire conversation is between you and me, scout's honor," she said, making a poor attempt at a Boy or Girl Scout's salute.

"With one of my classmates my senior year in High School – twice. With a guy I met at a one week dance camp – I forgot to tell you about the dance camp earlier, sorry – once. And,... this really can't get out; twice with my three year old brother's best friend from college when he was staying over at our house about a week last summer."

"Are you sharp with or nasty to guys when they hit on you?"

"Not usually; unless they are real creeps. I usually either ignore them or am polite even if I'm not interested. I don't like to hurt people's feelings."

"How are you at handling lesbians?" was her next startling question.

"Are...are you one?" I hesitantly inquired.

"Hell no, completely hetero," she laughed. "I have a real reason for asking, though."

"I've never been hit on by a lesbian as far as I know," I cautiously replied.

Gwen paused in obvious reflection. She finished off her glass of wine, stood up and asked "Another Pinot Noir?"

"No, I'm good," I replied after staring at my still only half-consumed glass.

When Gwen returned from pouring herself another glass she took a sip, sat down, crossed her long legs again and then changed my life.

"The reason for my questions, Amy, is that I make good money working part time as an exotic dancer;" after she paused for effect, she continued, "that is a stripper. When all is said and done I average about 200 bucks per hour when I work weekends, and about $75 per hour on weeknights. I also do private parties, but only with a male chaperon, during which I typically net $1,000 or more. I don't ever fuck, suck, or allow contact with my merchandise, although I do give naked lap dances. The only exception is that I'll let the groom feel me up, and maybe even finger me, at a bachelor party if the price is right and I have the right protector with me."

I'm sure that I was bug-eyed. I hadn't considered that she was a stripper, for some reason, although I was naïve in thinking that she could live in the comfort that she did unless she was a stripper or call girl.

"Interested?" she asked with raised eyebrow.

"Uh... well.... tell me what it's like," I mumbled while I was turning the concept over in my mind.

"I rarely encounter problems at work. The club I work at is high class and has big, tough bouncers. It took a little while to get used to the lesbians, since almost half of the strippers swing that way, but now they're no problem either. You have to be friendly and talk to the customers between your numbers, but to be honest I feel more comfortable, and less exploited, doing that than I did when I was a waitress."

"Oh..." was my intelligent remark.

"As a part time waitress I made $15,000 a year. As a part time stripper I make $150,000," she said with a grin.

"Do you think that I have what it takes?" I timidly inquired.

"You're going to think this weird, but if you want an honest answer to that question, you're going to have to take all your clothes off right now," she said, glaring at me with a cobra-like stare.

"Uh,... what?"

"If you're apprehensive to strip in front of me in a private location, stripping isn't for you, so there are two reasons for my request. The first is to test your adventurousness, and the second is to see if your body is as good naked as it appears to be clothed," she stated without passion or sarcasm.

I stood up, quickly removed all of my clothes, and did three or four slow pirouettes.

After looking me over completely Gwen smiled. "Amy, if we trim your pubic hair so that you only have a landing strip, and if you can dance worth a damn, you'll make as much money as I do. You have the perfect body. Now get dressed so that I don't feel so insecure," she laughed.

After I got dressed Gwen continued.

"I'm a nice person, Amy, but I'm also a businesswoman. I have a proposition for you. I'll give you some basic stripper lessons, and I'll introduce you to Jeremy, the owner of the club that I work at. If he likes your audition and hires you, I'll make sure that our schedules mesh for the first month and introduce you to all of the other girls as my friend – and implicitly not to be messed with. For the first month, if you like it and last that long, you'll give me 10% of your tips. For the next two months you'll give me 25%. After that, it's all yours; plus after two months I'll tell you how to negotiate for $15/hour in addition to tips. Deal?"

I sat with my mind in turmoil for a while. Then I thought to myself "What the hell; I can pay for school plus some. It might even be fun. I can do it."

With a big smile I stood up, held out my hand, and said "Deal!"

That night I got drunk for the first time – Gwen and I finished off two bottles of Pinot Noir and part of a fifth of Scotch. She insisted that I was too drunk to walk home, and she was right, so I spent the night on her couch. It was more plush and comfortable than my bed in the dorm, and the surroundings were certainly more quiet and relaxed.

_________________

Gwen was true to her word. She taught me a number of stripper moves; the little vixen actually had a stripper pole in her bedroom! She said that I caught on to the Cross Leg L Climb, the Russian Splits, the Up Pole Transition, the Sexy Flexy, and the Bumslide to Splits pretty quickly, and had real potential. She had me come and watch her performance, and her interaction with customers, the next Saturday night. She told me to practice interacting with guys that night too.

Gwen's performance was spectacular – the best one that I saw. Her interaction with customers was so smooth – I'm sure that after college that she'll be running her own successful human relations firm.

While visiting the club I got hit on dozens of times but except for one guy – who I just walked away from and repositioned myself near the biggest bouncer – they were all decent. All of them asked me if I worked there. I told them that I might soon. Without exception they asked me what my stage name would be – I had, with Gwen's help, already come up with "Amberlite" – and told me to have Jeremy publicize it (including by sending emails to his regular clientele) so that they could be sure to catch my maiden performance.