She was just awful to watch. Her body was stiff, she lacked the co-ordination to do anything with the pole and her legs at the same time and she'd clearly never worn platform shoes in her life before today. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, scratching his forehead. She must have felt like a complete klutz on the stage but considering that she thought it'd be a fantastic idea to try out for the job, he was feeling more embarrassed for her than she was for herself.
She didn't want this job and he could see that. She needed this job. Single mother with two minimum wage day jobs and a disabled kid, yada yada sob story - he's heard it all before.
"Stop. Please. Please stop. For the love of God." He can't take it anymore. He got up off the couch and shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. She looked on the verge of tears but she put on a brave front. He gets onto the stage and she starts to back away, but he stops her by taking her shaking hands and placing them back onto the pole.
"Honestly even my boyfriend could pole dance better than you," he commented wryly. She laughs, soft and nervous, just in that demure, bashful way that would have any perverted old man creaming his pants, and she wasn't even trying to be coy.
"Move your hips. Like this. Slow, small circles. You want to start by giving them just a taste. You wanna look 'em in the eye and then smile - just like that - and then look away again because you don't really know what kinda crazy fucked up shit they wanna do with you. Arch your back. Your tits look bigger like this and you want the pole between your tits. Walk. One hand on the pole. Lift your knees. Left leg over right, right leg over left - yes - stick your ass out and don't look at my crotch. Look up at me."
She's obedient, and she's trying, and she's sticking her ass out and looking up and up at him, panting softly. He could see that the redness in her bottom lip is not from her lipstick. She squirms a little, and her butt wiggles, and he knows that that wasn't because she doesn't know how to wear a g-string without having the fabric rub against her clit. He knows it's all him, ordering her around like a cheap piece of ass - which she was - and he knows that she's completely shit at pole dancing but she'd love to have a man like the exploitative, abusive son of a bitch who fathered her children back into her life, or a man like him.
He's seen so many like her before, and she wouldn't be the last fucked up little whore he would come across in Vegas. He chuckled, and hopped off the stage.
"This job isn't for you. I've got an S&M club half a dozen blocks down." He pulled a black card out of his wallet with the name and address of the club embossed in it and tossed it onto the stage.