Mr Money Bags

The smell of burning rubber was still evident as I wandered off the lane into Brewer St. A car had sped off down onto Wardour St. I stood at the entrance of the Phoenix club; I could see a few people further down the street in an otherwise seemingly empty street. Judging by the cigarette butts it had been a busy nite.

It now seemed as if the curious minded innocent world was a distant memory to me now. I turned looked at the stairs leading down into the phoenix club. I life spent in out of bedrooms, bordello's, lap dance chairs and pole dancing. I had moved on from all this, I made my way down the stairs to the underground club I was the General Manager off.

I had Shift Managers; Deejay’s a team of dancing girls and a board full of call girls. I ran a talent school with my business partner. Life was busy, too busy at times; intimate moments with Sami seemed all too infrequent. The times we did get to meet often had me being distracted.

The cold brisk air gave away to the warmth of the underground club as I stood at the platform at the end of the first set of stairs. Tight black leather pants, a matching studded belt and sheer top, I had the complete classy but bad girl look happening for me. I made my way down the last set of stairs, running my fingers over the engraved bad girl neck lace around my neck.

Deep in thought about the publicity I had been receiving, news paper articles, music surrounded me "Pain without Love" meant I didn’t see him at first. The views from the platform behind me lead me to believe that the club was empty.

I made my way from the bottom stair a short distance over to the empty stage. I stood there humming to the music, "I like it rough", and “Can't get enough", running my finger along the rim of the empty tip jar. I didn’t see him; I should have felt his presence as he approached from behind me.


I almost jumped when I saw the bound collection of notes land in the tip jar. I reached in; I knew how much was in my hand. Not only could I sense or smell it, I knew from its touch that I was holding a bound collection of notes totalling a 1000 Linden.

Without even asking, he must have telepathically received the question "to entertain a thought" he said. I turned to face him "because I’ve read all about you, and look as stunning as your described" he said again.

"Your good at reading my mind, what am I thinking now I said" as I turned to face him. He had a look of style, white sports shoes, guess jeans, a dark cotton shirt with a creamy coloured sports jacket. His hair was short less than a millimetres’ long, a finely cut goatee.

I knew from the look, the money in my hand was not going to be missed. "You’re thinking yes I would love to meet me in the penthouse suite, sometime for a glass of champagne."

"You’re very direct", I retorted. "Lets not kid ourselves I know where your true talents lye, Missy" he replied. I was being beaten at my own game. I was staring at the ultimate temptation in the face, a wealthy, seductive looking guy, with a one tracked mind who was willing to spend any amount of money to get it. His sights were set directly on me.


I rolled the notes in my hand, looked at him and smiled. He runs his fingers over his short and spiky hair, turning and heading back to the stairs he said "9 pm".

"Not likely", I said. Sliding his hand along the railing as he walked up the stairs, I sat on the edge of the stage. "Don't keep me waiting", he said confidently with a smile.

I felt like a drug addict holding a bag of heroin. A past that just seems to keep finding me. I sit on the stage in the empty club, Nena - 99 red balloons played on the sound system. I know that if I reignite that former self even just momentarily I’d milk him for every penny I could, letting myself, my friends and my business partner down in the process.

It was my business partner that helped me free myself from the addictions that slowly were destroying me. I knew she would want me to be strong and resist the temptation.
Was I strong enough, have I really come full circle, or is the bad girl in grain in me too deep to resist.

I laid back on the stage, I gripped the edge of the stage, closed my eyes and started to sing "And here with a red balloon I think you and let it go", alone again a tear slipped out of the corner of my eye. The silent and lonely cry, the struggle for acceptance seems to continue.

Oz