The part of town the club was located in had given me the creeps from the moment we’d turned down one of the darkened streets that wended its labyrinthine way between tall buildings and dilapidated garages. Sometimes you can instantly tell where the bad parts of town are the moment you step into them, something about the atmosphere just changes and works to make you feel uncomfortable and paranoid; you know you shouldn't be there, and so does everybody else.

 This feeling followed me all the way through the dark alleyways; drowning in the stench of urine and weed. I was regretting my haste in accepting Beth's offer to recommend me for a job at her place of work and was just about to tell her this, get her to turn around and head back home; surely I wasn't this desperate? When we rounded a corner and the harsh neon lights of the club loomed into view.

 The sign flickered, occasionally plunging the deserted street into darkness. It was only late afternoon and the sky was only just darkening to that royal blue that comes as the sun sets but the high, oppressive buildings squashed us into a tunnel of never ending darkness. The buzz of electricity powering the thing was audible from metres away, and the blank, concrete block wall outside of the club - into which was set a single sturdy wooden door, it's paint cracked and peeling -  was starting to grow patches of moss. It had clearly seen better days, could this place really afford to pay its employees a decent wage?

 I was dubious until the words on the flickering sign came into proper focus. In red letters, coated with a thick layer of dirt and grime, read the words 'Vincent's Vixens'. It was then apparent why the club paid so well.

 Beth had wrenched open the door and, hesitantly, I stepped through into the darkness of the club. Despite the dark outside it still took my eyes some time to adjust, and the music that thudded, almost painfully, in my ears gave me a few panicked moments of feeling trapped, suffocated. It took a few, heart stopping moments for my surroundings to appear, and for me to catch sight of Beth who was already making her way across the room without me.

 Not wanting to be left standing alone, I weaved my way through the seemingly randomly placed tables; some of their surfaces agleam with a stickiness that I didn’t even dare wonder upon its origin. I was trying not to gaze up at the sensuously undulating forms standing on the three raised platforms that dotted the floor, weaving their bodies fluidly around the poles. I felt self-conscious just watching them, how could I ever even consider getting up there and doing it myself? However, a little part of me knew that if enough money was thrown into the picture, perhaps even my opinion could be swayed.

Beth had waited for me to catch her up, standing beside a heavy looking black door, that was almost perfectly camouflaged against the dull, grime coated walls. We passed through the door and headed further towards the back of the club, where I presumed the managers office must be located. As we padded a short way along the carpeted floor we came to a crossroad of corridors. One turn led, or so the sign indicated, to the toilets; I didn’t want to even imagine what sort of sorry state they must be kept in. The second turning, on the other hand, looked so oddly out of place that I almost had to stop and do a double take as we passed; taking the hall that continued straight ahead.

The threadbare, grey carpet, from which our footsteps were kicking up clouds of dust, gave way on the left to a deep plush pile of darkest red. The walls were clean and freshly painted in the most brilliant white, and there were doors. Six large mahogany doors, three placed along each stretch of wall at regular intervals, brass fittings gleaming in the faux candlelight that a flickering chandelier was kicking out. It just so looked wrong. The entire scene was so unfitting with the rest of the ageing and grimy club. It looked fresh, clean, almost sparkling new. My curiosity was not something kept well in check; I simply had to ask.

“Beth. What the hell is with that corridor? It looks like it’s been ported in from some other building!” I’d hissed. Creeping close so that I could mutter into her ear. We may have been, seemingly, alone at that moment, but I didn’t entirely trust appearances. Nor did I want her to hear the anxiety I knew would be in my voice.

“Oh that. Well…” She had slowed her steps so that I walked beside her rather than following behind as I had been for some time. “…They’re the ‘private rooms’. I’ve never been back there myself, I mean not yet; I’ve only worked a week so far. I had to ask one of the other girls, it looks weird right?”

Weird didn’t quite sum it up in my view. Why keep one section of the club so amazingly pristine and let the rest fall into such disrepair? Just didn't seem to make any sense. I supposed I wasn’t the one running the place so who was I to question the cleaning regime or the managers plan, but still, ‘weird’ it was.

“Apparently it's kept so nice for the clients who can afford to use the rooms. The ‘private shows’ they're used for are meant to be seriously expensive, unlike the rest of this place, so Vincent, the owner, caters only to those with a whole lot of money. Guess he figures its a worthwhile investment to keep it looking good.”

It seemed to make sense, in a vaguely twisted way, but I still couldn’t quite fathom the whole concept. If he made mass amounts of money off of these ‘private shows’, then surely this Vincent would have enough to do out the whole club, not just those six rooms. Why keep it looking like a pit? Or perhaps he had 'better' things to spend his money on. Keep his most affluent clients in luxury to ensure they keep bringing their fat wallets along to his club, and to hell with the others who could never afford to get even a glimpse of the lavishness that was inside those rooms. What you don’t know won’t kill you as they say. I swear whoever came up with that one was severely misguided.

“So what, he just has this one fancy bit back here for guys with enough cash to pay for some girl to strip for him alone?” I couldn't help the words that slipped out of my mouth; I needed to clarify what was running through my head.

“Pretty much. I think they get the odd stag party and that. But, according to Stacy, the guys who book the rooms are usually regulars, or ‘referrals’ from regulars. I bet they tip you loads in there too,” Beth said almost dreamily.

 I, however, was struggling to imagine it. Would it be better or worse than shaking it out in the grubby public bar on one of those podiums? It was as this dilemma creased my brow in thought that Beth leaned in and gave me an answer. She lowered her voice and hissed into my ear. “Supposedly, it costs so much for one of those rooms because Vincent doesn’t ask questions.”

I’d frowned then. “Umm, vague much!” I said, simply, in response. I'd needed her to elaborate, because I didn't dare to believe what I thought she meant might be true.

“It’s an anything goes kind of situation.” Beth breathed almost excitedly. “No regulations, they pay him for the room and the dance and then pay the girl herself for any ‘extras’ they might require along the way. As long as the girl agrees of course.”

“What…wait…you’re saying…that’s like prostitution!” I’d said, outraged at the idea. “In fact it is prostitution! You can’t be seriously saying you’d do that Beth can you?”

“Oh no, no.” She waved at me dismissively, “I’d never let it go that far, but, where’s the harm in a little teasing?”

 I still didn’t like it and she could tell by the on my face. Beth stopped walking and looked at me, hands on hips and an annoyed expression falling over her soft features. “Oh come on Sarah, lighten up a little. Look do you want a job or not? This place pays well, despite all appearances. The hours will fit easily around your classes and study times, and there’s the chance for some pretty healthy bonuses thrown in. What could be wrong with that?”

As it turned out, so very many things could be wrong with that, and unfortunately it took very little time for that to become apparent. However, desperation again played a rather major factor in my decision making that night. Against all my better judgement, and everything that was screaming at me not to do it, once they’d waved enough figures under my nose I signed on the dotted line and was told to prepare for my first shift that coming Friday.