I have decided not to renew an ad at a freelance club I work at, it means that I am about to go into pole deprivation. Lovers come and go, clients pay, cum, and go. Ads expire, parcels move. Friends get the rl fever and fade. But every working girl in SL, has a romance with Ravanne. Ravanne is the maker of the the dance poles we all work. Hours and hours of staring out at ourselves as avatars, hours and hours of bouncing and sliding. Hundreds and thousands of emotes to beckon to new men coming in, to ones who seem lost. It is true that the short pole pays better than the long pole, many poles don't pay anything at all, and insult to injury, we get to look out at campers doing nothing but lagging up the sim for us, who are at least getting 12L/hr for being AFK (Away from Keyboard).
But it is still the same, we want it so badly, that feeling of rising and falling, of riding and dipping, of dancing and beckoning, that though we may swear off of it, we may say we will never touch the pole again, Ravanne calls to us in our dreams, our rl dreams, where we see the undulating motion of face turned three quarter's view, and staring out endlessly at chairs, empty or full.
I can remember the first time I touched a pole, saw the circle menu pop up, and selected, "Sit," in order to dance. I can remember how I saw the bumping motion, which, to my unAO'd self, was the smoothest I had ever watched my joints go back and forth. The owner of the club said it was simple, and yet many girls couldn't get it, emote a bit, flirt, make them feel good, and if you got to escort, just type whatever it took, even if it was "really weird shit."
I didn't know what to expect. For the first hour, no one came, but when someone did, I just said hello, asked him how they were, told him to relax and let me take care of them. I asked about where he came from, listened to his stories, complimented him on various things.
He left 100L in the dish, 80L popped into my balance. I took off my shirt and bra, he appreciated my breasts and told me how he wanted to caress them. The number popped into my linden balance with a kaching. I had my first whoregasm.
I was addicted, and still am. "Are you getting into this?" They ask that. Oh how little they know, how the muscles between my thighs contract, there is a pulsing wave that rolls up my body each time that happens, the large unexpected tip. Oh yes dear, I am very, very, very into this. It says something you can't know, that as much as I like the world, the world likes me back. Me. Lillie.
And still for all of this, I hug the pole, even as man after man implies he'd love to make me his sl, or even rl, girlfriend, take me away from all of this, take me to the woods, or the city, or Paris, or his house in sl, or his home in rl. Or a motel because he can't have sex with his wife. Or back to his wife so that the three of us can have sex.
And still I hug the pole, waiting for the next man to come in, feeling in my physical imagination, the smooth steel surface of the pole pressing my public hair into my flesh. Feeling the slick surface of my keyboard respond to flying fingers. Reaching for the next emote, asking the next question. Knowing that as I emote my hips to sway, my chest to ache, my thighs to go taut with exertion, that I am offering a fast ride on an hot machine.
The pole. You fondle it, massage it, slide your hands on it. Show every man there what you would do to his pole, if only you had it under your hands, in your mouth, your lips rolling over its rills and hills.
I came of age on that pole. As I negotiate prices, and acts, as I learned what men want, what I had to do. I remember the first time a man tipped me far too much. I did not know then that he thought that enough for me to just jump into bed with him. Later I secretly vowed that if I ever met him again, I'd give him what he had paid for, but I didn't know to give. I remember the first time I came off the pole, headed for the sex box, knee's shaking in rl, blood pumping, a crest of fear that was an arousal in itself, a burning on my cheek: I was blushing.
I came to skill on that pole, as I wove men through my hurdles, weeded out the ones who wanted too much for too little. Enticed them with offers of darkest fantasy made reality, with moments of pleasure from shock of imagination. But still, I hugged the pole, and hugged the pole, and hugged the pole.
Because in the end Ravanne, and only Ravanne, in this tormented world we call our own, but which owns us like an addiction, will hold you safe and fast. The steel hard surface that I so often write about, the innumerable clubs, orgy rooms and dance floors where I have pressed the cleft of my hips to it, and let it slide between them, rubbed my cleave over them. All the times I have arched back and told the onlookers by emote how my nipples were straining at the fabric, or how tight my thong had become, "leaving only color to the imagination."
Yes. Yes. Yes. How I hate all the hours you've stolen from me Ravanne.
Yes. Yes. Yes. How often I come back to you, aching for that rolling flush of goosebumps and ripple that shivers up my insides and tickles on my cheek for the next tip, the next smile, the next chance to ensconce with someone else in a private world, and paint with pixels a scene that they had known only in dark recesses of shameful night, or behind a closed door, in a room away from all the others, pictures of airbrushed models scattered round, fearful of any discovery.
Yes, as we talk there, I conjure up on their minds the feeling of taking me in which ever place they dream of, or chaining them to my bed and unleashing a flood of desire on them. Or making them ache to hear the coo of my voice telling them "Please darling, don't deny me that."
Still I hug the pole, because that is what the payment is for, to peel me from it, to take me away from the only constant lover I have ever known, or perhaps ever will know, in all of SL.