Lauren Takes Leave by Gerstenblatt, Julie (ebooks children's books free txt) 📕

I was. Probably from all that alcohol. Very dehydrating.

In the living room, I spot that giant pole where Leslie’soverstuffed couch used to be. Several guests are gathering around a reallyskinny woman with fake boobs barely encased in a shrunken black T-shirt. Therest of the outfit is comprised of tight, black boy short–style underwear, andchunky silver platforms. I’m hoping she’s the instructor.

“Where does she find these people?” I wonder aloud.But without Kat beside me, there is no witty repartee in response.

The hottie blows a whistle and the group gets quiet. “Hi,girls! My name is Lola, and I’m from the Copa, Copacabana,” she sings,imitating that Barry Manilow song.

Which answers that question, I guess.

Lola starts showing us some basic pole-dancing moves. Shehooks her leg around the pole and then tosses her hair back theatrically.

I’m pretty sure I could do that.

Then she ups the ante a bit with slightly more complicatedtwists, turning her body around the pole while gyrating her hips. She dancesaround that thing ten, twenty times. Her moves are mesmerizingly sexy,especially with this heavy beat in the background, with some guy singing,“Come, my lady, come, come, my lady…”

Her legs are really long and perfectly toned. And she’s soflexible! I suddenly understand why men like to watch this. I like towatch this! I feel both dizzy and embarrassed. I have to look away.

“Get in touch with your inner diva,” Lola says. “Find yoursexy.”

This is misogynistic garbage, I remind myself, created bymen for men who want to objectify women.

Stop being such a buzzkill, Lauren, I scold myself.You’re only upset because you lack the balls to get up and do something likethis.

But then another voice arrives to weigh in. Where’syour sexy at, girl?

A third voice joins the party in my head, asking, Whyare you thinking in bad grammar? And where is Kat when you need her? She couldget up there and then push you to do it, too. You’d get to be all shy and coyand like, “No, no, not me,” and then she’d be like, “Yes, Lauren, you!” soyou’d do it, secretly stoked. And then, if you look stupid or come off tooslutty, you could blame it all on Kat and walk away clean.

There are too many people in my head right now.

A few brave souls come up and spin while the rest of uscheer them on. One woman even manages to hoist herself up and spin right downlike she’s in Cirque du Soleil.

She doesn’t seem objectified.

She smiles and high-fives Lola at the end of her turn.“That was a blast!” she tells us. “I’m totally getting a pole for my office.”

I wonder what she does for a living.

I grab another drink from a passing waiter and watch theentertainment for a while, as three more women try the pole. It does look likefun.

Maybe even more fun than washing one’s bottom in Leslie’sbidet.

I mean, I’m not completely uncoordinated. I was agymnast in middle school, for goodness’ sake. I can totally handle this.

“Okay people.” I stand, swaying slightly. “I’ve got somedance moves, and I’m prepared to use ’em!”

There are cheers all around.

Next thing I know, I’m up at the pole and pelvic-thrustingto the beat. “That’s it,” Lola coaches, “Now try to spin, one hand here, theother here.” I follow her instructions, and…I do it! I actually spin around thepole. My hands are slippery from nerves, but that only seems to make mymovements work better, faster.

I mean, not to brag, but I look hot. I can tellfrom the silence that has overtaken the room. The group is so jealous of myawesome moves, it has been rendered speechless.

After a few more turns, it’s just so natural.

“Honey, let someone else have a chance,” I hear Lola say,but I’m not ready to let go quite yet.

Leslie catcalls to me from where she has joined the groupon the sofa. “Hey, bitch, it’s my turn now!”

I wave to her, like, just give me one more minute.

“Plus, you suck,” Leslie adds, standing up and comingtoward the pole. A chill settles over the group.

Shut up, Leslie, I think. All night, she’s been thekilljoy to my good time, ruining her own party by yelling profanities andmaking me—and probably everyone—feel like shit.

I’m totally not giving up the pole now, partially to proveto her that I’m good at this, but mostly just to spite her.

For my next go-round, I have to pull an Emeril and kick itup a notch. I need something exceptional, something to make the crowd go wild.

Something that Leslie will always remember.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much in my bag of tricks. ThinkStriptease, Lauren. Find your inner Demi and let her loose on Leslie.

Suddenly, I’ve got an idea. I look her way and wink,thinking, Try to top this, bitch.

Then I hook my left leg around the pole like I saw Lola doin her demo. An anticipatory “Whoo” comes from the onlookers. Yeah, ladies,dat’s right. The feisty black-girl rapper in my mind is speaking to me, andshe’s gonna help me spin.

And right before I black out, I think: Leslie is goingdown.

There is just so much blood.

I’m not sure where it’s coming from or how it ended up onmy hands, since I don’t see a cut anywhere on me and I don’t seem to behurting. I check my head, my legs, my arms. No signs of injury anywhere.

My legs are splayed at an awkward angle, though, so I tryto move them. The spiky heel of one of my awesome Louboutin shoes seems to becaught in a net. A black net, like the kind to catch fish in. Yes, that’s right—theword for that is fishnet!

The best way to get my shoe free from this fishnet seemsto be by tearing a hole in it, which I do.

Ah. My black stiletto comes loose. I check to see if it’sdamaged, but it seems fine.

Right now my life is like a movie I’m watching onpay-per-view, except that the volume’s on mute. Then someone comes into theliving room and clicks the remote, bringing the sound back in full force. Noiseis all around me.

“You bitch!” someone yells.

“Back off, get off her!” someone else says,