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"What the fuck am I doing here?"

I tried reassuring myself over and over that nobody would recognize me. Nobody would recognize a slim white fox named Kevin Kramer, not with little clothing on and certainly not in a sleazy establishment like the Desert Spice Saloon. Especially not while wearing only a dark purple pair of Bad PupperTMboxers behind a curtain, holding onto an LED neon mask, peeking through it to see a larger share of men and women in the crowd.

"Nervous, Tod?" asked 'Felicity', an effeminate mink who wore miniskirts for his shows. "Listen, just remember what me and Gavin told ya today: don't overthink what you're doing and have fun. Also, keep an eye out for any puke, haha!"

I faked laughter with the high-pitched mink, then continued waiting for the DJ to announce my first number at 10:00. With only five minutes to go until then, I listened to a hot tempo set in-tune to the gyrations of a beautiful pair of sultry tigresses (one of whom couldn't speak perfect English). The men surrounding the stage drooled like starved animals while a good portion discreetly watched, anticipating for the clock to chime so their own desires could be craved. Once the clock struck ten, the female strippers would be replaced with males to cater to homosexual and/or female customers. Beyond the daytime training Mr. Fleischman graciously handed me, a newbie to the trade, it'd be the very first time an audience would watch me dance. Wearing almost nothing on at all.

Get a grip, Kev! I silently chastised myself. My tail curled and relaxed in tandem to the DJ's beat. Think of the money a week from now. Think of the bills you need to pay.

It had been moronic in hindsight to move out of my parents' basement and remain in Crossroads City. At least, so soon after graduating from college. A Bachelor's degree in Political Science and a minor in English Literature only went so far in the current job market. Unfortunately, while a retail position at Buy-Mart helped pay for the electric and rent at my apartment, it did little to prevent my student loan interest from going to the roof. I'd been desperate enough to pawn my TV, my laptop and even sell blood to gather some money, but it wasn't enough to pay on a monthly basis. I almost considered moving back with the folks.

Luckily, a random flyer left behind in the Buy-Mart bathroom advertised the Desert Spice. I almost threw it out when a blurb on the lower margin mentioned how strippers could get free cash, promised confidentiality, plus the option of part-timers becoming full-time.

The first thing to notice when entering the Desert Spice was a sign hanging outside the main entrance: No prudes, no picketers, no disturbing the premises. Abandon all modesty ye who enter here.

The owner, an older brown bear named Mr. Fleischman (who loved dressing like he still lived in a 1980s movie), had been skeptical about hiring me. In his own words, "You need confidence, kid. I need strippers out there who ain't afraid to shake it. They shouldn't care if their Daddy, their own children or the Pope himself is watching."

He was right, but I insisted he give me a chance. Trembling in the office seat as he explained responsibilities and know-how to what was expected of me, I somehow managed to convince the bear I had what it took to work for the Desert Spice. My lithe stomach, former swimmer's body, boyish features, and chilly Arctic white fur certainly helped my case, but unless I wanted to explain to the parents why I couldn't live on my own, I had to sell my confidence. So, after a day spent teaching me the basic moves, Mr. Fleischman offered that chance. I just had to pray there were enough girls and gay guys who liked my performance.

The two tigresses walked out of the curtain and towards the dressing room.

"Alright, alright, alright, it's ten o' clock and ya'll know what that means. It's time to bring on the men and let the fun begin!" Luke the DJ announced on his mic to whistles of approval. "Ladies and gentlefolk, we gotcha a special lil' treat tonight. He's shy, but don't let that stop you enjoying our newest dancer, give it up for Toddy Neon!"

I nervously placed the LED mask over my muzzle. Two deep breaths, and then, I gathered enough confidence to waltz out onto the stage.

Intense spotlights overwhelmed my vision as several cheers and hollers made me freeze for a short moment. Fortunately, Mr. Fleischman's core advice for my performance rang true, the same one posted on the sign outside the Desert Spice Saloon's main entrance: Abandon all modesty.

My nimble paws followed the instructed motions. Per Gavin's suggestions for sexual appeal, I swayed my body back and forth to the upbeat yet sensual bass, shaking my hips and making sure to walk slowly back and forth on the main stage.

"Aip!" I stifled a surprised yip when a pair of fingers suddenly reached up to stuff some dollar bills into my waistband. "Mmmm, thanks!"

Next thing I knew, the motions I made started to feel...natural. More relaxed and sexy as I began doing what I imagined the audience--mostly the men--would enjoy seeing me do. Well, aside from the options involving intercourse. Approaching the main pole onstage, I ground my hips back and forth against the metal pillar and wagged my tail over the swaying fox booty the audience drooled over. My body rubbed against, twisted around, and twerked against the pole to the cheerful noise of my audience, and each time they tipped me (none dared to touch anything other than the waistband, lest the watchful bouncers nearby noticed), I felt thankful the LED mask hid my intense blush. Then again, their focus was more on my body compared to the face, grinding against the air and to the pole, giving them plenty of material for their fantasies for later at home.

The next few hours of dancing sets and in-between breaks became a blur of endless bills and horny, drooling faces I didn't recognize. To my surprise or maybe lack thereof, the thrill of it led to me sporting an erection multiple times. It stretched the boxers out in a tent that drove my audience wild. The dominant mixture of musks and hormones almost had me questioning my own sexuality, to the point I almost batted my hardon against the metallic pole once or twice. By the time Luke the DJ announced the end of my final set, I found myself in the dressing room counting my rent for the next two months.

"Kid, that was great!" Mr. Fleischman congratulated me, then cleared his throat after having patted my shoulder. "Of course, you need some more practice, but Toddy, you're definitely a keeper. If you're interested, I'd like to see you doing private lap dances. Maybe later this week after you've become more accustomed to the job?"

"Can I still wear my mask?" I asked after a careful moment. "Sir?"

"Absolutely!" he laughed, to my surprise. "The whole 'shy twink hiding behind a mask' bit is a goldmine, kid! I had three regulars discreetly asking if they could have private sessions with you, and one was practically begging on his knees. I'm telling ya, if you stay with the Desert Spice, you're going to get even more tips than you're giving to the guys out there."

Mr. Fleischman boisterously laughed, and as holding the LED mask in my paws, I did too. With the worrisome thoughts of my college debt seemingly faraway, my tail wagged at what the future held. It wasn't so bad, my new line of work. It wasn't that bad.