A narrow waist looked good in a pair of pink , so he’d been told. The men that handed him bundles of cold, hard cash would sit for hours simply telling him how much better they fit on him than their wives’ too wide hips and how much they’d like to stick their hands down past the little elastic band that held them up. Kunpimook would sit there and cross his legs prettily and lean in a little closer, easily pretending he was interested in what they were saying when his breaths were punctuated with coy giggles and light slaps to their arms. He acted like he believed every word as if they were meant for just him, as if they hadn’t been said to every other stripper in the building when that particular man had made his rounds for the night. The businessmen all smelled the same, looked the same, and spoke the same —he’d heard it a thousand times over and would doubtlessly hear them all over again.

The thought that their hands probably felt identical as well hit him hard, and now Kunpimook was very glad he’d never slunk into the back with one of them like some of the other boys did for the extra money.

Their calloused hands would have paled in comparison to the way this man was touching him right now, all soft and teasing, not demanding and horribly rushed. His hands weren’t sweating from anxiety or guilt. They moved surely up the inside of the Thai boy’s thighs from where he was sitting and Kunpimook stood before him, hands gripped broad shoulders while sharp brown eyes watched as he quivered.

Quivered. Kunpimook was positively trembling.

It was strange to feel the fire of lust char his own body. Were Mr. Wang’s eyes capable of seeing the flames like Kunpimook’s own were able to see them burn those dirty old men as they fidgeted uncomfortably in the chairs below the stage? Because he wanted him see it all. He’d earned a private show that night and Kunpimook had broken his own rules when he brought him backstage and sat him down for a more explicit continuation of the dance from before. The satisfaction he had bubbling in his stomach from knowing he would be the one the old men thought about when they stuck it to their wives later on in the night was slowly turning into something completely different.

Lips dragged up his bare chest, the stripper tilting his head back in a rare show of genuine enjoyment.

Out there, it was fun to see the fire visibly spread down, down, down until it at the tips of each audience member’s fingers and toes, burning through the stuffy suits until they all were bared to the Thai boy upon the stage. He’d bite his lip and lean back against the warm metal to push his hips out toward them, bringing them around in a slow circle that was wider around than the boy’s ego.

All eyes were on him while he worked the pole, he made sure of it, but he didn’t get any physical gratification out of that. Where else were these sorry men supposed to look? At one another? Surely not. Eye contact with anyone but the dancer was taboo, so Kunpimook stayed up there as long as possible. Sin personified, that’s how he felt in those moments the lights shined for him alone.

The much dimmer lights of his dressing room didn’t seem to bother him now, though. Not when this mysterious Mr. Wang was so intent on making sure Kunpimook knew how much he was admired in their stead.

The boy had seen his share of men in business suits. They all flocked to the clubs after they clocked out of their dull office buildings, ties loosened, but no less tense themselves than they had been under their boss’ scrutinizing eyes. Should anyone find out they frequented a strip club meant for gay men, they were ruined. Their dreary futures would burn up in those very same flames and sometimes Kunpimook could see the precursor of those fires start in their inky eyes as they watched him. The boy shivered.

Somehow, Mr. Wang’s future looked bright despite his suit, or maybe he was being blinded by that flash of a lopsided smile when he let slip a sweet noise in response to being pulled upon his customer’s lap rather suddenly. Either way, he opened his mouth wide when he was grabbed at through those everyone adored.

“Kiss me,” he breathed lowly. Mr. Wang did just that, a full lip into his mouth as the music outside had the younger man swaying his hips instinctively upon his new throne, a seat built from bad intentions and not a single promise.

Kiss me on my open mouth, it sung.

Two pairs of lips followed suit.