2019-09-28 - Forged in Platinum

When Tim makes it to the cashier stand in the VIP room and gives his name, he is immediately permitted through. Apparently Roxy paid his minimum to get in. "Echo is near the back, one of the private booths," the cashier informs him.

Sure enough, the former ballerina is waiting there, wearing a lovely vintage-style bit of pin-up lingerie. It is a sheer, black one piece, strapless, seemingly held up by magic or really good spirit gum. Everything is visible through the transparent material, but in the dim VIP room not until one gets close enough, like from the couch to the little table with its silver pole. Thigh high black silk stockings are on her feet, with high heeled stilleto pumps, and little black sheer gloves The body beneath the lingerie is adorned with little rhinestones.

Tim arrives bundled up like it's 30 degrees out, with a leather satchel at his side. He's in a black leather jacket, denim jeans, stylish, cream-colored, button-down shirt, and black leather boots. All in all he dresses like he moves in circles that require you to look sharp.

He nods his thanks to the bouncers, tips accordingly, heads back. And...stares. After a long second of that he coughs. "Uh, hey. Got your stuff." He nods at the table, raises an eyebrow. "I'll put it all out there, and you can have a look?" He's blushing just a tad. Be a professional, Bakshi, some part of his mind is saying. She's like, twenty!

Twenty-two, at least according to the paperwork he's provided for her. If he checked, that is her actual age, or the age of the ballerina he knew her as. Roxy gives him a small smile and gestures for him to sit in the booth. She crouches down in front of him, forearms resting on his knees, in order to speak quietly, but also to look like she's negotiating with a client. "That would be good, set them out on the bench, I'll be up on the table dancing for you."

She tilts her head slightly, black hair falling to one side as she regards the forger. "The view is acceptable, I hope? I do not wish to make you uncomfortable."

Tim coughs, clears his throat. He rubs the back of his neck, takes a seat. "Yyyyes, very acceptable." 'Acceptable' is going to have an entirely new meaning for him from here on out. He might get a Look on his face any time a student uses that word.

He settles himself, focuses on getting things out of his bag. It's all been zipped into a little soft-sided pouch; he pulls it all out and sets them on top of the pouch. He keeps his voice low, so no one can casually overhear. "So, e-records, we can do that on a payment plan if you want--Washington DMV stuff is in, the TSA level stuff will take longer and cost more. Not sure if you wanted it, but." He shrugs. "I can put in the request, front my guy the money so it gets done and you can pay me back."

Roxy smiles and nods at him, and then she rises, a hand grabbing the pole on the dance table, and pulling herself up onto it to spin around it. She hooks a leg around it, so she can lean way out and over to look at the papers, naturally putting her assets practically right in his face. Anyone observing would just think it's a regular old private VIP dance happening.

"The TSA level stuff would mean I could travel out of the country, correct? Or is it for any flying period?" she asks quietly, reaching a gloved hand to stroke his cheek in time to the music, before straightening back up and hugging the pole like it is a long, lost lover.

"It'd be for both, they work with CPB on all that BS." Tim is distrated as he says this; it's hard not to be when her finger touches his cheek. Thank God he wore a long shirt today. He blinks, comes back to himself. Right, he can do this. Be a professional. You've had nude models in for classes all the time.

He finds that regarding her like that makes it easier to not be uncomfortable. "So, a thing. Green card holders don't get to have passports. I did a Ceritifcate of Citizenship instead. Basically it's what you get if you were born overseas to a citizen. That makes you a citizen, given your age. Easier, actually, because no one's gonna ask you for your CoC; the passport's your golden ticket. The CoC is the e-record I'll need to get put in so you can cross the border if they're checking RFIDs. Which, you know, they will, since you'll ping as a non-American with your accent."

He holds up a hand, knowing how that sounds. "I don't mean your accent's bad. Just, they take one look at me and I have to bust out the passport. You, they're gonna hear you talk and want to check. So." He shrugs, apologetically. "Land of the fucking free, right?"

"I understand. The climate is poor for anyone in this country who does not look or sound like a Caucasian American." Sad but true. Roxy slides her back down the pole, one hand above her head holding onto it, as her eyes move over the paperwork in short bursts. On hands and knees she crawls to the edge of the mini stage where she can see better, still moving her hips and shoulders in time with the music. It's not her style, the music they play back here. She much prefers what she dances to on the main stage.

"Citizenship is such a strange thing. How people care more about where a person was born, than whether or not they have merit. Not that an exotic dancer has merit in particular, but I was more than that once," she says with a little frown.

"Racism and xenophobia--the gifts that keep on giving," Tim says, and shrugs. Sure, on the phone, you'd never know him for anything but a Valley Boy, born and bred. And yet the second he's on video conference...

He catches himself watches her a little too intently, reminds himself to stop. "It all goes back to the Revolutionary War. Since, you know, a lot of people wanting to 'Americans' were from Britain or whatever. And they didn't think they could trust anyone not born here. So." He shrugs. "Kind of a wild thought, right? White people being racist to other white people." He shakes his head.

Watching her dance, he frowns, says, "Have you thought about modeling? I mean," he waves a hand at her, "you've got the looks and build they like for that."

Roxy rolls over onto her back and drapes herself upside down looking at him, a brow arching. "I am not tall enough for fashion modeling. The other kind of modeling I could do, yes, but I do not wish to be found, and putting my face or body out in publication would not help staying hidden. So this is what I do."

"Not tall enough?" Tim peers at Roxy. "That's a thing? Height requirements?" The weight requirement was fucked up enough, but height too? Well, he can't say he's actually surprised, though.

He blanches at the mention of other modeling. "No, no I mean, not...not that." He can't unsee it now; her spread out like a Playmate. Ugh.

Focus. "Like, for an artist." He nods in the direction of the school. Perfectly, in fact, though he's unaware of that. "You know, at the college, or whatever. Artists need body models all the time, all shapes and sizes. Nude and clothed. Pay's okay, mostly the focus is on interesting poses. Like...artistic ones, not what they'd use in," do not say porn, "a pinup." He shifts in his seat. She has no business looking this good, and yet, here she is.

Focus, focus.

Roxy looks surprised for a moment. "Oh! Figure modeling for art classes?" She rolls to her feet and steps down from the little stage to dance directly in front of him, hands on his shoulders as she sways her hips. "I could try to do that, with the papers now, yes? Who would I contact about it? I was a ballerina. I can hold strong poses for a long time."

"Exactly," Tim says. Boy is he relieved to be off the subject of her modeling in other contexts. "I'm a teacher there, I can hook you up. They'd appreciate the ballet poses, honestly. Part of the trick in learning to draw bodies is understanding how they can be posed, and that includes the things you wouldn't expect all the time."

He gets out his phone, makes a couple of notes. "We have a roster of folks, but the teachers like to bring in their own sometimes too. I'll add you to the main list--so you might get random inquiries, keep that in mind. It'll be a mix of nude and dressed, with and without props like stools, chairs, motorcycles, whatever." He pauses in the act of adding in her phone number. "Do you have like, more than one phone number? Maybe a specific one I should use?"

Roxy turns to drape herself across his lap, in a backbend. He's not allowed to touch her, but she can touch him. Such funny rules in this country. "I only have the cellphone. I am living in the motel right now. But with the paperwork I can open a bank account and start looking for an apartment."

A few patrons across the way look especially jealous. They couldn't afford Echo. She doesn't do lapdances on the floor either. She's exclusive, expensive, special in the lineup.

Tim clears his throat, even leans back a little so he can make sure not to accidentally touch or bump into her. "Apartment would be good. People rent mother-in-law units around town too, maybe look into one of those?" If he just keeps talking he can pretend like he totally has a handle ont his. (How do people do this without making idiots out of themselves? Ugh.)

"I suggest a second number. One for business. Figure modeling, and anything else you get into." He regrets it the second it's out of his mouth. "You know, like maybe you could give kids ballet lessons." He does not mean she should become a call girl.

Roxy levers herself back up to sit in his lap and run her hands down her sides, once more making him the envy of the other patrons. "Oh! Yes I may be able to do that now with these papers. I will get a second number. There is a dance studio in town. I have a membership and have been going a few times a week to do proper dancing, rather than this. But I doubt very much they could pay me as much as I make here. I make over twenty-five hundred dollars a week here. I could likely make more if I did the lapdances or lower my prices, but I don't want to. I want to dance not..." she shakes her head. "I am a good girl."

Hilariously, Tim is relieved to hear her say that. Still, he feels compelled to say, "I mean, it wouldn't make you a bad girl. Selling sex isn't bad, on its own. The problem is women and sex is a huge deal. And women selling sex means they control access to it, which men hate because then it's not theirs to control. They're just consumers." He stops, realizing he sounds like a guy with a humanities PhD. "Uh, so anyways, it wouldn't be bad of you. Might not be great for you, though. If you feel me." He raises his eyebrows to sort out if she does.

Roxy turns to sit on the edge of the little box stage and crosses her legs, just to chat now, as the song ends. "I was in a ballet company from childhood to eighteen. And then I was....in a hospital for two years. Since then I have just been trying to get to this place, but I have not stooped to prostitution. I haven't even..." she blushes. Which is a first. "...you know, so I have no desire in making money doing such things."

She tips her chin towards the items for him to collect them so she can take them to her locker in the dressing room. "Thank you for your quick work on this, and let me know the payment schedule for the electronic. And please call about the art modeling. I think I would like to do that." She smiles.

Tim winces when she calls it stooping, is gearing up to explain it's a legitimate job when she...drops that bomb He blinks, stares. "Uh, yeah, in that case, you definitely shouldn't get into that line of work." This much he feels he can say with authority.

He gathers everything up into the little zip pouch, pats it and leaves it there for her to scoop up, nice and neat. "Will do, and will do." Mindful of anyone watching them, he leans back and tries to enjoy the rest of her performance, shifts a little awkwardly as he gets up.

Soda shop, next time, you idiot.

He leaves her a tip, though, to offset his cover, since that seems gentlemanly.