Dead Inside

As a chap named Tom Sloane shook his twenty-something booty while working the stripper pole, his pink thong already filling up with cash, it took everything that he had not to cry.

Just like every single night since the family fortune was wiped out, his mother divorced his father and married another rich bloke, his father then shot himself in the face, and Elsie married his old girlfriends and was living happily in New York in the lap of luxury.

But not him, since without the family fortune he couldn't afford to finish college; much less his new found taste for that sweet cocaine.

One addiction that had ballooned into five different others, and with all of them needing cash Tom had found himself using the only thing that he had left.

"My body." He thought flatly while grinding up on the lap of the old dude who was giving him twenties.

As said gentlemen whispered that there'd be more later, 'If he was willing to do more than just dance.' Tom wondered if this would be the crazy guy that was destined to murder him, or give him AIDS.

"Doesn't matter." Tom thought as the friction got him semi-hard, and even more appealing to the audience, "I'm already dead inside."

And thus Tom Sloane truly became a stripper that night.