There are times I hate them. There are times I perform on the stage and despite the lights in my face I can see their upturned, sneering, desperate faces and hear their lewd comments and above all smell their arousal and I wonder why I do it.

But then I see the money and I know why I do it. I swallow my pride, take off my sequin panties and unroll my stockings -- yes, they really want twelve year old girls to wear stockings and suspenders -- and count my money. Two hundred pounds in a good week, though the norm is more like a hundred. Money I wouldn't get from all the jobs I could do around the house for my mum or even over at my Auntie Cath's flat, dusting all her damn ornaments. And as I am too young to work officially, then stripping at a women's only club is the only way to earn real cash.

Unless of course I would be willing to stand on a street corner on a freezing night in a mini-skirt to let some old man put his gnarled, cold hands up my oh-so-short skirt for a fiver and make me suck his thing until it spurts. Into my mouth, for fuck's sake. Yukk!

At least what I do is warm -- very warm under the spotlights -- and I don't have to swallow anything but a little abuse.

So there I am, ready to entertain with my little plastic skirt barely covering my hips, my little leather bra catching the light (though not much to catch any light with the shape I am) and my make-up plastered on like war-paint. All while some semi-suggestive pop song belts out (I swear if I hear "Let me entertain you" one more time I will throw up) and I start to wriggle in time to the music.

On stage tonight at The Lezzerama; Kirsty the Wriggler! Watch the little tramp tease you to orgasm! Roll up and stare as she slides down the pole, lifts her little skirt and shows you what you can't have in your hetero world and your cosy, safe marriage! Make filthy comments about her cute little arse and what you'd do to her if you got her in bed! The dirtier the catcall the better!

Yes, I've heard it all before. If I don't hear it this week, then I will next week. But before you ask, no I don't eat out period soaked pussies, either, no matter how much it is suggested I'd like to try it.

Go on, honey, feel my menstrual blood on your tongue. You know you want to. Or suck my fat nipples. Mmm, I'd love that pretty little mouth to leave lipstick kisses on my bumhole. You can understand why I try not to listen while I get on with it. Taking off my clothes -- my skimpy, fetish-like clothes -- for a variety of middle-aged cows who leer at me and tell me to "get some tits" or "show my cunt" or suggest I'd like a strap-on up my arse. Yeah, right; I'd really like some fat woman pounding me from the back with a length of rubber. Better still, someone's aunt or mother or even grandmother grunting behind me, doing the things they always dream of but can't while dear hubby scratches his balls in front of football on the telly.

Sometimes I swear I can see the mother of one of my friends in the audience among the faces grinning at me. Maybe the face of a respectable woman who is on some committee to help the underprivileged, or supports her daughter through amateurish school plays and tuneless concerts, but one who once a month goes secretly to the lesbian club to ogle the pre-teen girls who dance on stage. Ogle the slim little, flat chested Kirsty Reynolds in her four-inch high stiletto heels, the girl who she might see in jeans and t-shirt and old trainers in the school playground and never notice.

No one knows what I do. Not my mother, not my friends, no one. No one knows that once a week I go to the lesbian club and take my clothes off to entertain women. Equally, no one knows I have a few thousand pounds or so in a box behind my wardrobe.

One day I planned to turn that money, and any more I made, into something good. One day. Before I got too old and either they found a younger dancer to replace me, or decide that a young teenager who hasn't got boobs isn't appealing any more. I vowed one day I would put all this behind me and retire from being The Wriggler.

One day, I promised. No more sexy little nurses' outfits, no more see-through nun's habits with lace undies showing. No more little devil with angelic wings in high-heeled boots with a whip and handcuffs dangling at my waist.

But for the time being I put up with it. I scooped up the notes from the stage floor while they whistled at me and called me a whore and a tramp and some of them managed to pinch my little rear or paw my legs and twang my suspenders if I got too close to pick up the cash. Fat hands and wet fingers from where they've had them between their legs. Sometimes I picked up coins too, but the women who come here are not supposed to throw them: I remembered little Dani with a bloody gash on her face from an over-enthusiastic bitch in the crowd who threw coins hard. Throw notes not coins, the signs at the club say, though it didn't stop it happening. I just don't know what I'd tell my mum if I went home with a bandage round my head.

Look mum, it was this lesbian who threw a fifty-pence piece just as I was doing my little rubbing my cunnie act... I agree, it would be hard to explain.

But no one in my ordinary life knows what I do. Well, that's not quite true. Almost no one I mean. There are two people... The first one was Mrs Garner, who got me into it all. She knows exactly what I do. She's seventy now, and quite unattractive, though sometimes when I visit her I can see that little flash of her youth behind the lines and creases. That and the black and white photos on her wall of her when she was a teenager, when she danced at 'the clubs' as she calls them. She was the one who told me about them, how I could earn some money there if I didn't mind showing myself.

Mrs Garner showed me some pictures of herself when she was dancing. Strictly for women only, she said. She had done it in the 'fifties, when she was my age. Of course then, she told me, no one knew about lesbians. Or rather, women liking women. But in the Second World War when women stayed at home and men went to war, women started to find other women for sex. "You see," she would smile, "there was no good contraception then, not like today. If you had sex there was a risk of pregnancy. If your husband was in the army or at sea, you didn't want to be having babies he didn't know about. So women found they could love women, and no one ever knew." As a result there were lesbian clubs, she told me, and she had worked at one. That was why I had an introduction to the manager. Mrs Garner made a call and got me an interview but the manager there didn't know my real name, just that I was Kirsty, and she liked how I danced.

The manager took me to the racks costumes girls like me would wear -- the things I could take off and how I would do it to get the crowd aroused -- and that was how it started for me. I remember the first time being shocked at what the women watching said to me (actually, I was shocked at how many there were watching: I thought there would be about ten at most, but there were easily fifty gathered round the stage looking up at me.) Some of the women there had brought girls like me, or the club provided them. Girls who were being kissed and fondled while I did my routine on stage, but the women would call out and make comments about me even as they put their fingers in the snatch of some pretty, dolled-up girl.

Of course, there is someone else who knows me. Not just Mrs Garner.

Sometimes on the money I get thrown at me there are scribbled phone numbers and email addresses. 'Call me' or 'mail me' are written on them. Sometimes a name, like Jenny or Sarah or a tag like 'sexycunt' or 'bigtits.' Even the one that made my heart stop, the one that said: 'I know who you are.' There was a picture of a cat face on it, too. Smiling.

Yeah, my heart didn't stop entirely. But it worried me. I held that ten pound note in my hand for ages, wondering what to do. Should I email the address on it? Should I just spend it on something I wanted and forget about it?

Or should I contact whoever it was?

I didn't. I went back to the club to dance the next week and among the scribbled-on banknotes at my feet was one that said, simply: 'I still know who you are.' The mark that followed it was the same cat face, and the handwriting was the same as before.

I went back out on the side of the stage, out of the spotlights, and scanned the faces of the women watching nine year old Stephanie dance. Poor kid isn't very good and she was getting more jeers than cheers, but she was determined and was peeling off her little schoolgirl's uniform and wiggling her arse like she wanted sex. Good for her but God, those bitches out there can be tough to please. I wasn't however looking for sneers but to see if there was anyone I recognised. There wasn't.

The following week I wasn't sure what I'd find (though I tried to look at the faces of the crowd when I danced and stripped), and while there wasn't anyone I saw I knew there it was a message among the banknotes at the end. A twenty pound note this time, with the message: 'Knowing you, I thought you'd have contacted me by now.' The usual added cat face grinned at me, presumably in case I didn't recognise the handwriting.

Who knew me? I thought about that a lot. I looked at the faces of my friend's mothers, their aunts, even my school teachers. God, even my mother. But no one looked at me like they knew. No winks, no knowing smiles.

The next week, the message on the note was: 'I am waiting for you' with the expected happy cat face. This was getting serious. I asked the manager if there were regulars who came every week. Of course, she said. We couldn't keep going if they were one offs. Repeat business, she smiled.

The following week there was no message on a banknote. Apart from the usual sort of thing: 'I want to sit on your face,' or 'Can I pee in your pretty mouth?' But none from the cat woman as I had started to call her. Well, that's okay, I thought, She's given up. But in my heart I knew she hadn't. I knew that when I went out and danced and lifted my skirt or rubbed my crotch against the shiny pole in the middle of the stage she was watching me, silently. Because she knew me.

For three weeks I toughed it out. And then I couldn't stand it. I gave way to temptation, to needing to know who this club regular was. I tapped out the email address on my computer and waited for a reply. God, I must have checked my emails a dozen times in the next hour, and then a dozen times every half-hour after that.

I got no reply. Okay, I said, whoever it is she's gone. Really gone. No visits, no money, no reply to the email I had sent. Well, fuck her, I thought, angrily. I had her money and I didn't care.

At least, I didn't think I cared. I was wrong: I did. It began to affect my dancing. Like little Stephanie had to put up with, there were more jeers than cheers.

It got to me so much I finally quit dancing. Oh, I was doing okay from it. Three thousand, eight hundred and ninety five pounds saved. A dozen notes that promised more if I would call (the best being a holiday in the Bahamas with all the ice cream I could eat) and even a page torn from a lesbian sex manual with the passage about bondage underlined.

I counted the money carefully and examined all of them for cat faces. There weren't any apart from the four I knew about. I put those to one side as if they were special. I suppose they were: they had stopped me dancing.

I got on with my life, without the dancing. A couple of times I thought I'd go back to it, and I didn't tell Mrs Garner I'd quit. Just said everything was fine when I saw her. It was, too. No problem not being stared at and propositioned by sex-starved would-be lesbians. No wondering if the hand that grabbed my bottom was one that might try to get in my pants.

Worst of all though was there was no reply to my email to the cat woman.

It was a couple of weeks later when I suddenly knew who knew me. Of all the things that triggered the discovery, it was a cat. Not just one, but dozens. You see, my aunt's flat was full of them. She collected cat statuettes and cat models and porcelain with pictures of cats on them even if she didn't have a cat herself. There I was one day, cleaning them as I usually did to earn a whole two pounds, and as I held a white statuette of a cat with a long thin neck I suddenly knew.

I turned and looked at my Aunt Cath and she was watching me. Like she knew.

I damn near dropped the stupid cat when she smiled at me.

I suppose that lying in bed with my mother's sister a couple of hours later wasn't how I thought it would turn out. "You don't have to stop dancing," Aunt Cath said (or Cat as she liked, privately) "but I think I know you."

She said that as I lay in the crook of her arm. We had kissed and fingered and rubbed ourselves to the kind of orgasm you only imagine. It was like coming home, me with my legs apart scissoring the younger version of my mother. Cat was not yet twenty nine, and she had firm high tits and a great waist and legs I loved when she wrapped them round my flat-chested torso. Best of all she liked licking my pussy until I was positively screaming with pleasure.

"I watched you dancing on stage at that club and hoped that one day you would get the message," said Cat as she kissed me lightly after another session of lick and cum. "Though I was there in my mouse brown wig so perhaps you didn't notice me. Unless I was wearing my blonde wig." She shook her (natural) auburn hair and grinned.

"But why didn't you reply to my message?" I propped myself up above her and toyed with her stiff nipples. Before I bit them.

"Because, little kitten," said Cat as she tapped the end of my nose with her finger to tell me to stop biting there and bite somewhere further south. "That would have been too easy, and probably scared you away. Plus, you had to realise here at my place, with me looking at you. You had to come to me to find me. Every week you came and dusted my cats here at the flat, and never wondered why I had them. Never saw what they meant. You had to see me in your time."

I kissed Cat more deeply then than I have ever kissed anyone. I thrust my tongue deep in her mouth and seized her small, firm boobs and made her want me. Then I tongued her slit to perfection, rolled her over and kissed the dark, tight ring of her anus until it relaxed and I slid my tongue in. Deep and soft and I put up with the acrid taste because I was in love.

But then I wouldn't have got the idea to do that unless I had turned over the torn page I had kept from the lesbian sex manual thrown to me once. The joy of anilingus, it said, and that's what I did. Cat moaned and came and I made damn sure she would want me to do it more. Longer, deeper. Lapping like a hungry cat.

The money I had earned from the club paid for a long holiday in the Bahamas, in a beach-side apartment overlooking the blue sea where Cat and I could sunbathe naked on the verandah and play in the surf and fuck each other senseless on the beach. At night we would dance at a club for women only but it was the dreamy, clinging dancing of two women in love. No one jeering, no one wanting me to show more. Only Cat with her hand between my legs and her long fingers in me. And me purring.

We even took old Mrs Garner with us, though her idea of a good time these days was to be tied up and watch me and Cat make love. She would sit in a big comfy chair in the apartment with a vibrator strapped between her legs, sat where she could see the endless waves through the big bedroom window as well as the bed, and after we had tied her so she was enjoying the feeling of being helpless Cat and I would climb on to the bed to give her the sort of show the old woman loved. Two younger women who could twist and writhe and climax and who were very much in love.

And I really didn't mind having an audience.

Of course I hadn't stopped dancing my own way. I would put on a private show for Cat (and the tied up Mrs Garner) to show them how good I was, how exciting I could be when I wriggled. But then Cat knew all that because she knew me so well, and I had heard her call.

The end