One More Year: The Romantic Path of Ana Lee (The Path Less Taken Series Book 1)

by SJ Cavaletti

  Female behavior morphs upon entering a strip joint and life becomes somewhat counterintuitive. Instincts and assumptions about clubs get flipped upside down when you learn the business inside out. There are many, many rules but let’s focus on some that have to do with “colleague interaction.”

  Rule No 1: Never steal a customer. If a man is already sitting with another dancer and you’ve NOT been invited over by her, no approach is allowed. An exception to this rule is that he is your regular.

  Rule No 2: The more the merrier. If you sense a customer will pay for more than one girl, always seek a plus one out. Although common sense may make you deduce that he will spend twice as much on you, even sexy dancing gets boring after a while. Two butts are better than one.

  Rule No 3: Don’t put down the other girls in the club. Men hear enough cattiness in the outside world. It isn’t conversation for which they are willing to pay.

  Rule No 4: If you become aware that you are not a customer’s ‘type,’ do not try to convince him or be insulted that he doesn’t like blondes. There are many fish in the sea. Offer to find him your friend and big her up. She will return the favor one day.

  It was nice for me to finally have some friends in the club. It fostered the feeling of belonging, made me look forward to my first step onto the floor and boosted my bank accounts. Never forget: two butts are better than one.

  It was a couple months after our first meeting and Jamie, Angelica and I sat at our usual upstairs bar, where we expected to chat for at least an hour or so as we were ‘early girls.’ Strip clubs tended to charge more for late arrival because there isn’t much money to be had while men are out having their dinner or still tucking up their little one. So, dancers who are willing to come early and man the poles are given a discount for their effort. It went up twenty dollars for every hour after 6pm. Our club was eighty bucks for 6pm, one hundred for 7pm, one-twenty for 8pm with a cap at one-sixty for 9pm. Management frowned upon ladies wanting to swoop in like vultures for the drunken reach into the pocket. It was seen as a lack of commitment.

  The three of us gals sat on our bar stools discussing Sonoma Valley vineyards as Angelica had recently moved out into the country. She was a hippie at heart. She wore natural deodorant that smelled like honey, used coconut oils for everything and made her dog food from scratch. I was happy she had made the change but also thought she would be back to the city. I offered no reasons for my prediction but I knew that she couldn’t resist the party life. We were in the middle of planning our wine tasting trip and sleepover when Teddy sauntered over.

  I had noticed out of the corner of my eye that he had seated three gentlemen in suits at a table not too far away from us. I didn’t think much of it, as it was just too early to engage. Men needed time to warm up. Always let them order a drink and wash away the outside world before heading over. But Teddy was there to tell us otherwise.

  “Hello ladies,” he said, more quietly than one would normally talk, “The guys behind me didn’t ask me to send over any girls but I think it would be wise to head over before anyone else does. They’ve got serious wad to blow.”

  We looked at Teddy. Looked at each other. Looked at the guys. Looked at each other. Why not?

  We wandered over slowly, but without too much intent as to not overwhelm the men who still had the San Francisco fog sitting on their shoulders. There were three guys at the table and five chairs which worked perfectly. Angelica always took a lap without asking while Jamie and I would prefer to stand or bend over to talk rather than place our asses down uninvited. Because Angelica had a Latin booty to die for, she sat on the lap of the biggest man at the table, so as to serve as a sturdy foundation.

  We had hardly introduced ourselves before a bottle of Cristal arrived at the table. Teddy was rarely wrong about these things. He could smell money from a mile away. It wasn’t long before we were all clinking glasses and getting on with our prospective mates for the night. I chatted with an extremely thin and wiry man with glasses whose name was Simon. He had pasty white skin that illuminated whenever the strobe light revolved in our direction. He either wasn’t digging me or didn’t want to be in the club but neither of us had anything better to do so we carried on cordially talking about the tediousness of litigation and how it really wasn’t anything like the courtrooms on TV.

  Jamie laughed away with her partner, Steve, so much so that it was as if they were in a comedy club. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Angelica cooed away in the tall man’s ear. But just as I turned my attention back to Simon, Angelica called my name.

  “Ana,” I turned around sharply to hear her out, “Carlos here says he likes blondes with pretty smiles and thinks maybe we should swap places.”

  I looked at Carlos and he gently smiled. I turned back to Simon and he seemed really pleased. Angelica’s body language was not compliant but she got up anyway to switch places, Carlos reached in his pocket and slipped her a hundred dollar bill. She raised her brows.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said in such a way that he could have been the president thanking a charity worker at the soup kitchen.

  I sat down on Carlos’ lap and it was instant comfort. Not only was he a giant man which I loved, (there’s nothing worse than the quad burn of remaining gently lifted so as to prevent a small man’s legs going to sleep), but also somehow embraceable. He had a broad chest and large arms and I wanted to not only sit there but almost immediately had an urge to wrap my arms around him; to bury my head in his chest and to possibly go to sleep. For the record, I had never before experienced this urge.

  He had a subtle Spanish accent, from where exactly I did not yet know. I would have put him in his late forties or even fifty but not because he was aged in any way, it was rather that he gave off an aura of sagacity and experience. His confidence levels were high, judging from his directness with Angelica and me. His gorgeous black locks fell in thick waves to either side of his healthy looking face, which was well balanced and friendly. His dark eyes drew me in, searching for an iris in the night.

  He looked at me warmly and I smiled, even blushed, feeling as though somehow he could read my mind. A tiny nervous chuckle made it’s way through my lips.

  “Are you ok with this?” he asked.

  “Meaning…?” I replied.

  “I don’t want you to feel that you have to sit with me if you were having a good time with Simon. But I really like blondes.”

  “Well us girls are accustomed to hair colour requests around here. And by the looks of it Simon is a bit happier, too.”

  Poor Angelica is in for thigh burn tonight.

  “Just to reiterate, I’m Carlos. And you’re Ana, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, I am not a fan of being out in the public in places like these. Is there a private area we can go to?”

  The first instinct when being asked into the Champagne Room upon hello is to jump up and down with joy. Everyone in the world likes the idea of easy money. But then the logic and doubt sinks in as one wonders what the customer has in mind. Like any product, the Champagne Room usually requires a bit of selling. The floor already contained most of the features that an average customer sought: girls on a stage, up close and personal entertainment, booze, cute cocktail waitresses in sexualized Glinda and Wicked Witch outfits…

  Customers almost always asked why they would want to go into the Champagne Room and rarely requested to go there without prompting. The truth is, at least at Brick Road, that there was nothing special going on in there. No more tits than the floor, no more booty than the floor, no free drinks… what’s the point?

  I reserved my pitch to go in there for guys that really liked me. Unlike lots of other dancers, I didn’t waste my time selling to just anyone because the best and most effective pitch I could think of was the truth. And the truth only appealed to big Ana fans. I’d say, “The truth is I won’t be able to sit with you all night for free. I can dance at your table for a while but then I’ll get p
ulled on stage and someone else will nab me. If you want to spend time with me, relieve me of the dull duty of stage performance. And by the way, it’s really quiet and relaxing, blah, blah, blah.”

  I hadn’t said any of this to Carlos. We had barely said ‘hello.’ But like any other dancer would, I told him to follow me and reserved my judgment for behind closed doors.

  Entering through the glass door of the Champagne Room was a relief that usually neither customer nor dancer expect. This is why I always talk about the calm and quiet. It doesn’t seem like an attractive selling point while on the floor but when the ears and senses are alleviated of the pounding bass lines it is like being released from a claustrophobic space. Breathing room. The softness of the spacious loveseats is a welcome change from the polyester armchairs. No flashing lights, no busy peripheral vision. There were six cubicles each with its own loveseat and table and closed off by billowing curtains of shimmery green that could be drawn to a point where a six-inch safety gap remained.

  Ed, one of the “Italian mobster” floors hosts, was Champagne Room host for the night. He escorted us to a corner table. The place was empty as it was just before 7pm on Tuesday, not exactly the witching hour.

  We sat down politely next to one another. Ed did his spiel: how long would you like to stay (and more importantly how will you be paying), Ed explained he was there to help, what would you like to drink, sir… etc. Ed was present not only to police the situation but also to assist the dancers in maximizing customer spend. Most champagne hosts focused a lot on selling booze; the conclusion being that a drunken man was more likely to make poor decisions around spending. This wasn’t a hard and fast rule. Drunkenness was for me something of an enemy. True, it might make a customer more liberal when it came to cash flow but then they often also expected more liberal behaviour from me. It was too tricky for my liking so I usually preferred that everyone stay lightly lubricated so as to release inhibitions and induce warm feelings toward one another but not enough to cause wandering hands. I’m not a rebel without a cause.

  Ed left the room with a cheeky grin on his face and an order for another bottle of Cristal. I turned to Carlos, “Now. Isn’t this nice,” I said.

  “It is actually,” he replied.

  “Like the eye of the storm,” we said at the same time.

  We laughed and looked at each other with disbelief.

  “Great minds think alike,” I said.

  “Oh, I like a great mind. Can’t claim to have one myself but I’d love to get to know yours,” he responded.

  Yay. A talker.

  “So, let me ask you a question, Carlos,” (I said his name sweetly, like a purring kitten sure to roll my r’s), “What brings you here tonight?”

  “Ah, the guys upstairs are a bit younger than I am. This is apparently how men socialize and do business deals these days.”

  “You aren’t wrong there. But I’m happy to be the pen, or the ink… I haven’t really thought through the pen/signature analogy but let’s just say I like the thought of being part of a process bigger than I am.”

  He looked at me strangely. Too intelligent for this place, he thought… I read his mind. I didn’t usually talk quite so cerebral in the club but I had a hunch that brains were a valuable and respected asset to Carlos. Not only had he mentioned he likes a great mind but his eyes were inquisitive and his breathing lacked haste. He didn’t appear tense or nervous in any way. These are attributes of a calm and thoughtful person.

  “So,” I continued my questioning as ‘getting to know you’ is both interesting to me and eats up a third of the thirty minutes, “You are doing a deal of some sort. Do you enjoy what you do?”

  “That’s a good question. Do I enjoy work? I suppose I do. I feel lucky to be in my position in life and to have made a success of most things I’ve done. But it’s hardly my dream job.”

  “What is your dream job?”

  He hesitated and seemed to like the question.

  “I probably would have been a writer. People fascinate me and I’ve got a vivid imagination. One time I had a story published in a science journal. It was fiction but with a plot that included lots of references to quantum physics. You’d probably find it boring but I was really proud of that,” he chuckled softly, “But that was a long time ago. I’m an old man now.”

  “You don’t look old. And anyway, I don’t believe dreams have expiration dates. Oh and by the way quantum physics is the opposite of boring.”

  He laughed and said he couldn’t agree more.

  Ed arrived with our bottle and glasses. He made a song and dance about it because Cristal is a five-hundred dollar bottle and is rarely ordered for a mere two people to enjoy. He probably had to dust it off before coming to the table. Carlos noticed Ed’s fervent feelings for the champagne and told him to fetch a flute for himself and then to leave us undisturbed.

  Rarely were customers so intensely direct and in charge. Before I began dancing, I was of the opinion that strip clubs were places where women were completely objectified (yet rather than pity them I used to be a victim shamer) and that men were in charge. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Most men were led around like puppies on strings. All you had to do was say the right thing and they’d be eating treats from the palm of your hand. Women were only objects if that was what they chose to sell.

  Carlos and I turned to each other and clinked glasses; it felt like a celebration but I didn’t know why.

  “Carlos, why did you bring me in here? Without me asking? I mean, of course you would know that I’m grateful, as economics would suggest, but it’s just not very typical. We hardly said a word upstairs.”

  “Sometimes you just don’t need to talk to know that there is something special going on,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes and lifted a brow.

  “Oh yeah? Special like what?”

  “I just know I really like you. I could love you even.”

  At this I couldn’t help but giggle. I asked him if he was just a big, Spanish flirt.

  “I’m not Spanish, I’m from Cuba first of all. And second, I am not flirting. I’m serious. I can tell there is something about you I really love inside you. You move deliberately and with reason. You are a deep thinker, intelligent and I find you very beautiful.”

  I was now stunned silent. It may surprise you that I don’t really like to be the center of attention but as soon as it happens I tend to perspire slightly. I could handle the stage and dancing only because I usually had a drink by the time I performed and I just focused on my moves, the music and not falling over. But whenever I become a focal point of conversation, I change the subject or make a joke. But Carlos seemed to deserve a serious response.

  “I’d say that’s pretty intuitive. Love might be a bit extreme though. Surely that isn’t something you can judge on first sight? Or do you believe in that? Love at first sight.”

  “Oh I definitely believe in love at first sight or maybe it isn’t love at very first sight but anyone that will truly capture your heart will not take long to do so. You don’t need to know someone’s favorite color or what they like to eat to be truly in love. Love is not altered by the details that time reveals.”

  This man was lovely. A wonderful, poetic soul. We had some fundamental personality traits in common. His honesty and confidence captivated me. It made me feel at ease… perhaps why I had wanted to curl up and sleep in his arms upon first meeting. Maybe I, too, was susceptible to love at first sight.

  He next wanted to know how I ended up dancing. I had two versions of the story. Both were the truth but one was based on recent history and the other on my most distant past. I gave him the short version first- the job allowed me to travel. The other version had never before been required as men had wanted to know about me but perhaps the stereotype of strippers is that there aren’t too many layers.

  Carlos was not satisfied. “Ana, excuse my directness but I find it hard to believe that you would have become a dancer in the first instanc
e simply in order to travel. Your type of intelligence comes from an institution. You have book smarts. People with book smarts don’t run off to be topless entertainers as a first option to travel the world.”

  I felt transparent. Absolutely see through. This guy had emotional x-ray vision. This was both scary and desirable, exhilarating and daunting. I hesitated and drank some champagne. I looked at his dark brown eyes, so deep they were black and wondered if he really wanted to know the truth. They seemed to be waiting patiently. But surely, not here, not now?

  My body language required him to speak next. “Ana, you’re making me think this is a pretty darn good story.”

  “No it isn’t. I’m just preparing you with a dramatic preface. I am an entertainer after all,” I joked.

  “Listen, I do really want to know. The real story. I’m interested in you. As a person. Without the makeup, heels and lacy bras.”

  So, I told him.

  My Mom had been Miss New Hampshire and my Dad was a big wig stock broker in New York City when they met. They had a drug-fueled loved affair that soon resulted in pregnancy (otherwise known as me). Both were from very Christian backgrounds and they did love each other in some frantic way so my Dad found a senior position through his network at Fidelity Investments and moved the soon to be family near my Mom’s aging parents in North Hampton. My Mom became the quintessential suburban housewife, obligingly popping out one more child and quietly accepting my father’s continued need for naughty things- drugs, women, money.

  He was controlling in the most unhealthy way, abusive even. He used to check in on all of us at least 5 times a day but only to ask us where we were and to confirm with witnesses if possible. I cannot tell you how embarrassing it was to hand over my cell to a study buddy so that my Dad could simply say, “And who is this,” confirm identity and then hang up without so much as a goodbye. He was a tyrant.

  My Mom did not have the perfect response to his behaviour. She became an alcoholic, a fact that my father ultimately used against her. Eventually, they divorced and my Mom moved out, leaving my father with custody (he threatened to reveal her alcoholism in court) and her with rights to see us at every other weekend. My Dad soon remarried one of his mistresses, Nancy, and she was a textbook wicked stepmother. Life was full of luxuries but none of them did I want. I was desperate to leave the house and go off to college, off to seek freedom.