by Lacey Lane
“We can always use another girl,” the bartender said with a lecherous smile. “I know I could.”
Dave laughed, then turned back to me. “Did you bring anything to dance in? You have to audition before you can join my harem.”
No shit I have to audition, I wanted to say. I may have been totally new to the strip biz, but I was savvy enough to know that a girl would still have to show her stuff before she was offered a job, although Rebecca told me that at this club, just like many of the others she had worked at, all you needed were tits and a heartbeat to get hired. Dave’s harem comment made me want to skip the audition and look into working at another club, but I liked the idea of having two allies—Jennifer and Rebecca—to help me out if I had any problems or questions. So I just held up my bag and nodded.
Dave pointed to the dressing room. “Good. Go get changed. Come back when you’re ready and we’ll see what you can do.”
As I walked back to the dressing room, the butterflies in my stomach that I had contended with all night, all morning, and the entire drive to the club returned—with about a million of their friends. My lips got dry, my throat parched, and I felt as if I was going to break out in hives any second. Normally, I’m not a nervous person, but the thought of auditioning for the manager really got to me. It would be bad enough dancing topless for paying customers, but I figured that with other girls around me, all doing the exact same thing, I wouldn’t feel as alone and exposed and vulnerable. Now, I’d be doing it solo, under Dave’s piercing stare, and I was damn sure he’d be looking at me like a picky Olympic figure-skating judge (hopefully, not a French judge!), scouring my body and technique for flaws and imperfections, or envisioning doing things to me that were just too vile to think about.
Then again, there was the possibility that he had seen so many strippers audition over the years that this screening process was exactly as Rebecca had said it would be: just a minor formality to make sure that I had some semblance of rhythm and that I didn’t just stand there swaying back and forth like a piece of straw in the breeze.
But Dave struck me as a real control freak, not to mention a pervert, and the more I thought about him and the audition, the more nervous I became.
Breathe, Lacey, breathe, I told myself as I put on my dancewear. I’d brought three different outfits to pick from, a combination of thong bikini bottoms and sexy lingerie I’d owned for a year. After some pondering, I wound up going with black bottoms, a black lace wrap, and a clingy black top with an invisible zipper. For shoes, I climbed into the tallest sleaziest stilettos in my collection. They added four inches of height, slimmed my legs—which were freshly shaved and looked pretty good to begin with—and doubled as lethal weapons just in case Dave, or anyone else, got out of control. Like I said, I had no idea what to expect.
Glancing in the mirror before I went back out into the club, I honestly thought I looked great, albeit a little slutty—although I figured that would be good for the audition. How I felt, on the other hand, was a totally different matter. If I’d had anything in my stomach other than the ginger ale I drank while driving to the club, I’m dead certain I would have deposited it into the toilet—or on the dressing room floor.
I remained in the dressing room for approximately 15 more minutes after getting changed, my subconscious mind actively trying to convince the fully alert side of my brain to pack up my stuff, run back to my car, and get the fuck out of there. Eventually, the oft-hidden but ever-present daredevil side of me won out and I headed out to confront my demons—figuratively and, considering the audience, literally. When I got back to the bar, Dave was ready—along with the bartender, one of the bouncers (a massive farmboy type wearing overalls and a tank-top), and a few other customers that I’m certain Dave recruited for the purpose of my audition.
“Are you ready?” Dave asked upon my return. “You look a little queasy.”
“No, I’m fine,” I lied. “Ready whenever you are.”“Okay. How’s your balance?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, curious as to where he was going with that question. “Why?”
“Well, I normally like to try girls out on stage, just to see how they handle it. But since it’s being used, I thought you could use the bar.”
A wave of panic swept over me. The stage, although not a huge platform by any means, was one hell of a lot wider than the bar. While I never had any problems with my balance before, I’d never done any gymnastics either, and I certainly wasn’t a cat. Still, I was determined to gut it out and press on, no matter what Dave threw at me. Trying to seize control of the situation, I reached out to the boy-faced bouncer. “Give a lady a hand,” I said.“Sure,” the hulking Hee-Haw said. He grabbed me under my arms, lifted me with ease, and plopped me down on the bar, onto my butt.
Not quite what I had in mind, but it got the job done. The moment he stepped back, I swung my legs across, but the counter must have been recently wiped down or polished because I over-rotated, spinning until my legs were now hanging over the bar onto the bartender’s side, causing Dave and the others to break into laughter. Before I could correct myself, the bartender came to my rescue. He gave my feet a gentle push, as if I were on a merry-go-round, and spun me back around. This time, I stopped myself in the proper position and extended my legs so that I was lying on my side across the bar. The laughter from the onlookers quickly transformed into claps and whistles. Admittedly, I was impressed with my quick recovery. Of course, my heart was still beating like a snare drum being worked by a kid with A.D.D.
After taking a moment to silently wish myself luck and encouragement, I brought my legs in and popped to my feet. Had I known I was to be dancing atop the bar, I would have chosen different shoes, but I wasn’t about to let my towering (and slightly unsteady) heels stop me now. This was my big moment, the chance to look my unwanted self-doubting demons squarely in the eyes. Unfortunately, I accidentally kicked an ashtray and sent it flying. The bartender made an effort to grab it, but a gifted wide receiver he wasn’t; the glass butt-holder hit the ground and shattered. Shit! Here I was, 30 seconds into a potential ego-saving cash-producing new job and I already owed money.
But I went on with the audition, forgetting about all the onlookers, just as I believed the redheaded girl did when she performed her lap-dance for me. Cheryl Lynn’s “Got To Be Real” was playing, a song I really liked, and I got into the beat easily.
I started off moving slowly, I mean molasses S-L-OW-L-Y, trying to work my way into the core of the beat. I wasn’t sure exactly how I should be moving, but I thought that emulating sex—swiveling my hips, gyrating my torso, grinding the air, etc.—would be a pretty decent way to go. Granted, some of the moves were hard to mimic while standing, but for the most part I think I did okay. Soon, I forgot I was perched atop a bar (well, sort of) and thought only of the music’s rhythm, freeing my body to move in synch with the beat. I peeled my bottom wrap off seductively and hardly heard the whistles and catcalls that followed. Ditto for my top; I was now just a skimpy T-back away from full nudity, showing off to total strangers hidden treasures that very few men had seen up until then, and the best part about it was that I was becoming more at ease with the situation. Or maybe I was an exhibitionist at heart. Or I was in what athletes often refer to as the zone. Or I was so goddamn petrified that nothing mattered. Whatever the case, inside, I was celebrating. I truly felt liberated. Everything was going perfectly.
And then I made my final mistake.
Running horizontally above my head, perfectly visible from my bar-top vantage point, was a long pipe. The pipe ran the length of the bar and disappeared into the walls. Now, had I been on stage I would have been able to swing from the pole like a proper stripper would. (While I had never done that before, how hard could it possibly be?) But since I was dancing on the bar and this was the only “pole” available to me, easily within my reach, I figured I’d improvise and really impress Dave and the others.
In one smooth motion, I reached up with both
hands, grabbed onto the pipe, lifted my legs into the air, and spread them into a wide V, really playing to the crowd. It was the sleaziest thing I had ever done—never in a million years could I have imagined doing such a thing—but I was now in stripper mode and determined to get the job. The last thing I wanted was to get turned down—or worse, have to repeat the audition—because I was too prude. With my legs still spread, I locked my eyes on Dave and gave him my most seductive smile, expecting to see him melt or drool.
Instead, his eyes bulged out of his head as if he were a cartoon character and he exploded to his feet, screaming at me, “Get the fuck off the water pipe!”
I almost let go exactly as I was, which would have resulted in a nasty fall and a sure trip to the emergency room. But I had enough sense to lower my feet to the bar and release the pipe as he had instructed.
“That’s it,” he said, motioning me to get down. “Audition’s over.”
While Dave just stood there with his hands on his hips, obviously still incensed, the bouncer helped me down from the bar. I felt terribly vulnerable standing there in front of Dave and the others—most of whom were laughing their asses off—wearing next to nothing, but for some reason I didn’t rush to put my clothes back on. Perhaps that would have made me feel more naked than I already was.
Dave called me, among other things, Calamity Jane, said I was an accident waiting to happen, and it was a damn good thing I didn’t pull the pipe off the ceiling or else my first week’s wages would be going into a plumber’s pocket instead of mine. I sifted through what he said, replaying his words until it dawned on me, and I brightened.
“Wait a minute,” I said in disbelief. “I got the job?”
“Yeah, you got the job,” he said, as if it should have been an assumed fact. “Just try not to destroy my club.”
“Sorry about the ashtray,” I said, trying to contain my excitement. After all, a real pro wouldn’t be overcome with joy after getting a job at a run-of-the-mill strip club. But I was thrilled to death. For me, it was a major achievement.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dave said, giving me the first indication he was human. “Maybe dancing on the bar wasn’t such a good idea.” He looked at his watch. “Can you work tonight? It should get busy pretty soon and I could use an extra girl.”
Already there and in the flow, I was ready to rock. “Absolutely,” I said with gusto.
“Good. Go see Gary,” he said, pointing to the DJ booth. “He’ll put you in the stage rotation. At the end of the night, come see me about the tip-out. I’ll give you a break since it’s your first night.”
“Thank you, Dave,” I replied sincerely, even though I didn’t know what the hell a tip-out was. But I figured if he was giving me a break on anything, I might as well be appreciative about it.
With the audition out of the way, the rest of the night was a cakewalk. I had a bit of a hard time using the stage pole the first few times—the girls make it look much easier than it is—but eventually I got the hang of it. I didn’t try anything really elaborate, although at the end of one routine I slid down face-first and bumped my head on the floor. Luckily, it was dark and no one seemed to notice. The next time I tried it, I managed to stop myself with my legs at the last moment.
I didn’t do any VIP Room dances that night, which is probably just as well. I think I would have been too nervous to do a good job, plus neither Jennifer nor Rebecca—or any of the other girls, for that matter—told me what they charged for lap-dances in the VIP Room. No one told me about a lot of things. But looking back, discovering how things worked, on my own, at my own pace, was definitely the right way to go. If for no other reason, it made me feel as if I truly deserved to be there.
By the end of the night, I had a much greater respect for strippers. Prior to my indoctrination into the world of topless dancing, I’d never given any thought to dancers and how hard they worked for their money. Like so many others, I simply bestowed on them a cheesy label, never stopping to consider that what they do—and what I did—isn’t easy. It’s extremely taxing on the body; it’s mentally draining, as well. That’s not saying you need to be a Solid Gold dancer or have the body of a Playboy centerfold to make a buck in the topless biz—you don’t. But you do need a good supply of moxie and the tolerance to deal with an assortment of people—from multimillionaire perfect gentlemen to the absolute pigs of humanity—on a daily basis. Topless dancing is customer service to the extreme.
My first night in the biz ended just after one in the morning. I was wiped out physically and my knees were aching big-time—you try dancing in high-heels for a few hours and see how you feel! However, I was really proud of myself for going through with it; I felt like I’d gotten an ‘A’ on a term paper that I’d worked on for months.
After my last dance, I met with club manager Dave, as instructed, where I learned about the tip-out procedure. Most strip clubs have a similar protocol: A dancer gives a percentage of her nightly haul to be divvied up by the DJ, bartender, doormen, and the house-mom (if the club employs one). Fortunately, this club didn’t, which meant more money for me. After parting with ten percent of my earnings, I still walked away with close to $300. Not a stellar amount to be sure, but for my first night, for only six hours of work, I was extremely pleased. Actually, for my first night as a full-fledged stripper, the money was the icing on the cake.
Jennifer and Rebecca wanted to go out and celebrate, but more than anything I just wanted to go home and take a bath. My adrenaline rush had subsided by then and, more than feeling tired, I felt dirty. Grungy, actually. Like how those “Survivors” probably feel at the end of their stint on the island. That bath was one of the best in my life.
The next day, I decided to spend my hard-earned cash on a few little extravagances, things I really didn’t need but truly wanted—new shoes, a new purse, a cool hat or two. The way I shopped, $300 would go a long long way. Now, I’m no cheapskate, no frugal Freeda, but I could never understand how someone could go out and spend a thousand dollars and come back with only one outfit. Maybe that was fine for the Rodeo Drive set, but I could turn a $100 bill into an entire wardrobe—a damn fine one, too.
I worked four days straight that first week, earning a total of $1,900, $700 of which came in one night, the bulk of it from one guy. He was my first VIP Room customer and I quickly learned that the VIP Room was where the real action was and where most strippers wanted to spend the majority of their time.
Strangely, some girls actually preferred table- and lap dances in the main club over dances in the VIP Room. Not this chick! Why anyone would want to work twice as hard for half the money when they could get a customer (or customers) into the back room and really do some damage to their wallets was beyond me.
By the end of that first week, the b flies had all flown off and the nudity didn’t make a dent in my consciousness. I began to look at stripping as a challenge. Exactly how much money could I get (fleece) from each and every guy who asked me to dance for him? More than a job or a challenge, it was a game—cat and mouse, in a way—and I realized that inside the strip clubs, the women were clearly the cats. We were the hunters.
But the most important realization from that first week was my proclivity for the profession. Granted, I had a lot to learn and I was certain to make numerous mistakes along the way, but I knew I was good at it. Real good. And I had the potential to be great. And the thing of it was, it had nothing to do with my looks. It was all about personality and panache. The best salespeople in the world sell themselves first and their products second. In the exotic entertainment industry, the topless dancer herself is the product. The way I saw it, I was going to be one of the hottest products on the market, pulling the plug on a couple decades worth of low confidence and feelings of worthlessness in the process.
Sink or Swim
I’ve always been a fast learner. No matter how hard the subject or the task, I caught on quickly. Working as a topless dancer was no exception.
But in th
e world of exotic entertainment, learning the ropes expeditiously isn’t just beneficial—it’s a necessity. That is, if earning top dollar is your number-one priority. In my case, breaking out of my self-constructed mental prison was the main concern. However, getting the job went a long way toward that end and just showing up to work would take me the rest of the way. Beyond that, I was committed to being as financially productive as possible each and every second I spent in the club. Stripping was a job, one that required a tremendous amount of effort, and I was determined to treat it as such. Nothing less than max input was on my agenda.
The topless business is like a vast ocean, and each dancer in it has three choices. She can sink, which ultimately means her time would be better spent working at Burger King. She can tread water, which amounts to steady money that pays the bills and little more. Or she can swim, thus maximizing the earning potential. Well, not only did I want to swim, I wanted to do a brisk breaststroke across the sea, get to the other side, and run on the beach with my hair blowing in the wind!
For the first few weeks I kept my eyes and ears open, taking in everything that happened around me, processing it like a computer would raw data. I listened to the other dancers—what they had to say about each other and the job, in general. And I listened to the customers, who were the final authority on how much I took home on a nightly basis. It didn’t take me long to realize I could do different things to better my chances of financial success—lots of little tricks that meant the difference between an okay night ($300) and a great night ($1,000). By the same token, I discovered there were also practices to avoid—actions that could potentially turn off a customer and lock out my access to his billfold. Of all my discoveries—and there were many—the biggest breakthrough occurred, fortunately, early on. It was simply this: to spend as much of my time as possible dancing for customers in the VIP Room.
