Later that afternoon I drove to the club in my junky pick-up truck. I followed the directions the manager gave me over the phone and easily found the street, directly across town from my neighborhood, the exclusive College Hill. The club, up on an opposing mound called Smith Hill, hidden on the edge of a bad section of town, wasn’t even a song’s length from Brown. An enormous sign hanging off the back of an auto body shop (directly above “Marchesi’s Perfect Body Work”) announced in gold glitter and black paint that I had arrived at “Foxy Lady: Home of the Solid Gold Dancers.”
But I don’t know how to dance!
I maneuvered my old truck through the dirt parking lot that was spread in patches around the low, anonymous building. A middle-aged man with slicked-back hair disinterestedly indicated a parking spot, then ignored me. I fumbled with the door and, my heart pumping furiously, attempted to stroll nonchalantly toward the only entrance I could see.
It was a bright sunny day, early afternoon, with a cool breeze that would have tossed leaves in the country or on campus but here only carried the vague noises escaping the nearby body shop. I saw a half-grown cat in the brush along the edges of the parking area. A bit of garbage wiggled in the wind. The cat patiently watched but didn’t move, suspicious and cautious. The building had no windows and, were it not for the men milling about, I would have had no idea that I was at one of “those places.” A gruff voice behind me muttered, “That way.” Turning quickly, aware I was blushing, I saw him point toward a corner of the building. I walked “that way.”
Directly in my path a group of men was gathered, talking quietly. A few were smoking. They wore suits and seemed like any other group of businessmen on a lunch hour, except they were very interested in me and not afraid to be obvious about it. I was cheerfully surveyed, weighed by their eyes, even though I had dressed normally: black jeans, loafers, T-shirt, and sweater. They smiled at me and all conversation halted. I had a choice — I could feel threatened or confident. After all, I was still a nice person, regular old Heidi. Nothing would ever change that. So I smiled naturally and met their eyes straight on. I threw out a simple, strong “Hello.” My heart was beating in my ears, though, as I strolled into their territory.
They reminded me of Rabbi B———, valuing me in the most base way, measuring my worth in terms of appearance only. The difference here today was that I had made a choice. I knew they were sizing me up, and they knew I knew. Compared to the rabbi, they were refreshingly honest, almost innocent.
I had thought about it on the short drive over: looks were a tool the way intellect was a tool. Until now I had felt that using appearance and one’s sexuality to get ahead was unfair, but then, I reasoned, those same categories are often used by society to determine the merits of women. Why was I above tapping into the system? It was happening already without me. What if I turned the tables?
Instead of being imprisoned by an image-obsessed society, I would add one of society’s weaknesses to my list of strengths. The American public encouraged me to embody a certain look, but if I were to exploit my appearance, what then? I would be labeled unnatural, immodest, not a lady, perhaps even … powerful. What if I broke the rules and decided to market the attractive image society has sold me? I could sell it right back, peddle it by the demure glance, a dozen sultry sighs, and a few girlish pouts. “Not fair! Not right!” society would complain.
My righteous thoughts sustained me in front of these unfamiliar men. They had been looking me over. Now I looked them over, as if to say, “Woman is a goddess, isn’t she?” They easily fell for it. I felt as though I had discovered a great secret. Stressful as this situation was, I gave myself a little cheer for taking control of it. The men silently stepped back for me, and then I was past them. I barely heard one of them proffer a gentle, “Bye
I discovered the innocuous entrance a few yards past the corner. The gray metal doors were posted with the hours of operation: noon to 1 A.M. Sunday through Thursday, noon to 2 A.M. Friday and Saturday.
As I approached the door a part of my mind quietly but persistently suggested that I protect myself from “what could be.” Was prostitution involved? What about drugs? I accepted that I was operating on automatic pilot. My situation was simple: I had to try. At the least, this would be an adventure. I would have been disappointed with myself if I had shrunk from the challenge. I trusted myself more than I feared the unknown.
When I opened the door, the stereotype came alive in full color, sound, and scent. Stale cigarette smell bombarded me, as did a scantily dressed female mannequin suspended grotesquely from a corner of the ceiling. A thin, worn man slouched behind thick Plexiglas, his face permanently twisted into an angry scowl. Behind him the booth was covered with phony driver’s licenses. They extended up to the ceiling as far as I could see, artlessly crowding buzzers and the phone. There appeared to be hundreds and hundreds of them, all collected from the underage, I assumed. At least this place follows the rules, I thought, hoping. The man looked up with a cold gaze, effectively squashing my timid bit of optimism.
I glanced around as I made my way across the lobby, guided by a metal fence. I imagined it herding the men in, single file and orderly. Who were these men?
Probably perverts and drab traveling salesmen.
Full-size photos and drawings of Marilyn Monroe graced the dull industrial walls. Thick turnstiles blocked the entryway.
I couldn’t see the interior. Only a dark space loomed, wedged between two small doors, barely ajar. I could hear loud music, rock and roll, and a man’s voice. Overstimulated already, I couldn’t make out the words. The only live person I saw was the angry face laminated in thick plastic, staring at what must have been a mini-television crowded with him inside the tiny booth. Through my buzzing confusion I heard, “Can I help you?” His eyes were bored, uncaring, barely looking at me. I wondered if I was even there to see. He’d seen this scenario before.
Am I a scenario? Am I not better than this?
I was just another scared girl in his lobby, bewildered but trying to appear confident. But I was a Brown student.
What would that matter here? If I do this I will never be real Ivy League, but then, I never could be real Ivy League. It wasn’t meant to be. Why had they even accepted my application? Brown was for wealthy families, wasn’t it?
This negative thinking was not my style. I argued it away.
I am a special case. I can make the jump, and be better for it. No matter what the situation, I can make the best of it. I chose the Brown experience and I will make it happen. I believe in the extraordinary. That was why I couldn’t dismiss the application years ago. I can’t dismiss stripping, either. I will make an informed choice.
“Mr. Hayes is expecting me,” I responded politely, having no idea how loudly to speak. The Plexiglas looked thick.
I was strong when I’d phoned, but now I felt out of place. I had long ago stopped worrying about what other people thought of me, but I had to consider this.
This will be a real shocker.
But, could I even do it?
Take it a step at a time. This is just another adventure. Although you do need the money bad. If it weren’t for the money, you would never have even considered this.
Allan Hayes, the general manager, met me in the lobby. He looked like Kenny Rogers, only shorter and fatter. He moved swiftly toward me, waddling slightly. His tuxedoed body stopped on the other side of the metal fence, and he extended a hand over the turnstile. Shaking hands, I introduced myself as though this was a job interview — I mean, a real job interview in the real world. His sparkling eyes refused to be overwhelmed, though buried in an excess of silver-white hair. He grinned at me.
Why is he so happy?
I smiled back, bracing myself for the horrible sights that might lie ahead. I was prepared to leave and never look back.
Efficiently disentangling me from the metal maze intended for customers, Allan led me to one of the turnstiles. A buzzer sounded and he pushed the turnsti
le open for me. I meekly stepped inside, nervous but determined to see my mission through. I was also very curious.
Would I be turned off? Would I like it? Could I do it (whatever it was they did here)? What sort of people were working here?
Although diminutive and stout, Allan strode past me in his penguin suit with an importance that few would mistake. He held the door open for me and I stepped into the club, my body tight and stiff.
So this is the kind of place that men whisper and conspire about when the occasion calls for a bachelor party or boys’ night out. Why do they whisper? They wouldn’t want “them” to find out, “them” being the regular women, the ones they leave behind for a night with exotic dancers. So who are these other women, these strippers? Me?
The interior of the club was larger than I expected. To my left were pool tables, a large cage on a pedestal, pay phones, and candy dispensers. The floor was ugly, a muddy gray-colored industrial-strength linoleum, but the walls were quite lively. What wasn’t mirrored, was filled with oversize images of Marilyn Monroe and other busty women. Except for its lack of muscle-car and monster-truck posters, the place could have been decorated by a typical teenage boy. I had expected a darker, more menacing atmosphere. Off to the right, beyond the drink station (big enough for ten waitresses), was the heart of the club. The main stage looked like a raised ice-skating rink, its edges lipped a bit higher to provide a buffer zone, I guessed, between the women onstage and the men sitting or standing below. Beyond this stage were two smaller, similar stages. Cheap easy chairs and plastic molded seats were scattered around plastic tables. Built into the walls were more upholstered seats, fronted by Lucite boxes
Foot rests?
every couple of yards. Colored and white lights shone here and there. I looked unconsciously for the dark corner, where the “bad stuff” happens. There was none that I could see.
There’s probably a back room, or a downstairs, for the other stuff But so far this didn’t look too bad. Certainly not the shameful secretive place I expected. The fact remains, however, this is a strip joint. It crosses the line of decency. My mother — even my sisters — would be horrified. A dust-free interior and sparkling lights would make no difference. And my father — don’t even think about it.
Mr. Hayes led me straight into the club, toward the bar. “Call me Allan,” he said as we sat down at a spindly round table. I was alert and ready for anything. There was rock music playing and girls walking and dancing on the biggest stage. I was utterly unfamiliar with everything around me. It was the middle of the afternoon, two o’clock. I didn’t know strippers worked during the day!
Focusing on my strong self-promoting ability, I launched into a pitch regarding my skills as a cocktail waitress. He was sold easily, maybe too easily. I don’t think I noticed that at the time. I attempted nonchalance but discovered that I couldn’t look at the women onstage, the strippers. “Dancers,” as Allan called them. Picturing myself one of them was too disconcerting. But on the surface, I was going for broke.
I told Allen flat out, “I need money and I have an open mind.”
“Why do you need money?” he asked politely.
“I’m a student at Brown, on my own …” I began.
“Ha!” he chuckled, “I guess you need money!”
My great appreciation of efficiency would not allow me to rule anything out.
Maybe I could dance.
I asked pointedly, “Can you tell me more about being a dancer?”
I sat listening to Allan explain the rules and schedules. “This is a gentlemen’s club. The entertainers are always ladies. Classy and elegant. Full-length evening gowns are worn for main stage. Otherwise, the entertainers wear short dresses, or a skirt and top. In any case, they always wear two layers on top and bottom. At no time are bottoms removed. We are not interested in the nude business. We have standards. Lewd behavior, as well as drug use and alcohol abuse, is not tolerated. If an entertainer needs to lose weight or wear makeup, we may request that she make those changes. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble with that, Heidi. You have a natural look that will serve you well here. You may choose your schedule so that it doesn’t interfere with school. No one may touch you except to tip you
He went on and on, describing the business. My eyes had adjusted by now and I was pleased to see that the place looked just like a bar, only bigger and cleaner. It wasn’t excessively dark, either — the strobes and colored lights lit up the corners. The stages, the three of them that I could see, were bright and elevated about four feet from the floor. I could make out about ten lumps — men, actually — sitting at stages or small tables scattered about. The place was certainly quiet; I was thankful that Allan had suggested we meet when the club wasn’t busy.
Allan’s explanation continued. “Sexual satisfaction has nothing to do with this job. We are working with image and attitude.” I was beginning to understand.
It was business, straightforward and simple.
This appealed to my practical nature. “Heidi,” Allan said, summing up the job, “you’re selling a fantasy. A fantasy of a friendly, smiling, beautiful dancer.”
Yeah, right. That’s all? Was he telling me everything?
“But I don’t know how to dance,” I said, wanting him to convince me. He must have sensed this. “Oh,” he replied gently, “the girls will help you. You won’t have a problem.”
I could try it, if what he was saying was true.
I still felt threatened and distrustful. From the corner of my eye I stole a glimpse of the two strippers onstage about twenty feet away. They were ghostly and exotic, miles away from Bucksport, Brown, and the rabbi. One was encased in a sparkly blue fabric. The other had no dress. Both must be very sexy, I concluded. They were strippers after all, and strippers are supposed to be very sexy.
Hmm, how big are their breasts?
I silently doubted my assets. All the while Allan glowingly appraised me.
“Allan,” I announced, challenging his approval, “I have small breasts.” His face turned slowly to mine. He replied, composed and calm. “In two weeks, Heidi, you can buy whatever breasts you want.”
This comment stunned me.
I hadn’t thought of that. In fact, there was probably quite a lot I hadn’t thought of. How much could I make?
He explained that there was no pay. I earned my tips, nothing else.
“How much are those tips?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“While the entertainers are onstage, except for their first song, they collect money from customers; ones, fives, tens. Usually ones, but offstage they table-dance for ten dollars, plus tips, per song.”
I couldn’t conceive of dollar bills adding up to much, but I didn’t ask. He probably wasn’t of a mind to answer me honestly.
“Downstairs is the Knockout Sport Saloon. That’s where the hot cream and hot oil wrestling takes place.”
The what?
“Members of the audience bid for the girls. The top bid gets to wrestle in the pit with the girl of his choice. They are called the Beverly Hills Knockouts. They wrestle and box …”
By now I was laughing. This I had never heard of. It sounded ridiculous, or very suspicious. I asked carefully, “What exactly happens in the pit?”
He responded benignly, “Let me show you. We have everything on tape in the office.”
Now I had the creeps. “In the office.” “Let me show you.” The phrases activated my defensive buzzers. I was on full alert.
Get ready. This will be the “bad stuff.”
I followed him through the club. We approached the stage, and as we passed one of the dancers looked my way. I was embarrassed for her.
She doesn’t have her clothes on!
She didn’t look sexy to me; her body wasn’t so perfect up close, and she had a droopiness about her. I walked close to the wall, but she followed, reflected in the mirrors covering much of the surfaces around me.
There’s nothing pretty about this! She
looks bored.
This intrigued me. She and the other “dancer” were lolling about, casual and content. The lack of theatrics was appalling.
Aren’t they embarrassed?
I had thought that at least there would be a show. A little fanfare, pride, even stage presence. The entertainers could have been in their own living room for all the energy they displayed. And sexy? exotic? mesmerizing? Now that I was up close, that aura was painfully thin. Tiny glittering underpants were the most exotic thing about these girls.
They don’t even stand up straight.
I was still intimidated, not by sexiness (there wasn’t much) but by the newness of the environment and situation.
Aren’t my morals in danger? I don’t feel especially contaminated. Yet. Where is the nasty stuff? Where does the touching go on?
Allan and I marched through a door marked “Entertainers Only.” It was the dressing room; pink and green lockers, underwear of every color hanging about, a long dressing table with mirrors and lights. A girl in a dazzling rhinestone-studded bra and teeny panties was making coffee.
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