Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  She was as small as I was on top and had a muscular, tight body. I imagined myself in her place, pictured the sparkly little undergarments

  Where did she get them? and heels.

  Oh wait. I’ve never really walked in heels. Can I do it?

  She looked like a dancer, but not quite like what I had dreamed of long ago when I secretly wanted to be one. Definitely, this was not what I had in mind back then.

  She looked up and gave Allan a perky smile. “Who’s the new girl?” she chirped roughly. “Hey,” she directed her raspy voice to me, “you want a cup of coffee? It’s hazelnut.”

  I declined nervously while Allan introduced me. “This is Heidi. She’s thinking of dancing.”

  “Hey, nice to meet you! I’m Tamara. Try it, it’s a great time.” She was so casual and upbeat, I was tempted to agree, just to see her perki-ness increase.

  Allan broke in then. “I’m taking her downstairs to see the tapes. She’s not quite sure yet.”

  I smiled at Tamara and said, “I’m thinking about it. Nice to meet you.” She had already turned away and was rummaging through a big trunk. She either didn’t hear me or chose not to answer.

  I followed Allan down a back staircase leading from the dressing room into a cement foyer. The smell changed down here, from stale and flat to a scent more familiar. It wasn’t until we pushed a blank door open that I recognized it.

  Shaving cream. We were in the Knockout Sport Saloon. There was a three-quarter-size boxing ring, very official looking, with ropes and padded corners. A DJ booth was off to the right and on three sides were tiers of long, narrow tables and seats. It was quite an arena — all red, white, and blue, shiny and new. Clearly the pride of the club.

  Allan waddled among the tables, past a bustling institutional kitchen, and into a small room. Mirrors lined the way, and I found myself surrounded by images of a plain Ivy Leaguer with flashing blond hair.

  There is a reason for all the mirrors. They make you larger than life, and very aware of it.

  I was relieved to see the small room was stacked full of electronic equipment: VCRs, wall-mounted cameras, microphones, stereos, speakers, and several monitors. Allan offered me a seat in the crowded room and politely stood to the side a few feet away. A monitor showed girls “dancing.” Strolling around a stage was more like it. It was really quite boring, except of course for the fact that they were topless. It was disconcerting, but it didn’t strike me as immoral.

  The idea was foreign, but it was slowly becoming manageable. No one would know. It was nobody’s business but my own. Besides, I had few friends in Providence. There was Reid, a blond lug of a guy, a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and Macaulay Culkin. He was a fellow financial aid veteran; we had run into each other so frequently in line at class registrations and in the loan office that we’d finally introduced ourselves. From a lower-middle-class New Hampshire family, he had also taken a financial leave, and his girlfriend worked near my hometown in Maine. It was a relief to meet a person who understood me.

  Would Reid understand this?

  Apart from Reid, I was close to few others at Brown. My original Brown friends, from my freshman and sophomore years, had graduated. I was barely two months into my first semester as a junior, and I hadn’t had time to make many new ones. Isabella and Tony DeLorenzo were still important to me, like family even. I thought of my actual family and was aware of the enormity of my impending choice. This decision would be one of those “adult” things, a matter that is kept to oneself. Something I would have to live with. I was curious to know how the girls I was watching on the monitor dealt with their choice. They certainly didn’t look like prostitutes to me, but I knew that in the public’s mind, being a stripper was not a big jump away. Only a few minutes ago I had practically equated the two myself. I told myself never to forget my prejudice, because most of the outside world probably had it, too.

  Am I going to try this?

  I struggled to find a reason why I shouldn’t, some aspect to this sensual job that was over the line. Would I forever be abandoning the socially respectable realm of living? I wasn’t sure what I would be giving up, or what I was thinking of accepting. I feared the mysterious changes this job would inevitably bring about. Taking the job would be a dangerous adventure, but backing down out of blind cowardice could be worse.

  I am responsible for myself. I’ll be careful.

  Friends would only worry about me, and my family — I couldn’t imagine. I was scared enough of the situation for all of them. There was no point in needlessly upsetting those who cared about me. For my parents, the guilt over my financial aid troubles was bad enough, and I would never place my sisters in the awkward position of knowing something my parents didn’t. Certainly nothing this major.

  And on campus, it simply was no business of Brown’s. I was sure they wouldn’t care where the money came from. If they knew, they would never understand. What was vital to me was that I understood, that I felt comfortable. It was a job, a means to an end. Cash. Pleasing the world at large wasn’t a concern. The bottom line was.

  Another video monitor demanded my attention. A crowd of men was cheering and chanting, as if at a boxing match. In the ring, however, there were no men; there were two girls, tightly clad in pink and black bodysuits. I noticed that their breasts were neatly and completely contained inside their garments. It struck me that this was more sporty than sexy. The two girls — Knockouts, of course — were verbally taunting and teasing two men now entering the ring. The men, however, were on their knees with their hands behind their backs. They looked sheepish but eager. A bouncer dressed as a referee in black and white striped shirt and shorts rang the round bell, and the audience went wild.

  This is absurd — and hilarious.

  The men in the ring looked about frantically. One girl pounced, taking the first man down in an exaggerated head-lock. As she playfully pinned him with her body the other girl appeared out of nowhere, knees first, in the air, headed straight for the other distracted and unsuspecting man.

  Talk about living out fantasies. These girls are getting paid to pummel and pound incapacitated men. Very interesting — but stupid.

  I had never seen anything like this before. It was both comical and dumb. I was lost, stupefied by the newness of it. It wasn’t sexual in any way.

  At least not to me.

  This entire business was becoming more and more intriguing.

  I was still wary but felt ready to consider it. The decisions and choices were all mine and there was no pressure from Allan. “Heidi,” he said, “you’ve got a waitressing job …”

  I don’t do things halfway.

  I stopped him, “Allan, I’m a practical sort, and I need the most money I can make. I’ll try the other stuff.”

  “Other stuff!” Say it Heidi. Stripping. You’re a stripper.

  I couldn’t say it: “stripping, wrestling.” Thinking it was overwhelming enough. Again I assured myself that the moment things looked strange I would be out of there. I went so far as to state this position to him.

  That’s right, Heidi, skeptical and businesslike does not make you a bitch. And if it does, you don’t care.

  Allan was pleased. “Why don’t you come in tonight? See the place when it’s really booming. It’ll give you a better idea of how things work around here.”

  He is genuinely trying to appease my insecurities.

  I was impressed. This certainly wasn’t what I had expected. The girls I had seen looked normal enough, the dressing room was palatial and bright, and the club itself was cleaner and sharper than any bar I’d ever worked in.

  We’ll see. At least it’s honest work. It has that over the rabbi, and that’s a lot.

  The experience had been extremely professional so far. Allan had treated me with respect and courtesy. I couldn’t garner enthusiasm — working there was just too alien a thought — but I could imagine doing it.

  It’s a job. I want the money.

  Sin
cerely but placidly, I thanked him and agreed to return that evening to see more. He escorted me to my truck and I gave him a quick handshake. The deal was done.

  6

  Initiation:

  Amateur Night at the Foxy Lady

  Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.

  — Helen Keller

  I had tried to be prepared for anything. What I saw, though, still managed to shock me. It wasn’t undressed women or sexual depravity. I wasn’t even in the club yet.

  It was the men!

  They were everywhere. Lemminglike, they swarmed toward the entrance, half-walking, half-jogging, as if they were jousting with themselves by alternately thinking “I’m cool, no rush” and “Hey! Hot babes, let’s get a move on!” Amiable chatter and handshakes were exchanged comfortably while their determined bodies relentlessly led them into the club. They also appeared relaxed, usual pretensions or manners long forgotten, overtaken by a pure boyish exuberance.

  Or a testosterone rush, as some feminists would say.

  It was around ten that evening, a Saturday, only a few short hours after I had shaken hands with Allan.

  Although the neighborhood was poor, and infamous for its crime, the scene was not at all what I had expected. I had always imagined prostitutes roaming the sidewalks and suspicious men peering out of alleys.

  Where are the neon lights flashing “Nude! Nude! Nude!” And isn’t there supposed to be a doorman, hollering to passers by?

  Figments of my imagination were not visible tonight. Instead, limos and buses neatly lined the surrounding streets. It was a neighborhood of poor families, dogs, and fenced yards.

  How do they tolerate a strip club in their community?

  Cars covered the three lots, bumper to bumper. There were no females to be seen, only men, emptying out of vehicles and disappearing into the anonymous, unfettered structure that housed the “Solid Gold Dancers.”

  “Solid Gold.” Wasn’t that a television show in the seventies?

  One of a half-dozen parking attendants, wearing a black and pink Foxy Lady jacket, hurried to my window to direct me. Once parked, he escorted me, nonchalant and efficient, into the club.

  I feel like a VIP! My femaleness being my pass.

  My adrenaline kicked in. I watched myself being blatantly watched.

  I’m in charge. I’m safe. That’s what this place is for, I have no reason to feel offended. Rather I should feel powerful — because that is what this place does. It takes what offends me, being treated as a sex object, and hands me the switches. Admit it, Heidi — you suspect, even hope the switches are under your control, but do you believe it? Does it really matter? You need the money.

  Men were packed into the foyer. I could see how the metal turnstiles were necessary, to keep them ordered. There were young and old, in suits, jeans, silk shirts, T-shirts. They appeared anxious now, eager to get inside. Each paid the cover charge, nine dollars, through a tiny opening in the Plexiglas booth and then pushed his way into the club through a floor-to-ceiling turnstile. I caught the reflections of pink and blue lights flashing from within.

  My fear rose in a panic approaching confusion and hysteria. But surely the only outward sign I conceded to this was wider, brighter eyes and a quiet smile.

  What am I doing here? This is disgusting, animalistic. Sure, I need a job, but it is painfully, overwhelmingly obvious that there is something more important than money — my self-respect.

  My escort bellowed, “Lady comin’ tru! Lady comin’ tru!” We progressed easily through the crowd.

  Did I hear right? Did a man say, “Here’s a real hot one!”? Are they talking about me?

  I found myself looking into the tuxedoed belly of an enormously fat bouncer.

  “Steve, she’s meeting Allan. Take care of her.” With that my escort disappeared.

  Am I being overly sensitive to his words, or do I sound like an object?

  Steve chuckled nervously, his head cocked oddly to his shoulder. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Oh, just sensitive. I ought to give them a chance. Keep an open mind.

  “Heidi,” I said with a smile, genuine now because I was feeling safer.

  Steve smiled back and began talking into his ample shoulder.

  Has he got a pinched nerve?

  “I’ve got a girl out here called Heidi. She’s meeting Allan,” he bellowed. He lifted his head to reveal a minuscule radio attached to his collar. Besides being grossly overweight, he made a substantial picture in his crisp black and white tux, black radio on his shoulder. His wide grin belied his authority over the door he was presumably guarding.

  I was clearly distracting him.

  But he just wants to be friendly — I think.

  He was smiling, preparing to say something to me as his bulk shifted unexpectedly, threatening to crush me. The door behind him had opened, hitting him, and Allan, peering through the open space, bemusedly watched Steve’s rebalancing performance. I was half-steadying Steve while attempting to greet Allan professionally. Allan laughed and quickly squired me through the door past the blushing bouncer.

  These people are pretty normal.

  The club inside was almost filled. The men moved more slowly. Most were motionless, occupied with intense ogling, devotional staring, and mindless group chanting. Their bodies moved independent of their eyes. I believe they could even carry on conversations without interrupting the vital flow of visual stimuli. Clearly, it was addiction.

  Poor fools! What is that twelve-step thing? The first step to recovery is admitting you have no control, no power.

  The girls had the energy market cornered. The two I could see were dressed in sequined gowns.

  Thank God!

  They fluttered above the crowd; dancing, swinging, strutting, and smiling? Are they actually enjoying themselves?

  I didn’t have time to analyze. Allan walked briskly past the big main stage, into the dressing room, and down the backstairs. I followed, bombarded from all directions by outrageous images. There was a girl chomping a cigarette in her messy purple-lipsticked mouth, stark naked.

  Ugliness. No class. I don’t belong here.

  Another was violently arranging her breasts in a neon orange-fringed halter. They wouldn’t cooperate and persistently squished out anywhere they could.

  Sure, they’re big but they have a life of their own. Gross.

  A skinny little dynamo roughly pushed past me, swearing about money to no one I could see. Her five-inch heels contrasted horribly with her prepubescent-looking body. She was engrossed, in business I presumed, but her body said something entirely different.

  Allan and I were just about downstairs when I heard it. A female boss of some type. “You fucking pigs! What the fuck? I told you to line your fucking asses up! Do I have to fucking …”

  Oh God! The worst yet. I won’t be treated rudely. Why does she have to scream like that?

  The Knockout Sport Saloon was a cheerful change. The atmosphere, consistent with the menthol/pine scent of men’s shaving cream, was clean and sporty. Men sat at long counters running around the boxing ring in a concentric square, each successive counter a little higher than the one before it so that all seats had a good view. One side was open allowing for the bar station and a doorway leading to the locker rooms. The opposite corner held the customers’ entrance and the DJ booth, encased in Plexiglas.

  To protect the equipment from flying oil and cream?

  There was a low couch in front of one counter — the “VIP section.” Allan seated me here with embarrassing fanfare. I directly faced the ring, surrounded on all sides by the customers.

  These kinds of people go to strip clubs. I am now one of them. There is no turning back. You’ve sullied yourself already, just by seeing this place. But, I will only go as far as my self-respect allows.

  Allan introduced me to Big Joe, a thick, towering black bouncer, and excused himself, assuring me, “I’ll check back with you later. Big Joe will stay right
next to you.” Eyes glimmering mischievously, he added, “Enjoy yourself.”

  Yeah, right. I’m here for a job, not a good time. Although I admit, it is exciting stepping over boundaries, exploring the realm of the socially unacceptable. Why be normal? My high school girlfriends and I used to spout that as our teenage philosophy. I still believed it. And it had brought me too far to be discounted now.

  I had been sitting only long enough to notice the DJ’s mind-throttling volume when two men in suits sat down next to me. I stiffened