could I be any stiffer?
and noted that their cologne overpowered the scent of the shaving cream. Their attention was riveted on the ring. A burly girl was pacing back and forth in it, screaming something to the crowd.
Foxy boxing. Allan told me about it. Two trained girls box for three rounds, earning a fee from the club and a cut of the manager’s “bid.” The manager is the customer who bids the most during the “auction,” winning the opportunity to coach his chosen boxer and hold her water bottle and towel. Boxing happens once a night, the rest of the evening is for wrestling, either in hot oil or shaving cream. Each wrestler emerges in a fantasy costume (sailor girl, cheerleader, Catholic school girl, Tarzana), wows the crowd, and is placed on the auction block. Top bidder wrestles her in the plastic-lined ring for three rounds of— what? Slipperiness? Allan assured me that nothing sexual happened and that the men had to stay on their knees and could not touch the girls in an unapproved manner. Right. We’ll see.
The emcee, running around the room in tie-dyed shorts, tuxedoed upper body, purple high-cut sneakers, and top hat, must have already introduced the boxer in the ring because he now began yelling, “And in the pink shorts, Naughhhhhhhh-ty Neeki! Our own Brazilian beauty defending the WWWF title and belt.”
WWWF?
I wasn’t sure where to look. The emcee moved constantly, jumping from the ring to a countertop, swinging one-armed from a pipe in the ceiling and landing on another countertop, right in front of a dopey college boy, kicking his beer into his lap. The kid slowly focused on the emcee, mute and dumb. “Hey, buy this man a beer!” the emcee announced happily. The crowd cheered.
This is so silly. And they fall for it so easily!
I felt like an outsider, sitting with the wrong side: a woman fully dressed, watching the show with a hundred men.
And watching the hundred men.
Most of them paid no attention to me. The few who did had to spy surreptitiously around Big Joe’s protective figure.
What do I look like to them? Do they think I’m too plain-looking for this? Can they tell I have teeny breasts? Should I be a part of this? It’s just so … strange. I’m not sure strange equals bad, but the scene upstairs is much more intimidating than this.
“I’m gonna kick your ass. You’re going down, little baby girl-wimp!” Naughty Neeki was in the ring now, staring aggressively at the big dark-haired girl, her opponent, who was loudly talking back at her. Suddenly Neeki rushed at her, arms up and ready to grab her neck, but just as quickly the other girl ducked and Neeki flew over her head, flipped in the air, and landed with a loud plop on the floor of the ring.
“Bobbie the Bruiser strikes again!” the emcee announced. “And the crowd goes wild …” he suggested, and the crowd went wild — screaming, cheering, pounding one another on the back. The DJ put on a wilder song and increased the volume appropriately.
Neeki’s punishment wasn’t over. Bobbie the Bruiser emitted a war cry, jumped into the air, lifting one knee high, and crashed down, sinking the raised knee into Neeki’s rib cage.
This is fun?
Neeki curled into a ball, moaning and quivering.
This is theatrics. But am I the only spectator who knows it?
The men went nuts.
These men are either more gullible than I thought or don’t care to consider the acting abilities of these professionals.
Bobbie proudly paced the ring, arms raised in victory until a referee — an aging, self-important short Italian in striped Lycra shorts —
ughh
bullied her into a corner, shouting, “Settle down. Save it for Round One.”
She responded with a questioning look, directed toward me and the audience beyond. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, she gracefully kneed him in the crotch and, taking advantage of his bent double position, tripped him backward. His head loudly hit the mat and his feet tangled above him in the ropes. Bobbie gave him a little kick, looked to the crowd for approval, and strolled to the corner opposite the recovering Neeki.
I’ll say one thing: this isn’t boring.
Bobbie caught me staring at her, agape and shy at the same time. To my surprise she yelled, “Get over here!” I couldn’t refuse.
I took the step to her corner and looked up at her through the ropes. She grabbed my head and pulled it to her chest violently. I was speechless, which was fine because she did the talking. “Hey, howya doing? Are you a newgirl? I’m Bobbie. Stick around, we’ll talk after the fight.”
She’s actually quite personable.
“Hi, I’m Heidi. Ah, um, does all this hurt?”
What a stupid question.
“Of course not, stupid,” she said, and pushed me back to the couch.
The two men on the couch with me laughed. They had heard our conversation, and introduced themselves. Chuck was short and looked like a Fred Flintstone-gone-cheesy godfather — too much gold, too much permed hair, too much shiny material. Just too much.
Angelo was more subdued, a glamorous middle-aged gentleman, with only a few gold pieces. His voice was slick and soothing in a mysterious way. “Why don’t you manage Bobbie? I’ll pay.” I didn’t understand, but said no anyway. He began to insist, but the emcee distracted us both by grabbing my hand and standing me up. “We have a beginner in the house!” he announced to the cheering room. “Welcome to the Foxy Lady. What is your name?”
But I’m just here to watch!
Art, the emcee, held my hand innocently as he jump-started my journey to toplessness.
He has no idea what a big deal this is to me.
I didn’t know it at the time, but introducing me as a neophyte to a roomful of crazed males was his method. His southern twang gave his words a wash of protectiveness. “Let’s give Heidi a warm welcome. C’mon, guys!”
Of course they cheer. They cheer spilled beer!
“While Bobbie and Neeki get ready for Round One let’s get Heidi some appreciation. We’re going to put a garter on her, and when it’s full” — he marched me around the ring, me smiling and blushing every step of the way (I didn’t know then how blushing and smiling would rile them up, that my nervousness was a natural instigator) — “she’ll go topless!”
What!?
I began my career. Dressed in simple black overalls, white turtle-neck, and flat shoes I paraded a greasy round card before each round, collecting folded bills in a garter around my fully clothed thigh. After the second round, when Art announced that the garter was almost full, the crowd of men responded to the challenge, offering up bills through the last round of Bobbie and Neeki’s fight until my leg resembled a sausage bursting with money.
They expect me to “go topless”? I can’t do it. I’m here to observe.
I missed the fight’s conclusion, distracted as I was with walking around the counters accepting tips, thanking strangers for their money, and taking encouragement from the very vocal emcee. After winding up the fight, he excused me from the audience, promising to bring me back, topless,
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But so far the job seems doable. I’ve got to take the plunge. I’m not feeling grossed out, just shy. Get it over with, Heidi.
The Knockouts — who had been watching me curiously — urged me into the private area near their dressing room and huddled with me, asking questions and giving advice. “Is this your first time?” “How much money did you make?” “You need a little eye shadow.” “Are you a boxer?” “Do you want to borrow a G-string?” They were smelly, colorful girls — each a different combination of cheap perfume, hair spray, spandex, and lace.
They’re being so nice to me. Like sisters are on television.
Art moseyed over, hand over the microphone. “Are you ready, Heidi?” Then, watching my speechless face, he spoke into the microphone. “Let’s do it.”
Try to remain calm. Think about it.
The girls felt my terror and shooed Art away. “Hey, take it easy on her. It’s her first time.” Even Bobbie the Bruise
r poked her head out of the dressing room door to chastise him, “She a fucking newgirl — don’t push her, Art. I’ll bash your skinny fucking head!”
Well, that was sweet of her. I’m glad they’re being protective, makes me feel I am justified in feeling hesitant. But why don’t I just do it? See how it makes me feel. I’m only going to disappoint them — I’m nothing hot to look at. This is silly.
“I felt just like you a few months ago, but it’s really no big deal. The first time is the hardest.” It was Bobbie who threw these words of encouragement my way. I caught her eyes as she turned away, adjusting her underwear, and was surprised to see her sincerity was obvious. As tough as she could be — or act — she could be sensitive, too.
I looked at the girls and quickly said, “OK, how do I do this? What do I do?”
I want the money. I want a job. I think.
“Are you sure?” Tawni said softly. Badass Briana, on the other hand, rubbed her hands together with apparent glee. “Let’s see, how do we get this overall outfit off of you …” She began by easing the shoulder straps down, then frankly told me to get rid of the turtleneck. I began to stammer.
Have I gone nuts? This is so inelegant.
But I stifled my confusion and doubt, pulling the cotton shirt over my head and deftly — modestly — pulling the jumper top back up. The middle of each breast was covered by the strips of fabric (which is to say, I was completely covered).
I’m small. They’re going to be so disappointed.
They weren’t disappointed.
Art announced me. “You did it guys, filled her garter and now Heidi will drop … her … top! Let’s hear it!” Hundreds of men cheered and smiled for me as I stepped into the room. The Knockouts — Billie, Tawni, Bobbie, Neeki, and Briana — were watching from the doorway I could feel their encouragement and support.
I just need to get past this shyness. Then it’ll be the fun it looks like. The wrestling I saw on the tapes Allan showed me appears much easier than the boxing. Positive thinking — will it get me in trouble? Am I going to be sorry? If I am, I’ll just chalk it up to experience and move on.
I stopped, barely out of the hallway. My hands ventured to the straps and the cheers increased.
Oh, this is truly ridiculous. It is just a body.
I pulled the straps down. I was topless.
I don’t feel topless. Actually, surprisingly, I just feel silly. It’s just a few inches of skin, but the way these men react you’d think I was a goddess or movie star. My breasts hardly even wiggle.
I walked around the ring, smiling and thinking what fools they were.
But they’re happy fools, and I’m paying my bills.
When I passed Chuck and Angelo, Angelo reached for my hand, saying softly, “You’re a good girl, Heidi.” He pressed some bills into my palm. “Give this to Brown.” I froze inside, but kept moving.
Word travels fast. What does he mean by that? Am I going to get in trouble with school? Who is he? He looks “connected.”
I completed the path around the ring and was approaching the girls. They clapped their hands and looked at me.
Are they embarrassed for me? They don’t seem to be.
“How do you feel?” “Are you all right?” “What did Angelo give you?” I covered my chest with my arms and looked at the clenched fist holding Angelo’s tip. Two fifty-dollar bills.
“That’s great,” Bobbie said, a little weakly.
I realized now that my heart was beating furiously and my jaw, frozen in a nervous smile, ached.
“They loved you!” Briana congratulated me.
“But I didn’t do anything!” I said, reluctant to accept credit for unearned success.
Female, topless — good enough.
I returned home feeling dirty, literally dirty. I smelled of smoke, and discerned a tacky film of oil on my skin from the Sport Saloon. More than anything, though, I experienced a surge of hopefulness. I had broken ground, accomplished a difficult task. I set out to test the topless waters and discovered that — so far — they were navigable.
So why do I feel guilty? Because I think I should.
It was late at night. I was alone in my apartment as usual.
It’s just as well that I have no friends — I couldn’t expect them to understand. I don’t even fully understand.
It had to be a secret. Working in a strip joint would be too much. It wouldn’t be fair for me to share this. My parents, besides feeling terribly guilty about not being able to afford Brown, would constantly worry about my safety. Even I had prejudged strippers and strip clubs — how could I expect anyone else to be less prejudiced? The De-Lorenzos, Tony and Isabella, were involved in local politics and were in the public eye. I couldn’t risk sullying their reputations, but I didn’t want to lie. I’d have to keep to myself and my studies only. As I wound down from my stimulating evening I vowed to “watch myself and keep track of any changes.
Unusual or not, I can do this — a day at a time,
Allan had offered me my choice of positions at the club. I could be a Knockout, upstairs dancer, or a waitress. Waitressing would have been a cop-out, and no better ethically — my moral boundaries were more complex than the mere display of skin. Dancing upstairs scared me. An eight-hour shift of collecting dollar bills in exchange for acting sexy struck me as especially demanding. The disrespectful, violent attitude of the house mom scared me the most. (I was the kid in grade school who cried when other children were chastised.)
After being guaranteed that my school schedule would take priority, I’d told Allan I would be Knockout. The shows were Wednesday through Saturday nights, with training on Tuesday through Thursday afternoons. Allan told me I would start on Wednesday night, “but Amateur Night is Monday, in case you want to get your feet wet. It’ll be a quick five hundred if you win.”
“How does Amateur Night work?” I asked.
“It’s advertised all over Rhode Island and Massachusetts. We sign the girls up as they arrive. You need to be here by seven o’clock. Then, starting at eight or nine, depending on how busy it is, the contest begins. There will probably be three or four rounds, each with three contestants. The winner of each round makes it to the finals, held around midnight. They each dance another three song set, then the winner is chosen.”
As daunting as these experiences were for me, I admit that I thought about economics, constantly. At least in the back of my mind.
Yes, the moral question, the issue of self-respect, was paramount. Without satisfying my needs in these areas, the entire problem would be nonexistent. I would leave Brown but continue fighting for my dreams within my moral ability. I had fully expected stripping to be beyond my grasp — but I was learning that placing expectations and prejudices on a shelf accelerates the search for truth. In this case, I could truthfully say that topless dancing was a possibility. I was also excited. It seemed I was embarking on a journey of self-discovery and an adventure of sensuality, truth, and humor.
But what would my mother say?
Monday, early evening: I sat in class, one fresh, scrubbed face among a dozen. As a junior I had qualified for the course, a senior seminar in American Civilization. It explored how the original colonists’ beliefs shaped early American society. This class met once a week, from six to nine. I struggled not to fidget as my debut on stage was imminent. I had already established ground rules for myself. The first was that school was priority one. School, after all, was the reason for this foray into titillation.
As a contestant in Amateur Night, I was supposed to be at the club by seven. I called the club before class
where did I get these guts?
and requested permission to arrive late. Allan helped me out again — allowing me to compete at twelve, in the finals. Hanging up the phone I was suddenly struck.
What do I wear? I don’t know how to dance! High heels? — I don’t have any!
I improvised.
Improvisation seems to be becoming my forte.
<
br /> I found a black lace bodysuit that persistently gathered between my butt cheeks.
As close as I’ve got to a G-string!
Black skirt, black jacket, and my dressy black shoes, not high sexy things, but at least they had a heel. I learned about “basics dressing” in Cosmopolitan magazine, but I certainly hadn’t planned on using it this way. Straight from class, I slipped into my outfit.
I’m sweating already!
I drove to Amateur Night. The club was in action. Girls dancing everywhere I looked; I even glimpsed their bare breasts.
So embarrassing, but lucrative, right?
I forced myself to remember why I was here, why I was enduring such discomfort.
Ivy League Stripper Page 14
