Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  “Why does he take a cut?”

  “That’s how he makes his money. No one pays him! And the house cut — what are you gonna do about that? What’s left over is seventy percent. Your cut.”

  The bidding stopped at $225 for Bunnie. She thanked her bidder and returned to the dressing room, wishing Bobbie luck as she passed. Bobbie’s high bid was $240. When she jumped down from the tables she shook a fist at her wrestler and asked, “Do you have any idea how much I can hurt you?”

  He looked at her, bewildered and excited.

  “Just kidding. Ha! Sucker!” She laughed and flicked the tip of his nose with her fingernail.

  Bunnie, now wearing a pink athletic halter and black bodysuit, jumped barefoot back up on the table for the manager auction. “The manager is the guy who puts the oil or cream on you and holds your towel and water bottle,” Bobbie told me.

  “How much of you — me — do they get to touch?”

  “Up to your mid-thigh, your arms, shoulders, and back. And if they get weird, like too touchy-feely or something, the bouncer or referee will stop them.”

  “If a bouncer doesn’t notice

  “Then you tell them. But don’t worry, the bouncers will be watching like hawks! And if you don’t like something, just slide back into the ring. The guy is standing outside the ring — he can’t reach you unless you’re on the very edge by the ropes.”

  Bunnie was “sold” to her manager, so it was Bobbie’s turn. In the meantime, the winners of the first auction were prepared. After their credit cards were processed, they were quickly shuffled to their changing rooms, just down the hall behind our dressing room. There they changed into Foxy shorts, were briefed by the ref, then herded down the hall to the Knockout room. By the time they reached the ring, Bobbie and Bunnie had been greased up by their managers, to the delight of the crowd.

  The emcee shouted, “Weighing in at a combined total weight of 437 pounds, Joe Schmo and John Doe! Hmm, doesn’t sound like their real names! But then again, if YOU had challenged Bobbie the Bruiser and the Ballistic Bunnie to a wrestling match would you want to give your real name?”

  Joe and John wobbled on their knees — the required position — while Bobbie and Bunnie whispered in their ears.

  “What are they saying?” I asked Neeki.

  “Probably telling them to be mellow and do what they tell them to do,” she replied. “Although with Bobbie, you never know. She could be planning a tag team switchover. That would mean they exchange opponents. Who knows?”

  Bobbie and Bunnie then climbed onto the ropes opposite the men and began hurling taunts and threats from their perch. “So, you think you’re a big man? Come and get me. Nanana, na na naaa.”

  The men couldn’t do anything, Neeki explained. They had to wait for the bell.

  Oh, a perverted use of Pavlovian training.

  “How is it that no one gets hurt?”

  “The men can’t get off their knees. They can’t grab too hard. They can’t hold for too long. They can’t do anything too aggressively.”

  “So,” I challenged, “we just roll them around in oil like giant dumplings?”

  Neeki smiled, “Yep, that’s about it.”

  “No, wait,” I said. “What if they get snuggly or rub against you?”

  “Then they’re thrown out, and lose all their money. The bouncers or the ref will pull him out or jump in after him. But don’t worry, Heidi, the ref explains the rules to them before they get into the ring.”

  “If all it amounts to is gentle horseplay, why do they pay for it? What’s the attraction?”

  “Attention, Heidi. They just want a little attention. The roughest match might give you stubble burn on your legs, and if you hold on to the ropes too hard, you’ll develop calluses.”

  They “wrestled” for three rounds. For the few seconds between rounds they rested, conferred with their managers, and wiped the oil from their eyes. The score was kept, with a lot of creativity, by the refs. Then Willie announced the score: “Joe Schmo and John Doe win! Twenty-two points to seventeen.”

  “No fuckin’ way!” Bobbie exploded with rage. She slipped out of the ring like a seal, cornered Willie, and gave him an oily, dripping hug. Then she turned to the audience, accepted their applause, and made a graceful exit. In the hall she thanked her opponent sincerely, then headed for the dressing room. She was first to shower because she and Neeki were boxing after the next wrestling match. She had to look good again in only twenty minutes.

  Robin and Tawni were ready and waiting in the hallway, leaning close against the walls so no oil would touch them as the previous wrestlers passed. Once the ring was clear, the next fantasy dance was announced. As a sexy vampire, Tawni made her entrance through a cloud of theatrical smoke. Back in the dressing room I asked Bobbie,”Do I have to be a boxer? Couldn’t I just wrestle?”

  “Nope, you gotta do both if you wanna be a Knockout. But you won’t actually box till you’re trained — maybe your first bout will be in a couple of months. By then, you’ll be ready.”

  “How does the money work if we only box each other?”

  “The club pays you fifty and you get your regular cut from the manager’s bid,” she yelled, frantically drying her hair.

  “What does the boxing manager do?” I hollered back.

  “Manages you. Tells you how to box, plans your strategy

  I was catching on now. “And coaches you, massages your aching muscles, keeps the sweat from dripping in your eyes. Right?”

  “You got it, Heidi-Ho!” Bobbie high-fived me.

  “Why do men like it — and pay for it?” I asked then, not expecting an answer.

  The responses from Bobbie, Bunnie, and Neeki, bounced in stereo around me: “They’re idiots, that’s why.” “They think we really love them.” “They can’t get any action at home, this is the closest they got.”

  It doesn’t really matter. I’m here for the money.

  It may not have mattered financially, but I found myself intrigued by all the aspects of my new job. Since I’d arrived, I’d been visually feasting on lockers full of colorful costumes, sparkly underwear, fringed push-up bras, and fancy high heels. I was curious about all of it, although the shoes worried me. Like the stage areas worried me. How do I dance and look graceful in heels atop narrow, oil-coated tables?

  I watched Neeki up on the tabletops — she kept one hand on a bar hidden just below the ceiling, and she didn’t really dance too much. Mostly she gyrated, as though there was a wave moving through her body. And she smiled a lot, occasionally flirting with an adoring patron. “Hi, baby! How are you tonight?”

  I looked like a stripper nerd! Cotton bikini underwear, like the ones I usually wore, wouldn’t cut it here. And my lacy, special occasion underwear was either too see-through or didn’t cover me securely enough. The one bra I considered exotic, because it was black, looked boring compared to the sparkling, rainbow-hued selection I saw all around me. I looked forward to sewing stripper clothes for myself and even began planning my designs.

  All evening the Knockouts were happy to share their wisdom with me, the newest newgirl they had seen in a while. I progressed so rapidly, and was so eager, that by eleven-thirty I was ready to wrestle my first opponent.

  My Brown liberal arts education was benefiting me already.

  Rockin’ Robin lent me her Nasty Nurse outfit and all the girls coached me on my moves. They said I was a natural, but I think my talent was more nervous energy and a fear of looking silly.

  How can I not please this audience? They are programmed to be thrilled by seeing a naked woman. All I have to do is show up.

  I wrestled twice that first night and came home paying for it. I suffered from a sore stomach because I laughed so hard. At first my giggles were from embarrassment and nervousness, but it quickly became all fun. It was play, pretend, make-believe. Stress-relief therapy. Juvenile. It wasn’t violent, although it looked that way. It was impossible to be serious while rolling around in
a slippery pit, only pretending to compete. I wasn’t groped sexually. The men seemed to understand what was appropriate; playful pins, gentle log-rolling. They didn’t want to hurt me either. They were grateful to be my personal weeble-wobble toy. And they were happy for the attention, both from the crowd and the girls in the ring.

  I also discovered I had painfully squeaky skin and hair. After rolling around in mineral oil as a full-fledged Knockout I had no choice but to scrub with Dawn dishwashing detergent, the only cleanser that successfully cut the grease. (Bobbie explained this to me.) Besides the shower at work, I bathed again at home in an attempt to restore my battered body. The bath also became a time to reflect on my fledgling adventures in the skin trade.

  The wrestling didn’t hurt, but it could. The level of control was limited by the slippery surfaces. And I had to wonder, if a guy got rough, how fast could the bouncers be? I sat in the tub, surprised by how quickly my descent into the Foxy Lady world had been.

  What did this say about me?

  I still felt some trepidation, which was my safety net. I was taking it one day at a time. I had to admit, though, this first shift had gone very well. I earned $235.

  Amazing!

  And I fit in nicely with my co-workers. The other girls loved my enthusiasm and theatrical ability. But my most helpful quality was my modesty and humbleness. I could see the competitiveness lurking. Money was an issue for all of the girls.

  The Knockouts were like a family. Not like the upstairs girls. They ignored one another, and ignored Jackie the screamer, relentlessly going about their business, dour expressions until they were on the floor, then broad lipstick grins. Besides Tamara’s dynamism I didn’t sense much fun upstairs, or support. But from my Knockout sisters, I’d felt accepted from the night Art had me drop my top.

  Not even a week ago!

  I was eager for the practice scheduled the next day. But I’d said to Bobbie,”How will I ever be a boxer like you guys? I’m not tough.” We were sitting in the empty Sport Saloon waiting for the emcee to figure out our cuts from the bids.

  Bobbie laughed wickedly and grabbed me in a headlock. Cheerily, she assured me,”You’re tougher than you think, Heidi-Ho! You’ll see.” I laughed, too, even though the noogie she gave me hurt.

  Boxing practice was grueling and athletic but always humorous. It wasn’t as daunting as I’d anticipated to learn the moves. I had a harder time recognizing Badass Briana without her hair spray, makeup, and tinted contact lenses; her real lips were half the size of her “work” lips! The stunts were straight from WWF (on late-night TV) — lots of drama, subtle timing, and loads of enthusiasm. Even though the moves were too rough to use when wrestling unsuspecting customers, they were great for jazzing up the boxing matches. I truly excelled at moaning in pain, writhing jerkily with a back injury, and faking a nose-breaking knockout. My weakness was smiling — the show seemed so funny to me; it was just too ridiculous. My tough-girl act would last about eight seconds. I couldn’t even curse with conviction. My face gave me away. This was a good reason to keep my gloves up — I had trouble remembering otherwise. I never really learned to keep a straight face. Even my own grossly swollen face couldn’t convince me. (Maybe I took a few too many spinning backfists in practice?)

  Wrestling the customers left little room for these stunts, however. After a few weeks of training I was confident enough to sneak them in; they were great crowd pleasers. I would rile up the audience by asking them, “You want me to kick his butt?” Then I would turn to my victim

  who has paid for the honor

  and threaten, “You’re going down, you bad, bad boy.”

  They loved it.

  This was one of those times. I had just growled to Kyle, my wrestling opponent, that his demise was near. He was wiggling in anticipation. He had outbid a bachelor party full of big-spending mafiosi — not an easy or cheap feat — in order to get near me. (I had enchanted him with my intellect and sweetness.)

  He liked that I was a newgirl.

  I was straddling his prone figure, both of us coated in shaving cream and breathing hard. I looked down and narrowed my eyes. “You’re in for it now, buddy.”

  This is so unlike me!

  Kyle and I and Neeki and her customer had grappled our way through two rounds; this was the last. Naughty Neeki and I climbed the ropes to “catch some air.” We exchanged high fives with a cheery “Whoop!” Our two victims lay defenseless below.

  Those are the rules.

  I yelled, “Spread your legs!” Kyle appeared confused. I repeated, “Spread ‘em! And don’t move!” I had seen Neeki and Bobbie the Bruiser do this every night, I was psyched to try it.

  The bell signaled the round and we jumped, Neeki and I, right knees raised, aiming straight for the …

  Why they love this so much I will never understand.

  We actually aimed for two inches below their crotches, close enough to take their breath away and wow the audience, but not close enough to cause any physical damage. Usually.

  I slipped, that’s all. I’m so sorry.

  I was, honestly, very sorry.

  He’ll never give me money again.

  Kyle lay prone, silent, as if the air had been forced out of his body. A collective groan rose from the audience, then turned to cheering and laughter. Needless to say, Kyle wasn’t much of an opponent the rest of the round. When it was over I had to help him out of the ring. From the faces of the guys closest to the ring, Kyle wasn’t the only one feeling the pain. One man stood as we passed by on our way to the dressing room. He murmured soberly, “I feel your pain.” But Kyle forgave me, even wrestled me again.

  Each night I witnessed the upstairs scene. Besides the introductions at the beginning of the shift, we occasionally walked through the table-dance section holding round cards to drum up business.

  It is so sexual up here. Completely different mood, so personal and intimate. I wouldn’t feel comfortable here. Anyway, how can they make any real money? A dollar here, a dollar there?

  Downstairs, we earned a percentage of our bids. Additionally I made money Kissing-for-Tipping. Although this had horrified me at first, after Bobbie the Bruiser’s explanation and one exhibition, I grasped the concept and made it mine. The “kiss” was yet more theatrics. I’d grab the bill as I moved in, then, with both hands holding the man’s head firmly, I’d throw my hair over his face and waiting lips while planting a platonic smooch on his neck, ear, shirt, or shoulder. It was over before they realized and so much fun nobody ever complained. They enjoyed being duped. A Knockout could always clear a couple of hundred per four-hour shift.

  How much more did the upstairs girls make? I knew they made ten per table dance, but that act seems too sexy for me. And their shifts begin at 6:30; the Knockouts didn’t start till 9:30. I couldn’t work up there, anyway. Jackie (the screamer) is the house mom.

  I felt more comfortable in the Knockout Sport Saloon. The atmosphere was less sexual; it even took on a sense of family. The girls stuck together for the most part. One night four fraternity brothers were drinking and partying, watching me dance as Art auctioned me. “Who wants to get in the ring with Heavenly Heidi? The hot, hot Heidi!” I was dancing on the countertop in front of them, twirling around their beers, and staring at them while they stared up at me.

  Two of them could be good-looking, but they’re a little pale, a little thin. One is already losing his hair, poor guy. The short one on the end has that swollen stunned look. Could be a football player, and he looks sleepy. He’s probably boring. Hmm, the one with two beers might be attractive. Big, thick curly brown hair, looks like a young Marlon Brando. But he’s in here. Too bad. That’s where I draw the line.

  The customers began to look familiar.

  Frat boys — I’ve probably seen them around campus. But then, I shouldn’t be paranoid, they could be from any school.

  They didn’t recognize me. Not right away. Art repeated my name a dozen times, trying to sell me to the dwindling late-n
ight crowd. Suddenly one of them looked at his buddies, asking excitedly, “Heidi?” Their heads swiveled in unison, passing my body, to double-check my face.

  Eyes wide, like children at the zoo, they announced, “Heidi!”

  Oops, they are Brownies. Yeah, big deal, guys. She lives, she breathes, she strips. (She studies, too, but that isn’t so exciting.)

  “I’ll wrestle her.” “No, I’m wrestling her.” “Yo dude, let’s all wrestle her!”

  Oh, here we go. They’re enjoying this for the wrong reasons. But they probably don’t have any money.

  They were Brown students.

  Of course they have money. They have daddy’s credit cards.

  Art now loved them — they were business! He got paid out of the bids, just like the Knockouts. Easily, he learned their names: Thomas (the Brando look-alike), Rick, David, and Stuart (the balding one). Almost as easily, Art extracted a generous amount of cash from them. By secretly arranging Chuck and Angelo, who as usual were hanging out in the club, as plants, Art forced as high a bid as he dared. Stuart paid $435 to wrestle me.