“Stuart’s the lucky man!” Art announced gleefully. “He’s won three rounds of slippin’ and slidin’ with Heavenly Heidi in the pit of cream!”
Just doing my job. Although they were Brown students, the match was nothing special.
I was showering in the Knockout’s dressing room afterward when my co-workers and I heard Stuart and Thomas, who had wrestled Tawni, in the locker room adjacent, discussing the match. They didn’t realize we could hear them gushing through the thin wall.
“That was so fuckin’ hot. The guys aren’t gonna believe it! That babe in English class — I wrestled her. Wait till we get back and tell everyone this fuckin’ story!”
Hot? Shaving cream in your face, knee drops, and headlocks? That’s not hot, that’s abuse you paid for. Fun, yes, but no one thinks it’s hot.
I poked my face out of the shower, Dawn detergent still stinging the stubble burn and scratches from the ring. Bobbie the Bruiser was frozen, ear cocked, to the wall. “Those assholes,” she whispered.
They’re in for it now.
“Hey, asshole,” she yelled, “don’t be messin’ with my friend!”
I didn’t know how loyal and protective Bobbie could be. Her insults and warnings flew until she had them humbled and wanting to make friends. “Why don’t you come over to our place?” they said.
Bobbie was pissed and let them have it all over again. “What? No fuckin’ way. I have better things to do …”
“No, no, I’m talking to Heidi. Why don’t you give us a little show after work, Heidi?”
Way off base.
I was furious.
They have got to be joking.
Bobbie was even more furious. She and Neeki and Tawni, even sulky Briana got into it. Bigger than the power struggles among the girls was their passionate team spirit. Regardless of my fancy school and relatively straightlaced lifestyle they had accepted me as one of them. They were proud of me, I strengthened their sense of self-respect and integrity. As upset as I was about my blown cover, I felt calm.
I” will not be ashamed.
I rinsed and dried off. My girls were taking care of me.
The damage is done. There is no denying it. I am a stripper. Am I prepared for the reactions?
I maintained a low profile, attending my classes, studying at home, and working four nights at the club. At first, I told only my upstairs neighbors, fellow Brownies. They were used to my stories — thought I was exotic because I had driven motorcycles and run my own business. I framed stripping as just another adventure. I’m sure they didn’t realize what a big deal it was to me. I did, however, take one of them aside. Maurice was a sweet pre-med student. I knew that if I let him, he would be a decent friend. I asked him to watch me for signs of trouble — moral change, disappearance, craziness.
I’m still very worried about what this “adventure” may do to me.
Around that same time, a month after I began working at the Foxy Lady, I told Reid, my fellow financial aid veteran. We sat at Ben and Jerry’s, stealing from each other’s ice cream dishes. “I’m working at the Foxy Lady,” I blurted. He raised his head, eyebrow cocked, mouth open, ice cream dripping.
He’s shocked. You must be really awful, Heidi.
He grinned. A wide grin.
Oh, maybe not.
“Cool.”
But then again, he is a guy.
He shared my concern for safety, but laughed off my question, “Will it change me?”
“Heidi, babe” — he took my hand, his green eyes shining — “if you want to be corrupted, you will be corrupted.”
He has a point. I’m past being easily influenced.
“And if you want to be corrupted,” he continued in a Groucho Marx voice, “you come to me. Ill take care of your corruption.” We laughed and I began sharing my stories with him. Like the third time I did my fantasy dance: I strutted across the narrow countertop, energetically maneuvering around beers, ashtrays, and men’s fingers.
I am hot. They love me. Maybe I’ll try that hip-swivel thing Neeki does so well.
I started to move my hips sideways. Suggestively, I hoped.
But Neeki is Brazilian, born and bred. Those moves are natural.
My progress down the counter had accelerated, and due to the hip swivel I was attempting, I missed the corner. The slick surfaces kept me going straight and my graceless butt motions drove me down. Hard. I landed bum flat on the counter, putting an end to the Brazilian buttock shake. But the momentum from my enthusiastic strut still possessed me. I slid off the end of the counter, thankfully with my legs spread because I finally came to rest straddling the head of a very happy customer.
I told Reid about Bambi, the pathological liar/Ford model who plucked her leg and arm hairs out, one by one, in between wrestling matches. She was also infamous for tearful tirades during which she begged for money for her “emergency surgeries.” She was a great actress.
You do hone acting skills in this line of work. The line between reality and fantasy can become blurry — or very clear, depending on the strength of your personality. I have a strong personality, don’t I?
I didn’t tell Reid about the rabbi, although I thought of the vile man more often than I liked.
I don’t waste my energy on negativity.
Reid and I shared some laughs over the brawl between Badass Briana and Bobbie the Bruiser. Both girls were street-smart, both products of difficult family lives. When they boxed, deep-seated frustrations and aggression bubbled up here and there, especially when one girl misjudged or mistimed, landing a punch harder than planned or expected. An especially raucous match had just transpired, ninety percent of it theatrics. The remaining ten percent was personal stuff being vented — which was normal — and as long as they cooled off separately all would be forgotten in twenty minutes.
Threats were exchanged, insults tossed — mainly for the crowd’s benefit — then each girl made a beeline for the locker room. Briana was first in, chest heaving and wild eyes flashing. Then Bobbie rushed in, followed by Joey (a referee, and Briana’s present squeeze). Part of Joey’s job was to separate crazed boxers, so he was about to physically remove Briana, who was in Bobbie’s face, teasing, “Awww, the tough girl ain’t so tough after all. Huh, you can’t take it? Huh?”
Joey wasn’t fast enough. Bobbie turned her head away, slapping Briana with her well-sprayed torrent of curly hair. I saw Bobbie draw in a deep breath, obviously ready to spill a bucket or two of obscenities and insults back at Briana. She turned slowly, ready to release her volley. She began by slamming her locker door with all her might.
Which is a substantial amount.
Then, instead of insults, Bobbie released a screech capable of waking the patrons passed out in their cars in the parking lot.
Surprised by the new decibel level achieved by Bobbie, Briana commenced yelling back at the top of her voice. “What? You think you can scream in my face? You fuckin’ bitch …”
Joey dove between them.
Hey! A show — in the dressing room.
Unbeknownst to Briana and Joey, Bobbie, when slamming her locker door, had caught her finger in it. This succeeded in breaking it quite neatly, and quite painfully. Briana, still unaware of Bobbie’s accident, wasn’t about to let Bobbie yell louder. Joey attempted to play diplomat.
“Jesus! Bobbie! Calm the fuck down.”
“She’s a fuckin’ wuss. She can’t take it! She knows I’m gonna kill her,” Briana continued.
Joey’s limited negotiating skills weren’t going to smooth this rough spot. Lifting her in a bear hug around the middle, he extracted his girlfriend Briana, but not without throwing his own vocal barb at the hysterical Bobbie.
“Stop cryin’, you fuckin’ baby.”
The truth eventually came out, once Bobbie was capable of sharing it with us. She was taken to the emergency room by a bouncer even before Briana returned to the dressing room. Despite the incident being a misunderstanding, Bobbie and Briana ruffled ea
ch other’s feathers for the following couple of weeks anyway.
I’m such a priss compared to these girls, but they love me, anyway.
The girls loved me — but not unconditionally. I told Reid about the night I set a new record for a high bid. (Six hundred and seventy-five dollars! And my manager bid three fifty!)
Displaying my body for hundreds of admiring
monetarily responsive
men was thrilling, especially that night. The energy in the Sport Saloon reached a new peak as Art announced the winning bid and excused me from the counter. Usually another Knockout would offer a hand as I jumped the three feet to the floor, but I was alone this time. I barely caught Bobbie’s horrified stare and Briana’s disgusted expression.
Oops, the student has surpassed the teachers. Not good. Play it down. In the dressing room I heard one girl muttering, “She hasn’t even got boobs!”
Another big night was when I wrestled the bachelor from a bachelor party, who then bought me for his chauffeur, who in turn bought me again for the best man.
Yikes, I know what the feminists would think of this.
The bachelor and best man were complete gentlemen. Polite, not too drunk, and nicely embarrassed. The chauffeur, however, was a different story. He was a gem. The guy was nearly a carbon copy of the Letterman Show’s Larry “Bud” Melman (elderly, tiny, white-haired, innocent baby face), with a demeanor kinder than Santa Claus. Watching from the sidelines, he fell in love with me. “My, you look just like an angel! You are the most exquisite little darling. What a sweet girl, you must be a college girl, no?” He shared a few pleasantries with me, but mainly watched me work from across the room. When the bachelor party he was driving surprised him with me as a gift, he was overwhelmed. “I couldn’t. No. She’s so sweet, I can’t wrestle her. I just want to look at her. I couldn’t …”
Well, he could. Barely. We giggled, rolled like toddlers in the slippery ring. I even gave him a couple of freak hairdos with the shaving cream, and we talked, although he didn’t get much beyond the sweet nothings.
He’s so sincere. And so nice. What a joy.
I also told Reid of my early suspicions about a discreet business being conducted within the club, a business having nothing to do with naked women. Chuck and Angelo, whom I saw almost every night I worked, were curious to me. I never saw them spend money, besides the big bills Angelo gave me. They acted important, whispering seriously to each other and to several of the bouncers. They certainly looked important: impeccably dressed, gold jewelry, fancy shoes, hair slicked down. They never seemed to be part of the scene. Sure, they watched the show, but on closer examination I determined that they were distracted. Whether watching the crowd or murmuring among themselves, something else was going on.
Maybe they are the owners?
I asked them once, “Do you work here?”
They laughed kindly, and Angelo bent his head to mine, speaking softly, “No, honey, but I can help you. What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. Thank you. I just thought, well, ah, you’re always here — well, not always, but…”
“Hey, honey, I’m your friend. Here you go,” he replied gently, pressing a bill in my hand.
I heard stories from the other girls. About a million in cash that had been stolen from the safe in the club office. “An inside job,” they said.
Whatever that means. Wait, why would a million be in the safe, in cash? And who would know about it?
I was intrigued. And happy to see no evidence of abuse, prostitution, sex-slave trafficking …
Not that I’m dropping my guard. Stripping is really only a business, but who knows about these rumors?
I had bigger worries. Although part of me was celebrating the loosening of my financial yoke, there was a price to pay Christmas was approaching, and Mom was expecting me.
Would I lie? I’ll have to. She’ll only worry. This is your cross to bear, Heidi.
I was also expected to expand my Beverly Hills Knockout skills. My first boxing match landed the day before I was to drive home to Maine. I had trained and practiced. I would never be more ready.
I’ll never be a natural, though.
It didn’t come easy to me, all that aggression. I must say, in my defense, that my “selling” skills were top-notch. I could suffer violently, flip loudly, and tremble in a knockout spasm like no Knockout before me. Briana the Badass was my partner for my first match. She was well trained and usually kept control in the ring.
Usually being the operative word.
Actress that I am, I initially suffered from stage fright. My body shook with fear as I came out to a cheering crowd. I stuck my chest out.
Not far.
I tried to be tough. But I still had the problem: I couldn’t keep a straight face.
You’re just not meant to be mean! You can’t even swear!
Art and I saved the situation. He emphasized my newgirl status. “Gentlemen, this is Heavenly Heidi’s first time in the ring! She is challenging one of the baddest boxers in the circuit. Are we with her?”
I stood next to him. A shy
truly shy at this point
smile won the crowd over. I was in.
The first round went well. Briana coached me and reminded me of my moves by headlocking me then talking to me, or she cornered me and told me what to do in between body shots. Our gloves were padded (a little) but we didn’t wear any protective gear, just brief athletic tops, satin short shorts, and pink LA Gear sneakers. Tragedy struck in the second round, when a really hard punch was landed. Really landed. By me. I underestimated my reach, punched right onto Badass Briana’s cute little nose.
Oops.
Like a bull seeing red, she was inflamed.
Like her nose!
And I was doomed. She pounded me soundly for the rest of the round. I forgot the basic tenets of boxing, how to move and how to hold the gloves. I was skedaddling around and around the ring. With my gloves down. Smiling. While she generously vented her anger and pain.
Between the second and last round, Bobbie attempted to help. I am beyond help. But why am I smiling?
She screamed in my ear, “Keep your gloves up, keep your gloves up!” I could barely see Neeki and the ref, Joey, calming Briana down. Briana wasn’t having any of it; she only stared past them, giving me her evil eye. Then Joey was at my side. “Can you do this round, Heidi? I’ll end it now if you want.”
I can’t quit. I can do it. I can do it.
“No, Joey, I can do it,” I said, blubbering and laughing.
He looked at me, unbelieving. “OK, keep those gloves up!”
Keep the gloves up.
The bell rang. Round Three.
Keep the gloves up.
I immediately dropped them. Briana smacked me.
That was a good one!
I laughed. She punched. I giggled, and ran.
It finally ended with me laughing, my sense utterly knocked out of me.
Hilarious.
The girls and floor hosts dragged me, giggling, into the dressing room. There I immediately started sobbing.
I recovered, learning a few things. One, learn my “reach.” Two, keep my gloves up. And three, when push comes to shove, don’t expect any mercy from Briana.
The spectacle, like all matches, was recorded for posterity, and for $29-95, on videotape. Chuck and Angelo later told me they bought it — the match was funnier and tougher than any they had ever witnessed.
I get the feeling they have witnessed quite a few.
The crew replayed it at the end of the shift, triggering another fit of my uncontrollable laughter. Yes, I was sore, but the tape was very funny.
Mom loves sports bloopers. For some reason I don’t think she would appreciate this one in the same way.
My mother was very much on my mind. She looked forward to Christmas and having the family together. I wasn’t about to spoil any of the traditions.
But you’re not a liar, Heidi. How are you g
oing to manage this?
I did it. I celebrated Christmas, sat around the dinner table, found safe stories to entertain with. I was miserably uncomfortable.
This is so unnatural.
I wanted so much to tell them about my adventures. I had to repress it all — and cover my bruises by wearing makeup, which was also out of character for me.
Ivy League Stripper Page 17
