“Erich,” I said, stopping him and leaning forward for emphasis, “I am glad that you’re openminded. I truly appreciate that.” It was clear to me that I had won him over. He was impressed and intrigued by me and my story. As far as Erich was concerned, I had overcome the stigma by challenging the stereotype, simply by being myself. But I knew Erich was out of the ordinary — he was sophisticated and, more important, understood that business was not directly related to personal character. We became close friends, philosophically two outsiders at Brown, relieved to have met each other. His girlfriend was terribly worried by our connection: I wasn’t only another woman, I was a stripper!
Oh my!
Erich’s total acceptance and unlimited support buoyed my determination to succeed, proudly, regardless of my method.
My choices would always reflect on me, for better or worse. My choice to perform topless was so titillating it overwhelmed the other aspects of myself. I was up for the challenge of overcoming this by creating something that was bigger and stronger than the stigma — my character. My hope was beginning to grow, but still I believed it was important to avoid mixing school and work.
One night the boundary was crossed. Maurice, my upstairs neighbor, turned twenty-one on a night I happened to be working. As a gag, he decided to come in and see what I had described as a “funny show.” His reaction was not quite what either of us had expected. He was embarrassed, well beyond giggles and blushing, to the point of becoming next to mute. I felt supremely uncomfortable, more so than any other time at work. With kindness but force I told the cowering Maurice, “Please leave. You’re obviously troubled by this. You’re making me feel troubled. I have to work, and I can’t do it like this!” Needless to say, he left. The event reminded me of my own doubts.
Then disaster hit with Mark. Apparently he had been repressing his discomfort regarding my topless work for the two months we had been dating. To make matters worse, his roommates had been setting off little rumor and scandal bombs in his mind day after day. I didn’t know they had progressed beyond the nympho jokes until it was too late. Mark ultimately disintegrated in the space of a few days, lost in a massive nervous breakdown. At one point he accused me of making pornographic films with his roommates; the very next day he was ready to kill the roommates to protect my honor. I was utterly shocked and confused. He was expelled from school for psychological reasons. Before he left he sadly told me, “I know you’re going to have sex with other men. A girl like you has to have it all the time.”
At the time of his collapse I failed to recognize the extent and cause of his strange behavior. (He had other, deep-seated personal problems.) Instead, I reacted with hurt and dismay. I took his paranoia and nervousness to be a statement against me personally. My defensiveness and self-righteous posture didn’t allow me to empathize or even sympathize. It was years before we could speak like friends with one another again.
I honestly felt I was doing right by me, but I feared I wasn’t doing right by anyone else. I either lied or upset people. Only a few were able to be totally comfortable with it. I was hurting those I loved, either directly through my actions or indirectly through my lies, as with my family. This mattered, I knew. But I felt that being true to myself also mattered. I was conducting my exploration with great thought and a strong sense of accountability, but that did not make it painless for those I cared for. I would never presume to push my choices on anyone else. But my actions represented a political stance, one I could live with. It was the pain and deceit that I couldn’t tolerate.
The act of being loyal to myself was turning me into a hesitant revolutionary. Like it or not, my personal beliefs needed to be justified if I were ever to be appreciated. A watered-down version of myself I refused to become, but how could I explain my decisions?
I looked at the family photo taken at Christmas. The holiday visit had been painfully awkward. It had been only six weeks after I took the topless plunge. I had been horribly discomfited by my lack of honesty. I had stayed only two days, lying the entire time. I had rushed back to Brown and the safe haven of the Foxy Lady. Money was a great comfort.
I refused to be ashamed of my stripper status. Recalling the rabbi strengthened my resolve that some methods of advancement were objectionable because they were dishonest and unethical, and other methods, like stripping, were objectionable because they were socially unacceptable. Socially unacceptable did not equal bad, dishonest, or immoral. My closest friends, Erich and Reid, both of whom I greatly respected, believed in me. More important, I believed in me. However, I demanded of myself an explanation of my own behavior: was society’s hypocrisy (that I was finding so offensive) the same insincerity that was compelling me to conceal my topless work from my family? Why must I have two lives?
I turned to Queenie for advice. I was wary of her, but I appreciated her perspective and experience. Our conversation disappointed me. While commiserating with me, she expressed her belief that lying was a necessary, minor evil. If she didn’t lie, she said, she would forfeit her multimillion-dollar inheritance.
This doesn’t help. Vve no inheritance to be concerned with, just my self-respect and the feelings of my family. I should have known she wouldn’t understand. Principles don’t add up in her bank book.
She did share an example of misperceptions, one that horrified me. Charles, her regular, worth at least ten grand in tips a year, happened to see her out dining with her husband. In the restaurant Charles confronted her indignantly, jealously demanding, “How much is he paying you for this?”
Imagining the scene disgusted me. How misled was Charles, and who was responsible for misleading him? Manipulation was a common tool of the trade. The men often expected it, wanted it. It wasn’t always intended, however. Katrina was a stripper who was especially adept at unconsciously exploiting her admirers. She would wander the stage, listless and withdrawn most of her sets. With her Marilyn Monroe face blank, her hands stumbling mindlessly over her breasts, she enchanted the men without even knowing it. Or did she?
I managed to play the stripper game while maintaining my self-respect. It was a touchy line to walk. Often I lost customers and cash because I was unwilling to foster and pamper a fantasy image and/or storyline. I found over time, however, that certain clientele were attracted to my personality, as real as it was. Yes, I was still a sex object, but I didn’t have to talk like one, or even feel like one. I allowed that my body, my exterior, was a sexual object, but my mind was mine. I was beyond being degraded or made powerless by a gaze.
Only a few months into my Foxy Lady career, my strong sense of integrity had won the management over. They enlisted my help in keeping the spacey Katrina off drugs. She had already been fired twice for being under the influence. Rather than spy, I was her friend. We had been getting closer regardless, but the noble cause gave me another reason to care. My Samaritan impulses almost dragged me down with her, though.
One night she wanted me to meet her newest boyfriend. With concern and sincere interest, I agreed. He was picking her up at the end of the night. (Management allowed pickups only with the completion of proper forms prior to the shift, a responsible protective feature of the Foxy Lady.) At 1:30 A.M. Katrina and I emerged, faces scrubbed, dressed in jeans and sweaters. Jack was waiting for Katrina, and, as loitering was absolutely forbidden, we both climbed into the little sports car. Jack proceeded to drive around the block a few times so we could exchange hellos. He was pleasant and polite, a tired but handsome young fisherman, and obviously in love with the now perky Katrina. I was relieved and happy for the two of them and ready to get back to my own car. It was a Tuesday night and I had a nine o’clock class in the morning. Work was one thing, but staying out late for nonconstructive activities bored me. I was ready to get home.
The officer trailing Jack had another idea. She pulled him over, then claimed to smell marijuana in the car. Jack was placed in the cruiser’s backseat while half the city’s police squad was called to the scene. Katrina and I w
ere ordered out of the car and questioned. Who were we? What was our destination? Where were we coming from? Two strippers, one claiming she has early Spanish class up the hill at Brown, with a sleepy fisherman driving them around town did not look good. Katrina and I had our bags and pockets emptied for us. Luckily I had only my wallet with four hundred plus (in large bills, thanks to the Knockout bookkeeper). Katrina, though, had lipsticks, hair spray, loose sticks of gum, several G-strings, a pink feathered fan, and at least three hundred one-dollar bills. The bills were fanned out across the trunk of the car by two officers. Checking for what, I never knew.
What they expected to find on our bodies I could imagine (I watch television), but imagination wasn’t enough for the Providence police. We were instructed to pull our sweaters down, to prove that there was nothing hidden in our bosoms. I understood how they could ask Katrina. Her breasts were ample enough for an Uzi and a kilo. But mine? Neither of us were packing anything but dried sweat and the occasional sequin, evidence of an honest shift at work. Jack proved clean also, but not till we had been badgered and threatened for an hour and a half.
“Tell me, where are you hiding it?” the police officers repeated. They even lied, telling us, “Your boyfriend gave us the dirt on you both, you might as well give it up. It’ll be easier for you if you do. We’ve got you two, either way.”
Eventually the captain screamed up in a patrol car, making a total of five black and whites lighting up the street in the middle of the night. He took a report from the original officer, then barked, “Wrap it up!” He sped away, after flashing Katrina and me the meanest look I ever experienced. The officers helped Jack out of the cruiser and instructed the three of us to drive carefully. No violation.
I was a hot mass of fury and astonishment. Looking back, I see I lacked the sense to be worried. It could have been worse. I wondered how differently we would have been treated had we been three students returning home from the library.
The next week Tawni’s boyfriend died of an overdose. That wasn’t her only problem. Besides the broken ankle, her energy had been sapped to a dangerous degree. Apparently her health had been greatly compromised by her drug use. Her petite body could no longer metabolize the abuse; it was shutting down. She was down for the count and the prognosis wasn’t good. I hadn’t realized the extent of her drug involvement; she’d seemed just fine.
Neeki seemed fine. Katrina seemed fine. I seemed fine. Now I realized I couldn’t be certain for anyone but myself.
I had a decision to make. Summer break was approaching. It was time to return to money making, topless or otherwise, or adjust my educational plan. I could complete my degree back in California, for a twentieth of Brown’s cost, or remain at Brown and work frantically over summer vacation to supplement the iffy financial aid. I thought about taking a regular job, waitressing, baby-sitting, cleaning. Now was my chance to put stripping behind me. I could even pretend, as far as my family was concerned, that working topless for school money had never happened.
Despite the downside, there was something else: I liked stripping.
9
The Upside
The world is wide, and I will not waste my life in friction when it could be turned into momentum.
— Frances Willard
Combining my femininity with my courage proved to be a beneficial decision. Foxy boxing and wrestling had successfully carried me through my financial crunch. Now, six months later, I took time out to rethink.
The Knockout experience had become troublesome, and I had begun to question certain aspects of it. The physical contact was too much. I had already witnessed Tawni’s broken ankle. And I had to deal with the burn from strangers’ beards, continual bruising, and even skin irritations from Dawn dishwashing detergent.
It isn’t that gentle on your hands … and other body parts!
I was attacked one night as well. My wrestler suddenly went berserk in the ring. He jumped me, pinned me,
not a difficult task — I was at most half his size
then cheered his victory like a true World Wrestling Federation contender. Of course, in five seconds he was pulled off me and escorted out, receiving only a sound pummeling from the bouncers for his “win.” We hadn’t even started the first round! Light as my demeanor was, his actions shook me. I could have easily been hurt by his innocent enthusiasm.
It was that incident, and another accident in the ring, that convinced me to reconsider my boxing career. It was a sunny May afternoon during the reading period at Brown, a class-free week provided for final exam preparation. Besides studying, the free time allowed me to catch up on my boxing training. Naughty Neeki, a few other Knockouts, and I met with Anthony, our trainer, to spar and learn a new move. Warmed up and happy to be in the ring, I urged Neeki to try the move on me.
I boxed her into a corner and threw her head shots, left and right. With my arms up and swinging she was able to grab me in a bear hug and spin me around, slamming me into the corner. A few knees to the groin later she took advantage of my dropped gloves and hammered my head with a right jab. She backed up, daring me to rush at her. I was dazed, unable to function. I slumped and, with my knees threatening to buckle, barely saw her rush me, head down like a ram charging my groin. I was too slow and she buried her head between my legs, grabbed my ankles, and lifted violently. I recovered from my daze to find myself slung over her shoulders held only by my ankles, one to each side of her head. Immediately she started to spin and I threw my arms out straight, howling protest and pain. Faster and faster around, the centrifugal force pulled me straight away from her. I could see nothing
I hope her gloves aren’t greasy. At this speed I’d clock a lot of air time.
but the red and blue blur of the patriotic Sport Saloon.
At this point, Neeki was supposed to duck her head and gently move one of my ankles over to her opposite shoulder. Then, with both my ankles on one shoulder, she would slow the spin while easing my rotating body to the floor of the ring. Administered correctly, the drop would be softened by the slower spinning, dragging me along in such a way that I didn’t actually land all at once. Of course, I would “sell” the drop, so that it appeared I had been thoroughly manhandled and abused by my opponent. Writhing in pain and making a lot of noise was my biggest strength, but on this day I came up against a little problem.
Neeki dropped me straight down from a dead stop. The butterflies flitting above my prone body when I awoke were accompanied by a cacophony of voices. My Knockout cohorts well knew this was more than one of Heidi’s good sells. (I had pulled that many a time; moans, spastic quivers, irregular breathing; I had mastered a full repertoire.)
Apparently the noise my skull made upon contact with the floor was especially gruesome, it being the first to touch ground, and my subsequent unconsciousness upon the graceless landing had them truly worried. “Are you okay? Can you hear me? Is she awake?” Not wanting to distress them further, I attempted a smile before I could even focus my thoughts or eyes. They began laughing, which set me off. My giggles bubbled out, wracking my body, then developed into a full hearty laugh. I thought my head would explode. Everyone was laughing.
It was a real riot.
Then I did explode, in tears. Spastically I continued to giggle in between the sobs. It was a good enough injury to excuse me from the rest of practice, and, along with the realization that wrestling men was too close for my comfort, it convinced me either to quit or become an upstairs girl.
I had been thinking about it most of the spring. The afternoon training sessions conflicted with my class schedule. If I were a dancer, there would be no training, although the shifts would be eight or nine hours long and begin at six. But I liked going into work at nine, and I was still intimidated by the seemingly sexual nature of being an upstairs girl.
There’s no harm in trying.
If it worked out, a summer of topless dancing could possibly insure my senior year at Brown. If my senior year was insured, I could study full
time the way I did this last semester. The thought excited me. I decided the lies to my family would have to continue. Stripping wasn’t going away. Besides, the damage was done.
I’ll tell them later, when it’s over, somehow, maybe …
I resolved (again) to be careful, and be always ready to leave. The sensual nature of dancing worried me. An eight-hour seduction scene — could I handle it? And Jackie, the house mom, still scared me. The swears and insults. It was a tough atmosphere on the floor and backstage. As always, I took it a moment at a time.
My first night was all it required to satisfy my doubts. Jackie treated me well, special even. I didn’t give her any attitude. I didn’t scowl behind her back or complain like many of the other girls. She appreciated my high energy and professional attitude. To my surprise, entertaining from the stage and table dancing wasn’t a seduction scene at all. Stripping wasn’t laden with suggestiveness, rather it was eight hours of cheerful hostessing: “Hi! How are you tonight? My name is Heidi.” And appreciation: “Thank you. Thank you.” Seven hundred thirty-five dollars later, my first night was over.
Ivy League Stripper Page 20
