His buddies cheered and shook him by the shoulders, rumpling him and pulling his starched collar up. “He’s a bachelor, he’s a bachelor!” they yelled. I stepped back a few feet and looked down at them authoritatively.
If they keep on wiggling their buddy so enthusiastically, he’s gonna be sick!
My hand inched down my chest, still covered with uniform and badges, until I reached the belt and handcuffs. I gave the cuffs an ominous shake, pulled them out of my belt, and held them up. When they saw the shiny metal, they screamed and shouted like excited schoolgirls. Abruptly I dropped the cuffs, allowing them to land on the stage between us. I didn’t look down but focused on their faces. The men watched the cuffs fall, then looked back at me, searching for an explanation. Dropping the cuffs quieted them down and confused them, but only for the moment it took to realize I was now caressing the leather holster on my hip.
I extracted the .22. Then, arms stretched out in firing position, aimed at the crotch of their lucky bachelor.
No, I don’t have a castration fantasy. It’s just an act.
The guys didn’t emit a peep and, having waited for the sudden break in the music, I pulled the trigger. A violent report and a little fire escaping the barrel. The bullets were blanks, dangerous but not deadly. The party quickly recovered with squeals of delight, but I had already turned away, in order to play up to the rest of my audience. Again I aimed randomly, choosing faces in the crowd. BAM! I shot in the general direction of my chosen “criminals.” My act had been known to bring more than a few hands under more than a few coats. I saw it happen, but with all the posing and role-playing it was a challenge to consider anything but the cash seriously. It was hard to believe men were really carrying guns — and were that quick to reach for them.
The club grew quiet then noisy as my fans elbowed one other and yelled encouragement and other irrelevant sentiments at me. The show is the same with or without a strong crowd. My energy level responded to the collective adrenaline rush; the power pulsing through the air was animal and base — and deeply pleasurable. With my arms extended straight out in front of me, I rotated my body and pulled the trigger, steady and sure, with the beat. I “hit” more customers in all directions, spreading the Kinky Cop’s attention like butter, pleasing every nook and cranny.
I replaced the gun in its holster, unbuckled the belt, and with a twist of my body, slipped it off. The holster fell in my tracks as I sauntered toward another assembly. These men had their wallets out and open, offering not only money but their badges.
Badges? Cops do love to announce themselves.
I accepted their offerings, first by snapping the belt against their outstretched hands, then by crumpling and throwing their money over my shoulder, and finally by nonchalantly tossing or kicking their badges back into their laps. To them this was special treatment. I even dropped the belt and gave them a little extra — I unzipped the jacket, snapped it open with a rapid jerk, and teasingly pulled it off my shoulders, an inch at a time. They all but swooned.
Having thrilled the cops, I moved with exaggerated steps toward one particularly entranced gentleman. For him, I removed my tie and flipped it through the air and lights. It landed somewhere on the littered stage. Neck craned, his eyes widened, as though he truly believed that mine, hidden behind my mirrored glasses, never left his pale dreamy face. Surely I was in love with him.
I strutted on, pacing across my territory.
Make no mistake, the stage was mine.
A deep groaning sound wailed behind the angry lyrics, and my attitude matched the cool street smarts of the music. While I posed and marched about, supposedly oblivious to the men absorbed in my every move, I was actually watching them, figuring them, finding the ones that would serve me best. I never forgot the point: encourage tips.
Reaching the farthest edge of the stage, surrounded on three sides by enraptured strangers, I stepped up onto the ledge. With my back to the multitudes, the men could see my hands ease down my hips. They watched as I gripped the sides of my pants, holding tight. Matching the beat, timed with the lights, I stroked down and up, hard and fast. This tore the pants off my body and across the stage in one smooth movement. Now they could see six inches of my legs, bare beneath the shirt tails and above the boots laced thigh-high. I allowed them a mere glimpse of my behind.
A fresh wave of appreciation rolled across the room and I exercised my reign by calmly patrolling the stage, slowly but consistently unbuttoning my Kinky Cop official shirt. Sirens and car chase sounds faded into the rap music, increasing to an intense blare of violence. I paused dead-center center stage. With a flip of the wrist, the whistle hanging from my shirt pocket jumped into the air and landed between my lips. Having directed my energy to an anonymous guy following my every move, I blew sharply. Then, confident that I had his and the crowd’s attention sharply focused, I pulled my loosened shirt apart with excessive mock effort and a theatrical gasp. My breasts, chains and all, were exposed in flashes of strobe, each violent movement frozen then immediately replaced with the next. Breasts, blond hair, shining leather, provocative gestures: a fabulous fantasy film.
The shirt tossed aside, I turned to reveal the extra handcuffs hanging above my butt. I eased them away from my now glistening body. Sweetly I offered them to a lucky man. “Who wants to play with Heidi? Who’s been bad?” I chose a smiling idiot (he looked like my freshman English professor, the one who wondered aloud to me why I had even been accepted to Brown). He was surrounded by clones of himself, proclaiming gloriously, “He’s a bachelor! He’s a bachelor!” This reminded me of my previously elected victim, so I dealt hastily with the smiling innocent in front of me. On my knees in order to speak to him, I pretended to force the cuffs on him, all the while interrogating him as to whether he could sit there and be cuffed without getting restless … or worse. I hoped he would answer favorably, but he was overstimulated and slow to respond verbally. I cuffed him anyway.
Immediately I turned my attention back to the mob. I scooped up the remaining cuffs and yelled, “Where are the bad boys? C’mon, where are you?” I “just happened” to stroll over to victim number one.
The bachelor was sitting humbly in front of me, practically crushed by his pals, who were jumping and hollering all over him. I stood directly above him and, at the top of my lungs, commanded, “Hands above your head, asshole!” Agog, he raised them and gazed up at me in shock.
The situation was hilarious to me, but I played the role for these guys who loved it so much. After all, they were paying. Who says strippers don’t enjoy their work? The money fell around me as I efficiently restrained the pliable bachelor, not bothering to ask him if he could sit still, and cuffed, for a few minutes. I figured if he became frantic I would just grab the key from …
Where the hell did I put the key?
The low groan in the music began again. I strutted away from the throng, supposedly abandoning them, at the height of their excitement. Unobtrusively I snaked one hand down my slick leg, pulled the hidden weapon from my boot, and, with a startling crack, another gunshot ended the Kinky Cop show. My legion clapped and cheered as I turned back to them, ripping off the mirrored glasses. I smiled at last, as my second song began.
Normally this is when the next girl would join me onstage, but tonight I was dancing alone. Management was short a few girls and I was capable of holding the stage by myself. The song, Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing,” was slow and sexy, giving me the opportunity to change character. I dropped to the floor and crawled seductively toward the bills laid out on the edge of the stage, all the while attempting to find the key. It wasn’t tied in my bootlace. I knew I didn’t put it in a pocket — all that flinging about of clothes tends to displace loose objects.
I danced and entertained almost unconsciously between my money collecting and filling the stage with my presence. After a few weeks it became second nature. But I wasn’t lazy. I believed if something was worth doing, it was worth doing well. At times I wou
ld mouth Marvin Gaye’s words tauntingly, playing the diva with the devil in her. But thirty seconds later I might be sitting on the lip of the stage, coquet-tishly running my fingers over my moist skin, knees tightly clamped together. After all, as the Kinky Cop I abused them, disdainfully accepting their donations. I stepped on their money, I stepped on their hands, pulled their hair, growled and demanded. I even chastised them when they were slow to hand it over.
The exotic twist and grind continued. Midway through my second song I removed the chains from my chest with as much spectacular fanfare as I could muster. Don’t misunderstand, I appreciate my body, but the enthusiasm this enticed from them was laughable. They cheered, hooted, even bowed before me with arms outstretched. They forgot that they had already seen everything through the narrow strings of metal. The tips piled up.
I periodically checked on my captives. They were sitting quietly, behaving themselves. I did notice, however, that the cronies of one bachelor were in conference behind his back. As long as they didn’t become restless, they would never know that I had misplaced the key. I was sure I would find one floating around my locker somewhere, if I had the time.
My third and last song began, and with a rush I pushed my discarded clothing into a corner by the stairs, piling my tips on top to make room for more in my G-string. I pulled bills from under most every edge of my skimpy underwear, the tops of my boots, and even my tangled damp hair (thanks to the bearded guy with a fetish for long blond tresses). I made a mental note to warn Tiffany about him. Her golden locks are a wig — what she hides underneath would not be helpful on stage!
The next dancer arrived, wearing a cheap sequined stretch outfit that glittered like gold. Smart girl — she didn’t waste her income on nice dresses that would only be ruined, discarded on the stage floor three minutes after being put on, then ten minutes later smashed in an undersize locker.
The set was just about over when one of my handcuffed friends rose. Hands clasped awkwardly to his belly, the bachelor was led off by his buddies. I thanked my present tipper with a sincere pat on the cheek and made a beeline for my escaping victim. I was afraid that Otto, the manager on this shift, would be angry to see cuffed clients wandering about, especially on a busy night. Back in Kinky Cop mode, I hollered at them. I ordered them to just sit tight for two minutes, but they argued, “We have to go!” Then they announced importantly, “We’re putting him in the shower!”
A shower! I should have known. Bachelor parties love the double shower. The bachelor, handcuffed to the wall of a shower, is tormented by a Foxy Lady dancer while all his buddies watch. He wears Foxy Lady shorts, she wears a G-string. Every hour a dancer is scheduled to do a shower dance, alone: soap up and rinse, smile and flirt through the clear walls of the shower. That didn’t earn her any money, but if chosen for a double shower …
Concerned now as to who his shower partner would be, I really wanted him to wait for me. A double shower would add an easy hundred, in only ten minutes — and it would wash off my sweat. My set was ending in half a song. If I could get them to wait, maybe I’d be the shower partner.
Forcefully I repeated, “Please, give me two minutes.” Then I added, “Just to find the key
Appalled, they froze in their tracks. “Find the key?” “Hey where is the key?” they yelled, now more excited than worried. They felt special, chosen by Officer Easy.
I assured them that I only had to go backstage to retrieve it. The bachelor and his friends were intrigued now, and I knew they wouldn’t go anywhere till I had unlocked the victim. I rushed away to make a little more money before the song, and my set, ended. I didn’t, however, overestimate their attention spans, which were often fleeting in this atmosphere, with sirens of every shape and style beckoning.
I spied the puppy dog, leaning against one of the Plexiglas showers seemingly unaware of the soapy shower dance transpiring inside. I smiled and waved. Positive public relations were vital. Seven tips later the song ended. I bundled up my uniform and paraphernalia, squashing the piles of bills in the middle. Clutching my package to my chest, I turned to make eye contact with the tippers, acknowledging and thanking them, hoping I was encouraging future table dances. A few seconds later I disappeared beyond the door.
I calculated what I had made on the set. Probably forty or fifty if the bills were all ones, which they usually were, but for a strong feature like the Cop, large bills weren’t impossible. I found a five and a ten crumpled in with the ones. Fifty or sixty bucks was not bad. Not great, but I couldn’t complain. I knew what minimum wage was. I knew what waitressing brought.
At my locker I dropped the bundle and swiftly picked out the bills, stuffing them into the bottom of my locker with the rest of the night’s take. Money stashed away, I crouched on the chilly cement floor, the smell of hair spray and indulgently applied cheap perfume competing with the vague, permanently lingering stench of cigarettes. Sometimes I thought the dressing room smelled worse than the atmosphere out on the floor with the men. The air-conditioning vent above my locker turned my sweaty skin clammy while I searched for the key.
I imagined one victim, the middle-aged suit resembling my old professor, wandering through the Foxy Lady, the cuffs, tightened by drunken friends, cutting into his wrists. Not good. Otto would not be pleased. Digging deep into the packed locker, I felt the little round box that held my bullets (“Extra loud”) and immediately relaxed. I kept a spare key with the bullets. Key found, I locked up, took a deep breath, and relaxed.
Taking advantage of an almost empty locker room, I huddled in front of the mirror and dressing table that spanned its length. I roughly powdered the sweat on my face, swiped my lips with pink, and fluffed my snarl of wild hair.
After a wild fifteen minutes on stage, I couldn’t resist settling for just a moment into another dancer’s chair. Only the first twenty girls on the shift had chairs. The rest squeezed in, leaning between and over bare bodies to check themselves in the mirror. I grew accustomed to my co-workers checking their G-string coverage an inch from my face in the mirror. There was no time to be modest or polite.
Overheated and selfish, I gulped down somebody else’s water, and then took a few breaths as I guiltily looked to either side of me.
Ah, no one saw me.
Suddenly my face was covered with a smoky, slippery object, an old silk stocking. It belonged to Nikita, the heavy breather, and had been thrown from the other side of the dressing mirror. I yelled as she laughed loudly, most likely releasing pent-up energy. Her gimmick was the slow, seductive fantasy girl; sleepy eyes and soft pout, a centerfold gyrating in gentle slow motion. Her dreamy look and generous curves made her a top girl, a queen to the common, less successful strippers. Backstage she was an energetic animal, her substantial bulk able to crush physically, just in passing, most of the other, more petite girls.
“How’d the set go?” she hollered to me over the mirror.
“Good crowd, but not real big money — mostly ones, a couple of big bills” I replied, happy to be spoken to. That meant she liked me. Tonight. I began to tell her about the bachelors and their friends, then remembered I still had them in cuffs.
She bellowed again, amused that I had abandoned my poor cuffed men. Almost forgetting to grab a cover (most of my body parts were still exposed), I charged out into the club.
One victim was still sitting at the stage, drinking in the scenery through unblinking eyes. Katrina’s voluptuous body moved for him, bubbling out of bright blue Lycra. Her shiny eyes stared into the empty space above all the men’s heads. I approached him, holding the key between my teeth. His friends, looking like a mini-football team, began cheering and patting one another.
Remember, this is exciting for them. Keep the fantasy going.
I drew a deep breath, dropped the key below my tongue, and roared, “All right, buddy, hands above your head! Now!” I stared stone-faced until they quieted down. I spit the key into my palm, then nonchalantly tossed it between my two hands. It worked every
time.
I could use the same gimmick all night, every night. Memories are short and the man supply is endless.
Now that they were silent I grabbed the victim by the nape of the neck. Holding him immobile, I planted an extravagant kiss, a la Kissing-for-Tipping, to the renewed delight of his pep squad. My victim, the recipient of this supposedly amorous award, probably couldn’t hear their cheers. I actually had him in a firm headlock, my hair and arm blocking his face, my mouth platonically buried in his neck and shoulder. I shook my head back and forth, then swung up and off him. I wiped my forehead as though his manliness and “ardor” really knocked me out.
Ivy League Stripper Page 22
