The victim, now in shock, was rapidly shorn of his cuffs. Surrounded by his cohorts, he left as I neatly extracted myself in order to track my other errant bachelor. I faintly heard the just-freed man behind me. “Hey, I’m a cop, wanna see my badge? Come back, please …”
Why do they think I care?
Effortlessly I ignored the masses of men pushing, grabbing, staring, offering bits of appreciation and judgment. Soon I saw him; in fact, could not have missed him if I had wanted to. He was whining to Otto, a chair hanging from his wrist, thanks to my handcuffs. Otto had that resigned look he gets when he is listening to pointless crap from a soon-to-be-ejected patron. I kept my distance, impatient to get on with business but not so impatient as to mess with Otto. From my perspective I could see the red in his ears, his head cocked to one side, permanently tuned in to the security radio attached to his shoulder. His expression dull, he nodded over and over as my perturbed victim babbled in his face.
Otto’s expression failed to betray any reaction to the violent screaming mass passing between us. Being dragged by was one of my victim’s cronies, his Polo shirt bloody and half-pulled over his drooling face from the strain of Big Joe’s grip. I didn’t have time to consider my role in this melee, because two more security guys, Ricky and Rudy, pushed past me and grabbed the increasingly agitated handcuffed man. At the same time, Steve, the kindest bouncer of all, secured the chair attached to the cuffed man, vigorously wrenching the poor guy’s wrist.
Otto calmly motioned to me for the key. I was sure he was angry at me for handcuffing the man. I hadn’t cuffed him to a chair — I didn’t know how that happened — I was sorry to be involved, that’s all. I handed the key to him, and when he drolly rolled his eyes at me I knew that everything was cool. The chair was freed and the man summarily carted out. (Apparently the bachelor’s buddies thought it would be funny to mess with the cuffs. They managed to slip one off and lock it on a stranger’s chair. The stranger, however, didn’t appreciate this and had geared up to express his displeasure. But before a fight broke out, the bouncers had moved in and, professionals that they were, efficiently started a fight themselves.)
The crowd, swelling and flowing, moving like a current, nearly engulfed me. The disturbance, now dissolved, was barely noticed. Otto, in an unusually good mood, grinned through the packs of men at me. Reaching through the masses, he pressed the key into my hand and disappeared into the throng.
I dropped the key in my G-string and popped the cuffs on my own wrists, one set on each, in order to resist the temptation to cuff anyone else. An older man watched as I did this; I caught his gaze and took advantage of his uncertainty. Looking him boldly in the eye, I claimed his hand and wordlessly led him to the table-dance section.
A handful of bills later, I realized One-Night Stand was less than an hour away and I remembered my loyal little regular. Looking for the puppy dog, I spotted him standing off to a corner of the floor, under a television promoting the club’s features. I caught a bit of myself on the screen — acting sexy, quite naked except for my G-string — then turned my attention back to my customer of the moment. His song ended and he handed me a couple of twenties, with yet another attempt at securing my phone number. “Just dinner … or lunch … I really like your personality.” I had been paid and his words landed im-potently on my heels as I made my much-practiced graceful and swift exit.
Please, silly man, maintain some self-respect.
Finally I headed toward my regular standing watch below my promotional image.
“Well, hello. Thanks for being so patient!” I exclaimed with a sigh. I was embarrassed to have been so rude, making him wait.
He nodded, face aglow. “Hi.” He smiled shyly. “It’s really great to see you.” He peered earnestly into my eyes, as though searching for me.
He is happy to see me. Be nice.
Soberly he stated, “I need to tell you something.”
Curious, I examined his gentle countenance, handsome but vague.
“You’ve changed my life,” he began. “I’m so glad I met you. You’ve made such a difference.”
I was confused, but could sense his relief as he continued. “You’re a sign. Now I know.” “What do you know?” I asked.
Bowing his head closer to me, he confided gravely, “I am the Messiah. Meeting you was a sign. And according to the Constitution I am to be the President, too.”
My guard was off now; I was truly intrigued. He was absolutely genuine, calmly waiting for my reply, and he seemed so vulnerable. He was a fragile bit of purity lost in the perverse Foxy Lady.
And in the perverse world.
My mind raced to find the best response. “How is it that you’ve been appointed?” I asked.
Pleased and comforted with my acceptance, he said, “I was on my lunchbreak at the warehouse. I eat on the dock usually and it was nice outside so I sat on the dock. I had my sandwich, my peanut butter sand …” He fumbled over his words but struggled to go on. “My peanut butter sandwich was in my hand and, and … and a seagull flew down and took it!” He grew excited as he told me this; his eyes grew rounder and his hands became agitated.
He was genuinely surprised by the seagull’s theft.
He continued. “He took it right out of my hand! It was my peanut butter sandwich, he took it all! It was a sign. And you’re a sign, too.”
Keep a straight face, Heidi.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” I asked delicately.
He was energized by finally confiding in me, and with his wide eyes and open face he appeared as amazed as I felt. But he had obviously considered his situation. “I’m just going to go with it for now,” he replied.
He seemed to be looking for my approval. I smiled. “What does your family think about this?”
Troubled, he replied softly, “Hmm, no. They are … uh, emotionally disturbed.” Then he added, losing his confidence, “It depends on what is real to you. You know, Heidi,” he said, practically pleading, “you create your own reality.”
I smiled and nodded, hoping to buoy him with my heartfelt concern.
Does anyone take care of this guy?
“The news makes my family nervous.”
I managed only a simple “Oh.” I did, however, maintain eye contact. I wanted him to feel safe.
“You must be tired after all that dancing?” he ventured. This was his way of asking for a dance.
Always ready to work, I answered lightly, “No, that’s what I’m here for. And I like it, especially with you.” I didn’t bother to say things I didn’t mean, there was no need. This I meant.
My thoughts spun in two directions at the same time, a perilous mixture of emotion and economics. As a defense against my own tender feelings, I experienced a powerful urge to burst out laughing. Of course I didn’t. To do so would completely crush him. I wasn’t that cold.
I refuse to become that cold. I won’t let this job change me that much. Or has it?
Timidly, he said, “I have eighty dollars — can you, uh, if you’re not too tired, give me eight dances?”
“Well, of course, for my Messiah!” I exclaimed, dragging some cheer up from my stockpile. With a kiss on his cheek, we celebrated his good news.
He focused on my feet while I danced away eighty of his warehouse dollars, in twenty-four minutes. His time up, he promised to keep me posted and thanked me again for helping him to see “it.” I walked him to the exit, blanking out the rest of the club. He left and I rushed off to the locker room, forcefully putting him out of my mind. After Patrick, the sad Boston cop, and now the Messiah, I needed to get my guard back up.
A night could be draining. Because I chose to be myself, I took a greater risk of being affected by each person I related to during a given night. As the Kinky Cop I was safer. Heidi giggled and observed behind the safety of the disguise. Walls of pretense made me a lot of money, too, but I felt phoniness was too dangerous to employ all night. A fantasy act was one thing, but table dance after
table dance? Too much work.
Sunny was one stripper who paid a price for changing personalities the way she changed lipstick colors. Every month or so she would collapse emotionally (Her locker was near mine, so I witnessed it up close, although her shrieking and wailing could wake the dead. The Knockouts downstairs had even heard her one especially dramatic night.) Self-inflicted, her pain was nonetheless real. She was a graceful blond tower of self-loathing. Her borrowed characters were her changing dreams. One night she was a graduate student of medicine, another night a world-traveling sailor. Her frustration was obvious during the breakdowns. “These men are assholes! No one cares about me. ME! I’m leaving!” But a week — or a day — later, she would be back, another plan rehearsed and prepared. “I just need enough to go to Bermuda. I have a fantastic opportunity there …” It was only a cover, her excuse to herself to avoid tackling her demons. Money can be a powerful distraction.
I fought it. Pleasant or not, I wanted my feet on the ground. I didn’t want to risk losing myself or fooling myself for even an instant. My cop show (and later my fairy show and sex goddess show) was one thing — a stage performance. The core Heidi, however, wouldn’t be tucked away on a shelf I’d take it head on. A healthy choice, but like most strong substances, taking it head on needed to be administered in measured doses.
The physical aspect of the job was invariably demanding. Having been athletic since I was twelve, my body responded well. I was more toned than ever, and my legs and behind were nicely muscled. My “babybreasts,” to use a stripper term, worked just fine. I managed to reach the ranks of top girl during that summer. One night I actually beat out Honey the Barbie doll for double showers. (I got three!) And table dancing? I was unstoppable! I couldn’t meet the demand; money, money everywhere, whose do I take first? I looked great and felt great. I was a generously compensated, radiantly glowing tease machine.
While being physical was open to interpretation, being me was not as flexible. I never managed to learn the too often typical lies that accompanied dancing topless. It usually wasn’t as obvious as, “Well, two hundred more dollars and maybe I’ll go out with you.” But phone numbers, often concocted on the spot, were exchanged for especially liberal tips. Unlike most of my co-workers, I had a big problem leading men on. Much of the time the customers weren’t serious, they just wanted to think that the possibility of winning a stripper’s attention outside the club existed. Even if I were aware of this, I couldn’t foster those fantasies. I knew it would wear on me mentally and I wouldn’t risk damaging myself that way. This meant, however, that when Dick the jewelry distributor talked about having dinner someday and “getting to know each other,” as ridiculous as he may or may not know he was being, I couldn’t smile and say yes. I could, however, say, “You do know, Dick, that this is my job. I don’t like to mix my job with my personal life.” Of course, I would add something positive. “I do like you, you are a fascinating man
I didn’t have a problem being creatively diplomatic. I merely refused to cross certain boundaries. Many dancers did. Queenie, it was understood, was the most adept at weeding the deepest pockets of the masses with her master manipulations.
Queenie ran scalding hot or icy cold. Usually she courted me, stopping me in the dressing room to ask about school or love life. She loaned me a robe one shift. She invited me into her special dressing room wanting to talk about my aspirations. She even introduced me to a big customer of hers, giving me a glowing recommendation. That was too much. She was a strict businesswoman. She wouldn’t share money (a.k.a. a big customer) with anyone!
Cherry brushed past me one night and overheard me complain about the schedule; “My feature set was bumped!” I examined the sheet listing shows for the night, trying to make sense of my exclusion.
“Hey, babe, look around you. Someone thinks the neighborhood is too small,” she said in a low voice.
I looked up. Cherry motioned to Queenie’s dressing area, then strutted off.
Her suggestion made sense, once I thought about it. Queenie was very competitive. Maybe her plan was to keep me close to her, thinking we were friends, so I wouldn’t be competition. She probably didn’t like the idea of me, a younger, hipper version of herself, roaming her turf. If I was part of her camp, she could keep an eye on me.
I asked Jackie, the house mom, “Why was my feature changed?”
“Listen, Queenie said she was taking your set, that you didn’t want it,” she answered impatiently.
“What? I never said a word to Queenie about my set. Of course I want the set!” I said, forgetting Jackie’s temper.
“What am I supposed to do?” Jackie looked at me menacingly. “Play change-the-schedule for you girls all night? You can’t keep doing this to me. I got better things to do.”
“I’m sorry, Jackie. But if I’m ever going to change a set, I’ll come to you. Queenie’s just causing trouble,” I said, braving her mood.
She walked off, muttering, good-natured all of a sudden. “Yeah, yeah, Heidi-Ho, what else is new?”
Queenie’s stunts weren’t anything new. Competition was the name of the game. I learned to keep my distance, without ever letting her know how much I distrusted her. I was, however, intrigued by her achievement. I considered her methods of customer exploitation but didn’t attempt them. “How unfortunate that we met here,” I said more than a few times to my patrons. I lost customers this way, but gained just as many others. (It always amazed me, the constant, never-ending supply of customers.) My regulars, and plenty of anonymous men, couldn’t resist my combination of real conversation, stripped-down intensified sex appeal, and oodles of undefinable eye contact. Was I a tease? Oh, yes. Like every female of most species, I tantalized with my sexuality. And here in America, great capitalistic wonder that it is, I packaged my biology and turned a profit. What would Horatio Alger and Madonna think?
Okay. Let me admit it again, straight out: stripping was a joy.
Imagine a large, sleek white boat, slicing effortlessly through warm idyllic waters. You are standing at the prow, neither aware of yourself nor your vehicle. An exhilarating, nourishing flow of air caresses you while your whole being, every sense and nerve, commands the panorama around you. You feel free, strong, and alive. This is what I felt on stage.
I wasn’t fooling myself; I honestly experienced these feelings. The physicality and creative expression was a blast. One moment I played the femme fatale cooing Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” another moment I was an innocent fairy princess granting wishes to my adoring subjects, then, in a storm of strobe lights, the Kinky Cop. I was a success. How could I not have been? My captive audience paid good money just to gain admittance to see a friendly face and naked breasts. They paid me (that alone made my work successful) and I felt good. I got to play the fantasy game, too!
My favorite was the Kinky Cop. It was the farthest from my true personality and probably the closest to therapy for me.
No, I’m not releasing anger at the so-called male oppressor. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
Besides venting stress (caused by anything from studying to traffic to the weather), I was fantasizing myself as the big bad boss. While in character, everyone in my domain — male, female, co-worker, and customer — was equal game for my dominant antics. The men, however, were the only ones willing (begging) to pay me for it. I didn’t secretly dream of being the most powerful. It was just an act. It was fun.
It worried me at times that the customers, all men, responded so intensely, and masochistically, to my sadistic masquerade.
I have no desire to boss my man around.
I began to wonder, do men want to be dominated? I had to remind myself that the strip club is a safe haven for fantasy. Nothing translates directly to the outside, real world. So what if a great number of men privately dream about being dominated? Aside from mother-son relationships, it rarely occurs in the real world, so it follows that it would be a fantasy. Fantasy is fun, free, and a
t times appropriate.
Well, free it was not at the Foxy Lady.
10
The Fringe
A fool is a man who never tried an experiment in his life.
— Erasmus Darwin
I began to suspect the business of fantasy was only one of several money-making operations at the Foxy Lady. Ricky, one of the floor hosts, discreetly carried “packages” for the “boss” and was thrown a little extra cash at the end of the shift. I had always discounted the widely spread rumors that the Foxy was a Mafia business. I figured the rumors were only stereotypes based on romantic revisions of local history. The hopeful, drama-loving side of me wanted “the family” and the “made men” (those who committed a murder for the family) to be real. The more I heard around the club, the more reason I found to discard the stereotypes and explore the realities.
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