“Hi, Jojo. What’s going on?”
Let’s get it over.
He usually asked for a date, but tonight he revealed his latest plan to see me outside the club. “See this ring?” He produced his pinkie, stuffed into a gilt ring that read JOJO.
“You come to dinner with me.” He paused for effect. “And IT1 get you a ring that says HEIDI.” He eyed me soberly, and added, “I’ll even put a few diamonds in it for youse. I got a friend that’ll do it for me.”
I smiled and declined politely. As usual. It wasn’t difficult to lead him into another subject. He was happy to have a friendly female audience. He related the scintillating details of his latest scam. He proudly told me how he could talk to his three-year-old illegitimate son who lived “down to Florida wid his no-good mother” and not pay for the call. He had discovered that by walking into his neighbor’s yard and dialing his cellular phone there, the charges would be placed on the neighbor’s bill. I asked him what he was planning to say when the neighbor discovered this trick. He laughed. “The chump knows better than to talk to me!”
Jojo’s cheapness blew his image — he couldn’t be that connected and that cheap at the same time. He was stingy with me, too, and I perfected a graceful exit, extracting myself from his weekly attentions. “Excuse me, please,” I would say, “I need to change outfits, my show is coming up.” Or I would say, “I’m sorry, but I promised that man a table dance.” I would then point to any man in the crowd. “He’s waiting for me. You understand, don’t you? Its just business. I’ll talk with you later.” More often than not I would succeed not only in ridding myself of Jojo but also in convincing the man in the crowd to buy a table dance.
Bob, who had been a regular wrestling customer of mine, was more amusing and lucrative than Jojo, and made no airs about being connected. He quietly collected disability checks while running a wildly flourishing but discreet drug trade. He came to the club to rid himself of all that pesky cash and to wrestle his favorite of the week. The week he chose me we grappled in hot oil and cream seven times. We also became friends. He was a funny and charming young man unencumbered by social constraints and the associated guilt. I never would have bothered or cared to know him, if he hadn’t spent thousands on me. I could have taken advantage of him and Jojo, but I was finding that, customers or not, the men were all very real to me, and I managed to respect them all.
Am I blessed— or cursed— with the ability to find something likable in everyone I meet?
Bob blew a lot of bucks on me, but every week it was a different man, a different wallet. I developed a fear of taking it for granted. Another regular named Bob (the “Weasel,” I called him) was upping the incentive to see me outside the club. How far would he go? How would someone like Queenie work him? He certainly could afford to take the ante sky high — we both wondered how much it would take.
I didn’t really think he’d convince me, but it was intriguing in a perverted sort of way. I made it a point always to keep the names of big spenders filed away. It was good business.
Bachelor parties were very good business. Besides the busloads of parties that trekked to the Foxy Lady, there was a market outside the club. Twice, the club sent me out. The first time was with Nikita. I was all dressed up as the Kinky Cop; she looked like a stripper. At the party house, we organized ourselves in the kitchen and chatted with two ladies who were replenishing the buffet. They were the wives of a couple of the men crowding into the adjacent living room. When all the husbands and wives were ready I made my entrance. Nikita coordinated the music while I performed my cop act. Although unused to a female audience, I thrilled the women as much as the men, offering them my cuffs and assorted weapons to play with. Within twenty minutes our shows were complete. Four hundreds in our sweaty hands, we waved good-bye and tottered out to Nikita’s car. It was too hot to redress. A neighbor was out on a porch calling to his dog. I’m not sure if he saw us, but the girl at the McDonald’s drive-through definitely did — she even forgot to charge us.
Another time the club sent me to a party alone. For security I dragged Reid away from school for the quick trip. It was a Sunday afternoon when we drove out to a golf club outside Providence. Ever efficient, I was already outfitted in my cop costume when we arrived. Children, men, and women were playing games in the grass, tossing balls and Frisbees, laughing and running. In character, I stepped out of the car and walked slowly (spike heels wobbling on the loose gravel) toward the clubhouse. Activity came to a sudden stop when a child saw me and screamed, “Who’s been bad?”
Inside were the birthday boys. They were short, red-headed twins, turning fifty years old. Amazed with me and the show, their faces grew redder and redder. Everyone was laughing. Children were dancing around the adults joyously. I didn’t go topless, instead I took a few minutes to talk with the twins and wish them nice birthdays. I was there fifteen minutes and made three hundred dollars. Apparently I was hired to make the occasion special, not sexual. Reid and I celebrated at Ben and Jerry’s.
The outside gigs and fringe opportunities — bachelor parties, taking advantage of customers, and platonic prostitution (dinner dates in exchange for $500) — were so accessible and easy, I was tempted. So far I had succeeded in keeping the line between work and the rest of my life clear. Just the fact that I hadn’t yet bought breast implants surprised my co-workers. That was generally the first step a stripper took toward greater income. I was a student, with a well-educated future to look forward to. I hadn’t given breast augmentation or these fringe opportunities much thought. Yet.
Besides helping to fund my senior year at Brown, the summer was a positive growing experience for me. I began to keep a journal. Each night after work I would catalog characters and my observations, as well as chart my personal development. The assortment of personalities I encountered was mind expanding. I didn’t always understand the men or women, but I always respected their right to be themselves. The job energized me and my inquisitiveness about the world grew.
One night, I saw, from atop the Pure Platinum stage, my fantasy man. He was tall and manly, with a face straight out of my dreams; a little rough, a lot handsome. His body didn’t disappoint either, even in loose fitting clothes. His muscled neck and forearms seemed to bulge out of his denim shirt. I caught his eye as he walked by. He liked me. But not too much.
My fantasy man isn’t a dupe.
I danced to the opposite side of the stage, accepted a few tips, then checked to see if he was watching me. He was. I finished my set, ignoring him except for one smile. Just enough to interest him, but not enough to make him absolutely sure of my intent. When I left the stage I walked straight to him, dressed in a blue silk chemise. “Hi. I’m Heidi. I wanted to tell you I think you’re the best looking man I’ve ever seen in here. What’s your name?”
He was surprised, but not as much as I was. As cool as I appeared, seducing a patron — for real, I hoped — was taboo for me, besides being against the rules. I knew what I was doing and it was exciting.
“I’m Foster,” he said. “Would you like to sit down?”
I sat with him, but just for five or six minutes. He didn’t disappoint me and he wasn’t too eager, so I took the plunge. “I’d like to see you again. May I have your number?”
“You’re asking me for my number?” he said, laughing.
“Yes.”
“You’ll never call.”
“You’ll never know.”
I got his number. And I called him. We met two weeks later, presumably for dinner. We didn’t make it to dinner, instead we had sex; the kind of sex Erica Jong pined for. Zipless. And sweaty.
We met one other time, but it wasn’t the same (for me). He wanted to have a relationship, I wasn’t interested anymore, we really weren’t that compatible aside from sex. He understood and we parted friends, happy that we had met.
My adventure with Foster was great but not something I wanted to get used to. I wanted the entire package: sex and love and compani
onship. But the constant aura of sexuality at work didn’t dull me. I had always had a healthy appreciation of the pleasures of relationships, physical and emotional, which my work actually enhanced. I was feeling stronger and surer of myself, a result of increased economic power and greater knowledge of myself. In addition, my already strong curiosity about men was deliciously increased. Despite being surrounded by male customers who often checked their sense and dignity at the door, I became only more interested in men. I wanted to understand these strange creatures who grew faint and generous at the sight of me.
I allowed men to be men. Who was I to judge? Not all the girls at work felt the same way, but I learned that quite often the sentiment each brought to work with them — that men are pigs, that men are one-dimensional customers, or that men are interesting — was intensified. The job itself didn’t change or form their views of men.
The locker room talk was evidence that the job did affect the sex lives of some strippers. A few girls shared stories of their voracious appetites for sex, their superlative partners, the numerous situations, what he said when. These happy souls didn’t appear to be affected by their work, at least not in a detrimental sense. The other vocal parties, however, just didn’t enjoy it anymore. They were faking so much sensuality at work, they didn’t feel like having sex at home. The conversations I had with these women almost always brought to the surface another problem, trouble that had nothing to do with the club. (“He said my breasts are uneven” or “He’s using me.”) Unfortunately, a disproportionately large number of my co-workers were attracted to abusive men. Our work was stressful, and any chink in a girl’s personality, relationship, or mood risked being discovered and aggravated. It was hazardous work. We were all daredevils, some more lucky than others.
The skill was in watching your back (and front and sides) and being aware of yourself. Failure to identify and fortify weak areas, such as insecurity or low self-esteem, tripped up several of my fellow strippers. I saw Binki, a Brown alumna, discover her susceptibilities only after she’d fallen victim to them.
Who would have known? She was college-educated, even a psychology major!
Stripping was a mine field. Playing the dumb blonde, Binki giggled and blushed her way to a stuffed safe deposit box — and a terribly confused self-image. She didn’t know who she was anymore. Was she the Brown graduate preparing for medical school? Or the stripper, queen of all men around her? She certainly liked the money, besides liking the men. I didn’t blame her. But by abandoning her friends and putting off medical school, she lost her identity. She was only comfortable at the club. And there she was a success.
Not all strippers were drawn to the work by money. The ego trip could be seductive, but the job exacerbated the psychological demons that brought the woman to topless dancing in the first place. Stripping is not therapy. Too many girls I met ended up in therapy because of it. My initial fear and caution protected me, but caution alone couldn’t secure my safety across the psychological mine field.
The end of the shift would inevitably find me physically exhausted but mentally abuzz. My journal was a good release, and the only way to remember the amusing stories of the evening. By the end of the next shift, all memories of the previous night would be wiped out. I recalled only the huge tippers, often just their faces. If I didn’t write in my journal I read novels or cleaned the apartment — the adrenaline from work would last up to three hours.
Some nights I caught the end of David Letterman. Naked or snuggled in my bathrobe, face scrubbed bare, I would sit on the floor with Stupid Kitty, the contents of my duffel bag dumped out in front of me. Work items — underwear, costumes to launder, broken handcuffs — were placed in the hallway or on the porch to air out. Left in a pile would be the tips for the night. First I would pick out the large bills and toss them to the side, not allowing myself to add them up. Then, ritually, I would smooth the dollar bills flat, as many as five hundred of them. (Customers folded them several times, the long way, making “fingers” to slip under a bra strap or G-string. A few irritating men would make teeny rings or tightly wound straws. I even received roses, bow ties, bunny tails, and an origami flamingo, all constructed from ones.) Once all the bills were smooth, I would stack them in piles of twenty. Next I counted the large bills, then added the stacks of twenty. I totaled in my head, and automatically figured the comparable number of hours at minimum wage to equal it. I fought the urge to consider how long my dad would have to work to equal it. I knew the figure, and it didn’t please me. The discrepancy made no sense. It was appalling, really, that any eighteen-year-old woman in decent shape, who was willing to put in the hours, could make a small fortune.
What happened to education, hard work, the American Dream?
Finally I would stash the pile away, wrapped neatly in bank bands, and forget about it till business hours when I would deposit it. It was only for my school bills.
The adrenaline was good for more than homework and accounting. Sex after work, when it was available, was wonderful. (How could it not be?) It was very satisfying to express myself erotically after a night of pretending. Not that I wasn’t erotic at work — I was. It just didn’t feel erotic to me personally I never took seriously any customer’s fawning — they were in love with Heidi the fantasy. To come home and be with a man who loved the real Heidi — that would be the best. The job increased my awareness of sex and true affection, but it didn’t make me promiscuous. Unfortunately, since Mark’s nervous breakdown there was no one special in my life. Erich was taken, romantically. And Reid, he was just my buddy. Not that my fantasy life wasn’t spurred on by the stimuli. It was, and I wasn’t afraid to enjoy the feelings a night of exotic behavior would produce.
My love life wasn’t completely hopeless. Tony Jr., the Roman god, was calling. Right away I told him, “I’m dancing at the Foxy Lady.” He responded as though it were a regular job. (He must know it’s just business, I thought.) Through July and August we dated. I felt sparks and, even though he hadn’t really kissed me yet, I sensed he was interested. We knew each other well and were comfortable together. I asked him finally, over lunch, “How do you feel about stripping?” He laughed, truly amused at my seriousness, and said only, “You’re a smart girl, Heidi. You know what you’re doing.”
Although I believed that already, it felt wonderful to hear it. Isabella felt that same way and our friendship continued as though nothing had changed. I loved having a girlfriend. It seemed I scared a lot of women. The girls I felt comfortable with were usually co-workers.
As the dates with Tony grew more and more frequent, and steamy, I knew I had a boyfriend! Although from our talks it was clear that he was married to his career. I figured my independence relaxed him. He understood my drive and knew full well I wasn’t going to suffocate him: I didn’t have the time.
I also felt self-reliant. I was handling my life. I had set goals and was reaching them, a gratifying situation. I felt lucky not to be the addictive type. The ego trip and the money were extremely seductive. The fantasy roles were powerful, too, but only fantasies. I did have reveries of saving a million in ten years and retiring to a private island before the age of thirty-one. It was my greater hope, however, to accomplish that using all my powers, as a writer and thinker as well as a stripper. I believed balance was a vitally important concept. Intestinal fortitude and gumption kept me on the tightrope, precariously navigating above the dangers of mental sloth. I didn’t want to take any easy ways out.
This warriorlike mindset did not, however, inoculate me against the dangers of burnout. One night in late August, readying for Parade, my perception threw me an ugly curve ball. Parade was the opening act of the night shift when all the entertainers lined up in their best full-length gowns on the main stage. We were introduced one by one. As my name was announced I stepped up to the stage, head high, smile wide. I thought I was ready for a productive night. As I looked into the crowd, I didn’t see possibilities for money; instead I saw droves of leering m
en. My spirits sank, and in a flash I pictured us strippers.
A pack of pretty animals on display. Fruits to be picked, eaten, or dropped to the ground forgotten, only to be squished under an anonymous foot a minute later. Leftover holiday tinsel hanging dusty in a convenience store, long after the season has passed…
The men howled, sweating and drinking, enthusiastically appreciating us. They were animals. We were all animals.
The ugliness lasted all of one minute; the one minute it took me to return to my rational, practical self. I allowed myself an opportunity to go home, regardless of management’s needs, but I didn’t leave that night. I had decided months earlier that as of September first I would go back to student life, full time. I had worked hard and been a sexy pillar of respectability to myself and my patrons all summer. I wasn’t surprised that I needed a break. Acknowledging this to myself and seeing the animals around me return to their human state put me back on track. I had a great night, made all the more satisfying by knowing I was that much closer to my goals and dreams.
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