Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  As the music fills my head, I forget about the guys coming in the door, forget about the quiet club, forget about my empty purse. I just dance. The job is secondary, the money a perk. It’s just me now, me and The Cure.

  The group coming in the door make their way in and stand for a moment just inside, letting their eyes adjust. They confer among themselves and I know that they are making a decision about where to sit. I watch them peripherally as I spin lazily down the pole. Their decision is crucial.

  If men make their way straight to the stage, it usually means that they are ready to tip, comfortable in the environment, and ready to party. If they go to the bar first, it may be because what’s on stage isn’t to their liking. If they sit at a table, it typically means that they’re more interested in looking and aren’t here to pay.

  These guys head straight for the stage. There are actually nine of them, I see.

  I stretch out on my back in front of them like a buffet, hips tilted, arms above my head, stomach concave, the shorts I wear stretched across my hipbones, a delightful cave of shadow forming under the fabric.

  “Damn,” one of the guys says to the man next to him. Money starts appearing in their hands.

  I let the waitress take all their drink orders, moving slowly from one man to the next, giving each attention in turn. The stage becomes littered with dollar bills and my G-string fills up with money. The men lay a pile in front of one man, and the one in front of me leans in to whisper in my ear.

  “It’s all about my buddy here,” he tells me.

  So I go to my knees in front of the man with the pile of money, reaching for his shoulders, my cheek against his, purring into his ear, giving him a view straight between the swell of my breasts and down my stomach to the small triangle of fabric between my legs.

  “Why are you so special?” I ask him.

  “I just got back from a tour in Iraq,” he says.

  “Welcome home!” I exclaim, sitting back so that the whole row can hear me. “Happy Independence Day!” I clap, laughing.

  More money appears.

  They applaud enthusiastically at the end of my set and I shake their hands one by one. Back in the dressing room I count my take: $28. After brushing the shine off my nose with translucent powder, I head back out into the club. I am relieved to see that the group is still at the stage, treating the next dancer as kindly as they treated me. They have money to spend and do not appear in any hurry to go anywhere.

  One of them stands at the bar and I slide in next to him. “I’m Star,” I say.

  “Kurt.” He shakes my hand. “Do a shot with us!”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Tequila.”

  “Hook me up.”

  I help him carry the drinks back to the stage where they are passed out. I obligingly lick each of their hands between thumb and forefinger, sprinkling the salt one by one.

  “To our hometown heroes!” one cries exuberantly.

  “To being home!” the newly returned one cries, just as enthusiastically.

  We drink: salt, shot, lime slice. I feel the warmth down my throat and into my belly.

  “This is Star,” Kurt tells the group.

  “Sit with us!” they cry.

  I tilt my chin down flirtatiously. “Only if y’all tip for me.” Kitten is on stage and I see her nod at me imperceptibly.

  It’s considered bad form for one dancer to sit at another’s stage as it draws the customers’ attention and negatively impacts tips. But getting the men to tip is a good ploy to make more money. I sit and immediately nine dollar bills appear on the stage in front of me.

  Kitten goes to her knees and slides her arms around my neck, and I lean forward into her soft skin, smelling the floral body spray she prefers. Her lips are so close to mine that the aroma of her candy lip gloss overpowers the body spray.

  The men hoot and cheer.

  I hear her breath, the soft sound of her knees against the padded rail that runs round the stage. She leans away from me, head hanging toward her heels, into a backbend. The fuchsia fabric between her legs glows against her tan skin in the black light. She is beautiful.

  Later, after giving two of the men private dances, I stand at the bar doing another round of shots. The money has continued to flow, maybe a bit more for me and Kitten but all the girls on the shift have been making money off the group. A few other patrons have drifted in, along with a couple of regulars, and the club is still mostly empty. But we no longer care.

  “You really like that metal music, don’t you?”

  “What?” My attention has drifted. Now I realize that the man next to me has been talking, and I tilt my chin toward him, biting my lip, and looking up through my lashes to make up for the lapse. “What’s up?”

  “You ever dance to country music?”

  I think about how to navigate this question. It should be pretty obvious by now that I’m not a country sort of girl, but strippers never say “no” outright.

  “I really like Johnny Cash,” I reply.

  This is not a lie. Though I do not regularly listen to country and western, I do like the man in black, along with Willie Nelson and even some Hank, Jr.

  “You know that song ‘Proud to Be an American’?”

  “I do,” I cautiously reply.

  His eyes light up. “Our buddy, you know, the one that just came home? He recorded his own version of that song.”

  “Really?” I feign enthusiasm, feeling a pit in my stomach. I know where this is going. “That’s so awesome!”

  “Can you dance to it?” His eyes are eager, excited. “That would so make my buddy’s day.”

  “Sure!” I don’t even hesitate, though I have no idea as to the sound quality of this recording. Or if the war hero can carry a tune. All my face shows is happiness, no hint of my reticence about dancing to a vapid song unquestioningly glorifying American patriotism. Society teaches us to view all soldiers as “heroes,” no matter their actual actions. To display even a hint of criticism for the military industrial complex that receives so many tax dollars has no place in the fantasy environment of the club. This returned soldier can be convinced of the worth of his service by watching a woman take her clothes off for him while he sings about how awesome his country is. Is that the epitome of American freedom?

  Happily, the quality of the CD is good and the guy can sing. The DJ pairs the song with “Born in the USA” and the nine men sing along lustily, their arms linked. I see no hint of awareness that Springsteen’s song is meant to be ironic, a criticism of the draft. They let go of one another just long enough to put money on the stage, not dollar bills this time but fives and tens and twenties. I make a hundred dollars in less than ten minutes. When I count out at the end of the evening, I have broken three bills. The other girls do almost as well. Working holidays is a gamble.

  Chapter Nine

  In Love

  Daniel is in his fifties with thinning red hair. We have virtually nothing in common; he has a high school education and is into sports and that’s about it. I’m finishing my master’s degree and find sports to be a boorish manifestation of hypermasculinity.

  But my job is to be the perfect woman for every man. So I know how to ask intelligent enough questions to keep him talking about himself. Daniel loves to talk about himself.

  “So then what happened?” I ask, leaning toward him, my gaze raptly on his face. I make a game of looking at the bridge of his nose so it looks like I’m meeting his eyes.

  He’s telling me a long, rambling story that started with a tailgating party and appears to be culminating with having drinks with some ball team.

  “Then … then …” He’s laughing so hard his eyes water. “Then Hank says, ‘That’s what she said!’” He collapses into chuckles.

  I throw back my head and laugh with him, though I’ve lost the thread of the story and never cared in the first place. Daniel’s not a bad guy but it’s almost like he’s not a person at all. He takes up space,
talks words, and pays. He pays.

  “I think it’s time for you to have a private dance,” I say and pull him up. He comes willingly.

  I like dancing for him because then I don’t have to talk to him. He pays me to sit with him as well but only to the tune of $5 a song. A private dance is $20 a song. Usually I can dance for two or three songs before he lays money on the stage, indicating that he’s done.

  It’s hard to keep things fresh in the private dance area. The stage is a little raised platform that’s about 4 feet square. The customers sit in plush chairs on the stage. The setup doesn’t leave us a lot of room to move around. I compensate for my energetic floor show by moving very slowly here, making every move languid, keeping lots of eye contact, letting the customer really look. I can make one pose last half a song.

  Daniel has two or three dancers he likes, so we rotate around him through the evening. When I finish my dance I catch Valentine’s eye. She’s sitting with one of her other customers and gives me a tiny nod in acknowledgment. She’s up and now I can go hang out with one of my other regulars who has just arrived. At least he’s a decent conversationalist.

  In the coming weeks Daniel starts to distance himself from me. It begins when he starts only buying a single dance. Then he slacks off tipping me to sit with him. When I do sit with him, he seems distracted. It’s not hard to figure out that he’s watching Valentine. He’s hyperaware of her every move, following her with his eyes, getting up to sit at her stage even if he’s sitting with someone else. Obsession is building. I’ve seen it before.

  “Have you noticed that Daniel isn’t paying as much attention to us?” I ask Tyler. She’s the other girl who has received his attention in the past.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “He’s got it bad for Valentine. That cash cow has dried up.”

  Valentine is sitting farther down the dressing table doing her hair. “He does have a bit of a crush,” she admits.

  “Work it, girl,” I tell her. “Dude’s loaded.” Daniel has some sort of middle management position and his hobbies are sports and strippers. Most of his money comes to us.

  She gives herself a smile in the mirror. “He’s gonna pay my bills tonight.”

  “Good for you,” Tyler says. “Honestly, you can have him.”

  “He just likes me because I can talk football,” Valentine says.

  “Have at it.” I grab my purse. “He is all yours.” I head onto the floor and pass him without a glance. Peter is waiting for me, and he’s worth more and can also keep up his end of a conversation. It was nice when I had the income from both regulars, but I’ve still got several guys on the hook. Not having to sit with Daniel will open up new possibilities.

  I’m aware that Valentine sits with Daniel pretty much all night. She gives him several private dances and lavishes attention on him when she’s on stage.

  She’d better be careful, I think to myself. Excluding other money to milk one guy has its dangers. If that one regular loses interest, then a dancer can be left without regulars. Just dancing on stage is a lot less lucrative.

  “How’d you do?” I ask at the end of the night.

  “Paid my bills,” Valentine replies with a smirk. “Tomorrow I’ll start on next month’s.”

  I laugh. “Good for you.”

  And that’s what she does. Daniel arrives about 30 minutes after she does, every single night she works. All night she sits with only him. Often he is the only one sitting at her stage. Valentine has a sleek little body but nothing spectacular. She’s plain in the face with hair that frizzes in the humidity. She’s cute but nothing more. It takes connection to get people to the stage, or an awesome stage show, or bombshell looks. She’s capable of making good connections, but now she’s ignoring everyone.

  I understand her choice. He’s easy money and a lot of it. And it’s none of my business so I pretty much forget about the whole thing.

  Then Valentine announces to the dressing room one evening that she’s pregnant.

  This is several months later and I glance up, only half interested. I’m not close with her and don’t know her that well.

  Other girls rush to congratulate her with hugs and exclamations.

  “How long do you plan to keep working?” Celeste asks.

  “Oh, until I’m showing. I’m going to try to push it to my fifth month,” Valentine answers.

  “What did Seth say?” Celeste says. She has an arm around Valentine and is absently rubbing her flat belly.

  “He’s so excited!” Valentine exclaims. “We only just started trying.”

  I surmise from all this that Seth must be baby-daddy-boyfriend, and that the pregnancy is both wanted and planned.

  “And look!” Valentine shows her left hand where a glittering diamond adorns her ring finger.

  The chorus of congratulations begins all over again.

  “We’re saving up for a house,” Valentine explains. “I want to be all moved in before my third trimester. Then we’ll get married next year. Once I have my figure back!” She laughs.

  Later that evening, passing her all snuggled up in Daniel’s lap, I smirk to myself. That’s what the down payment on a home looks like: middle-aged and balding.

  Valentine makes good on working to the end of her fourth month. She starts to show a little, round belly but she’s well aerobicized and carries the weight well.

  But Daniel notices.

  I find myself next to him at the bar one evening. I’m wasting time until I have to be up on stage and he’s ordering a beer.

  “How are you?” I ask casually.

  He smiles at me. “I’m good, Star. How you been?”

  “Good.”

  He leans closer toward me and I tilt my head toward him. “Have you noticed …” He hesitates.

  “Have I noticed what?” We’re whispering now, as much as one can whisper over the music.

  “Valentine has gained a little weight.”

  I glance down at his little pudge before I can help it.

  “I know,” he says, catching my eye. “She just usually takes such good care of herself.”

  I look him straight in the face. “I hadn’t noticed,” I say.

  Valentine makes her last day a Saturday. We all know that she’s leaving and many of the dancers pile small gifts at her place along the dressing room counter. But she carefully doesn’t make a big deal about it. She sits most of the night cozied up next to Daniel. At the end of the night it’s hugs all around and then she’s gone, off into her new life.

  I don’t think about it, or her, one way or another. Dancers come and go. My focus is school and my own social life. I work but the rest of my life is quite separate.

  The next Friday Daniel arrives as he has done for almost a year. I don’t think about that either. My regulars are in and I’m hanging out with them, business as usual.

  Then Tyler comes over and grabs me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure. Excuse me,” I say to Peter.

  “Hey, Tyler,” he says and she shoots him a tight smile. Clearly there’s something on her mind. Pulling a girl away from a regular is not standard operating procedure.

  “What’s up?” I inquire once she has me sequestered off in a corner.

  “Daniel is crying,” she tells me.

  I gape at her. “What?”

  “He just asked me where Valentine is. I said she’d quit.”

  I blink stupidly at her.

  “I didn’t know she hadn’t told him!” Tyler exclaims, taking my silence as some sort of condemnation.

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “Wait. You’re telling me that Daniel just now found out she quit. Just now. When you told him.”

  Tyler is nodding. “And now he’s crying! Star, I don’t know what to do!”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I curse to myself. “That was a shitty move, not to tell him.” I grab Tyler by the arm. “Come on. I’ll come with you to talk to him.” I shoot Peter an apologetic glance and he tips me a win
k.

  Daniel is sitting at one of the corner tables and Tyler’s right: he’s openly sobbing. I pull up a chair and sit. Tyler takes the chair next to me.

  I don’t say anything at first, just hand Daniel a cocktail napkin. He swabs at his eyes and sniffs miserably. I pat him gently on the shoulder as he pulls himself together.

  “Is she really gone?” he asks me when he’s capable of speech.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “She retired. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

  He grasps my hand desperately. “Do you have her phone number, Star?”

  “I don’t,” I answer honestly. “I actually don’t know her that well.”

  “But …” He hiccups. “She owes me money!”

  Tyler and I glance at one another. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I lent her a bunch of money,” he explains. “Thousands of dollars.”

  Tyler’s eyes go wide and she looks at me helplessly.

  “Okay, wait,” I say to buy myself time to process what he’s saying. “Do you think that the money you gave her was a loan?”

  “She asked me a couple weeks ago if she could borrow some money. Of course I said yes!”

  This is worse than I’d thought. He’s still holding my hand and I give his fingers a squeeze and then draw away.

  “Okay, Daniel. This is going to be hard for you to hear, but it’s really important and you need to listen.”

  His wet eyes are on mine, still streaming, but at least the sobs have stopped.

  I give it to him straight. “No money that changes hands in a club like this is ever a loan.” I wait for my words to sink in.

  “You mean …?”

  “You gave her that money and you’re not getting it back. She took it and she’s gone.”

  The tears stop as though a faucet has been turned off. “I can’t believe …” His words trail off.

  I gesture around. “Nothing here is real, Daniel. Valentine was not your friend. She was a woman you paid to see naked. That’s it. It wasn’t nice of her to let you think that you were loaning her money, but it happened. All you can do is get over it.”