by Catlyn Ladd
A lot of times this job makes me feel like a therapist. I’d thought that I could help Keith and others like him, repair some of the damage this world had done to their self-esteem. I’d assumed that I could fix him and that he would start a normal relationship with a real woman and that I’d never see him again. But this is beyond my ability to fix.
I straighten up and take deep red lipstick from my makeup case. It’s so dark it’s almost black and I apply it carefully, turning my mouth from glossy pink to vampire.
I pick up my purse and smile ruefully at Savannah. “Time to go give creep show his private dance.”
She pumps her fist at me. “Go get him, girl.”
Chapter Twelve
The Virgin
“I think Todd’s really cute,” Kitty tells me.
I glance at her in the mirror, pausing in the delicate act of applying liquid eyeliner to my lids. Todd is a bartender and I don’t know him well, but he is nicely proportioned in a jock-y kind of way. Not my type.
“Yeah?” I prompt noncommittally.
“I think I’m going to ask him out.”
“He gets around,” I say, not really as a warning but more as a statement of fact. Todd has probably screwed a dozen of the dancers in the time I’ve worked at this club. None of them seem to mind when he moves on, which makes me think that he communicates the terms of his intentions well and doesn’t leave a trail of devastation in his wake. This is something I can admire about him.
“Really?” Kitty pauses brushing pale pink lip gloss onto her mouth.
“Is that a problem?” I inquire, returning to my artistry. I like to get the sweep of eyeliner just right.
“Well, I guess guys are supposed to sleep around,” she says doubtfully.
“First of all, sleeping around is not a ‘guy’ thing.” This sexual essentialism bullshit drives me crazy. “Anyone can sleep around. Or not. It’s about the individuals, not about guys and girls. Secondly, I guess it’s only a problem if you want something long-term. I figure, you think he’s hot, he thinks you’re hot, have at it.” I admire the perfect cat eye I have created.
Kitty sits down in one of the straight-backed chairs along the dressing table. She’s only been at the club about a month, but I’ve become a confidante because I let her come home with me one night when she didn’t have anywhere to go. Her mom had kicked her out when the stripping came out, and her apartment wouldn’t be ready until the end of the month. I let her crash in the guest room a few times. She’s nice enough, but in my opinion she lacks a personality. So I kind of treat her like a pet.
Now she looks like she might cry. “I want him to be my first,” she finally mumbles.
I freeze in the act of patting glitter across my eyelids and then set the brush down slowly. “What?” I ask, turning from the mirror so that I can look straight into her face. “Your first?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, looking down at her hands.
I sit down to bring my eyes even with hers. “Are you telling me that you’re a virgin?”
“Yes.” She glances quickly up at me and then back down at her hands.
“How old are you?” I’m less surprised that a sexually inexperienced young woman is working as a stripper than I am at an adult virgin.
“Nineteen.”
I sit for a minute just collecting my thoughts. Most immediately, Todd strikes me as a colossally bad idea. He would certainly get the job done, but this girl lacks a certain emotional maturity. She’s looking for true love.
Apparently my silence is weirding her out because she asks, “How old were you?”
“Sixteen,” I reply. “But that doesn’t really matter. It’s more about … timing. Obviously the timing hasn’t been right for you. Which means that you’re smart to wait.”
“Really? You don’t think I’m a freak?”
I laugh. “No. I don’t think you’re a freak. Someone who takes care with their sexuality is anything but a freak in my book.”
“But you don’t think it should be Todd.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “It depends on what you want. It can be good for the first time to be with someone experienced. Sex is awkward and a little painful the first time. It can really help if your partner knows what they’re doing. Todd certainly fits the bill. But that boy is not looking to settle. He has access to a string of pussy, and he knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“You think he’s a bad person.”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying. I actually think he’s a good guy. And I also know that he is not looking for a girlfriend.”
“I kind of just want to do it. Get it over with.”
I reach out and give her shoulders a squeeze. “Then Todd might be your guy!”
Just then the door opens and two other dancers come in, chattering about something. Kitty quickly brushes her eyes and goes back to her makeup. I take that as a cue that the conversation is over.
Later that week Kitty ends up at my house again. She had some sort of squabble with her new roommate and asks to crash with me. The next morning, over omelets, she brings it up again.
“I’ve decided that Todd isn’t the one.”
I take a bite and say nothing.
“He took Destiny home two nights ago.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me.” Destiny is newly divorced and just settled custody. She’s happy to be kid-free every other week, and I’ve sensed that she’s looking for some good rebound sex.
“So it is painful the first time?” Kitty’s cheeks flush slightly.
I set my fork down. “It depends. It can be. If you’re aroused it’s a lot better.”
Her flush deepens.
“Look.” I reach across the table and touch her hand so that she’ll look at me. “If you blush every time you talk about sex, you might not be ready to have it.”
She’s just four years younger than me but, right now, I feel like her mother. She just graduated high school and I just graduated with a master’s degree. She’s living on her own for the first time and I live in an apartment with my spouse as we look for a house to buy. She’s been dancing for four months and I am about to retire after five years and move on to what will become my career. We are light years apart.
“How far have you gone before?”
“Almost all the way. Everything but, really.”
“Have you had oral sex?”
Her face is positively on fire now. “Given.”
“But not received.”
She nods, a sheet of hair sliding forward to hide her face. “I’m worried that it … that my … you know. That it smells.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. Girls are fed a diet of ads and locker room horror stories about feminine hygiene that play on body insecurities, especially the perceived messiness of the female body, and they grow into women convinced that there’s something wrong with them.
She looks at me when I laugh, her eyes narrowing defensively.
“Of course it smells!” I say and she gapes at me. “It should smell like a healthy vagina. Which, I’m sorry, does not smell like fish, or metal, or raw meat, or any of the hundreds of other things people think vaginas smell like. Vaginas just smell like what they are. And a woman’s smell is unique to her and changes a little depending on diet, the time of the month, the pH of her body, and so on. If you’re worried about a strong odor, that can be a sign that there’s something wrong and you should get an exam. Otherwise, relax. If any partner ever tells you that there’s something wrong with your body, dump him.”
Her mouth hangs open slightly at the end of this tirade. “Thank you,” she says finally. “I think I really needed to hear that.”
She takes another bite of her omelet and then asks, “Should I tell the guy that I’m a virgin?”
I’ve picked up my fork, but now I set it down again and take a sip of coffee to collect my thoughts. “You should always communicate with your partner. You should feel comfortable discussing birth cont
rol and getting tested for STIs. You should talk about what feels good and if anything doesn’t. So yes, you should tell him. But you don’t have to make a big deal about it.”
She nods thoughtfully.
It gets out at the club that Kitty hasn’t had sex. I don’t know whom else she tells, but pretty soon all the employees know and half of the regulars. She looks like the girl next door and now she’s the virgin next door. It amazes me how her earning power rises when men find out. She becomes an object of fascination, her stage crowded with men eager to get a look at the virgin stripper. She gets outrageous propositions, offers to buy her virginity.
“Some dude just offered me $10,000!” she exclaims one evening in the dressing room.
“Get the cash up front and skip town,” Liberty advises.
“Ugh, you’re so nasty,” Lenore says, hitting Liberty in the arm. “You should save your flower for someone special,” she advises Kitty. “It should be a special present that you give to a special person.”
I gag a little and roll my eyes. Lenore catches my look and glares at me.
“Don’t listen to her,” Barbie contradicts Lenore. “It’s painful and awkward, just get it over with. Make sure the guy’s decent and just do it.”
“I agree,” Katrina chimes in. “Once you do it then you can get on to the good stuff.”
“What good stuff?” Bette inquires.
This query is met with a chorus of laughter and hoots.
“Orgasms,” Katrina explains patiently. “You know, pleasure?”
Bette shrugs. “Ain’t no man ever done that for me.”
“Then you are doing it wrong!” Katrina says, backed by a murmur of agreement.
“Maybe you should let a woman try,” I suggest and laugh when Bette gapes at me.
Kitty’s head swivels from person to person like she’s watching a particularly engaging sporting event.
I hear my name called to stage. I pat Kitty on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to this shit,” I tell her. “Just do what’s right for you.”
“That is some hippy bullshit right there and you know it,” Liberty tells me.
I give her the finger over my shoulder on the way out the door. I hear her caw laughter.
Kitty finally did have sex with a nice boy that she met at a Memorial Day parade. She told me that it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would and confessed that his fumbling attempt at oral beforehand helped a lot. She said that she bled a little and that he fetched her an ice cube wrapped in a washcloth and held her all night before taking her out for breakfast in the morning. They went on a few dates, had sex a few more times, and then drifted apart.
The club, that tiny microcosm of busybodies, followed the saga of Kitty’s virginity like a soap opera. The client who had offered $10,000 for Kitty’s virginity found out that it was no longer in existence and called her a whore. That upset her.
“How does not selling sex make you a whore?” I ask when she comes crying into the dressing room after the incident.
That question startles her so much that she forgets to cry and laughs instead.
“Point him out to me,” I tell her, and we huddle behind the curtain separating the dressing room from the main floor. She points to a man wearing a suit, who is in his mid-thirties with a receding hairline.
“What are you going to do?” she asks me.
“Teach him a lesson,” I say and pull the curtain aside.
I march straight up to him. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Star.”
He looks at me uncertainly. “You’re not my type, honey,” he says, eyeing me up and down.
“It just so happens that you’re not my type either,” I shoot back. “Losers who call women sluts are a big turn off for me.”
“All women are sluts,” he snarls.
“I bet you don’t get laid a lot.” I eye him right back. “Or only when you pay.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snorts.
“The person in charge,” I say, and gesture to Donnie who lurks in the doorway like a wall of granite.
Donnie snaps to attention and makes his way over. “This asshole needs to go home,” I say. “And preferably never come back.”
Donnie’s hand, approximately the size of a dinner plate, drops on the man’s shoulder. He jumps.
“She started it!” he protests.
“And I’ll end it,” Donnie says placidly.
“You bitch!” the man shouts. “Getting a man to do your dirty work.”
I recoil from the spittle that sprays across my cheeks and then recover and laugh in his face. “Oh, honey. If it were up to me, I’d put my stiletto through your temple.” I pat him lightly on the shoulder, making him quiver with rage. “This big man here is protecting you!”
Donnie hauls him out, ignoring the stream of protests and profanities. Returning a minute later, dusting his hands together as though he’d touched something dirty, he asks me, “What was that about?”
“He called Kitty a whore.”
Donnie shakes his head. “Only weak, insecure men insult women.”
I lean against his shoulder and he puts his arm around me. “On that, big boy, you and I agree.”
Chapter Thirteen
Couple’s Therapy
Experienced customers sit at stage one because that’s the dancer who determines the music. When we dance to music we choose, it’s the best performance. In the two years I worked at this club the owner tried a couple of times to dictate the kinds of music we could play. As one of the more powerful performers at the club, I led a mutiny that finally ended his objections. I argued that my customers came to see me perform to my music and that stifling my creativity would negatively impact the tips I earned, losing money for the club. I’m persuasive. He caved.
One of my favorite sets pairs Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” with Marilyn Manson’s remake of the same song. The first is peppy and upbeat, and the remake is dark and scary sexy. During the first song I wear a long, white jacket that glows and sparkles in the lights. Underneath the coat I wear white velvet shorts, and I tie my hair up with a white bandana. When the song changes I remove all of the white, letting my hair fall free, revealing a black studded thong. Light into darkness.
I’m on stage one. I’ve taken off the shorts and reach up and pull the bandana out. My hair falls in tousled curls down my back. I time the removal of the jacket to the crescendo of the song, and the woman sitting at the end of the stage claps, laughing. The man next to her runs his hand up her back affectionately.
I sink into the splits and then lie back, bringing my legs together sharply so that the heels of my shoes slam together. The woman jumps at the sound and laughs again.
I somersault backwards and then crawl toward them. The man lays a ten-dollar bill on the stage.
I ignore him and go for her, putting my hands on her shoulders, my hair tumbling down over hers, pulling her face within inches of my naked breasts, sparkling with sweat, glitter, and body spray. Sitting up on my knees, I pull her close enough that I feel her breath against my belly. Another ten appears next to the first. That’s good enough money to pretty much ignore the other customers sitting at the stage.
At the end of the set I circle around to thank them.
“I’m Natasha,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
The woman turns toward me, smiling. “I’m Kim. This is Ken.”
“Ken and Kim.” I nod. “Got it. Well, Ken and Kim, feel free to have a drink with me later.” I step away from the stage, but Kim doesn’t take her eyes off me until I disappear into the dressing room.
“Couple at stage one,” I warn Lila, who is changing for her next round on the main stage. I know that Lila doesn’t like dancing for women. Bi-curious she is not.
“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes. “Go get them before I get up there.”
I drop my clothes and money on the counter and sit down to start facing all the bills the same way. I try to keep my money faced throughou
t the shift because it cuts down on time spent at the end of the night, when the club buys back dollar bills in exchange for larger denominations.
Bambie is curling her eyelashes at the mirror. “I don’t get what you got against girls,” she says to Lila.
“I’m not a lesbian,” Lila retorts.
Bambie shakes her head. “Neither am I!” she shoots back. “But girls are fun.”
“Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual,” I mutter. “Can’t we just be sexual?”
“Amen,” Bambie says.
“Yeah, well, I like dick,” Lila snarls.
Lila is defensive about her inflexible heterosexuality. Personally, I find it kind of funny. “Fine,” I say. “Your loss. They tip really well.”
Lila just shoots me a sardonic glare.
I finish organizing my money and tuck it into the tiny lunchbox I carry as a purse. After refreshing my lipstick, I head to the bar to wait for Cutie to finish her set. When her last song ends, Lila is called to stage and I walk over to Ken and Kim, still occupying the same seats at the end of the stage.
I pull Kim’s chair back and sit on her lap. She squeals in surprise and Ken laughs. “How about that drink?” I purr into her ear.
Ken gets up and holds out a hand to help me to my feet, then pulls Kim up with the other. Offering an arm to each of us, he escorts us to the bar as Lila takes the stage.
They order bottled beer and I order a mixed drink after waiting for Ken to ask me what I want. I am way past the novice mistake of ordering before I’m asked and then being stuck paying for my own cocktail.
“So,” I ask, while our drinks are being prepared. “What brings the two of you in tonight?”
“Well, we recently moved here and we’re looking for a new club,” Ken tells me.
“And what are your thoughts so far?”
“Well,” he grins and tips his beer bottle toward me. “You’re pretty nice.”
“We like it,” Kim chimes in. “The girls are very pretty.”
“Hot,” Ken says, his eyes skating down my body.
I clink my glass against his bottle. “I think so, too.” I gesture toward a table positioned midway between stage one and stage two. “Would you like to sit?”