"Let go!" I growled.
He struggled for a minute, during which I pushed harder, and he finally relented. As soon as I could, I reached for his half-empty drink and threw it in his face. He yelped as the alcohol burned his eyes, cursing at me. I yanked the curtain back, wanting to rip it from the wall entirely.
As I stormed toward the dressing room, I knew I was done. As soon as I was out of sight, I ripped off my shoes and peeled off my eyelashes. Leaning against my locker, I took gulping breaths. I let the fear rush through me as if a barrel of ice water had been dumped over my head. As soon as the coldness subsided, I started to cry.
I was naked except for a pair of sheer panties, alone in a dressing room at a strip club, crying.
Before I had time to collect myself and count my bills for payout and go home, the door swung open and Summer walked in.
"Having a hard time, Forget-Me-Not?" she asked as she rummaged through her locker.
Angry at her mocking, I turned around so she couldn't see me as I tried to open my locker. But the lock was jammed and I ended up spinning the dial over and over as I tried to mask my sniffling.
She approached me, inflated breasts almost brushing my shoulder as she lowered her voice to a softer tone. "Hey, hustle clubs aren't for everyone," she said, sounding almost sympathetic. "It can be tough."
I sniffled for a minute before I nodded.
I saw her breasts bounce as she turned away and picked something out of her locker. It was a business card, which she handed to me. "Try this place," she said. "It's much more quaint. No direct contact with customers."
I looked down at business card of a manager at Jezebel Rose, a peep show down the street. I'd seen it, but didn't know anything about it. I wasn't sure what a peep show even was. But if there was no direct contact, I was interested.
Then Summer paused and reached back into her locker. "This place too."
The card she handed me was from a pole dance studio called Swivel Fitness with the name Anya Velkov on it.
"Is this you?" I asked, flicking the card toward her. "Anya?"
She raised her eyebrows, letting me know I'd crossed a boundary. "If you go to her class, you might see there is a resemblance."
I nodded, embarrassed I had broken the stripper code of name secrecy. I mumbled a thanks, which I don't think she heard as she closed her locker and tramped up the stairs.
When I finally got my locker open, I packed all my makeup and belongings into my gym bag, knowing I wouldn't come back. As I paid out, I didn't even care that I had only made forty dollars. I was just glad to be done.
The next day I bravely picked up my duffle bag and ventured the same bus route to the club, but walked past it and into Jezebel Rose. The woman working at the front desk greeted me and I asked about working there.
"You'll need to audition," she said, handing me a piece of paper. "Nancy's here now if you're interested."
Knowing that my courage might not last another day, I nodded.
Ten minutes later I was led into The Box and told to dance for ten minutes while Nancy observed.
The Box was set up like a fish tank with two poles running through it. Around the small square room were a series windows, some of which were lined with one-way mirrors so I couldn't see who was behind the glass. When a customer entered one of the little booths looking into the Box, they would drop quarters into a slot and a shade would lift, revealing whoever was dancing in the Box. The only way the dancers knew people were watching behind the mirrors was a small green light that flickered on when the shade was lifted. The windows were low to the ground, rising only to hip-level so the observers could see as much leg, ass, and pussy as possible.
The glass was kept clean on my side, reflecting me as I danced, so it was just like dancing in front of mirrors at home. I liked that; I didn't have to know who was behind the glass, and got to see my body in action. I loved watching the way my body could bend and stretch, muscles flexing and shifting as I did.
I knew a few minutes into the audition that I had found a job I would enjoy for months to come. I was hired on the spot and given my first shift the next day. Confidence replenished, I went home and made dinner for Justine.
Five months later, I was still happily stripping at Jezebel Rose. I rarely dreaded going to work, and took extra shifts when I could squeeze them in. I felt strong in multiple senses: physically, since I was in the best condition of my life, and sexually, since I realized I had so much power. Dr. Turner commented on how I'd gotten more aggressive in bed. Luckily he liked that. The other Jezebels were chatty in the dressing room, a distinction from the stoniness of the hustle club locker room. A group of us started hiking together on our off days. We'd laugh about the club regulars and exchange recipes and vent our relationship problems. I found things in common with everyone. And on top of everything, I had plenty of cash.
The only thing I dreaded, apart from exhausting shifts in the Private Pleasures Booth, was the possibility of someone I knew coming in and discovering my secret. I tried to hide behind copious amounts of makeup and sometimes wigs, but there was no way to completely mask who I was. A few times I had nightmares about classmates watching me from behind the mirrored glass, taking pictures illegally and sharing them with people in our program. Or, even more horrifying, that a picture of me would end up on the internet and my parents would see it.
I made up a façade of “waitressing,” even going as far as to bring home leftovers once in a while. I told my parents and sister I was aggressively applying for jobs in neuroscience when I had no intention of doing so. All the lies and secrets I kept made me lonely. But I was financially solvent, physically fit, and rarely bored, so I figured those things came at a price.
I had always offered to do Justine's laundry while I did my own, because it forced me to sit and study uninterrupted for at least an hour, save for a few breaks to switch machines. Now that I had graduated, Justine felt she had to return the favor for all the hours I'd spent doing our laundry, so she collected mine every other week and ventured to the laundromat down the street. I had the nagging thought that I should probably do all of it, since I only worked half the hours she did and because I was better at it anyway, but I didn't mind having the apartment to myself for an hour. I spent my hour looking at stripper shoes online.
I was shocked at how obsessed with shoes I'd become. Growing up, I'd never cared what was on my feet as long as I could walk. But since I had discovered the power of a good pair of heels at work, I had grown increasingly preoccupied with footwear.
I was just about to purchase a shiny, nude pair of Ellies when I heard Justine come in. I tilted my computer screen so she couldn't see I was buying things from Discount Stripper when she walked into my room.
"Want to explain this?" she asked from the doorway.
I turned around and saw, to my horror, one of my clear, light-up, six-inch heels in her hand.
How had she found it? I kept all my stripper gear in my locker at work or in a gym bag in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
"Where'd you find that?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound panicked.
"In your laundry bag."
"Weird," I said, pretending to be disinterested. "It's not mine."
"Is this one also not yours?" she asked, producing the shoe's mate.
I paled. It felt like she had walked in on me having sex with Dr. Turner.
She raised her eyebrows and sighed. She tossed the shoes on the bed and said, "Must be some crazy restaurant you work at."
I bit my lips, glancing back at the pair of shoes I was about to buy. "I'm - I'm taking a dance class," I stuttered. "Pole dance fitness."
I wasn't lying entirely. I had started taking classes with Anya at Swivel Fitness, and it had quickly become my second home. Anya had quickly moved me up from beginner to intermediate and pushed me to master tricks I never thought I'd dare. I'd even started inverting.
Justine folded her arms and looked at the floor. "Are those classes at one a.m.
?" she asked. She sounded sad.
And I realized, as I looked at her standing in my doorway, that she knew I was lying to her. I had cheapened our friendship by not telling her the truth.
I let out a heavy sigh. "No." A moment of excruciating quiet passed before I mumbled, "I'm a dancer at Jezebel Rose."
Justine bit her lips and nodded, still not making eye contact. "Did you think I'd be mad or disappointed or something?"
I shrugged. "I didn't know what you'd think."
"You think I care what you do to pay your bills?" she asked. "You're my best friend. Not much else matters."
Guilt pressed down on me so hard that I broke. I gave her my best guilty look and said, "I'm sorry. I should have told you."
"You should have," she agreed.
There was another moment of silence as Justine took another step into my room and picked one of my shoes up from the bed, studying it. A little smirk played across her face as she said, "What's it like?"
I was hesitantly relieved. She wasn't yelling or wrinkling her nose or telling me I was being stupid or trashy. She wanted to hear more about my job, just like she would if I were doing hair or yoga instruction or selling puppets at street festivals.
"I dance in a glass box with a few other girls. No contact with customers."
She studied the shoe in her hands as she sat on the bed. The lights flickered on a few times at the motion.
"Can you actually walk in these things?" she asked.
I giggled, mostly in relief that she was taking my outing so well. "It's easier than it looks," I said.
"Easier than impossible?" Justine said, looking up at me.
"You could do it," I assured her, getting up and taking the other shoe in my hand. I stooped, ready to take off her shoes and prove that walking in a pair of Ellies is almost as comfortable as walking in tennis shoes.
I half expected Justine to stop me, but she didn't. By the time I'd fastened the strap around her ankle, she was holding the other shoe out to me to put on her other foot. Her feet were a size bigger than mine, but the shoes still fit.
Once both shoes were on, she stretched her legs out in front of her and tilted her head.
"Try standing," I said. "I'll catch you if you fall."
She took a deep breath and gave me a skeptical look, but stood anyway, one hand on the bedpost. As she transferred her full weight to her feet, she looked down, as though the shoes might explode or start walking on their own before she was ready. Hesitantly, she took a few small steps. Then, seeing it wasn't so hard after all, she took a few more. Then she looked up with a smile.
"You're right. Not that hard."
I grinned back at her. If I had known she would react like this, I would have told her earlier.
Justine paced around my room for a few more moments before she made a dramatic pose with her hand up in her hair.
"Think they'd hire me as a Jezebel?" She giggled, as though the idea was preposterous. Then she grew self-conscious, looking down at her wide hips and sturdy thighs.
"Sure they would," I said. If there was one thing I had gained at Jezebel Rose besides money, it was appreciation for all different types of bodies, which the show managers made a point to hire.
Justine scoffed. "I can't even dance."
I gave her a dubious look. "You think they hire girls because they can dance? You could totally work there," I said.
Justine looked down at her legs again and said, "No... I like working in the nonprofit sector too much. For the money," she joked.
Justine clopped over to my closet where she could look at herself in the full-length mirror. She pressed her hands to her thighs, studying herself as if she wasn't around mirrors often.
"How much do you make?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Depends on the shift. When I'm just in the Box, I make thirty dollars an hour. But if I do the Private Pleasures Booth, I can make anywhere from three to five hundred dollars in a three hour shift."
Justine's eyes went wide. "No wonder you can afford shoes like this." She picked up one of her feet, examining the way the colored lights twinkled inside the heel at the movement.
She set her foot back down and I felt guilt creep up again. I knew that if she somehow ever found out about my arrangement with Dr. Turner, she would be hurt that I didn't tell her. I decided to ease into it.
I took a breath. I was about to tell the first person not directly involved that I was an escort.
"I have a side job too. A private client."
Justine's eyes narrowed in a frown and her lips puckered for a moment before she said, "Private client?"
I nodded. "Someone I know from outside work. We have an arrangement."
Then Justine's eyes went wide. I braced myself for the spew of words that I knew would come.
But when she spoke, she was hesitant. "Riley, are you — are you saying what I think you're saying?"
I didn't answer the question directly, instead rushing to my own defense. "I'm careful about it. We get tested, I make him use protection, cash only."
"Since when?" Justine asked. She sounded more curious than angry.
"About six months."
The room was quiet as Justine did some mental math.
"Dr. Turner," she said in a cool, flat voice.
I raised my eyebrows in warning. "My client pays me generously for my discretion, Justine."
She blinked a few times before she shook her head. "Right. Of course he does," she said, as though she had intruded on a regular kind of business interaction. "Sorry." There wasn't a single note of sarcasm or anger, which surprised me. She paused for a minute before looking right at me and saying, "But you feel safe?"
I gave her a calm-infused nod to convey how comfortable I was with my part-time job. She seemed to settle, looking down at the party heels for a minute before she said, "You have had a lot of skanky underwear in your laundry lately."
"Costumes," I smiled.
I walked over to my dresser and pulled out the duffle bag of things I'd kept hidden from her. As I unpacked them, showing her the tools of my trade, I felt like I was taking off clothing that was too tight and putting on my favorite yoga pants. It felt really good to tell someone.
Justine got closer to me after I came out to her. She had a deepened curiosity about my life. If anything, her unabashed curiosity fueled my own, bringing questions to the surface I'd been too afraid to fully form. She asked me if I enjoyed the sex, to which I answered, Sometimes, but usually not. She asked if I enjoyed Dr. Turner's company, to which I answered that he wasn't horrible, but wasn't someone I'd date.
In a way, society is set up so men are the pursuers and women are the ones being chased. But as a prostitute and stripper, it was reversed. The customers at the peep show were not people I'd give a second glance to on the street, but I had to create the illusion of chasing them. That's what I was being paid for: to pretend to be aroused by the idea of men in tiny closets with their pants around their ankles, jerking off to the sight of me wavering above them, oh-so-turned-on by the tops of the their pasty, hairy thighs as they stroked themselves. I even had to pretend to be aroused by the customers I couldn't see.
Men, I had discovered, were turned on by the idea that they were turning me on. The better I could play the part of the wanton girl driven to a state of sexual frenzy by the thought of a man jerking off, the more money they paid to watch me writhe and sway and strut.
Justine and I were lying head to toe on our oversized couch watching Golden Girls one night when Justine's eyes flashed wide.
"I figured it out," she said. "I figured out why people think stripping is dirty."
I raised an eyebrow.
"It's because you're an active participant. Guys are allowed to whistle at us on the street, and we're supposed to take it as a compliment. Which is to say, girls are supposed to be passive sex objects."
I nodded. I had no misgivings about the fact that it felt good to be desired. That was the high I felt in the Box
, particularly when one of my regulars visited me. They preferred me over the other dancers, who were all beautiful in their own right. Being desired as something special felt good. Getting paid for it felt great.
"But the problem is that men don't want us to be active sex objects. If a girl seeks out sex or does anything provocative, then she's a slut."
I sighed and nodded, reaching for my wine glass as Justine proceeded to rant about unfair double standards society had about human sexuality.
But I knew Justine was right. The reason I hadn't told my sister or my other friends about my job was because I knew they would all be horrified by my whorified self. They would label me as broken, defective, or irreparably tarnished. They would disapprove of my job solely because I had become an active, public sex object rather than a passive one. And that realization made me feel like it might be worth telling them, just to start the sexual revolution I thought the world needed.
But that was probably just the wine talking. Riley, the girl who tried so hard to make people proud, would never start a hometown revolution like that. So even though I buried the idea deep into the back of my mind, I knew, without the assistance of false eyelashes or Ellies, that Violet would be exactly the kind of girl who would start such a revolution.
Justine turned to me a minute later and said, "Hey, I keep meaning to ask you: would you be willing to let my coworker's girlfriend interview you as Violet? She needs a controversial topic for her school newspaper."
My first instinct was to say no. Aside from Justine, Dr. Turner, and the girls at Jez, no one knew about my double life. The threat of my family or grad school friends finding out loomed heavy all around me.
But then I thought about what a difference it made to me to read message boards about how other sex workers felt about their jobs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pictured a young woman who felt isolated like me reading about my life and feeling better about herself. Even if I wasn't ready to out myself to everyone I knew, I wanted to let women know it was okay to be sexual however they felt best: for themselves, for others, in public, in private, for free, or for profit. And furthermore, that it wasn't an indicator of their moral character or worth as a person.
Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 10
