There are girls who lie to their boyfriends, husbands, and parents about being a dancer. This has always baffled me. How in the fuck can these people not know? Parents, fine, but someone you live with?! I’ve certainly hidden aspects of my job, minute details like hand jobs, but never have I tried to pull off the I-work-at-a-restaurant-that’s-open-‘til-four-in-the-morning, we-wear-a-shitton-of-makeup-and-smell-like-cupcakes, deception. Not to mention hiding outfits and that we sometimes smell like cologne. Seems like a pretty big gamble, especially the married ones. Although I will admit that not having to deal with all the bullshit that comes with loved ones knowing does sound appealing.
I chat with my friends, drink some water and go on stage. New guy. This one remembers me from a couple years ago. Wish I could say the same. He recalls things about me even I don’t remember. We dance, his face smells like the beach, because he works on boats and uses Coppertone. His name is captain something. I forgot it as soon as he said it. We’re done. I notice one of my other guys has come in and is waiting for me. Fuck, no time for vodka. We go to the VIP. He tells me I’m sexy. I suck on his thumb (I know, it’s a gross thing to do given the environment, but I’ve known him a long time and I know he is an avid hand washer). He says I’m going to make him come like that. We never do more than one set, so no need to make it last. I whisper in his ear and describe how I would suck him off. He ejaculates in his pants, which means the dance over one song early. Nice.
I feel like I’m a hundred years old. I can barely stand. The crowd is horrible, and the sad thing is I don’t give a good fuck about money right now. Maybe it’s the vodka talking. Or the Pepsi (which I never drink but did earlier for the caffeine). It could be the femme inferno shimmering moisture mist choking my senses. Or perhaps its the fact that I’ve had this exact same thought about a thousand times before.
I had some weirdness with a fellow dancer earlier as I was getting ready. I usually get along with everyone. I don’t like drama at work. The biz is tough enough. But this particular girl, Mila, is crazy. Actually she’s a woman (I think she’s even older than me!). Mila has started shit with almost every dancer and cocktail waitress. I don’t get it. Why does she like the rift? I generally stay clear of her, but tonight it was unavoidable. I was getting ready (putting makeup on and secretly drinking) when she comes in and asks if the duffle bag is mine.
“Yes, it is,” I said with trepidation. I smelled trouble.
“Well, will you move it,” the uppity nut says. It was more of a command than a question. Bear in mind, the dressing room is small and on a first come, first serve basis. Every dressing room around the globe is like this. We have to be respectful of each other. Sadly, it doesn’t always go down like this. I looked at her like she had spaghetti coming out of her head. “Where do you propose I put my stuff?” I said, with a clear glint of sarcasm.
Completely ignoring my remark, “This is where I always get ready”. I can visibly see the tip of the stick protruding from her ass. She continues, “I don’t drink or do drugs, I work five nights a week, and I need this spot.”
Not sure what drinking or drugging has to do with where a person gets ready in the dressing room. I wanted to kick her. Like I need this shit while I’m mentally preparing for all the nonsense I will be dealing with for the next six hours. “Sweetie, we’re all in the same boat. No one has saved spots here, and you know that. But if you NEED this spot…” I trailed off, afraid of what I might say next. Not wanting to deal with her, I moved my bag over for her highness. She didn’t even thank me. What a cow. I drank, undressed, ignored her, went to the floor. She’s been throwing me vibes all night. What a joke. Fuck her.
Unfortunately, I’ve been here for so many hours, and since I habitually spray myself pretty much every time I go to the dressing room (we all do), I reek. I desperately need to shower and start over. I think I’ll go to the bathroom and give myself a sink wash. Makeup, hair, and perfume start out brilliant and beautiful, but after hours of reapplying and reapplying, things can get rough. However, here’s a secret I’ve cultivated over my long dancing career: most men don’t give a shit. In fact, I tend to make the most money after I’ve been at the club for a while and I’m worked and disheveled.
Fuck, I’m beat. I want to go home. Surprise, surprise, surprise. Jesus, I’m channeling Gomer Pyle. I really am showing my age. Here’s the question: Am I sober enough to drive? I’m gonna have to give that a resounding no.
A man in his late fifties, maybe sixties, with one of the worst toupees I’ve ever seen, but he was sporting a pretty sweet button-up Doobie Brothers shirt. During our dance he asked me if I liked his pants. He was wearing a track suit, so no. Slippery track suits are, bar none, the absolute worst thing to wear to a strip club. Fashion aside, it’s a challenge to stay on the guy’s lap. It’s like a Slip ‘N Slide with a bump in the middle. No bueno. I’m assuming these men are thinking that they are getting one over on us due to the thinness in material, but in reality it’s just annoying. Not to mention there’s zero support for the man’s junk, so it’s all tube steak and wobbly balls. The best lap dancing pants? Corduroy. They are soft and have just the right amount of support and leeway. Jeans are great, but often get too tight in the crotch area. Wool is bad and itchy. I’ve had guys come in on rainy nights wearing wool pants…you can imagine how much fun that is. I held down the sarcasm. He was a nice guy. So I just smiled and put my boobs in his face instead.
Earlier tonight while I was at work, I was all giddy and bored and filled with thoughts of the new man. I wanted to send him a picture of myself from the dressing room. Ideally I would do this without a thought, but I’m trying to be all appropriate, especially after the unfortunate first date word vomit. Ugh, who the fuck told me to be appropriate? I don’t do it well and the concern of it sends me into a mental frenzy. As if I didn’t already consider people’s feelings enough, now I have to be fucking appropriate! I’m screwed. I was second-guessing my idea. Will he think I’m nuts? Or a slut (although fucking him after knowing him only two hours may have put the ink on that one). Will he be offended? Seems absurd, but some men are put off by this kind of sexual display. Oh, for fuck’s sake, what the shit is going on? Shouldn’t he be thrilled? After all the people I’ve slept with, all the lap dances, and the sex shows, I’m anxious about sending a man a fuckin’ G-rated picture of my panties! How did I get here? I have censored and compromised myself in one way or another in almost every relationship I’ve ever had. When do I just get to be me?
So here’s what I did. I sent him a text that said, “Tell me, is it in poor taste to send you a picture from the club?”
His response was,
“Maybe…..depends….OK go ahead.” Not what I was hoping for.
“I should have been more clear: a pic of me.”
He said, “I still say OK.” Not wholly reassuring, but I resolved to stick with being myself, so I took a fun picture of my panties and silver lace top. With it I said, “You are on my mind.” I waited with tiny knots in my belly. This guy doesn’t really know me, and I’m his first stripper, but what the fuck happened to fun? Why can’t this be seen as simple flirtation? It’s foreplay, people! This is the twenty-first century is it not? As if life weren’t toilsome enough, I’ve got to stew over whether this man will be offended by a picture of my panties? It’s exhausting.
Twenty minutes went by after my panty text. Then all I got in return was, “Nice.” OK, no more pictures.
Naturally he looks towards my legs. I followed his gaze and noticed that my mini skirt was barely covering my crotch and I was flashing the dude a lot of leg and inner thigh, which also included my fishnet thigh-highs with patent leather at the top.
I checked for his reaction. He had a big smile. He took my info and said he’d be right back. I desperately wanted to change my footwear, but I know cops don’t like it when people lean over or even do anything while pulled over, so I left my half unzipped high heel boots alone.
He came back and handed me my things.
“So. Where’s this party you were at and why are you leaving,” he asked in a flirty voice.
“Are we finished?”
As he was saying yes, I rolled up the window and drove away. Lesson learned. Don’t pull over with the engine running and parking lights on in small beach towns in the middle of the night. Change clothes and/or cozy shoes on deserted side streets. And if you do get pulled over, it helps if you’re wearing fishnets.
I got hammered last night and divulged my hooker status to two of my male friends. I’m sick of hiding the real me. It’s not my style. Before I moved to Los Angeles, I lived my life as an open book. But when I moved here, I made friends with non-sex workers for the first time in years, and I decided to tone it down, for several reasons, one being I was older and didn’t feel the need to tell people everything, and two, I didn’t want to attract the type of attention from the men in our group that usually comes with that information. Frankie, Sally and Frannie all knew I danced, but it was a while before we told any of our male buddies. I was working at the recording studio when I met them all and was dancing only part-time, so it was easy to leave out. They were also some of the first truly platonic man friends I had ever had. I’ve had male friends before, of course, but I can’t think of many that I didn’t also sleep with at one time. The information was mildly amusing to them when they finally heard it a couple years into the friendship (dancing), but I think the hooking may have thrown ‘em for a bit of a curve ball. It’s not everyday you find out that one of your close friends of eight years (the one you’ve been eating Buffallo wings and beer with) is a prostitute. But I love these guys, and they love me, so I know it’s all good.