Baby Stripper Stories: Night 1 Continued

I hadn’t realized stripping came with so much body odor, but my vulva was notably fragrant today. I don’t know why I hadn’t considered it part of the equation up until this point, but there I was after a few stage sets, not sure what to do about the situation. I wished I could separate my body from the equation, cover myself in glitter and perfume so that I’m foreign even to myself, but the reality is men want to smell my pussy. Customers know what’s involved and consent to all of the above. It wasn’t the message we got through the majority of our formative period as people with pussies. I heard more remarks about how vulvas stink like fish or cheese rather than discussions eroticising natural odors. Plus, men always joke about strip club buffets being extra grimy and unpalatable, regardless of the cleanliness of the club. I’ve always taken it to be more of a reflection upon the perceived grossness of strippers than anything else. There’s nothing more revolting than sexual women flaunting themselves openly, willing to be handled by men, apparently. And there I was, a revolting woman.

I walked around, chatting up as many disinterested men as possible even though the exercise was mentally grueling considering how introverted I am when left to my own devices. Stripperweb drilled into me the importance of quantity in the stripper hustle. I was prepared to receive a lot of “no’s,” at least hypothetically, but instead of an equivocal end to the interaction, I received a bouquet of “maybe later’s”-- ambiguous and open ended. I didn’t know whether it was a soft “no” or if they truly meant I had a chance later if I circled back a drink or two down the road. Greeting everyone, I realized that I’m a saleswoman like any other, having to knock on every door.

The NBA Postseason Finals were on, Golden State vs. Cleveland. The barback unfurled a projection screen on the wall above the stage and projected the game above us while we danced. I watched the men watching the game with pussy ambient in the background. The dancer on stage was making $2 to $4 in stage tips per dance, which is hardly anything considering the Herculean efforts required for a stage set. Why had they come to the strip club if all they cared about was the game? The stripper, clearly perturbed by the lack of interest decided she could finish her set lying down watching the game with everyone else. The men didn’t seem to notice as she reclined, lazily twerking to fulfill her contractual obligation.

It was a slow night and we weren’t sure if we would make enough money to break even after house fees and tip-outs.

I sat next to a lonely looking man, the bookend of a bachelor party.

Me: Hey! How’s it going?

Todd: Oh, you know! I’m here for my buddy. Not much of a strip club guy.

Me: Oh no? Well, you’re here now.

Todd: That’s true.

Me: When in Rome? How about a lap dance?

Todd: Not right now, we just got here. Maybe in an hour?

Me: Okay, an hour from now is…

I peeped my phone to check the time.

Me: 8:30.

Todd: Don’t worry about talking to me! Go on and make your money, girlie.

Me: It’s fine. I’ll leave in a sec.

Todd: Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really belong here.

Me: What do you mean?

Todd: You know what I mean. You’re too-- too genuine. You seem like a smart girl. How’d you get into this anyway?

Me: I always wanted to try it, and I was really inspired by my friends who were dancing and the art they made.

Todd: Huh, interesting. It wasn’t because you needed the money?

Me: Well, that too.

Todd: What kind of money d’you make here?

Me: I don’t know yet. This is my first night.

I relish telling people it’s my first night. It makes me seem like some kind of virginal commodity people haven’t broken in yet. Men tell me I’m too sweet to be a stripper. They give the older strippers nasty looks as if they’re half-eaten bologna sandwiches. To be fair, strippers regard the customers with similar disgust. How does these mortal men have the audacity to feel entitled in this situation? And yet somehow in this paradigm of mutual disdain desire survives and money moves.

I watched one girl dancing with a botched boobjob. She had opted for insertion under the breast crease, but unfortunately what should have been neatly covered by drooping breasts instead bifurcates her lower boob. It sucks. You spend so much money for a surgery only to wake up with a visible permanent defect. I’ve considered getting work done to fix the parts of me I’m insecure about. Maybe she wasn’t insecure. Maybe for her it was a calculated decision she made, expecting the investment would pay itself off over time. Body is commodity.

I was once talking with a woman I was fucking about strippers. She told me she likes to play “Stripper Bingo”: cross out boxes for c-section scars, coke nose, boob jobs, lip implants, stretch marks-- all of these bodily histories. It was callous and mean, but now I see these body histories and listen to women talking about their children at home. One woman found out her child’s grandmother had had a heart attack during her shift this evening. The grandmother had been babysitting her two-year-old.

I took a break from rejections and wandered downstairs to find a pile of money at the feet of one of the more experienced girls. My questions were: 1. “who made it rain?” and 2. “can someone make it rain on me?”. I spotted the source and to my excitement, it was a sugar couple. There was a young white woman with long brown hair and a tiny dress that rode up to show her panties. She was undeniably #whitegirlwasted and followed closely by an older white man, tipsy himself but seemingly holding it together a bit better as he grinned broadly and pulled the young woman into a tight embrace as he groped her ass. She held a stack of cash in one hand, the other hand ran through his gray hair as they sloppily kissed. The daddy went to the bathroom and I took the opportunity to sit with the sugar baby.

Brooklyn: Hi beautiful! Wow, you are so gorgeous.

Me: Aw thanks.

Brooklyn: Did you go up yet?

She was asking if I’d danced on stage recently.

Me: Yeah, I was on a little while ago.

She reached into her wad of cash from the daddy and slipped me $100 as she dropped a number of bills. She bent over to collect them as a line of customers leaned to watch the spectacle of a “civilian” girl gone wild.

Me: Oh wow, thanks!

Brooklyn: I handed you $100 right?

Me: Yes.

Brooklyn: Take it! He has A LOT of money, like thousands to burn--

As she was saying it, he snuck behind us and heard. He chuckled to himself having caught her, yet with an incredible ease, she played it off, grabbing him and sticking her tongue down his throat. She grabbed my wrist and told me we’re going to have fun. She demanded I come take a shot with them, but then pulled me close to whisper in my ear.

Brooklyn: You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, that’s totally cool. If you don’t want it, just pretend like you’re drinking it and I’ll finish it for you!

Me: I don’t really drink.

Brooklyn: Gotcha!

She ordered Patron. I took a sip of my shot, not sure if she was sober enough to make good on her promise, but as soon as her daddy’s eyes were closed, she grabbed the glass from my hand and downed it, cheering. I pulled away from them after that because they started making out and grinding. I didn’t get the feeling I was her daddy’s type, and I didn’t want to waste my time hoping it would pan out.

Another woman at the bar pulled me aside and told me to talk to her friend.

Simone: Don’t sleep on this guy, he’s got money and he’s been looking at you all evening.

I sidled over to the man. He was a black man in his late 30’s with dreads and a sizable gold chain over a clean black t-shirt and expertly distressed dark denim jeans. He stood by a television, watching the game intently.

Me: Hi there.

Dante: Finally, Miss Thang. I’ve been waiting for you all night.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

Dante: It’s okay. Next time you’ll say “hi”. Tonight your first night?

Me: Yeah.

Dante: Ever?

Me: Yeah.

Dante: You having a good night so far?

Me: Yeah, it’s been pretty good.

Dante: Pretty good? You funny. Listen, I don’t wanna waste your time since I don’t fool around with dances no more, but I got a little something for you.

He handed me $100 and I’m confused.

Dante: I wanna make it a good night. Come say “hi” to me again next time, ‘aight?

Me: Definitely. Thank you.

It was the second time someone had handed me $100 that night, and yet I still couldn’t believe it was happening. Was this stripping?

Some of the strippers are Amazonians: tall and thick, but also very strong. They walk in monster stripper heels and I see them as something to aspire to. They have impressive posture and surprisingly tight waists. I watch them flex their bottoms, one cheek at a time. They click their heels together and drop down on the stage so you can hear their flesh slap the ground. They look bored and expectant. One asked me if I can show her how to do my handstand and I told her I would if she showed me how to move my ass. I like to blame my awkward ass movements on a lack of fat. I don’t have enough there to jiggle. All I want is to jiggle and have a fat ass, but it’s not my lot in life.

I sat with two guys, in between them. They seemed to work at the club or know people who worked at the club.

Duggy: You like yachts?

Me: I don’t know. I’ve never been on one.

Duggy: You need to come out with us on my yacht sometime. We go out every weekend.

He showed me a picture of my friend on the yacht with him to prove it was safe. I trusted him because she trusted him, which to offer a counterpoint, is how predators often get by-- finding an in through one friend to establish a history of trust to be broken.

Me: Cool, maybe.

Duggy: Ask Tammy, she’ll tell you I’m good.

Me: I believe you.

Duggy: You know, I’m not supposed to talk about it here, but Tammy and I are together.

Me: No way, that’s impossible.

Duggy: No, really. Why you say that?

Me: Because she’s a lesbian.

Duggy: No, she’s not.

I thought he was lying. I’d only ever seen Tammy with her girlfriend, and they had been together for years. I thought Duggy had manufactured everything, that it was some sort of financial relationship, but later that even Tammy pulled me aside.

Tammy: Hey, don’t tell people here I’m gay. It’s not safe and it hurts my money.

Me: I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that.

Tammy: It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to, just be more careful next time.

Me: So sorry, truly.

Tammy: And I am seeing Duggy. Jenny and I broke up.

Me: Oh.

I felt so guilty. I hadn’t wanted to endanger my friend or hurt her business. I had forgotten the difference between club reality and life outside. Everything is topsy turvy and more antiquated than I’d grown accustomed to. It was a new reality and I needed to savvy up.

At the end of the night we all had to tip out before leaving: $10 for the DJ, $20 for security, before 7 p.m. walk-ins paid a $25 house fee. Earlier I paid out $118 to the private dance bouncer. In total I lost $148 tonight to the house but went home with $363, which was less than $20 short of my rent for next month. It wasn’t amazing stripper money but it was more than I could have hoped for in almost any other job I could get at this point in my life. I went home with bruised knees, splitting a ride with my friend who lived two minutes from me. The driver was Ethiopian and he thought I might be too. I told him I wasn’t, but I listened to a lot of old Ethiopian jazz.

I tried to get into my apartment but remembered my parents had cut off my line, so I couldn’t make calls. I’d also been stupidly generous and lent my housemate my key to make a copy earlier that day. I called her in a harried panic using FaceTime audio, hoping my call would connect. It was almost 3 a.m. and like Stripperweb had warned me, I was a woman alone at night with cash. She finally answered and I ran inside to hide and be still.