It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.

Take home: $125
Tipped out: $30

I had a typical lousy day at work.

The women here hate me. I used to think they hated me in particular, but it turns out that they pretty much treat everyone like crap, not just me. This makes me feel a little better, but it doesn’t make the days any more pleasant. For the most part, I sit around in my office hoping they’ll forget I exist. Sometimes they do. Those are the good days, but this wasn’t one of them. 

We had to work on a project cooped up in a room together and it looks like this project could go on for weeks. The truth is, I couldn’t be more different from them, and when I’m forced to be near them I end up trying much too hard to be liked. So I try to make small talk or jokes, but all I get are blank stares like I’m from another planet. I get nervous and say things that are even more stupid and/or offensive than I would under normal circumstances. A few days ago I got into a little trouble. We had another long day ahead of us, and I made the mistake of starting it off with the following comment,

“Look, I’m about to get my period, so if I burst into tears, I just want you all to know it has nothing to do with any of you.” True, I lack some sense of propriety, but I swear to God I have never worked with a group of women who wouldn’t bond over period chatter. As long as there are no men around, all the women I’ve ever known are completely comfortable with stuff like that.

They freaked. Like I had just hopped up on the conference table and taken a big poop – that was how they looked at me. And it wasn’t enough to let me feel stupid about it and move on, I had to be dressed down about “fitting into the existing culture” again later that day.

So today it was getting to be about six o’clock, and it was clear that we were going to have to stay even later, but I wanted to be out the door with plenty of time to mentally prepare myself for my new job. Conscientious as I typically am, I let Lynne know ahead of time that I needed to leave no later than 7:30.

She said, “Well I really need you to stay as long as it takes tonight, (in her phony, sickly-sweet, power-hungry, sucking-all-the-joy-from-every-minute way) but if you absolutely need to go then I guess you need to go.” When all was said and done, the others decided to go home about 6:30, and I ended up taking that additional crap from Lynne for nothing.

I took what Delilah said to heart and bought a bag and a lock to take with me and store my clothes. I packed it with some thongs and three reasonably convincing stripper outfits. One was the stretchy dress that I bought at Fascinations and wore on my audition. I also found a black vinyl-but-looks-like-leather outfit that has buckles on it, and finally a tube dress that would normally be used as a slip. I’ve got my big boots and a couple pairs of high-heeled shoes.

I get to the club a little early and after dressing, I go to the DJ booth to give him my CD.  It’s Marcus again, and he seems genuinely happy to see me. We talk for a while about our other jobs and our kids. He is a filmmaker (independent films, not pornography as I might have assumed) and has a daughter that he clearly adores. Marcus reminds me one more time of how the rotations work.

He puts a dance list on a message board behind him that we follow unless he calls us up over the PA system to let us know that he’s modified it. The key is to remember which dancer you follow and pay attention to where she is. For the most part, dancers move from stage to stage in consecutive order, but one doesn’t necessarily start on Stage One, and depending on how many dancers there are, there can be quite a bit of time between each dancer’s set. Plus the number of songs per set varies. One can use the time in between to change, talk to men, relax in the dressing room, or, most preferably, get table dances. Talking to men and letting them buy you drinks makes money for the club, and certainly helps one develop regulars, but table dances are twenty dollars a song, so that’s how the dancers make the bulk of their take-home pay. 

I introduce myself to Paul the bartender and buy myself a drink at an outrageous price even with our employee discount. I explain to Paul that under no circumstances should I ever be served more than two drinks in one night. I get drunk so fast that if I were to engage in a third, I can’t be held responsible for my behaviors. He says it’s no problem. If men want to buy me drinks later in the evening after drink number two, that I should order something clear and he’ll fill my glass with 7-Up.

I sit down at a table with some men until its time for the shift change. During the shift change, both night and day shift dancers get up on the stages, so there are four or five women on each stage at least, and we stretch, cool down and talk to each other and to customers sitting around the stages. They call it “The Zoot Scoot”. The purpose is to signal that it's time to get started, or get going, and it also gives the DJ the chance to see who is working the next shift and make the dance list.

The DJ reminds the customers that day shift dancers are leaving so if there is one special girl they want to get a table dance from, they’d better hurry. Even though I understand the function of this process, it gets under my skin. We are on display for the customers to look us over all at once and I find it particularly demeaning. Maybe I feel more uncomfortable about this particular job requirement as compared to some other potentially more distasteful ones because it is the only one I can’t control. We have to get up there, stay on stage as long as it takes, they play this boring house music the whole time, and we’re really not dancing or making money, we’re just on display.  I don’t like it.

While I’m stretching and spreading my legs and moving around in various unnatural poses, another dancer gets my attention with an urgent expression. She tells me that she can see right through my thong and that I’d better go change before Michael hears about it. This was a pair I had lying around in a drawer and until now I hadn’t noticed. I hop off the stage and dig up a new pair as fast as I can. We aren’t supposed to leave the stage, but I bolt to the dressing room to change into another thong and come right back.

Thanking her profusely for helping me stay out of trouble, she smiles and waves it off. I get no sense that she is trying to be a jerk or boss me around. She knew I didn’t know any better and was doing me a favor. She could have minded her own business and let me get into all kinds of trouble, but she didn’t. Besides the bonus exposure at no additional charge, no harm was done, and I was already very impressed with the supportive atmosphere.

I expected strippers to be competitive and catty. On the contrary, I can’t remember having seen as much friendliness and teamwork in any other job I’ve had. In contrast, a frequent topic of discussion is Tinseltown, a club south of here, considered to be one of the premier strips club in the area. The customer traffic is higher and the dancers take home pay is fabled to be substantially greater, however, the dancers are said to be intensely competitive and treacherous.  It is universally agreed by Allure’s dancers in-the-know, that such an atmosphere of “every girl for herself” is not worth the extra cash. 

When the house music ends and the first two dancers are called on stage, I check the dance list. I’m to start on Stage Two, which means I won’t get to pick the music. Whoever is on Stage One gets her music played, and eventually it will be my turn again. Marcus plays the choice of the woman on Stage One, the ubiquitous hip-hop urban youth dance music. Although it is not my favorite, I have no problem getting into the music and dancing. This time it is a piece of cake. It’s Friday and unlike my audition, the stage is already almost completely surrounded. I like the feeling of the tension in my arms as I swing myself around the poles and the way it feels to perform in front of an audience. 

Even if the customers don’t care how well I dance, I do.

My eyes keep returning to the big brass poles. I stare at them longingly, but not in an absurd, Freudian, phallic way.  I wish I could use them in my performance like some of the other dancers do. They pull themselves up and spin around or flip upside down and slowly slide down. They look so cool on those poles. For now, I use them to lean against or swing myself around, but I want to learn to do something more gymnastic and flashy someday.

I lean over and kneel on the stage and pick up dollar bills in the side of my T-bar with absolutely no shame. Shameless. I smile and enjoy myself. I don’t know how I look up here, but I’m not self-conscious, and it feels good. The customers can tell I’m having a good time, and they are responding positively towards me. They want to connect with this girl they’ve never seen before who is having so much fun on stage. By the second song, I remind myself that I need to stare into different guys eyes and make them think I want them.

One thing that became clear to me during my brief stint as a stripper, and I can’t emphasize this enough, is that men love tits. As much as we think they love tits, they love them even more than that. And they like to see as many different sets of them as possible. There are many complex reasons that strip clubs endure, but sometimes the simplest explanation can be the most useful. It’s nothing personal. It also doesn’t really matter if I’m not the best looking girl, or have the best body, or the best dancer or even in the top twenty on any of these measures. Men are always happy to see tits and never seem to get tired of it. Huggy Bear probably could have taught me that too, if it weren’t for the network censors.

An elderly gentleman starts talking to me and I can barely hear or understand him. I must have spent too much time trying, because later Michael called me into his office and told me not to talk so long to anyone while I’m on stage. It’s still early in the evening and we are doing three song sets, much too long, but when I’m done, I bend over in an exaggerated manner trying to be funny and gather up my dollar bills as the next dancer steps up. If I hurry to put my money away and get back out there, I’m pretty sure I can get at least one of these guys to buy a table dance.

When I get into the dressing room, I can’t open the lock on my bag. I’m pulling and tugging and swearing, but I think it is bent. I’m already very nervous about doing a good job and I start to panic that I won’t be able to change in time for my next set. While I’ve been struggling with my lock, it seems that the DJ has been calling me over the PA,            

“Trinity, come to the DJ booth, Trinity to the DJ booth.”

First of all, I don’t hear him; second, I’m not sure that I would have remembered that I am supposed to be Trinity. I’m too busy freaking that I can’t get my bag open. Michael knocks on the dressing room door and someone signals that it is clear for him to come in. Apparently he can see us topless out on stage, but not in the dressing room.

“Trinity, the DJ has called you three times, get out there!”

“Umm, I’m having a problem…I’m having a problem, my bag won’t open… I can’t get the lock open.” Oh God, I am such a dweeb. Michael says he’ll send someone in with a tool to cut the lock and I attempt to regain some composure. I go to see the DJ and tell him that I am a bit hard of hearing. If he needs me he’s going to have to be especially loud when he calls “Trinity.” He reminds me to relax and take it easy, it’s no problem, and he just wanted to let me know that I’d be following a different dancer for the rest of the night. I explain that I am locked out of my bag, and he offers to give me plenty of time before my next set.

Rick, a bouncer, shows up just a few minutes later with bolt cutters. I meet him for the first time as he shyly enters the forbidden zone dressing room and proceeds to cut the lock off my bag. He is about 6’4,” very muscular and at least thirty-five, maybe forty plus, a sweet combination of steroids and sincerity. He introduces himself by vigorously shaking my hand and giving me the rundown of who he is and what he does. Rick has done this line of work for years and takes great pride in protecting us. He lets me know for the first of many times that if I need any help, if anyone gets out of line, any problem whatsoever, he is strip-club-bouncer-Johnny-on-the-spot and don’t hesitate to let him know. 

The doormen, all of the bouncers, the DJ, and the bartenders have what appears to me to be a fairly elaborate communication system using earpieces and microphones. Also, there are cameras all over the place. I feel reasonably safe already, but Rick is dying to kick somebody’s ass in defense of one of the dancers. This is particularly amusing to me because from what I can tell so far, the clientele is almost exclusively made up of white-collar middle managers and IT professionals. It’s the thought that counts, and I can’t help but like him. The lock is off, and I’m good to go.

Because it’s Friday, there are many dancers on tonight, so I only get to dance a few more sets. I sit and talk to a lot of men and I offer table dances, but it has already been such a stressful night that I don’t push it. I’ll try harder next time. I move through a rotation until I finally get back to Stage One where I get to pick the tunes. This time, instead of choosing specific songs, I ask Marcus to play some random disco. When I get on stage and hear the intro to “It’s Raining Men”, all the stress I felt earlier in the dressing room breaks loose and I crack up laughing. He follows it up with “I Will Survive”, another disco staple. I am surprised to find out how difficult it is to strip to these songs. When I return to the dressing room, some of the dancers playfully boo and hiss my play list. What do they know about the classics?

At the end of the night, we all have to get up on stage again as they clear the customers out. When they are gone, we file back into the dressing room, which is as crowded as it ever gets. It’s claustrophobic, and I have trouble pulling all my junk back together and into my now unprotected bag. 

I’m hurrying to get out of there because I don’t remember that we are not free to go just as soon as we are ready. Yet another element of the job that sticks in my craw: We have to wait for all the customers to be gone, return all our dishes and glasses to the bar, and clean up the back before we are even allowed to exit the dressing room, much less leave the club. Once that is done, we can wait out in the club for the parking lot to be cleared of all customers. I’m tired and cranky and it seems to take forever.  

Girls are strewn all over the place, exhausted and draped over chairs, smoking and counting from their piles of money.  They’ve washed their faces and are back in their street clothes, baggy sweats, and thick, out of fashion eyeglasses. Some of them look downright homely. The glamorous, young woman who sent me running to the dressing room to change my see-through thong, now looks like any woman you’d never notice on the bus.

We need to tip everybody out. That means the DJ, the bar, the doormen and bouncers. Tonight this means six people at a respectable minimum of five dollars each. I can see that some dancers tip less, but then you hear a lot of under-the-breath complaining, and promises not to look after that girl quite as diligently. I see no interest in alienating anyone, or feeling less protected, so I tip out generously, with the additional motive of getting the male personnel to like me and hopefully talk freely with me whenever the opportunity arises.

All night I have been stuffing bills into my bag. I pull out enough to give everyone five dollars each, but I don’t want to count it while I’m still in the club, I just want to go home. Finally, the guys say its clear, and they walk us to our cars and watch to see that we get out safely.

It’s a long drive home, and I get in around 3:00 AM. I’m tired all the way down to my bones, but I can’t wait until morning. I hop into bed to count the money from my very first night as an exotic dancer. I unzip the flap on the bag where I’ve been stuffing my tips and let it all fall out into a pile. They are mostly ones so it makes a pretty big pile. Then I notice it.

An ugly stench quickly fills up the room and our nostrils.

The money stinks.

Not the typical smoky bar smell. Years ago, Allan played drums in numerous nightclub bands and his musical equipment still carries that smell. This is different. It’s unique, and it permeates every dollar. Men have laid out these dollars, put them in their pockets, folded and unfolded them in their hands, fingered them anxiously, and then placed them next to my skin. There is a sickly sweetness to it. The closest I can come to describing it is by comparing it to the animal odor that is exuded when dogs fight.

It’s probably just the combination of leather wallet, smoky bar, and stripper sweat. Allan jokes that this tainted income is the harbinger of evil forces, an ironic premise of a Stephen King novel. I laugh, but inside it really gets to me.
I can label the stench - it smells desperate. I start to feel like maybe I’m doing something very wrong, but I put my superstitions and worries aside for the time being.