Starting With A Book

I was in a class last October that was a creative nonfiction. I did a lot of writing about work. I keep my job a secret from the faculty at Cornell, but other than that I'm open. The professor teaching the class was visiting, and she was really interesting and accepting. I felt that I could trust her and she wouldn't judge me based on my job, and she didn't. She actually encouraged me to write a book eventually because I was a good writer and I had valid things to say about my job. Anyways, I was pretty proud of this paper. I put a lot of work into it organizationally and story wise. It's really long, but I thought it would be good to share.

Starting With A Book

Sitting reading a book on the counter of the dressing room. It's a boring night. There are two guys down there. I've already talked to one for an hour. I have to go up on stage every forty-five

minutes. John won't let us stop because “there are still people here.” Jana is on stage now. She stole my song. I would be irritated, but she's a friend. I may end up making money. I look at the clock. Midnight it's still early.

~

My good friend from back home and is at work with me today. It is a lot of fun having her

here. Work is much less awful with her here. It's funny. She is going around the club telling guys they need to buy dances from me because I am “the hottest piece of ass here.” She's a little drunk tonight. She now has the nickname of my pimp tonight because I forgot my garter and she is holding my money.

~

The dead season is about to begin. I can tell. No one is spending money. I'm sitting on the

counter where the pop machine used to sit. I still have the confident air. No one is really looking

though, so my guard is down. I am scanning the crowd. Maybe I missed someone. A rather large guy glances at me. He catches my eye. I hop down and walk over and sit on his lap. My arms go around his neck and I say “Hi!” in my sweet girl-next-door kind of way. We chat. I notice his shirt. It's soft and I know the pattern. “Is this Burberry?” It's my favorite designer, the only one I consider worth spending money on actually. It also means he has money. Two minutes later he asks for a dance. Eight songs later we come out of the private dance area. Hundred and sixty dollars later, I'm glad I talked to him. He now only comes in to see me. My first regular.

~

Working at a strip club you learn fast. You learn to see who has more money. Out of the guys that do have the money who will pay me. Which guy will be nice. Which guy will treat me like a whore. Which guy wants to be touched. Which guy wants to talk. Which guy has a sexual fantasy that he wants played out. Which guy isn’t here for sexual reasons. I can’t explain why or how I learned this, but I did. If you want to survive and make money in the world of stripping you have to know these things. You end up safer and wealthier this way. Trial and error does help. I can read men and people in general really well. Although mistakes are occasionally made. It isn’t an exact science.

~

My nine month anniversary is here. I try never to work on this occasion. When I do it makes me and my boyfriend feel like money is most important. It isn’t. Except sometimes I feel like it is. My tuition is due tomorrow and if I don’t make the seventy more I need then I default on the payment. That’s bad. I desperately need the money. If work wasn’t so hard on my body I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I haven’t been able to work at all this month. I seriously pulled my hip flexor.

~

I pulled my hip flexor today. It was the day shift, and there was a slow period of three hours. I

was practicing pole tricks. I never do pole work in front of a crowd, but since I do this, I might as well be able to. I was doing pretty well, but then I hurt myself somehow.

~

Tracie Priceless is offering me drugs. I say no. I don't drink. I don't do drugs. I don't smoke. I

am an anomaly in the stripping world. “They aren't illegal. It's only Adderall.” “No thank you.” “It's not addictive” “No thank you.” “Come on! How do you expect me to pay for my kids?” “I don't do drugs. And if I really wanted Adderall I could ask my roommate who is ADD. Also, it is addictive, not right away, but eventually.” 

~

She's twenty. Like most girls here, she has two kids. Jana has a five year old and a two year old. We’re the same age. I can’t imagine having a five year old at this point in my life. Stripping is her job, other than taking care of her kids. Dancing is her way of taking care of bills and giving her kids everything they need and want. Nights are spent dancing. Days are spent with her kids. Jana comes to work after she puts them to bed. She's a great Mom and a good friend. If I’d met her outside of the club, I would be shocked by her job. She isn’t the type.

~

Seven in the morning on a Sunday, and I haven’t gone to bed yet. We just got home from work. A desperate trip to McDonald’s was made due to our hunger. It was a great night. I made six hundred. Rose made eight. This calls for a few days off. We can’t sleep, so we’re in the living room watching A-Team drinking wine. The wine is doing its job. Making us tired. I never drink. Especially at work. It's safer that way.

~

It's a Wednesday. Packing up my things. I am all done. I count out my money. I count out fifteen for the DJ and fifteen for the bouncers. I just realize. Tonight alone I have made the club a hundred dollars. It sucks. I could have kept that. Thirty to get in. Seventy dollars from private dances. Then the thirty I give to the DJ and the bouncers. So a hundred and thirty more I could have kept. Part of the reason I hate this job. I don't get to keep all the money I make.

~

I was doing a private dance with Daisy for a guy. I like doing private dances with another girl. It means less work. And no touching. I stepped off of the seat and twisted my ankle very badly. Funny thing is... I wasn't even wearing heels at that time.

~

I got my period today. Imagine having the flu plus paralyzing back, stomach, and thigh pain. In a nutshell that is my period for nine days. On top of all of that money is still a necessity to life. So, I still go to work. Most women make more money on these days because it coincides with their ovulation. Men are more attracted to ovulating women and spend more money on them. In order to keep this part of our lives a secret, we have to stick a tampon way up in there and cut the string very short so it isn't visible. Normally this isn't so bad, until today. I cut myself, and it hurts so incredibly badly.

~

It's four thirty in the morning. I have half an hour left. I am up on stage shaking it the way always do. I go over to a guy who has a HUGE stack of ones in front of him. I dance over and talk to him. When I actually do make eye contact I realize this is an alumni and close friend of my boyfriend. Luckily he is a close enough friend it's not completely awkward. After all of my stage sets are done I go and talk to him. He hands me fifty dollars and says it's because I work hard and he understands. I appreciate it and he responds “I have to say, I feel like I know you better now.”

~

I was there the first day Daisy worked. I didn't ignore her like the other girls did. I was still pretty new myself. Two months in and I was finally being acknowledged by the girls. We hit it off right away. Now she stays at my place on the weekends because she lives two hours away and it's

inconvenient for her to drive home. She's moving to Florida in three weeks and I am going to miss her.

~

I'm in the dressing room bathroom, crying. I just got off stage and it's a Saturday night. I had a

guy who tried to finger me while I was on stage. I thought it was obvious that that is illegal and wrong. I'm tired of being treated like a whore. Doesn't anyone know that this is a job? I'm a stripper, not a whore. I don't care that he got kicked out. It still hurts. It is the horrendous reality of my job: No one cares that it is a job. I’m a sexual object and nothing more. I can be used and no one cares how I feel.

~

My parents have always said that I am clumsy as clumsy gets. Except when I'm dancing. When

I dance, I never miss a step or a beat. I'm very graceful is what they have always said. I would give that credit to the thousands of dollars spent on my ballet training. I had been on the fast track to being a prima ballerina. Until I got too tall.

~

“A good dancer is an educated one, so don't abandon school.” Deborah Bull

I sit down next to a guy. Usually I keep the conversation on him. “What’s your name? Where do you work? Do you like it? How did you get into that? What do you do for fun?” The list goes on and on. I have a warehouse full of questions to keep the conversation going and on him. It makes men feel important if they are talking about themselves. This guy isn’t falling for it. He keeps turning the conversation to me. Finally he asks the most dreaded question to ask a stripper: “How did you get into this?” Most girls lie. I don’t lie, ever. This question is a hard one for two reasons. First, it is a highly personal question because everyone has their own reasons. Second, it ends the fantasy. For every girl that strips the biggest reason: Money.

I answered honestly, but with a question. “Do you know how much Cornell costs?” He laughs at me. I raise an eyebrow. He responds with: “Don’t lie to me. We both know that you don’t go to Cornell. If you do go to school it’s Kirkwood. And “college” is the most stereotypical lame ass answer to give as a stripper.” I am angry. He has slapped my intelligence. As a pretty girl, I am used to this, but for the first time someone is telling me I absolutely am not smart enough to even attend a four year college, let alone Cornell. I sit and argue with him. I explain calmly that I am a triple major in Literature, French, and Russian. That school costs $42,000 and even though I have scholarships I don’t want any debt from school, so I took this job to make that happen. He laughs at me again. “French and Russian. Two “sexy” languages. Nice pick. I’m sure you know enough to get away with it. Literature. Next you’re going to tell me you work in a library.” It’s funny because I do work in a library. I walk away making sure to speak to him in French, Russian, Spanish, and German. “Oh just to let you know. I have dabbled in Spanish and German. I don’t say I  have studied those because I have high expectations for proficiency in a language. My French is as good as your English. Although that’s not saying much. Second thought. My French is better.”

~

 A red-head walks into the dressing room. She looks scared. She doesn't know anyone. It's her

first night. She does her make-up and gets dressed. She has the hopeful look of someone romanticizing the job. She isn't yet crushed by the harsh reality of it yet. She smiles and says hi to the girls who pass her; hoping someone will talk to her. The manager talks to her and asks what song she wants to be played for her try-out. She tells him. Ten minutes pass and she is on the balcony watching the other girls on stage. She's trying to figure out what to do. Another ten minutes go by and her name, Daisy, is announced to go onstage.

~

I’ve been working a month now and the most important thing I’ve learned so far is: This job is about rejection. I am rejected more often than I am said yes to. This is because I am not every guy’s type. No girl is every guy’s type. I have to let the no’s roll off my back. There are nights when no one likes me. There are other nights when everyone likes me. It happens. It has nothing to do with how thin I am. How tall I am. How pretty I am. It has to do with what a guy likes. Sometimes it’s me. Most the time it’s not.

~

My third week of working. A friend of mine is sitting on a guy’s lap and there is another guy sitting at the table. I go over and sit on his lap. I turn and look at him. It turns out to be a guy I grew up next to for years. He's like an older brother to me. Safe to say this is an extremely weird occurrence. Although it is a slow night, so we have lots of time to catch up.

~

A friend of mine is interested in what being in a club is like. So she and I and her boyfriend

went for the night. She enjoyed it. Much more than she thought. Her boyfriend bought her a dance and now she is thinking about dancing herself.

~

Adeara told me why she got into dancing. She started dancing to pay for school. Something

we have in common. Although six months in she quit school to dance. (I don’t see this becoming another commonality.) She has gained back her self-confidence and self-worth because of dancing. She was sexually abused by a boyfriend for a few months. I heard variations of the same story from other girls. After some research I have found that sexual abuse or rape is a common thread connecting strippers, porn stars, really a lot of women in the “sex” business.

~

My fourth day working. I still don't know the tricks of the trade, so I make mistakes. I haven’t yet learned how to read people yet. The first part was alright. The last part went poorly. He kept trying to touch me in the one place it's not allowed, my vagina. Nor would I let him. I kept telling him no and holding his hand. When it was done I stood up. As I turned around to face him he untied my bikini bottom, gave me three dollars, whipped his dick out, said “It's my Birthday, make it special,” and tried to shove my face into his lap.

~

My first lap dance is with a guy that looks exactly like someone I used to date. He’s still a good friend of mine. I'm not sure if this makes it better or more uncomfortable. Anyways, I take his hand and lead him to the private dance area. He sits in the red velvet seat and I sit on the stool. I think this is how it works until the next song starts playing. “This is the first dance I've ever given.” He looks at me for a moment. “Really?” I look down, “Yes it is. I guess the first is the most memorable.” We start. I have no idea what I'm doing. Oh well just go with it. Definitely more comforting than awkward. I’m more comfortable with him because there is some “familiarity” even if it isn’t real. I end up texting him after and telling him the story. He’s now in love with me because of my job. Now it’s a bit awkward.

~

I'm working and I'm remembering how I was three years ago. Desperate and alone. I was a part of a family who abused me. I was with a boyfriend who treated me like a whore. Worse actually, I had no choice in the matter. I lost my virginity, not by choice, but by force with the words “I love you” branded into my mind. It continued for two years. And that’s what I thought love was. I know better now. I hate this job. Although it has done something for me. I gained back a little confidence. I have always been good at faking confidence. For once I think I have a little.

~

A book in my hands. I’m sitting cross legged on the floor of the book stacks on second floor of Cole Library. I’m reading a psychological study about strippers and stripping. I don't know how I'm going to break the news to my boyfriend. It would be a fairly easy decision without him. My relationship with my parents isn't going well, although it never has. I won't be able to go home for the summer, I’m not sure I ever wanted to though. I won't be able to afford anything. I don't have any choice right now. Tears streaming down my face, I still have some time. Maybe it won't come to this.