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Next to me Adriana was adjusting her long, fake black ponytail and examining her eyeliner. “Are you up first?” she asked. I squared my shoulders.
“Yup, he moved me,” I said, and managed a smile. “He wants me out on the floor. Alex is trying to make a point.”
“Always,” she said. “Tell him to keep his little point to himself.” She laughed. Adriana’s aunt was married to one of the owners, so Alex left her alone. She had a boyfriend and two little girls and kept her coveted place in the lineup because she was absolutely beautiful and could sell Champagne time better than anyone. At twenty-five, she was a legend at our club. All the new hires had to train with her, myself included. She gave me exactly twenty minutes on my first day. That was it. She taught me how to maintain eye contact while I was on stage, to make each customer feel like he was the only guy in the room, even when I was looking at every guy in the room. She gave me pointers about how to get them to tip well and request private time with me.
Adriana gave me all the basics in those twenty minutes, but I would never come close to her. I could memorize my lines, but I would never be an actress. Adriana, however, was a natural. She was born to do sales. She made it look so easy and night after night, guys paid thousands of dollars to have an hour with her. Men flew across the country to see her on a regular basis. One older guy, who was rumored to be a millionaire, had even proposed.
I didn’t have her gift. I couldn’t look at someone like she did — like she knew who they were, and they didn’t disgust her. Like she still wanted them and liked being with them. All while managing to get paid a large sum of money. It was a business transaction, and Adriana got that. I knew what it was supposed to be, but I couldn’t get over feeling like it was some sort of messy emotional exchange that I wasn’t at all capable of.
“You’re up,” she said and pointed with her chin to where Alex had appeared at the door. He looked like he had spent too much time in a tanning booth, which in fact he probably had. Like so many other men in Vegas, he used too much hair product and had too many sparkly details on his too-expensive jeans. But this was his perpetual look, like he had no choice in the matter; I couldn’t picture him any other way.
Alex was chewing spearmint gum loudly, and it seemed like I could have smelled it from halfway across the room, mingling with his cologne. My stomach suddenly hurt. I couldn’t tell if it was the smell of him that was making me nauseous or if it was my regular jitters. “Gonna go out on the floor tonight?” he asked, snapping his gum, smiling at me. He always smiled, even when there was no reason to.
I returned the smile from under the protection of my makeup. “Probably not,” I said, shrugging. I couldn’t go out on the floor. Not yet. He knew that.
“I don’t know how you’re paying your bills,” he said, returning my shrug, “but it’s your talent you’re wasting.”
I kept my smile plastered on and managed to laugh a little. “Talent? That’s a fancy word for what I’ve got.” Then I heard the music that I danced to. I touched his arm. “I gotta go,” I said, keeping my voice light. I had to play nice if I wanted to make rent this month. I needed all my shifts and probably some extra.
He smiled at me while snapping his gum. And then slapped me on the ass on my way to the stage.
I made myself keep my shoulders straight; I said he was usually okay. I told myself that I probably deserved it, just for being here.
As for talent, Alex and I both knew I had none. Adriana had the brains, Keisha had this ethnic-goddess thing going on that drove the customers wild, as well as absolutely no problem telling them to knock it off if they started grabbing her body parts, and Tracy was just plain aggressive. So were many of the other girls. They just kept grinding it out every night, literally, moving from guy to guy, dollar to dollar.
My “talent,” if you could call it that, was my looks, and the fact that I seemed innocent. Alex told me that. He told me none of the bartenders or the other girls could figure out why I was stripping, when I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear, and wouldn’t give lap dances. In reality, I swore often and drank occasionally — I just didn’t do these things in front of other people. That bad girl behavior was not to be seen by others; it was my private self.
I always went home right after my shift and usually brought a book to read for when I was in-between stage time. This was not normal stripper behavior. Not that most of the girls were bad — but pretty much everybody needed a free drink when they were done with this kind of work. I probably did, too, but I always just went home, like the scaredy-cat that I was.
Hence my schoolgirl outfit, which consisted of a white button-down shirt and a plaid skirt. And exceedingly naughty lingerie underneath. It was Alex’s idea. “You have that look,” he’d said, leeringly. “Barely legal and no tattoos. Like you lost your fake ID and gotta get old guys to buy you wine coolers from the ABC Market. Like you could be here on break from boarding school.” He’d wagged his eyebrows suggestively at me. I wasn’t sure why he’d thought the idea of boarding school was hot, but a week after I was hired I wore the outfit he suggested, and the customers sure did seem to get excited when I started taking it off.
I wasn’t ready to take my clothes off tonight, but I was never really ready. My stomach hurt. I knew it wasn’t the smell of Alex’s gum or cologne. I took a deep breath. I straightened my shoulders again. I pulled my shirt down a little, pushed up my bra, and put my chin up. They were playing my song, and it was time.
* * *
Even though stripping was scary, there was something about the stage that I found oddly comforting. The lights were on me, and I could only see myself and what I was doing. All of the guys in the bar were in the shadows. I could only see them if I tried. Sometimes I could get lost in the music and just dance.
But when I started to take my clothes off, I could feel all eyes on me.
It really wasn’t fair that I got tipped as well as I did. I usually made about a hundred dollars more than most of the other girls on stage, and I was not a good dancer. Maybe it was my mother’s good-looking genes. Maybe it was the boarding school factor. I didn’t know. All I knew was that when I started to strip, the crowd got quiet, and people seemed to pay attention. Then they started putting money on the stage. Tonight it would be one dollar bills from the college boys, but I’d take it. These tips were the only thing keeping me in my cockroach-infested apartment and away from the Champagne room. At the rate I was going, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out.
If I was being honest, I would say maybe I liked stripping… a little. I felt something when I was up there, dancing with only a thong on, with a hundred guys staring at me like they were hungry. I felt powerful. But even better than that, I felt untouchable.
If I did private dances in the Champagne Room, though—if they could touch me—then the spell would be broken. It would be real and I would have to tell them to stop, to keep their hands off, and I would have to say it repeatedly. So I had held out, even though everybody knew the only way to make any real money in this business was to get people to pay for lap dances. That was your chance to get the guy so riled up that he was willing to spend a couple of hundred dollars, sometimes more than a thousand, to go with you to the darkness of the Champagne Room. It was real money, but the stakes were higher. The guys were a lot bolder in the semidarkness. Sometimes the girls got hurt. One night somebody bit Tracy on her thigh and broke her skin. She had to get a tetanus shot. Up on stage they could want me, but they couldn’t touch me. It made me feel in control, for once.
If only the rest of my life up until now had been like that.
From what I could see, tonight the young crowd was mostly what I expected: they were wearing baseball hats and drinking domestic beer. I tried to concentrate on my body, my music. It was funny, but the boarding school outfit sort of turned me on; I liked the idea of looking buttoned up and then surprising someone. Because I was like that. I was conservative. I read books more often than I talked to people. I’d never had a boyfriend. So the idea that there was somebody absolutely wild underneath the white button-down shirt and plaid skirt appealed to me. When I danced, this wild girl took over. It was so freeing to not be scared all the time, to let my guard down, to not hold my breath. The wild girl liked people looking at her. She liked the feel of the cold stage beneath her when she rolled on it. She liked to get close to some of the men near the edge of the stage and know that they wanted her.
She really liked the fact that they could never have her.
At one point when I looked up I could make out Alex out there, talking to a group of men. He kept looking at me, gesturing. I couldn’t tell who he was with. It looked like a mixed group of older and younger guys with suits on. I only noticed that because they stood out in the sea of baseball hats and tee-shirts tonight. I didn’t get to see much more. My song was ending and I had to collect all my money before Tracy got out on stage. As I was leaving I winked at the boys near the stage, just for fun. They hooted and hollered. Tonight was a good night. Even though I was first and hadn’t made nearly enough money, I actually found myself smiling my real smile as I went into the locker room.
The smiling didn’t last long. I had just sat down with some water and my latest beaten-up paperback when Alex walked up. “You know, you are the only stripper I’ve known who checks out books from the library,” he said, bu
t the comment was perfunctory and I could tell he was no longer in the mood to chit chat. He ran his hand through his over-gelled hair; he would have to go wash his hands soon and leave me alone. I hoped. Instead, he just stood there and took a deep breath.
“I need a favor,” he said and smiled a big, fake smile. My stomach dropped. I was not into giving favors. Favors were free for the recipient, but they always cost the giver something. In Vegas, it was usually your dignity. I was hanging on real tight to the little bit I had left.
