FIVE
Mitchell waves at me from the bar, smiling beneath his black walrus mustache. I return his wave but I don’t go over to greet him. Tim sees this and scowls at me, because he wants me to sit down and troll for drinks. Fuck you, Tim, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that. You’re not my pimp.
Mitchell’s a regular, but he only slinks in here once or twice a month. I reluctantly sit with Mitchell when it’s slow and I try to avoid him otherwise. He’s quiet but weird. Some nights I just can’t handle him.
Tina made a point of introducing us the night I brought in a cat o’ nine tails as a prop. Mitchell always has his stupid whip on him. It’s a silly little one, pink and made of suede. He wears it attached to his belt like he’s some kind of hot-shit dom.
He won’t buy a dance from anyone. He only buys drinks, and though he’ll tip a girl to sit with him, it’s not worth the time. He doesn’t speak much.
I can’t figure him out. I still don’t know why he comes in here, so I never have a lot to say to him. Worse, he has a lisp. If I can get him to talk at all, he spits when he’s doing it. Occasionally he tries to cop a free feel. And when I move away, he acts surprised, like it’s the first time he’s ever attempted it with anyone.
Now I need to quickly find a reason to avoid him before Tim or Tina corners me and handpicks me a pervert to sit with. Time to see who else is in the club.
I circle. It’s more of the usual suspects. There are a couple of young suits scowling in the corner. They pretend not to see me when I walk by. They’re busy trying to look important. I smirk to myself. When they hit twenty-five, they’re going to realize that nobody in these places gives a fuck.
Who else? There’s an old man with a hooked nose and a cane sitting at the stage. He’s using that cane to try to lift Leila’s skirt. She doesn’t look too amused. In a minute or two, Ronnie the bouncer is going to come over here and escort the jackass out into the night. Either that, or Leila will kick the jackass in the nuts as soon as Ronnie looks away.
I stand still for a minute, watching for a break in the monotony. Sure enough, Leila turns her back, grips the pole and then kicks, using the tip of her heel to knock the guy’s ice-cold soda into his lap. It’s expertly orchestrated to look like an accident.
The dumb fucker sputters, and he’s puffing up his chest all ready to start some shit. But just as quickly, Leila turns around, eyes widening.
“Gosh,” she exclaims sweetly, “I’m so-oo sorry! Did that hit you? Let me see.” She bends down to look at his crotch in what appears to be such earnest that even the mark’s not certain she doesn’t mean it. He sits back down with the ice still melting in his lap, harrumphing, and continues to watch Leila dance.
I smile to myself. The bastard had it coming. Fight the power, Leila. Go for yours.
Somehow the young guy on the other side of the stage missed seeing the bit of fun that has just unraveled. He’s alone. He looks green but easy. Clean cut, black hair, early twenties with a sweater and a scarf under a leather jacket that’s pretty expensive. Rich boy, I bet. I’ll give it a shot. If nothing else, it’s better than sitting with Mitchell.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” returns my mark. His teeth must have spent years in pricey orthodontics. He’s actually friendly. No kidding. So I sit down next to him. I don’t sit in these young guys’ laps unless I know for sure that they’re spending money. They’re more likely than the older one to take liberties with my attention. This one seems all right, but you never know.
We start to make small talk. He tells me he grew up here in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side, and that he went to prep school. I knew it.
“What’s your name, Prep School?” I ask.
“Jason,” he replies. He leans in to whisper to me. “Hey, I don’t usually come to these places, you know. I just had some time to kill.”
“Oh, I know, honey,” I assure him. “You don’t look like the type.”
This is too easy. They love to get their egos stroked. Their favorite is hearing that they don’t belong here. It’s most effective when combined with the subtle implication that we know the guy could get laid if he wanted to. Of course he can. He’s just here for the social science of the environment. Right. But it works like a charm if you can pull it off with a straight face.
For a change, it’s going smoothly. A waitress slides up and Prep School’s wallet comes out of his pocket just like it was in there on rollers. I’m off to a good start. He buys a dance. I perch on his lap to wait for the next song. “This way, you get the whole song without interruption,” I say, hugging him.
It’s good he’s game, because the club is starting to fill up now. An unwritten but strict rule is that we have to give up our seats to paying customers, the theory being that we’ll join them in those seats. Sometimes it works, and sometimes you see a lot of pissed off bitches huddled in a corner, slouching over cigarettes on their stilettos. Tonight I’m glad that for the moment, I’m not one of them.
Our song begins, and I twist around in Prep School’s lap so that I’m facing him.
I’ve got a formula for this. It starts with me standing between his legs with a hand on each shoulder. My tits are in his face with one pressed against each eyelid. I rub his nose between them over the fabric of my dress. I let him take in my fragrance. Then I snap my shoulders back and show him my nipples up close while I pull the top of the dress down to my waist.
Next I start to gyrate in front of him. I snake my body into circles like a belly dancer. I wind one knee up the inside of his leg and gently into his crotch.
I twirl around so that I have my back to him, watching in the mirrors opposite us in case his hands creep up where they shouldn’t. Over time, I’ve choreographed a set of arm movements for these lap dances. They look sensual, but they’re actually quite effective blocks to prevent unnecessary groping. Once I’ve ascertained that Prep School will behave himself, I peel off the rest of my dress. I step out of it just as I slide my ass into his lap. Now I softly brush my ass-cheeks against his legs and crotch.
Across the room, Sloane is making no attempts at sensuality. She has her back to her customer too, and she’s riding him so hard that if he’s wearing the wrong kind of underwear, his dick is bloody by now. He’s looking enthusiastic. They’ll be in the champagne room in no time. Stupid whore. Her glassy eyes are pinned and shining. She’s one step away from being on the nod.
My garter is slipping down. I start to pull it up, straightening the roll of singles on it. To my horror, Prep School asks, “What happened to your leg?”
I hate it when people ask me about my scar. It’s a personal anecdote and it belongs to me. His question, dropped so casually, is rude. It breaks boundaries even in here. I think I’ll give the sucker exactly what he’s expecting.
I take a deep breath, pausing for effect. “If you want to know the truth,” I whisper conspiratorially, “I’m lucky to be alive today.”
His impressionable West Side, white-bread eyes widen. I continue, “We was walkin’ through the hood mindin’ our own business, and I got bit by a bullet.”
“Wow,” he murmurs, smiling with awe.
He doesn’t even notice the slight change in my dialect. I’ve picked up a deep drawl to go with the story. I can’t help myself. I have to take this one to its climax.
“Sometimes you jus’ get caught up in the thick a shit that goes down, ya know what I’m sayin’? We was passin’ by a deal goin’ bad on the corner, and I got caught in the crossfire wit one-a my girls. My girl woulda bought it, but I jumped in fronta her and pushed her on the ground. The round grazed my leg and cut me up some.”
I’m trying very hard to keep a straight face. I can’t believe anyone would swallow this load of horseshit.
“That’s horrible,” Prep School says, looking pleased.
“You know, every day of my life I get down on my knees, and I praise Jesus Christ that I’m still here to tell the tale,” I finish triumphantly, abandoning the accent. Why not go over the top?
“You must have had a very hard life,” says Prep School.
I swallow. There’s more than one kind of hard, fool. “Say, let’s dance and talk, how ‘bout it? Want to do another one?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he agrees.
I smile sardonically. I suppose there’s some merit to that adage about making your audience part of the show.
If I thought Prep School had a soul, then I might feel guilty about hustling him. But now I don’t have any qualms about getting whatever I can.
It’s kind of funny. He’s a composite – he’s what I was supposed to grow up to be. Far from the parody I just handed him, my background was suburban and upper middle class. We’re closer to the same side of the white picket fence than he knows. Does he have any sisters? I wonder where they are tonight.
We make another transaction. This time while I dance on him, I press my whole body against him, lean down and begin to whisper in his ear. “Do you know about the VIP room?”
I run the usual lines. His eyes grow big and round again. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
I hold up my hand to signal Tina that we have a taker. She hobbles over to our little corner of the room. When Prep School sees how used up she looks, he brightens even more.
“Are a lot of the girls here on drugs?” he whispers to me after she’s taken his credit card.
I shrug sagely. “Some are. It’s easier for them to get the job done. A lot of people give us a really hard time in here.” I am not lying to him about this.
Tina returns with Prep School’s card and a receipt for him to sign. Then we follow her to the back rooms. We walk past Damian, who winks at me as if we’re sharing a secret. Let him wink. He’ll just make me more money up front.
The dark little cubicle contains a mirror hazy with old sweat, two chairs, a small table for drinks, and a beaded curtain that would hide nothing under proper light. Prep School looks nervous as he sits down. He must still think he’s getting laid. Tina asks me what I want to drink.
“Cranberry,” I tell her. This is the best part about the champagne room. That cranberry cocktail I just ordered will be loaded with cheap well vodka.
I sit in Prep School’s lap again and begin nuzzling his neck. But when he tries to kiss me on the mouth, he gets the side of my cheek and a coquettish little giggle.
“Oh, sweetie,” I exclaim, twisting in his lap as if I’ve just remembered something. I make sure that I grind on the twist, and I feel him stir. “Hey, you need to tip me before we can start.”
“What?”
“We get a hundred dollars up front in the VIP room. It’s standard,” I nonchalantly explain. “That’s the way we do it in here.”
“Oh,” he says. He looks confused, so I grind on him again. “I just gave that waitress three hundred dollars on my credit card, though.”
“I know, doll,” I answer. “But you only paid the club. I don’t actually see a penny of that money.”
Actually I get a third of the take, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“You’re kidding!” He sounds indignant. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not, but that’s the way it goes.”
“How do you girls make any money?” he asks.
“I only make what you give me.”
We all lie about this. If I had to depend on my commissions from the house, I’d starve.
“But… it’s a tip, right? Can’t I give it to you afterwards?”
“Let’s get it out of the way right now. That way we won’t have to think about it, and we can relax.”
For a second, I don’t know if he’s going for it, but then he sighs and reaches for his wallet. Tina comes back with our drinks. She raises her eyebrow at me and disappears. I put the C-note on top of the other bills in my garter, secure it with the rubber band, and straddle him from the front.
A lot of the girls turn tricks in the champagne room. I can hear their whispers and the men’s soft grunts from the other cubicles when I’m back here. I can usually get away with merely dry-humping the guys for an hour while they feel my tits. Once or twice I’ve let a guy jerk off while I danced. I don’t really mind as long as his cock doesn’t touch me. I’d rather let someone do it himself than have to feel the warm ooze of satisfaction spreading in his pants if he comes while I’m in his lap.
Now that we’re here, we’re both quiet. Prep School lets his head fall back against the greasy mirror. I move on him rhythmically and automatically, moaning gently once in awhile so that he thinks I’m here with him in spirit.
Down in the dressing room, I count my bankroll. I made a hundred and forty off Prep School in cash. I’ll pick up another hundred and twenty in commission from his credit card when I cash out later. All I need is one more mark and it’ll be a decent night. If I leave with four hundred or more, I’m pleased.
He gave me his phone number after the dance. I took it graciously and told him that I was usually pretty busy. Now I throw the paper into the sink and turn on the water. The ink runs until the writing is no longer legible. “So long, Prep School,” I whisper, watching it wash down the drain.
At the top of the staircase, Tim accosts me. “Listen,” he says breathlessly, “I’m telling this to every girl in the club, ok? We just got a tip. There’s gonna be undercover cops in here for the next few days. You’re not gonna know who they are, so just to be on the safe side, all of you girls gotta be careful.”
“Um, ok,” I tell him. I’m not sure what he’s talking about. He knows I don’t turn tricks, right?
“This is serious, sweetheart,” Tim growls. He looks really stressed; the veins in his neck are bulging and he’s sweaty. “Don’t make them come when you’re in the VIP room.”
“Tim,” I protest, “I don’t make them come in the VIP room. My dances are a hundred percent clean.”
“Right,” he grumbles. “Sure they are. So what I’m saying is, for the next few days, don’t make anybody come. Don’t tell them you’re gonna make them come. Nobody gets to come.”
I nod dejectedly, and walk back out onto the floor. I’m somehow sick that he’s lumped me in with all the girls who don’t care anymore.
I don’t know why, but when I was hired I really believed that they didn’t want us to turn tricks here. I’m discovering that they know what goes on, and they advocate it as long as the girls don’t get caught. They’d actually rather we did do it. Tim makes money every time Brittany or Sloane gives someone a blow job in the VIP.
I work hard here. And a lot of nights I go home with no money. My manager thinks I’m a whore. The customers think I’m a whore. Every single night of my life, one way or another, I have to casually defend myself against this accusation, implied by people who don’t know me. What’s the point? I don’t get any extra credit here for keeping it clean.
Most of the girls in this club are at least giving out hand jobs regularly. It’s unspoken, and a lot of them lie about it, but it’s there. They rack up the “bottles,” winding up in the VIP room at least three times a night. Is what they’re doing really so terrible? Is the “lap dance” morally superior – as we rub our bare crotches onto their pants and they touch our bodies, while we hold their hands trying vainly to control where they can touch us and where they can’t?
Where’s the line in the sand? Is it prostitution if he puts his mouth on my nipple? It sure as hell feels that way if I’m not attracted to him. These shaky boundaries are starting to get to me. And I feel like everyone in the club makes more money than I do.
I’m jaded, and I know it. What exactly am I holding onto when I stubbornly insist that “stripper” doesn’t automatically equal “prostitute?” I mean, it’s ok to be a prostitute, I guess… but I’m not one.
Alannah is sitting in the corner, staring into space. I sit down next to her and I light another cigarette. “Having fun?” I ask her, and she grins.
“Heh heh heh,” she cackles in her best Butthead voice. “Always, mama, always.”
I look down at her legs. I can see that she’s got nothing but singles in her garter. I’ve always thought that Alannah was possibly the best looking girl in this club, and one of the better dancers. But she doesn’t make money. Obviously something else is at play here.
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August 19th, 2009 at 1:14 am
“Prep School’s wallet comes out of his pocket just like it was in there on rollers” – Nice. Raymond Chandler would be proud of the verbage..
“What exactly am I holding onto when I stubbornly insist that “stripper” doesn’t automatically equal “prostitute?” I mean, it’s ok to be a prostitute, I guess… but I’m not one.” Fine line, eh? Just had this discussion with a) and old friend and b) my mother.
Discussing whether I was or was not a prostitute with my friend was infinitely easier. If I take money for sex, but don’t actually have sex – what am I? If I take money for sex that I would’ve had for free, and call that $300 worth of “cab fare” – what am I?
I know what I thought I was, and I know what the world thought I was…they weren’t always the same thing.
August 19th, 2009 at 5:51 am
Ha! What’d your mother say?
(I know what mine would have said.)
August 19th, 2009 at 5:53 am
Further to this, I know a lot of “normal” twenty-something girls who have quietly confided that they’ve taken money for sex at some point or another.
August 19th, 2009 at 9:45 am
My mother, of course, was not happy. Every time it comes up (and keep in mind, I’m 50+, so it’s in the past) but everytime, she says “I didn’t know you were a prostitute”. I can’t blame her for forgetting. No matter what I think of the job, how it should be a viable alternative, who the f*&k are you to put your judgments on me, etc – I still don’t think I’d want my daughter to do it. I’d be worried for her safety, her sanity, her health. You only want the best for those you love – I can’t imagine what it’s like if you’ve given birth to someone you have to watch risk their life daily, which I did.
At the time, when I was dancing, which I don’t think she knew, I think she only knew I was bartending in topless clubs — and flushing my life down the toilet with drugs, booze and an endless stream of violent losers — we fought all the time. In retrospect, I can see she was fighting for my life…
August 21st, 2009 at 6:41 am
It’s amazing that you still have the kind of relationship in which you can talk about it with her at all, even now.