If I Were an Otter
If I were an otter, I would know just what to do. ‘Cause otters know how to eat those little sea creatures that are all hard on the outside and soft and chewy on the inside. Oysters… they know all about flipping onto their backs with a rock on their bellies, and smacking the oysters (or is that clams?) against them until they open. Same with spiny creatures from the deep. Some animals know how to get past that spiny exterior to the yumminess inside.
Kind of like dancers. I have met some truly horrid people since I have been dancing. I have also met some people that seemed nice from the get-go. This applies to both customers and dancers. And with both, I have met some that I just was not sure about, but grew to know and love over time. The customers are harder; they are guys, after all, and guy are just… well… guys. They don’t call you when they say they will, and they leave without saying goodbye sometimes. And they swear how much they love you but then the next new dancer that sashays past them gets all their attention. I won’t make any cliché jokes here; enough has been said on that subject already and I have heard most of the dumb jokes at least a couple of dozen times each.
But it is the dancers I am really talking about. I have known dancers that lived in evil situations, and were evil to the rest of the world around them. Just really sick and distorted people. I think every one of those individuals was also a drug addict, as nearly as I could discern. It is truly sad what happens to people as they descend into the hell of drug addiction. Perhaps the worst part of it is that they don’t even know what they are turning into as people. They just see the rest of the world becoming a more hostile place, with more people out to screw them over. Sadly, it is just the paranoia induced by the drugs and, until the drugs are out of their system, they won’t have a yummy inside.
Then I have met dancers that I liked right away. They were open and up-front, and seemed right enough. Some of them turned a little squirrelly as they let abusive boyfriends run their lives, or got into drugs. But a few of them were past the hard drugs—Greens, they call themselves, only smoking pot and drinking—and stayed consistently themselves. They have families with kids in school, husbands who work 40 or 50 hours a week and have insurance, and they dance regular shifts and go home when they are done. No otter needed, thank you. Just meet them half-way, and they will treat you well.
And lastly, I have met dancers who I just wasn’t sure of. And of those, I have met dancers who I just did not like. They were just too hard, too high all the time, loud, shrill, ornery, or whatever. If you piss them off, they become like Great Whites and you are a little sea otter with a bleeding leg. They go on the attack, and you can’t get far enough away. How do you piss them off? Dissing them always works. It doesn’t usually take much; the drugs ensure that. Or even worse, you might diss one of their friends. That will get you more open aggression than you ever want to have. And that can be sort of a slippery slope on the banks of a lake of thin ice. Because you might both be friends with the same person, and think you have a “right” to talk trash about a mutual friend. If you guess wrong, though, and they have more allegiance to that friend, or have known them longer than they have known you, you are in for a world of hurt.
And those sometimes are my biggest surprises. I have seen them turn out to be really sweet inside: loyal, giving, generous. I have witnessed where one is crazy-drunk and screaming expletives to the other and shrieking at her to get out of her life. And she just says, “OK. I’ll see you tomorrow!” And indeed she does. She comes back, and they laugh about how crazy-drunk the one was, and all is well again.
I have seen those types. I have pissed them off and had to apologize profusely to bring peace back to the house. And then had them protect me and nurture me through my pains and heartaches, and defend me against idiot customers. And cheer me on when I wanted to quit and go home early. And remind me that another hour will bring new customers, new money, good cheer. Bring on an otter please, ‘cause I would like to by-pass that hard first stage.
And lastly I have met dancers who, once I got to know them a little, I realized were just hard working women who have made some really bad choices in their lives. They married abusive men, had children, left school with too little education, did lots of drugs, and turned to dancing because they were pretty and it was something they could do without a lot of education. They talk about mothers that didn’t love them and fathers and brothers and uncles and cousins that fucked them or beat them—or both—from the time they were 3 or 4 years old. They lose their kids and win them back from the state, only to lose them again. They drive rattle-trap cars if they drive at all. Many spend all their money on rent—$3,500 in 6 weeks on a motel—and taxis getting to and from the club.
And its these women my heart really goes out to. As they hit that magic number (40) they start to realize their options are running out. They partner with some guy and pray like hell that he will treat them right and not leave them. They try to eat better, drink less, leave the drugs alone. They want a better life. They just don’t know how to get it. They are in a never-ending cycle of ups and downs that would try the soul of Job. And through it all, they remain good at heart. They don’t turn mean and heartless, ready to rob your clothes from your bag while you are on stage, or tips from your purse if you leave it lay for a moment. They treat other dancers right, and don’t hustle the customers. They dance, and they laugh, and they cry, and they support each other, but they never win for long. Because the same decision-making skills that gave them a 20-year career in dancing keeps them in dancing, and keeps them in flux. They lose their teeth. They lose their looks. They wind up with yet another abusive prick for their “man.” They lose the jobs because absolutely nobody will hire them anymore. And then they become even more vulnerable and they lose their identity, subsumed to the will of the only man who will put up with their (by now) ugly, worn-out asses and put a roof over their head.
And I thank God I have options. I thank God I got banged around so hard when I was young that I wanted to die—that I tried to die—and so was induced to take some long, hard looks at myself and what I was doing. I got educated. I went to school; it took 15 ½ years to win my bachelors degree. I went to therapy for almost as long as I was in school; I learned about how I got into the horrible situations I found myself in so often. And I started to make better decisions. Now I have options that these women don’t have. I can sense their fear and their insecurity. I know what drives it. I see it from my conversations with them, from overhearing their conversations with other dancers. I feel it from my own experience as a single woman growing older in a youth-obsessed, youth-rewarded culture.
I thank God I have options. I know I throw it back in His face when I hate myself so much that I obsess on suicide. I know I am being ungrateful when I cut myself in self-loathing and frustration as a less permanent alternative to suicide. I know my life is a million times more secure and less troubled than some of these really strong, beautiful, courageous women I work with. I don’t have children to think about and fend for. They do, and they do it every day without complaining. That alone puts me in awe of them. Because I don’t have the courage and the strength to do even a fraction of what these women do every single day, day in and day out. And they continue to love, and nurture, and share, and encourage, and be beautiful, wonderful women without resentments and regrets.
I wish I had that kind of strength.
August 17, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Why do I strip?
Why do you strip?
I have asked that question, and I have been asked that question.
For me, it started as a very safe class where I could learn to be more expressive, and help my person and my dance. Indeed, it was all of that. My teacher and classmates challenged me to take part in the recital at Devil’s Point. I did extremely well. Ditto the second recital. Ditto the third one, at Sassy’s. On to auditions… I was hooked. But that only tells how I got into it, not why.
That is hard to describe. I have had friends offer all kinds of pop psychology reasons. Ditto on why I did Mary Kay for a while. The fact is I did Mary Kay (and still do, at cost only) for one very solid reason: I LOVE their products. They have the best cleansers and makeup. But I digress….
Pop psychology aside, I started asking dancers when I worked at the now defunct Club 92, since purchased by the City to be razed to make way for MAX parkers. The answers surprised me, because they struck such a chord in me. I asked one dancer who used to be the muscle-girl of her cell-block. She answered exactly like I do: “I dunno. It’s just kinda addicting. The music, the dancing, being in shape, being the center of attention. Drinking.” Well, ok. I don’t like drinking much, and I rarely do. And no drugs. They are just way too disruptive.
I asked another, from Sassy’s. She replied, “I dunno. It’s kind of addicting. You are the center of attention, you get to drink lots, do lots of drugs, go home with your pick of the guys at the end of your shift.” Hmm… ok… not ALL of their reasons strike a chord.
And yet another from my current club: “I dunno. It’s kinda addicting. You get to drink, maybe do some drugs, be the center of attention, get a great workout and get paid for it.” Ok… NOW we are talking. Work out and get paid.
Personally, I like to dance. DANCE turns me into another being. My cares drop away, my sadness disappears, and I am in love again. With anyone and everyone and everything. I love to push my dance abilities. Practice moving the bottom half slow and the top half fast. See how far I can drive a guy into a frenzy with my teasing. Pushing myself to new limits on the pole and on the rack. Dancing in new ways to old songs. Playing new music and figuring out how to dance to it and make it interesting. (Think Stonewall Jackson or Porter Wagoner here.) Working hard… dancing solo shifts for 6 or 7 or 8 hours non-stop, with only rare breaks and feeling completely thrashed at the end of it, muscles shaking, legs too weak to push up off the floor. Tremendous workouts and being able to eat anything and sleep well and be really toned and get paid to do it all. Wow! What’s not to like?
Do you remember an interview I did with a dancer from Union Jack’s way back when? It was Portrait of a Stripper – Muse (http://www.salsaportland.com/blog/meryl/comments.php?y=07&m=02&entry=entry070211-191227). She talked about (among other things) making contact, and watching for that shift in the customer’s eyes. I would phrase it more as “making a connection.” It is the essence of all dance, in my mind. I learned that early on in Salsa and EC Swing. And Tango. The CONNECTION is what dance is all about. It only happens once in a while. It might happen once in a night of social dancing. But in stripping, it happens a lot more. Not every song, not even every set. But it happens multiple times every shift. And it is invigorating, stimulating, exciting, and energizing. It inspires me to gain more control over my body parts, because the connection always happens on a physical level, whether it is social dance or strip dance. (It IS dance, after all.) And sometimes I get someone’s attention first for how I move some part of me. From there I can start to drill down and find what captures him and holds him. The more I have to offer in terms of how I can manipulate body parts in unique ways and combinations, the easier and more rewarding it is to make and hold that connection. And that is when it all starts to come together and make dance what is always is for me: my life, my love, my sex, my everything. I don’t need a therapist, or a lover, or a close friend, or a mother or father, a brother or sister. It is just dance and me and the music. And when I am naked, I have nothing to hide sloppy technique behind. The first time I danced completely naked made me realize that even just a thong gave SOME protection, but when you are naked, you have nothing to hide bad dance moves behind.
A customer said the other day, “That music you are dancing to makes me want to FIGHT!” (I think it was Primus, or maybe Rod Zombie.) He elaborated. It makes him so full of adrenalin that if he had to go fight, that would be what he would want to listen to. (Sounds like a Scot and his bagpipes!) Well, for me it makes me want to get on stage and crawl all up and down the pole and dance upside down, and hang backwards off the rack and spin and turn across the floor and get bottoms up and naked and scratch my skin in long red gouges with my long fake nails and pull my hair until it hurts and push my body to its very limits. It is almost Pavlovian for me. I hear it and I start to tremble.
So why do I dance? I dunno. It’s kind of addicting, though. I love the music, being the center of attention, entertaining people, performing, making a connection, pushing my body, teasing guys half crazy, being naked, dancing, doing pole-work that scares people (and me), pushing my limits, getting to work out like crazy and get paid for it.
Why do YOU dance (Salsa, Swing, Tango, whatever is your choice)? Share with the rest of us… add a comment!
July 31, 2008
I have asked that question, and I have been asked that question.
For me, it started as a very safe class where I could learn to be more expressive, and help my person and my dance. Indeed, it was all of that. My teacher and classmates challenged me to take part in the recital at Devil’s Point. I did extremely well. Ditto the second recital. Ditto the third one, at Sassy’s. On to auditions… I was hooked. But that only tells how I got into it, not why.
That is hard to describe. I have had friends offer all kinds of pop psychology reasons. Ditto on why I did Mary Kay for a while. The fact is I did Mary Kay (and still do, at cost only) for one very solid reason: I LOVE their products. They have the best cleansers and makeup. But I digress….
Pop psychology aside, I started asking dancers when I worked at the now defunct Club 92, since purchased by the City to be razed to make way for MAX parkers. The answers surprised me, because they struck such a chord in me. I asked one dancer who used to be the muscle-girl of her cell-block. She answered exactly like I do: “I dunno. It’s just kinda addicting. The music, the dancing, being in shape, being the center of attention. Drinking.” Well, ok. I don’t like drinking much, and I rarely do. And no drugs. They are just way too disruptive.
I asked another, from Sassy’s. She replied, “I dunno. It’s kind of addicting. You are the center of attention, you get to drink lots, do lots of drugs, go home with your pick of the guys at the end of your shift.” Hmm… ok… not ALL of their reasons strike a chord.
And yet another from my current club: “I dunno. It’s kinda addicting. You get to drink, maybe do some drugs, be the center of attention, get a great workout and get paid for it.” Ok… NOW we are talking. Work out and get paid.
Personally, I like to dance. DANCE turns me into another being. My cares drop away, my sadness disappears, and I am in love again. With anyone and everyone and everything. I love to push my dance abilities. Practice moving the bottom half slow and the top half fast. See how far I can drive a guy into a frenzy with my teasing. Pushing myself to new limits on the pole and on the rack. Dancing in new ways to old songs. Playing new music and figuring out how to dance to it and make it interesting. (Think Stonewall Jackson or Porter Wagoner here.) Working hard… dancing solo shifts for 6 or 7 or 8 hours non-stop, with only rare breaks and feeling completely thrashed at the end of it, muscles shaking, legs too weak to push up off the floor. Tremendous workouts and being able to eat anything and sleep well and be really toned and get paid to do it all. Wow! What’s not to like?
Do you remember an interview I did with a dancer from Union Jack’s way back when? It was Portrait of a Stripper – Muse (http://www.salsaportland.com/blog/meryl/comments.php?y=07&m=02&entry=entry070211-191227). She talked about (among other things) making contact, and watching for that shift in the customer’s eyes. I would phrase it more as “making a connection.” It is the essence of all dance, in my mind. I learned that early on in Salsa and EC Swing. And Tango. The CONNECTION is what dance is all about. It only happens once in a while. It might happen once in a night of social dancing. But in stripping, it happens a lot more. Not every song, not even every set. But it happens multiple times every shift. And it is invigorating, stimulating, exciting, and energizing. It inspires me to gain more control over my body parts, because the connection always happens on a physical level, whether it is social dance or strip dance. (It IS dance, after all.) And sometimes I get someone’s attention first for how I move some part of me. From there I can start to drill down and find what captures him and holds him. The more I have to offer in terms of how I can manipulate body parts in unique ways and combinations, the easier and more rewarding it is to make and hold that connection. And that is when it all starts to come together and make dance what is always is for me: my life, my love, my sex, my everything. I don’t need a therapist, or a lover, or a close friend, or a mother or father, a brother or sister. It is just dance and me and the music. And when I am naked, I have nothing to hide sloppy technique behind. The first time I danced completely naked made me realize that even just a thong gave SOME protection, but when you are naked, you have nothing to hide bad dance moves behind.
A customer said the other day, “That music you are dancing to makes me want to FIGHT!” (I think it was Primus, or maybe Rod Zombie.) He elaborated. It makes him so full of adrenalin that if he had to go fight, that would be what he would want to listen to. (Sounds like a Scot and his bagpipes!) Well, for me it makes me want to get on stage and crawl all up and down the pole and dance upside down, and hang backwards off the rack and spin and turn across the floor and get bottoms up and naked and scratch my skin in long red gouges with my long fake nails and pull my hair until it hurts and push my body to its very limits. It is almost Pavlovian for me. I hear it and I start to tremble.
So why do I dance? I dunno. It’s kind of addicting, though. I love the music, being the center of attention, entertaining people, performing, making a connection, pushing my body, teasing guys half crazy, being naked, dancing, doing pole-work that scares people (and me), pushing my limits, getting to work out like crazy and get paid for it.
Why do YOU dance (Salsa, Swing, Tango, whatever is your choice)? Share with the rest of us… add a comment!
July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Ya gotta be tough
Ya Gotta Be Tough
It was another slow Sunday-morning opening shift. The three dancers on shift were all sitting on the edge of the stage, on the rack, chatting among themselves. The bartender had a single customer, who sat with his butt to the stage. (It’s odd, but after more than a year in the business, it has become “butt” rather than “back.”) The jukebox was still playing; there has to be a song on at all times in case someone pokes their head in the door. But it was turned down, so the dancers didn’t have to shout.
Two of the dancers were talking about a dancer who wasn’t on yet, while the third one spaced in and out of the conversation. Suddenly, the third dancer started paying attention. “What did you say about her? What happened to her?” she asked the others.
“Oh… she got beat up really bad. Someone hit her with a cue ball.”
“Oh shit! Why?”
“She tried to break up a fight and some chick turned around and nailed her with it. That’s why you haven’t seen her in a while. She’s totally black and blue. It broke her eye socket.”
They exhausted that episode, and moved on to one closer to home. Several years ago, one of the dancers in this club was beaten up. She was walking along the bar, where a couple sat talking animatedly. She was saying something to another dancer over her shoulder, not paying attention to the couple at the bar. The woman at the bar overheard her, and in her alcohol-altered state, she thought she was being dissed. She yelled something at the dancer. The dancer turned to her to ask her what she was saying. She saw the woman reach back to the bar, like she was going to pick something up for her. She did….
The woman picked up her pint beer class and round-housed the dancer in the face with it. The glass broke, and blood spurted from the dancer’s face. Amazingly, she stood… long shocked moments while the entire bar stopped and stared in disbelief. She swayed and stared at the woman, blood flowing from her face, then tried to light into her. But by then the bouncer was there, other dancers were there, several customers were there, and the woman went down in a heap on the floor before the dancer could get to her.
Eventually the cops were called, an ambulance was called, and everyone got sorted. Alas for the dancer, she had broken bones in her face in addition to a 2-inch gash. She didn’t dance again for over a year, while everything healed and the scar faded. It was a sobering lesson on the volatility of life in an alcohol-fueled environment.
July 22, 2008
It was another slow Sunday-morning opening shift. The three dancers on shift were all sitting on the edge of the stage, on the rack, chatting among themselves. The bartender had a single customer, who sat with his butt to the stage. (It’s odd, but after more than a year in the business, it has become “butt” rather than “back.”) The jukebox was still playing; there has to be a song on at all times in case someone pokes their head in the door. But it was turned down, so the dancers didn’t have to shout.
Two of the dancers were talking about a dancer who wasn’t on yet, while the third one spaced in and out of the conversation. Suddenly, the third dancer started paying attention. “What did you say about her? What happened to her?” she asked the others.
“Oh… she got beat up really bad. Someone hit her with a cue ball.”
“Oh shit! Why?”
“She tried to break up a fight and some chick turned around and nailed her with it. That’s why you haven’t seen her in a while. She’s totally black and blue. It broke her eye socket.”
They exhausted that episode, and moved on to one closer to home. Several years ago, one of the dancers in this club was beaten up. She was walking along the bar, where a couple sat talking animatedly. She was saying something to another dancer over her shoulder, not paying attention to the couple at the bar. The woman at the bar overheard her, and in her alcohol-altered state, she thought she was being dissed. She yelled something at the dancer. The dancer turned to her to ask her what she was saying. She saw the woman reach back to the bar, like she was going to pick something up for her. She did….
The woman picked up her pint beer class and round-housed the dancer in the face with it. The glass broke, and blood spurted from the dancer’s face. Amazingly, she stood… long shocked moments while the entire bar stopped and stared in disbelief. She swayed and stared at the woman, blood flowing from her face, then tried to light into her. But by then the bouncer was there, other dancers were there, several customers were there, and the woman went down in a heap on the floor before the dancer could get to her.
Eventually the cops were called, an ambulance was called, and everyone got sorted. Alas for the dancer, she had broken bones in her face in addition to a 2-inch gash. She didn’t dance again for over a year, while everything healed and the scar faded. It was a sobering lesson on the volatility of life in an alcohol-fueled environment.
July 22, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
The stripping industry is flat
It's official: The stripping industry is flat
Encouraging words, those! I happened on a story on CNN.com about how the brothel industry is being negatively affected in Nevada by our fuel shortages. Of course that caught my eye… I do work in the sex industry, after all. It was actually an article about brothels giving out gasoline cards to customers. In essence, it reported that brothels are legal in 10 of Nevada’s 17 counties. Many of the brothels are in rural areas, along interstate corridors. They tend to be frequented by truckers. Many of those truckers are independents, and they pay for their fuel out of their own pockets. With the rising costs, they have less disposable cash to use for “entertainment” purposes.
Several brothel owners were interviewed in both rural and city areas. The brothels in city areas seem to be doing better because they rely on tourists. Some have even seen an up-tick in business. But the rural ones are down by as much as 25%. That is a big hit! So they are using gas cards to the tune of $100 per $500 spent, and other offers, to lure customers through the door.
One of the interviewees mentioned that they are having more women applying for work in the brothels. He maintains that with the “escort services and stripping industry flat” more women are leaving those areas to find steadier work in the brothels. Hmm. I wondered about that, because we (dancers) have been noticing a significant drop in the number of customers coming through our doors. So Sunday, I was tired and burned out, and just did not have the strength to “play the game” any longer. I left feeling kind of pissy. One of the dancers saw my mood as I left and shook her finger at me. “No! Do NOT go there!” she warned. She knows me too well already. I went for a sandwich at a local burger joint and decided to review the Sunday strip scene in Portland Oregon.
1. Top Hat and Tails – This was the first club I worked at long term. I worked there for a few months. It was closed. I had heard it was so lifeless it was being converted to a sports bar. I wasn’t very sad, to be honest. It was a real hole… the worst place I have ever worked ‘cause of all the knives, guns, drugs, and all sorts of crimes. The last night I worked there was Thanksgiving Friday.
2. JD’s – Across the “triangle” from Top Hat. Slow. The bartender said it’s been slow. But she asked me to audition, so I did. She wants me on the schedule. We’ll see. It would mean dancing for 10 hours straight on a Saturday or Sunday, and 6 hours on the other day. That is a lot of dancing on top of a 45- or 50-hour day job.
3. Viewpoint – Closed on Sundays. (So is Casa Diablo, by the way.)
4. Club 92 – This was my other long-term club. Closed. I had heard the city bought it to raze it and make a park-n-ride for the new MAX. It was stripped of signs, so I guess the rumors were true. I felt a tinge of sadness. Ask any dancer what marked their experience at 92 and she will always tell you, “Walking past that damned grill and oil fryer in the kitchen to get to the dressing room.” Kind of scary in 6” stripper heels with 3 or 4 drinks in you. And hot as you came back sweating from a long hard set on stage. My last night there was Thanksgiving.
5. Tommy’s on 81st & Foster – Dead. Slow overall.
6. Devil’s Point on 51st & Foster – Busier, with a dozen or more customers, but most were ignoring the stage. They said it gets busy after 9 though, with their shows.
7. Tommy’s on 35th & Powell – Dead.
8. Cocktails and Dreams across 35th from Tommy’s – Dead. A shower stage with a dancer and no audience. Two empty pole stages. Three or four customers at the bar. Two guys and a gal at a pool table. One of the bar patrons snagged me on my way out and engaged me in small talk. I politely worked my way loose after answering all the prerequisite questions about boyfriend/husband, etc. Another one snagged me. I just said I was researching bars and left him high and dry. I figured if he really was interested he could ask the other guy. Ha! Like that is going to happen. Sorry guys… not cheap, not easy. Divvy it up and figure it out.
9. Lucky Devil on Powell just before the bridge – (Is that 8th or so?) It was dead. Two dancers on the patio, two customers on laptops. I knew one of the dancers, so we caught up on all that has happened since we last saw each other last fall. Her little girl is riding without training wheels now. Nice! Her girl is just SO cute! Then she wanted to show me a new pole trick. Wow! That girl… I met her in an Industry Pole class being taught by Áine at Brassy Butterfly. This woman has taken pole to a new level. She would start with a classic inversion. I would be thinking, “Ok, I know this one.” Then she would give us this little look from upside down that she does so well, drop about six inches down the pole (making my heart leap) and Pow! into a different position that just looked impossible to maintain. As I would start to get nervous, thinking she was going to land on her head, she would give us another little look and Pop! into yet another position a few more inches down the pole. She just kept doing that. I was so impressed, and so ENVIOUS! That is the kind of pole I strive to do. Alas, I am not that muscular or athletic. Or artistic. I don’t know that I will ever get this body to do that. For one thing you need to dance a LOT to get there. When I danced four days a week, I improved a lot faster than I do now just dancing two days.
So anyway, nine clubs later and I would agree that yes, the stripping industry seems to be flat overall. Especially on a Sunday evening of a very hot summer day. All the clubs except Devil’s Point reported the same thing.
Unlike Nevada, Oregon has no (legal) brothels, so I guess I will just keep dancing.
June 30, 2008
Encouraging words, those! I happened on a story on CNN.com about how the brothel industry is being negatively affected in Nevada by our fuel shortages. Of course that caught my eye… I do work in the sex industry, after all. It was actually an article about brothels giving out gasoline cards to customers. In essence, it reported that brothels are legal in 10 of Nevada’s 17 counties. Many of the brothels are in rural areas, along interstate corridors. They tend to be frequented by truckers. Many of those truckers are independents, and they pay for their fuel out of their own pockets. With the rising costs, they have less disposable cash to use for “entertainment” purposes.
Several brothel owners were interviewed in both rural and city areas. The brothels in city areas seem to be doing better because they rely on tourists. Some have even seen an up-tick in business. But the rural ones are down by as much as 25%. That is a big hit! So they are using gas cards to the tune of $100 per $500 spent, and other offers, to lure customers through the door.
One of the interviewees mentioned that they are having more women applying for work in the brothels. He maintains that with the “escort services and stripping industry flat” more women are leaving those areas to find steadier work in the brothels. Hmm. I wondered about that, because we (dancers) have been noticing a significant drop in the number of customers coming through our doors. So Sunday, I was tired and burned out, and just did not have the strength to “play the game” any longer. I left feeling kind of pissy. One of the dancers saw my mood as I left and shook her finger at me. “No! Do NOT go there!” she warned. She knows me too well already. I went for a sandwich at a local burger joint and decided to review the Sunday strip scene in Portland Oregon.
1. Top Hat and Tails – This was the first club I worked at long term. I worked there for a few months. It was closed. I had heard it was so lifeless it was being converted to a sports bar. I wasn’t very sad, to be honest. It was a real hole… the worst place I have ever worked ‘cause of all the knives, guns, drugs, and all sorts of crimes. The last night I worked there was Thanksgiving Friday.
2. JD’s – Across the “triangle” from Top Hat. Slow. The bartender said it’s been slow. But she asked me to audition, so I did. She wants me on the schedule. We’ll see. It would mean dancing for 10 hours straight on a Saturday or Sunday, and 6 hours on the other day. That is a lot of dancing on top of a 45- or 50-hour day job.
3. Viewpoint – Closed on Sundays. (So is Casa Diablo, by the way.)
4. Club 92 – This was my other long-term club. Closed. I had heard the city bought it to raze it and make a park-n-ride for the new MAX. It was stripped of signs, so I guess the rumors were true. I felt a tinge of sadness. Ask any dancer what marked their experience at 92 and she will always tell you, “Walking past that damned grill and oil fryer in the kitchen to get to the dressing room.” Kind of scary in 6” stripper heels with 3 or 4 drinks in you. And hot as you came back sweating from a long hard set on stage. My last night there was Thanksgiving.
5. Tommy’s on 81st & Foster – Dead. Slow overall.
6. Devil’s Point on 51st & Foster – Busier, with a dozen or more customers, but most were ignoring the stage. They said it gets busy after 9 though, with their shows.
7. Tommy’s on 35th & Powell – Dead.
8. Cocktails and Dreams across 35th from Tommy’s – Dead. A shower stage with a dancer and no audience. Two empty pole stages. Three or four customers at the bar. Two guys and a gal at a pool table. One of the bar patrons snagged me on my way out and engaged me in small talk. I politely worked my way loose after answering all the prerequisite questions about boyfriend/husband, etc. Another one snagged me. I just said I was researching bars and left him high and dry. I figured if he really was interested he could ask the other guy. Ha! Like that is going to happen. Sorry guys… not cheap, not easy. Divvy it up and figure it out.
9. Lucky Devil on Powell just before the bridge – (Is that 8th or so?) It was dead. Two dancers on the patio, two customers on laptops. I knew one of the dancers, so we caught up on all that has happened since we last saw each other last fall. Her little girl is riding without training wheels now. Nice! Her girl is just SO cute! Then she wanted to show me a new pole trick. Wow! That girl… I met her in an Industry Pole class being taught by Áine at Brassy Butterfly. This woman has taken pole to a new level. She would start with a classic inversion. I would be thinking, “Ok, I know this one.” Then she would give us this little look from upside down that she does so well, drop about six inches down the pole (making my heart leap) and Pow! into a different position that just looked impossible to maintain. As I would start to get nervous, thinking she was going to land on her head, she would give us another little look and Pop! into yet another position a few more inches down the pole. She just kept doing that. I was so impressed, and so ENVIOUS! That is the kind of pole I strive to do. Alas, I am not that muscular or athletic. Or artistic. I don’t know that I will ever get this body to do that. For one thing you need to dance a LOT to get there. When I danced four days a week, I improved a lot faster than I do now just dancing two days.
So anyway, nine clubs later and I would agree that yes, the stripping industry seems to be flat overall. Especially on a Sunday evening of a very hot summer day. All the clubs except Devil’s Point reported the same thing.
Unlike Nevada, Oregon has no (legal) brothels, so I guess I will just keep dancing.
June 30, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Another broken blog
Welcome to My Cycle
I feel my perspective changing
Grinding everything in its path
As the glaciers ground the mountains.
And I am as powerless to stop it.
And like the glacier, it recedes
Leaving waste, desolation.
Wasted days, wasted years, wasted life.
Thoughts in a jamble!
Scrap heaps inside a tall metal fence!
Welcome . . . to my cycle.
June 20, 2008
I feel my perspective changing
Grinding everything in its path
As the glaciers ground the mountains.
And I am as powerless to stop it.
And like the glacier, it recedes
Leaving waste, desolation.
Wasted days, wasted years, wasted life.
Thoughts in a jamble!
Scrap heaps inside a tall metal fence!
Welcome . . . to my cycle.
June 20, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Bonding
Bonding
It was Spice’s first night at the new club. She was dancing with new dancers and she wasn’t sure about them. Her experiences had shown that, in general, she should not expect much. And so she kept to herself. She made sure her costume bag was zipped while she was on stage, she kept her purse with her for her tips, and she didn’t say much to the other dancers. She didn’t want to get involved in any politics or squabbles, or be in a competition. She was there to dance and, hopefully, to make some money.
It was near the end of her shift. She changed into some new shoes to break them in. She went on stage and danced to a set of very hard rock… Ozzie Ozborne, Primus, and Godsmack. Hard rock inspired her, and put her into another zone. It was a sex-zone, a music-zone, a sense-zone, a sensual zone. When she was in this zone, she felt no pain, no sadness. There were no memories, and no troubles. Life was just about the moment during those times. She danced hard.
She finished her set and stepped into the dingy back room to change into her next outfit. She stood waiting for one of the dancers to move, to give her room to change. They were letting the jukebox run—an “intermission song” they called it—while they packed a bowl and smoked it down. One of the dancers glanced down at Spice’s feet and jumped in surprise. “Oh my GOSH! Look at your feet!” She looked down in alarm. On both feet, the broad, clear, plastic toe-strap across the top of her foot had sliced into the tops of the first three toes. It was red with blood. She shrieked in surprise. “Oh my gosh! Look! Look at my feet! Shit!”
Raven set the bowl down and grabbed her purse. “Here! Wait! I have some band-aids in here. Somewhere…. I just saw them yesterday.” She began rummaging through her purse. “Spice… go get your alcohol from the stage! Bring your rag, too.”
Spice stepped back onto the stage and grabbed the alcohol spray bottle and rag she used for cleaning the pole between sets. She came back in and kicked off her shoes, and began dabbing at her toes, spraying them with alcohol and wiping the blood off. The alcohol stung in the cuts.
Raven looked up from digging through her purse, clutching a handful of band-aids. “Here you are! I found them! Here Spice!” Spice tried to open one, but her hands were still shaking from exertion and she couldn’t grab the red tabs. Lula grabbed them from her and turned in her chair to face her. She crossed one leg over the other and patted her knee. “Here!” she ordered. “Put your foot up here!” And one by one she bandaged each cut toe, taking care to wrap the band-aid around the toes so they would not rub off during the next set. Spice stood, balanced on one foot, watching Lula work on her, first one foot and then the other. Tears welled in her eyes. Nobody had done something like that for her since she was a very small child back in Ohio.
When Lula finished, she glanced up at Spice. She stood and gave her a hug. “There you are, sweetie,” she said softly. “That should last until you’re off. When are you done? Don’t you just have one more set?”
And with that she slipped through the curtain and onto the stage, stripper-heels clunking. Intermission was over.
June 4, 2008
It was Spice’s first night at the new club. She was dancing with new dancers and she wasn’t sure about them. Her experiences had shown that, in general, she should not expect much. And so she kept to herself. She made sure her costume bag was zipped while she was on stage, she kept her purse with her for her tips, and she didn’t say much to the other dancers. She didn’t want to get involved in any politics or squabbles, or be in a competition. She was there to dance and, hopefully, to make some money.
It was near the end of her shift. She changed into some new shoes to break them in. She went on stage and danced to a set of very hard rock… Ozzie Ozborne, Primus, and Godsmack. Hard rock inspired her, and put her into another zone. It was a sex-zone, a music-zone, a sense-zone, a sensual zone. When she was in this zone, she felt no pain, no sadness. There were no memories, and no troubles. Life was just about the moment during those times. She danced hard.
She finished her set and stepped into the dingy back room to change into her next outfit. She stood waiting for one of the dancers to move, to give her room to change. They were letting the jukebox run—an “intermission song” they called it—while they packed a bowl and smoked it down. One of the dancers glanced down at Spice’s feet and jumped in surprise. “Oh my GOSH! Look at your feet!” She looked down in alarm. On both feet, the broad, clear, plastic toe-strap across the top of her foot had sliced into the tops of the first three toes. It was red with blood. She shrieked in surprise. “Oh my gosh! Look! Look at my feet! Shit!”
Raven set the bowl down and grabbed her purse. “Here! Wait! I have some band-aids in here. Somewhere…. I just saw them yesterday.” She began rummaging through her purse. “Spice… go get your alcohol from the stage! Bring your rag, too.”
Spice stepped back onto the stage and grabbed the alcohol spray bottle and rag she used for cleaning the pole between sets. She came back in and kicked off her shoes, and began dabbing at her toes, spraying them with alcohol and wiping the blood off. The alcohol stung in the cuts.
Raven looked up from digging through her purse, clutching a handful of band-aids. “Here you are! I found them! Here Spice!” Spice tried to open one, but her hands were still shaking from exertion and she couldn’t grab the red tabs. Lula grabbed them from her and turned in her chair to face her. She crossed one leg over the other and patted her knee. “Here!” she ordered. “Put your foot up here!” And one by one she bandaged each cut toe, taking care to wrap the band-aid around the toes so they would not rub off during the next set. Spice stood, balanced on one foot, watching Lula work on her, first one foot and then the other. Tears welled in her eyes. Nobody had done something like that for her since she was a very small child back in Ohio.
When Lula finished, she glanced up at Spice. She stood and gave her a hug. “There you are, sweetie,” she said softly. “That should last until you’re off. When are you done? Don’t you just have one more set?”
And with that she slipped through the curtain and onto the stage, stripper-heels clunking. Intermission was over.
June 4, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Passing time in the Back Room - Halloween
In this series, I am presenting slices of life as a strip dancer in Portland, Oregon, pretty much as I hear it or see it or experience it, but it is through the eyes of a fictitious dancer named LemonDrop. LemonDrop does not exist. LemonDrop is silent, invisible, the wraith in the pervasive smoke of every club I worked in. She observes me and every other dancer equally. She tries to make sense of the barrage of stimulus coming through each day or night on shift. Her role is to help us see life inside the walls of the dressing rooms, or the view from the stage, or hear the interactions with the customers at the rack or at the bar. And she never uses real names, not even real stage names. Sometimes she tells the story; other times she is a silent character in the story.
Passing time in the Back Room - Halloween
It was the first weekend after Halloween. The dressing room was busy. Several dancers were preparing to go out onto the floor, and one was just coming back in from her set. Two were putting on makeup, perched on rickety stools and leaning into the grimy mirror flanked by a single incandescent bulb. LemonDrop hovered in a corner and peered through a haze of cigarette smoke, listening to the chatter in the room.
LemonDrop marveled at how so many dancers could fit into such a small space. There were six or seven dancers packed into the tiny dressing room. Suitcases were spread all over the floor, with dancers in every conceivable stage of undress picking their way through the maze. Locker doors were flung open and clothes spilled out onto the dusty floor. Cigarettes clouded the air, and the unforgiving glare of industrial-white fluorescent bulbs gave it all a harsh, one-dimensional feel.
A dancer rummaged through a duffle bag laid open on a stack of beer cases that were waiting to be put into the cooler. She was looking for her next costume, having just returned from the stage. She was naked but for her shoes. She listened sympathetically to another dancer talking about something stupid her boyfriend said to her when he dropped her off for work. The other dancer’s voice was high and tense with righteous indignation. “Can you believe that shit? He isn’t working, I’m paying all the bills, and he’s pissed because I strip.” It didn’t seem very fair to the dancer, and LemonDrop had to agree.
Another dancer burst into the dressing room, late for her shift. She plopped a plastic grocery bag on the counter and pulled out a plateful of Halloween cupcakes. The other dancers began to pass the plate around, ooo-ing and ah-ing over the little candied pumpkins and frosting faces decorating the cupcakes.
LemonDrop couldn’t help but be amused at the scene: half a dozen dancers picking the candied pumpkins from the cupcakes, chattering and laughing and socializing, most of them butt-naked but for their platform stripper-heels. One dancer was dusting her crotch with baby powder. Another was talking to her boyfriend on the phone. The one on the phone with her boyfriend backed up to the mirror built into the door and bent over, examining her crotch for lint or toilet paper. She wedged her cell phone in her shoulder and pulled her butt cheeks apart, then her labial lips, spreading them wide. She muted her phone and asked for a baby wipe from anyone who would listen. Someone set her cupcake down to pass her a wipe. She cleaned herself, then tossed the used wipe into the trash can next to her. She unmuted her phone just in time to respond to her boyfriend. LemonDrop was impressed that she never lost a beat talking to her boyfriend. Did he have any idea what his girlfriend was doing while he talked to her? Probably not.
The mood in the room was energized; everybody was in a good mood. Someone pointed out how many dancers were on, and someone else pointed out how busy the bar was. They all agreed it should be a good night. One of the bartenders popped her head in through the curtain and yelled for the next dancer. “What’s the rotation?” asked one of the dancers. “I don’t know. Just hurry up get out here. It’s on the board,” replied the bartender, withdrawing to the bar. The dancers looked at each other and giggled. She was a no-nonsense bartender, but all the dancers loved working under her. One of the dancers called to another, “Glossy, are you about ready? I still have to do my makeup” “Yeah, I can go. I just need to get dressed.” Another dancer volunteered that she was almost ready, too. The two dancers hurriedly pulled on short dresses, stepped their platform heels through their g-strings, checked their straps in the mirrors, crammed down the last of their cupcakes, swished their teeth with their drinks, and left the dressing room.
It was going to be a good night.
May 25, 2008
Passing time in the Back Room - Halloween
It was the first weekend after Halloween. The dressing room was busy. Several dancers were preparing to go out onto the floor, and one was just coming back in from her set. Two were putting on makeup, perched on rickety stools and leaning into the grimy mirror flanked by a single incandescent bulb. LemonDrop hovered in a corner and peered through a haze of cigarette smoke, listening to the chatter in the room.
LemonDrop marveled at how so many dancers could fit into such a small space. There were six or seven dancers packed into the tiny dressing room. Suitcases were spread all over the floor, with dancers in every conceivable stage of undress picking their way through the maze. Locker doors were flung open and clothes spilled out onto the dusty floor. Cigarettes clouded the air, and the unforgiving glare of industrial-white fluorescent bulbs gave it all a harsh, one-dimensional feel.
A dancer rummaged through a duffle bag laid open on a stack of beer cases that were waiting to be put into the cooler. She was looking for her next costume, having just returned from the stage. She was naked but for her shoes. She listened sympathetically to another dancer talking about something stupid her boyfriend said to her when he dropped her off for work. The other dancer’s voice was high and tense with righteous indignation. “Can you believe that shit? He isn’t working, I’m paying all the bills, and he’s pissed because I strip.” It didn’t seem very fair to the dancer, and LemonDrop had to agree.
Another dancer burst into the dressing room, late for her shift. She plopped a plastic grocery bag on the counter and pulled out a plateful of Halloween cupcakes. The other dancers began to pass the plate around, ooo-ing and ah-ing over the little candied pumpkins and frosting faces decorating the cupcakes.
LemonDrop couldn’t help but be amused at the scene: half a dozen dancers picking the candied pumpkins from the cupcakes, chattering and laughing and socializing, most of them butt-naked but for their platform stripper-heels. One dancer was dusting her crotch with baby powder. Another was talking to her boyfriend on the phone. The one on the phone with her boyfriend backed up to the mirror built into the door and bent over, examining her crotch for lint or toilet paper. She wedged her cell phone in her shoulder and pulled her butt cheeks apart, then her labial lips, spreading them wide. She muted her phone and asked for a baby wipe from anyone who would listen. Someone set her cupcake down to pass her a wipe. She cleaned herself, then tossed the used wipe into the trash can next to her. She unmuted her phone just in time to respond to her boyfriend. LemonDrop was impressed that she never lost a beat talking to her boyfriend. Did he have any idea what his girlfriend was doing while he talked to her? Probably not.
The mood in the room was energized; everybody was in a good mood. Someone pointed out how many dancers were on, and someone else pointed out how busy the bar was. They all agreed it should be a good night. One of the bartenders popped her head in through the curtain and yelled for the next dancer. “What’s the rotation?” asked one of the dancers. “I don’t know. Just hurry up get out here. It’s on the board,” replied the bartender, withdrawing to the bar. The dancers looked at each other and giggled. She was a no-nonsense bartender, but all the dancers loved working under her. One of the dancers called to another, “Glossy, are you about ready? I still have to do my makeup” “Yeah, I can go. I just need to get dressed.” Another dancer volunteered that she was almost ready, too. The two dancers hurriedly pulled on short dresses, stepped their platform heels through their g-strings, checked their straps in the mirrors, crammed down the last of their cupcakes, swished their teeth with their drinks, and left the dressing room.
It was going to be a good night.
May 25, 2008
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