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
Sunday, May 18, 2008
We Lost a Dancer Last Night
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.
We Lost a Dancer Last Night
It was a warm spring day and the club was slow. LemonDrop dozed in her smoky corner above the dressing room mirror. Two dancers chatted aimlessly while a third dancer performed onstage for the lone customer at the rack. During a lull in the conversation, the door swung open and Spice entered, dragging her suitcase of costumes. She was quiet, and hardly responded to the cheery hellos from the two dancers. LemonDrop wondered what was wrong. She was usually pretty happy.
The dancers noticed it too. When Spice stepped back out to get a drink, one of them observed to the other about her quietness. The other dancer agreed. Something was not right.
The dancer on stage ended her set, and eventually all the dancers cycled through a set. The dressing room grew hazy with smoke as they all lit up, coming and going with drinks. LemonDrop wondered how they could smoke so much in such a small space. The air was thick and grey with smoke in the cramped room. Finally Spice was ready to go on and take her place in the rotation. Just before she was to go on, she showed Dakota her new flask. “What’s in it?” asked Dakota.
“Vodka,” she replied proudly.
“Oh! Here. Drink this then. I’m leaving and I’m just going to toss it when I get home! It’s my leftover vodka and OJ.” Spice looked warily at it, then popped the lid and downed it.
“Umm that’s good! That’s the GOOD orange juice!”
“Yeah, it’s that Odwalla stuff. It’s supposed to be all organic and shit.”
Spice slipped through the curtain and onto the stage, and Dakota finished gathering her costumes and shoes and lotions and things. She left the dressing room with her suitcase and cashed out with the bartender. The bartender mentioned having to work late because someone that the relief bartender knew had OD-ed, and she might be late getting in to work. Dakota left with a friend to get something to eat and some cigarettes.
Later Dakota and her friend came back to the club. Dakota had something to give to a dancer who was supposed to be coming in later, and she was hoping to catch her there. Sure enough, the dancer was there, dancing a set onstage. “Hey you! I have your stuff! I’ll leave it in the dressing room for you!” Dakota called out to her.
“Oh! Yes! Thank you!” the dancer replied from the stage with a big smile, throwing her a kiss.
Dakota entered the dressing room, and Spice followed her in. Spice asked Dakota if she was coming back to dance. “No, why?”
“’Cause I have to leave. I can’t work this shit anymore tonight.”
Dakota looked closely at Spice and realized she was not well. She stood in a grey shift, staring at herself in the mirror, a handful of dollar bills clutched in one fist, her face twisted into a grimace. Dakota couldn’t tell if it was a smile or if she was about to cry. She looked at the dancer’s eyes. They were dry. Spice suddenly slammed at the air with her fists. “I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’!” Her voice was a high-pitched squeal of pain. Her face twisted more, but still her eyes were dry. Dakota watched her silently, sitting down next to her at the table.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’ at all! I can’t stand this! It’s all over!”
“Sweetie, what is wrong? What are you talking about?”
“She’s just gone. There’s nothing I can do! I saw her last night, and now she’s just gone!”
From her corner, LemonDrop watched Dakota slowly piece it together. The OD… the overdose friend of the relief bartender. The dancer who OD-ed was a friend of Spice’s too. She was a friend of the relief bartender, and a friend of friends of the bartender and of other dancers. Spice had partied with her the night before. And when dawn broke this Portland-grey Sunday morning, she lay dead on the floor next to her bed. LemonDrop wondered who had found her.
Spice began to cry softly. She didn’t want to cry; it is a sign of weakness, and dancers can’t be weak. With a physical effort she swallowed her sobs deep into her chest and dried her eyes.
“I am so sorry, Spice. So very sorry! It’s OK to cry, though. It’s just you and me.”
“No, I can’t cry. I’m sorry for crying.” She dried her eyes again, still staring sightlessly into the mirror.
A heavy-set woman stuck her head in the door and yelled at Spice. She had a hard face, her hair pulled back straight and severe, and she was extremely agitated. LemonDrop wondered if she was going to get violent. “Hurry up Spice! I can’t take this shit no more. Lannie is out there raising all kinds of shit, and I’m ready to lose it. You better hurry up ‘cause I’m leaving in exactly one minute!”
Spice apologized to her, promising her that she would be right out. She turned back to the mirror and tried to count out her cash again. She paused and Dakota could see the tears streaming off her face and into the pile of ones. She looked up again and her voice rose to a pained squeal again. “I saw her and now I can’t! I can’t see her! I can’t help her! She’s just gone!” Dakota stood and tried to give her a comforting hug. Spice sank into the hug for just a second, then remembered that she had to be strong and pulled away again. She dried her eyes again, apologized again. Dakota watched her sympathetically.
“Whatchou lookin’ at me like that for, hunh? Shit!”
“I’m just watching you, Spice. I feel so sad for you and for your pain. I want to help, and to just be here for you and listen to you talk and cry. That’s all.” Dakota knew the pain too well.
Spice’s friend poked her head back in the door. “Hurry up, dammit!” she yelled at Spice.
“Shit,” said Spice. She wadded up her ones without counting them and stuffed them into her purse. “At least I had a good evening. I got a few lap dances, so I can pay rent tonight. I gotta go. I’m sorry for crying.” She stopped and looked at Dakota. “Thank you though.” She gave Dakota a quick hug, then turned and hurried from the room. Dakota sat for a moment longer, thinking of the losses in her own life, then rose slowly to follow her out into the bar.
Several women—dancers and friends of dancers—crowded the bar. They were all red-eyed, including the relief bartender, and some were crying. These women all knew and loved that dancer. And now she was gone. And they couldn’t help her anymore. They were frustrated, angry, sad, stunned, grieving. Some were drunk, some were stoned, and some were stone-cold sober. They left the bar in a group, voices rising and falling as they pushed through the door and into the evening and slowly faded into silence.
LemonDrop drifted through the bar. It was quiet now. The jukebox was off and only three customers remained. The sole remaining dancer was finished with her set and was back in the dressing room. The bartender stood with red, teary eyes and stared at the empty stage. “Shit!” she said quietly. “Shit, shit, SHIT.” She turned to the sink and started washing dirty glasses, alone with her thoughts, alone with her memories.
May 5, 2008
We Lost a Dancer Last Night
It was a warm spring day and the club was slow. LemonDrop dozed in her smoky corner above the dressing room mirror. Two dancers chatted aimlessly while a third dancer performed onstage for the lone customer at the rack. During a lull in the conversation, the door swung open and Spice entered, dragging her suitcase of costumes. She was quiet, and hardly responded to the cheery hellos from the two dancers. LemonDrop wondered what was wrong. She was usually pretty happy.
The dancers noticed it too. When Spice stepped back out to get a drink, one of them observed to the other about her quietness. The other dancer agreed. Something was not right.
The dancer on stage ended her set, and eventually all the dancers cycled through a set. The dressing room grew hazy with smoke as they all lit up, coming and going with drinks. LemonDrop wondered how they could smoke so much in such a small space. The air was thick and grey with smoke in the cramped room. Finally Spice was ready to go on and take her place in the rotation. Just before she was to go on, she showed Dakota her new flask. “What’s in it?” asked Dakota.
“Vodka,” she replied proudly.
“Oh! Here. Drink this then. I’m leaving and I’m just going to toss it when I get home! It’s my leftover vodka and OJ.” Spice looked warily at it, then popped the lid and downed it.
“Umm that’s good! That’s the GOOD orange juice!”
“Yeah, it’s that Odwalla stuff. It’s supposed to be all organic and shit.”
Spice slipped through the curtain and onto the stage, and Dakota finished gathering her costumes and shoes and lotions and things. She left the dressing room with her suitcase and cashed out with the bartender. The bartender mentioned having to work late because someone that the relief bartender knew had OD-ed, and she might be late getting in to work. Dakota left with a friend to get something to eat and some cigarettes.
Later Dakota and her friend came back to the club. Dakota had something to give to a dancer who was supposed to be coming in later, and she was hoping to catch her there. Sure enough, the dancer was there, dancing a set onstage. “Hey you! I have your stuff! I’ll leave it in the dressing room for you!” Dakota called out to her.
“Oh! Yes! Thank you!” the dancer replied from the stage with a big smile, throwing her a kiss.
Dakota entered the dressing room, and Spice followed her in. Spice asked Dakota if she was coming back to dance. “No, why?”
“’Cause I have to leave. I can’t work this shit anymore tonight.”
Dakota looked closely at Spice and realized she was not well. She stood in a grey shift, staring at herself in the mirror, a handful of dollar bills clutched in one fist, her face twisted into a grimace. Dakota couldn’t tell if it was a smile or if she was about to cry. She looked at the dancer’s eyes. They were dry. Spice suddenly slammed at the air with her fists. “I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’!” Her voice was a high-pitched squeal of pain. Her face twisted more, but still her eyes were dry. Dakota watched her silently, sitting down next to her at the table.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’ at all! I can’t stand this! It’s all over!”
“Sweetie, what is wrong? What are you talking about?”
“She’s just gone. There’s nothing I can do! I saw her last night, and now she’s just gone!”
From her corner, LemonDrop watched Dakota slowly piece it together. The OD… the overdose friend of the relief bartender. The dancer who OD-ed was a friend of Spice’s too. She was a friend of the relief bartender, and a friend of friends of the bartender and of other dancers. Spice had partied with her the night before. And when dawn broke this Portland-grey Sunday morning, she lay dead on the floor next to her bed. LemonDrop wondered who had found her.
Spice began to cry softly. She didn’t want to cry; it is a sign of weakness, and dancers can’t be weak. With a physical effort she swallowed her sobs deep into her chest and dried her eyes.
“I am so sorry, Spice. So very sorry! It’s OK to cry, though. It’s just you and me.”
“No, I can’t cry. I’m sorry for crying.” She dried her eyes again, still staring sightlessly into the mirror.
A heavy-set woman stuck her head in the door and yelled at Spice. She had a hard face, her hair pulled back straight and severe, and she was extremely agitated. LemonDrop wondered if she was going to get violent. “Hurry up Spice! I can’t take this shit no more. Lannie is out there raising all kinds of shit, and I’m ready to lose it. You better hurry up ‘cause I’m leaving in exactly one minute!”
Spice apologized to her, promising her that she would be right out. She turned back to the mirror and tried to count out her cash again. She paused and Dakota could see the tears streaming off her face and into the pile of ones. She looked up again and her voice rose to a pained squeal again. “I saw her and now I can’t! I can’t see her! I can’t help her! She’s just gone!” Dakota stood and tried to give her a comforting hug. Spice sank into the hug for just a second, then remembered that she had to be strong and pulled away again. She dried her eyes again, apologized again. Dakota watched her sympathetically.
“Whatchou lookin’ at me like that for, hunh? Shit!”
“I’m just watching you, Spice. I feel so sad for you and for your pain. I want to help, and to just be here for you and listen to you talk and cry. That’s all.” Dakota knew the pain too well.
Spice’s friend poked her head back in the door. “Hurry up, dammit!” she yelled at Spice.
“Shit,” said Spice. She wadded up her ones without counting them and stuffed them into her purse. “At least I had a good evening. I got a few lap dances, so I can pay rent tonight. I gotta go. I’m sorry for crying.” She stopped and looked at Dakota. “Thank you though.” She gave Dakota a quick hug, then turned and hurried from the room. Dakota sat for a moment longer, thinking of the losses in her own life, then rose slowly to follow her out into the bar.
Several women—dancers and friends of dancers—crowded the bar. They were all red-eyed, including the relief bartender, and some were crying. These women all knew and loved that dancer. And now she was gone. And they couldn’t help her anymore. They were frustrated, angry, sad, stunned, grieving. Some were drunk, some were stoned, and some were stone-cold sober. They left the bar in a group, voices rising and falling as they pushed through the door and into the evening and slowly faded into silence.
LemonDrop drifted through the bar. It was quiet now. The jukebox was off and only three customers remained. The sole remaining dancer was finished with her set and was back in the dressing room. The bartender stood with red, teary eyes and stared at the empty stage. “Shit!” she said quietly. “Shit, shit, SHIT.” She turned to the sink and started washing dirty glasses, alone with her thoughts, alone with her memories.
May 5, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Working the Peep-shows
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.
Working the Peep-shows
It was a slow day and the only two dancers on shift were sitting in the dressing room, dressed in bra and thong. There were two customers out in the bar, both of them perched at the bar with their backs to the stage, and they had been the only two customers for the last hour. The dancers talked, smoked cigarettes, scraped resins from a pot pipe, and talked some more. The conversation turned to juice bars.
“I worked a juice bar once, and I’ll never work another one,” Lazer said, rolling a cigarette while she talked. “I didn’t last long. I walked out.”
“Really? Why? What happened?”
“It was early in my shift. A customer came in and watched all three of us dance a set, then he went to go sit at a table after I finished my set. I asked him if he would like some company. He said yeah, so I told him, ‘Hang on… I’ll be right back. I’m going to go freshen up and change and I’ll be right back.’” So I ran back to the dressing room and changed real fast. I took some extra time because I wanted to be sure I presented well. It took me about a song and a half. It wasn’t like I was going (and here she made a motion of firing up a pot pipe) or anything. I was just making sure I looked good for him.” She paused to light her rollie. She brushed some ash from her lap. “So when I went back out, he was gone. I guess he drank his $5 energy drink and decided it was time to go. But the manager came over then. She was SUCH a bitch! She asked me why he left. I said, ‘I dunno. I went back to change and freshen up and when I got back out he was gone.’ She started to yell at me. ‘He doesn’t give a shit what you have on you dumb bitch! You just took money out of my hand while you were fucking off back there! And one of these girls could have made forty bucks if you had let one of them have him!’ She was really pissed! I just thought, ‘Bitch! I don’t need this kind of shit!’ So I left. I went back and changed into my street clothes and I just left. I never went back.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Yeah. I didn’t like that place at all.” She giggled. Carefully she scraped the pile of resin dust into a pile. “Nice!” she said. “I have enough to get me a good high!”
“I used to work the peep-shows, though,” she continued. “There’s a big plate of glass in between us and the customers, so they can do anything they want.” She took a drag from her rollie cigarette. “So one day I’m in there doing my thing and this customer comes in. He was a Mexican. He wasn’t very big.” She stopped the story to scrape some of the resin powders into the bowl and light them. She took a big toke, held it, blew it out with obvious satisfaction at the big cloud it made. “Damn. I got a lot out of here!” she observed. “So anyway, I was dancing for him, and just kind of watching him through the window, when he pulled his thing out. It was HUGE. I mean, it was like my arm!” And here she motioned to her forearm. “I was like ‘Oh wow! I bet you never get laid! As soon as someone sees that they’re all (and here she shielded her eyes behind her hand, turning away from something she would rather not see), ‘Uh… I gotta go! Sorry… I hear my kids calling!’’ You know what I mean?” They both laughed at the image.
“So then he starts stroking himself, like this,” and she makes a motion as though she is washing a fence post. “Then he starts to cum, splatting on the window pane. I’m thinking whoa! ‘cause it was a lot. Then he says, ‘Oh that’s just pre-cum!’ And he’s stroking himself and all of a sudden he just cums all over that window. I couldn’t believe it! It was everywhere! I just kept thinking, ‘Oh, that poor clean-up guy! He is going to have his work cut out for him on this one!’ It almost made me laugh out loud!”
At this point the bartender popped her head through the door from the bathroom and hollered for the “next bootie on duty” to get out on stage, because a customer had just come in. Lazer took a last draw from her rollie, handed it to the other dancer to finish, and stepped through the curtained doorway to the stage. The music started to blare from the jukebox, and soon LemonDrop could hear her big plastic stripper-heels clunk against the floor as she moved around the stage for the lone customer at the rack. In the smoky dressing room, LemonDrop watched as the other dancer took a drag from Lazer’s rollie and adjusted her hair, waiting for her turn on stage. Three songs on, three songs off. It was going to be a long shift.
May 4, 2008
Working the Peep-shows
It was a slow day and the only two dancers on shift were sitting in the dressing room, dressed in bra and thong. There were two customers out in the bar, both of them perched at the bar with their backs to the stage, and they had been the only two customers for the last hour. The dancers talked, smoked cigarettes, scraped resins from a pot pipe, and talked some more. The conversation turned to juice bars.
“I worked a juice bar once, and I’ll never work another one,” Lazer said, rolling a cigarette while she talked. “I didn’t last long. I walked out.”
“Really? Why? What happened?”
“It was early in my shift. A customer came in and watched all three of us dance a set, then he went to go sit at a table after I finished my set. I asked him if he would like some company. He said yeah, so I told him, ‘Hang on… I’ll be right back. I’m going to go freshen up and change and I’ll be right back.’” So I ran back to the dressing room and changed real fast. I took some extra time because I wanted to be sure I presented well. It took me about a song and a half. It wasn’t like I was going (and here she made a motion of firing up a pot pipe) or anything. I was just making sure I looked good for him.” She paused to light her rollie. She brushed some ash from her lap. “So when I went back out, he was gone. I guess he drank his $5 energy drink and decided it was time to go. But the manager came over then. She was SUCH a bitch! She asked me why he left. I said, ‘I dunno. I went back to change and freshen up and when I got back out he was gone.’ She started to yell at me. ‘He doesn’t give a shit what you have on you dumb bitch! You just took money out of my hand while you were fucking off back there! And one of these girls could have made forty bucks if you had let one of them have him!’ She was really pissed! I just thought, ‘Bitch! I don’t need this kind of shit!’ So I left. I went back and changed into my street clothes and I just left. I never went back.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Yeah. I didn’t like that place at all.” She giggled. Carefully she scraped the pile of resin dust into a pile. “Nice!” she said. “I have enough to get me a good high!”
“I used to work the peep-shows, though,” she continued. “There’s a big plate of glass in between us and the customers, so they can do anything they want.” She took a drag from her rollie cigarette. “So one day I’m in there doing my thing and this customer comes in. He was a Mexican. He wasn’t very big.” She stopped the story to scrape some of the resin powders into the bowl and light them. She took a big toke, held it, blew it out with obvious satisfaction at the big cloud it made. “Damn. I got a lot out of here!” she observed. “So anyway, I was dancing for him, and just kind of watching him through the window, when he pulled his thing out. It was HUGE. I mean, it was like my arm!” And here she motioned to her forearm. “I was like ‘Oh wow! I bet you never get laid! As soon as someone sees that they’re all (and here she shielded her eyes behind her hand, turning away from something she would rather not see), ‘Uh… I gotta go! Sorry… I hear my kids calling!’’ You know what I mean?” They both laughed at the image.
“So then he starts stroking himself, like this,” and she makes a motion as though she is washing a fence post. “Then he starts to cum, splatting on the window pane. I’m thinking whoa! ‘cause it was a lot. Then he says, ‘Oh that’s just pre-cum!’ And he’s stroking himself and all of a sudden he just cums all over that window. I couldn’t believe it! It was everywhere! I just kept thinking, ‘Oh, that poor clean-up guy! He is going to have his work cut out for him on this one!’ It almost made me laugh out loud!”
At this point the bartender popped her head through the door from the bathroom and hollered for the “next bootie on duty” to get out on stage, because a customer had just come in. Lazer took a last draw from her rollie, handed it to the other dancer to finish, and stepped through the curtained doorway to the stage. The music started to blare from the jukebox, and soon LemonDrop could hear her big plastic stripper-heels clunk against the floor as she moved around the stage for the lone customer at the rack. In the smoky dressing room, LemonDrop watched as the other dancer took a drag from Lazer’s rollie and adjusted her hair, waiting for her turn on stage. Three songs on, three songs off. It was going to be a long shift.
May 4, 2008
Jana Spikes a Customer
In this series, I am presenting slices of life as a strip dancer 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.
Jana Spikes a Customer
Late one night in one of Portland’s rougher clubs, LemonDrop was watching the stage from her favorite spot just over the ATM machine. She likes that spot because she can sift herself through and around the piece of cheap red lingerie that dims the glaring globe over the cash machine, and nobody notices her. She was watching Jana on stage. Jana has very long legs, and likes to play with them. A lot. The customers love them, too. So it works out well for everyone. Sometimes, in playing her little leg games, Jana likes to push the envelope of safety, and this night was one of those. She had a few drinks in her and she wasn’t making the best decisions. And she wasn’t liking being ignored.
In this club, the stage is in the middle of the floor, bounded on three sides by a low rack, and on the fourth side, just a bare Jana-leg’s length from the bar, a full bar-height-and width rack complete with barstools. None of the customers were using them this night, though. Instead, they sat at the bar just a leg’s-length away, their backs to the stage.
Hoping to draw their attention, Jana spun a few long-legged spins on the pole… long extended rondos in time to the music. Nobody noticed. She went into a horizontal spin some call the “barbed wire.” Still no response. She stood with her back to the pole, facing the high rack (and the bar) and leaned backwards into the pole. Slowly, carefully, she hoisted her feet up and onto the edge of the high rack. Keeping time to the music, she spread her legs wide, and rolled her hips large, “cleaning the barrel.” It is an impressive move, suspended several feet off of the floor with one shoulder braced on the pole and her feet on the counter. But still there was no response. Jana dismounted and pouted at their backs. “A row of fools on a row of stools.”
Jana hoisted herself up onto the wide countertop of the rack next to the bar. Sitting lengthwise on the counter, she extended her legs into the classic “mud flap” pose. She held her mud flap pose for the row of fools, but none turned to look at her. The song was half over, and not a dollar on the rack.
LemonDrop could see she was getting agitated and wondered what was next. It didn’t take long. The music was a slow blues song, and was dipping into a very sultry and passionate guitar solo. On a musical cue, Jana turned to face the bar. Sitting sideways on the counter, she placed her feet one each on a stool, legs spread wide. LemonDrop had seen her do this move before. The last time she did this, she poked her 5” spike heels through the cracked plastic seat cover and kicked a stool over onto a customer trying to get unstuck. LemonDrop hoped she remembered that experience.
Apparently she did remember, because she only put the balls of her feet on the stools, keeping her heels off the seat. Arms wide, hands flat on the countertop, feet planted on the stools, she thrust her pelvis high, moving it to the music. She gyrated her hips in large circles, polishing the inside of the barrel. The music changed, there was still no response, and so she stopped that move. And this was when she started pushing the envelope of safety.
She slowly leaned back until she was lying arched backwards across the counter with her hair sweeping the stage floor on one side, her hands gripping the edge on the other, feet planted on the stools. Then, slowly to maintain her balance, she raised her legs from the stools and began undulating them. With her long legs, her feet were dangerously close to the patrons at the bar. It looked good though, with her lying balanced across the counter, head hanging backwards into the stage on one side, long legs moving high in the air on the other side. She moved them in slow bicycling motions, then spread them out-out-out in a very wide, straight-legged V, then brought together with a loud Clack! of her clear plastic heels. She formed a circle with her legs, then slowly opened them again into that wide V. Her lacy black thong was high on her hips and made her legs seem even longer.
A customer finally turned from the bar and look down into that brushy valley so far down those long legs. That is a hard sight for a man to resist, and this poor guy was no exception. He stared with obvious appreciation, drink in hand, swaying slightly, fumbling for a dollar to drop on the rack. His friend was still talking to him, though, so he was a little distracted. When he turned back to answer his friend, he stayed where he was, and that was where it all went wrong. LemonDrop knew what was coming, but she couldn’t warn him.
Jana’s back was starting to hurt from the edge of the bar cutting into it. She can’t see anything but the ceiling from that position, and LemonDrop can see she’s getting woozy from being a little drunk and upside down for so long. She needs to right herself before she falls off on her head. She puts her legs together, bends one slightly, and ratchets them down hard and lets their downward momentum pull her body up. When her legs came down, she nailed that poor guy right in the side of the head with one of those 5-inch spikes. He staggered and dropped his drink, grabbing his head and swearing loudly.
Life in the bar got a little interesting for a while. The customer was pretty pissed at Jana, Jana felt really bad about spiking him, the friend bought both of them a drink, the bartender bought them all a drink, and eventually everyone got to laughing about it.
And Jana got her attention.
April 22, 2008
Jana Spikes a Customer
Late one night in one of Portland’s rougher clubs, LemonDrop was watching the stage from her favorite spot just over the ATM machine. She likes that spot because she can sift herself through and around the piece of cheap red lingerie that dims the glaring globe over the cash machine, and nobody notices her. She was watching Jana on stage. Jana has very long legs, and likes to play with them. A lot. The customers love them, too. So it works out well for everyone. Sometimes, in playing her little leg games, Jana likes to push the envelope of safety, and this night was one of those. She had a few drinks in her and she wasn’t making the best decisions. And she wasn’t liking being ignored.
In this club, the stage is in the middle of the floor, bounded on three sides by a low rack, and on the fourth side, just a bare Jana-leg’s length from the bar, a full bar-height-and width rack complete with barstools. None of the customers were using them this night, though. Instead, they sat at the bar just a leg’s-length away, their backs to the stage.
Hoping to draw their attention, Jana spun a few long-legged spins on the pole… long extended rondos in time to the music. Nobody noticed. She went into a horizontal spin some call the “barbed wire.” Still no response. She stood with her back to the pole, facing the high rack (and the bar) and leaned backwards into the pole. Slowly, carefully, she hoisted her feet up and onto the edge of the high rack. Keeping time to the music, she spread her legs wide, and rolled her hips large, “cleaning the barrel.” It is an impressive move, suspended several feet off of the floor with one shoulder braced on the pole and her feet on the counter. But still there was no response. Jana dismounted and pouted at their backs. “A row of fools on a row of stools.”
Jana hoisted herself up onto the wide countertop of the rack next to the bar. Sitting lengthwise on the counter, she extended her legs into the classic “mud flap” pose. She held her mud flap pose for the row of fools, but none turned to look at her. The song was half over, and not a dollar on the rack.
LemonDrop could see she was getting agitated and wondered what was next. It didn’t take long. The music was a slow blues song, and was dipping into a very sultry and passionate guitar solo. On a musical cue, Jana turned to face the bar. Sitting sideways on the counter, she placed her feet one each on a stool, legs spread wide. LemonDrop had seen her do this move before. The last time she did this, she poked her 5” spike heels through the cracked plastic seat cover and kicked a stool over onto a customer trying to get unstuck. LemonDrop hoped she remembered that experience.
Apparently she did remember, because she only put the balls of her feet on the stools, keeping her heels off the seat. Arms wide, hands flat on the countertop, feet planted on the stools, she thrust her pelvis high, moving it to the music. She gyrated her hips in large circles, polishing the inside of the barrel. The music changed, there was still no response, and so she stopped that move. And this was when she started pushing the envelope of safety.
She slowly leaned back until she was lying arched backwards across the counter with her hair sweeping the stage floor on one side, her hands gripping the edge on the other, feet planted on the stools. Then, slowly to maintain her balance, she raised her legs from the stools and began undulating them. With her long legs, her feet were dangerously close to the patrons at the bar. It looked good though, with her lying balanced across the counter, head hanging backwards into the stage on one side, long legs moving high in the air on the other side. She moved them in slow bicycling motions, then spread them out-out-out in a very wide, straight-legged V, then brought together with a loud Clack! of her clear plastic heels. She formed a circle with her legs, then slowly opened them again into that wide V. Her lacy black thong was high on her hips and made her legs seem even longer.
A customer finally turned from the bar and look down into that brushy valley so far down those long legs. That is a hard sight for a man to resist, and this poor guy was no exception. He stared with obvious appreciation, drink in hand, swaying slightly, fumbling for a dollar to drop on the rack. His friend was still talking to him, though, so he was a little distracted. When he turned back to answer his friend, he stayed where he was, and that was where it all went wrong. LemonDrop knew what was coming, but she couldn’t warn him.
Jana’s back was starting to hurt from the edge of the bar cutting into it. She can’t see anything but the ceiling from that position, and LemonDrop can see she’s getting woozy from being a little drunk and upside down for so long. She needs to right herself before she falls off on her head. She puts her legs together, bends one slightly, and ratchets them down hard and lets their downward momentum pull her body up. When her legs came down, she nailed that poor guy right in the side of the head with one of those 5-inch spikes. He staggered and dropped his drink, grabbing his head and swearing loudly.
Life in the bar got a little interesting for a while. The customer was pretty pissed at Jana, Jana felt really bad about spiking him, the friend bought both of them a drink, the bartender bought them all a drink, and eventually everyone got to laughing about it.
And Jana got her attention.
April 22, 2008
My first post after a long silence
I normally write a blog at www.SalsaPortland.com. I have gone through a long silent spell, not sure if anyone wanted to hear what I have to say, or if I should even share it. My last post (208 days ago) alluded to a dancer spiking someone’s head. I promised I would explain it, so I guess that is my first order of business. But first I have to explain how I got here.
A year ago June I started working as a dancer. A stripper. Exotic dancer. Since then I have had a very wild ride. I thought I had seen a lot, but I have learned so much since then that I am kind of speechless some days. (Imagine that… Meryl is speechless.) But how in the world did I get into stripping?
I was teaching Salsa basics, Salsa and EC Swing privates, dancing 4 nights a week, taking Pole classes for personal growth and fitness. My knees gave out after 7 days a week for 3 years. I went into physical therapy for my knees. I found that I could still do my pole and strength classes though, because I could control the damage to my knees in those classes. So I kept attending Pole. I started getting good at it, and did very well in the recitals. In fact, I wrote here about my first recital (at Devil’s Point), and what a nauseating rush it was. Total fear and dread, but it turned out to be quite exhilarating. I did a second with that same studio, then a third with another at Sassy’s. I was hooked, and so I started auditioning.
My first gig was Hawthorne Strip (formerly Dino’s.) My first shift was a long hard 5-hour shift of 3 songs on, 3 off, with another dancer. I nearly died. I could hardly crawl to my car. That was the day I learned about pacing myself with pole-work. Then the manager that hired me went on vacation, and the new manager promptly fired me. I went to a friend’s and cried for the rest of the day.
My next gig was Top Hat and Tails, at the 5-point where Cully, NE 60th, and Prescott come together. The dancer that got me in there told me, “Sweetie, in your first 2 weeks you will see everything it is possible to see in a strip club in this place.” She was right. I saw it all, heard it all, and I was the brunt of a lot of stuff I never thought I would have to deal with. Then came a slow late summer and fall, and I started working 4 shifts… 2 at Top Hat and 2 at Club 92 (92nd and SE Foster). I worked every shift there is to work, and some days I did well, and some days I did poorly. But I had plenty of company… I saw dancers go home with $8 from a night of hard work. I learned then the importance of regulars. Those with regulars did the best.
Then a series of incidents happened that I probably should not write about, centered on 505, and I left. I dropped out for 3 months, then I hit the audition trail again in late February. I hit 4 places, auditioned 3, got hired at 2, but only got on the schedule of one (Rooster’s), which is where I am now. I dance noon to 5-ish Saturdays and Sundays. It has turned out to be a great place with tradesmen and professionals alike passing through its doors. Nearly every dancer is a warm and wonderful human being, and nearly all the customers are as well. It is the nicest place I have ever danced.
So what does this have to do with my writing? Well, I have seen and heard amazing things that I wasn’t sure quite how to express. I saw a very raw humanity at its best and at its worst and everything in between. Sometimes I just listened to stories between dancers. Sometimes I was part of the conversation; other times I was part of the action. But the quandary was always how to present it.
In this next series, I am presenting life as a strip dancer pretty much as I hear it or see it or experience it, but it will always be through the eyes of a fictitious dancer named LemonDrop. LemonDrop does not exist. She is a figment of my imagination. 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.
So tune in on a weekly basis, and catch up with LemonDrop and her Conversations from the Back Room.
April 21, 2008
A year ago June I started working as a dancer. A stripper. Exotic dancer. Since then I have had a very wild ride. I thought I had seen a lot, but I have learned so much since then that I am kind of speechless some days. (Imagine that… Meryl is speechless.) But how in the world did I get into stripping?
I was teaching Salsa basics, Salsa and EC Swing privates, dancing 4 nights a week, taking Pole classes for personal growth and fitness. My knees gave out after 7 days a week for 3 years. I went into physical therapy for my knees. I found that I could still do my pole and strength classes though, because I could control the damage to my knees in those classes. So I kept attending Pole. I started getting good at it, and did very well in the recitals. In fact, I wrote here about my first recital (at Devil’s Point), and what a nauseating rush it was. Total fear and dread, but it turned out to be quite exhilarating. I did a second with that same studio, then a third with another at Sassy’s. I was hooked, and so I started auditioning.
My first gig was Hawthorne Strip (formerly Dino’s.) My first shift was a long hard 5-hour shift of 3 songs on, 3 off, with another dancer. I nearly died. I could hardly crawl to my car. That was the day I learned about pacing myself with pole-work. Then the manager that hired me went on vacation, and the new manager promptly fired me. I went to a friend’s and cried for the rest of the day.
My next gig was Top Hat and Tails, at the 5-point where Cully, NE 60th, and Prescott come together. The dancer that got me in there told me, “Sweetie, in your first 2 weeks you will see everything it is possible to see in a strip club in this place.” She was right. I saw it all, heard it all, and I was the brunt of a lot of stuff I never thought I would have to deal with. Then came a slow late summer and fall, and I started working 4 shifts… 2 at Top Hat and 2 at Club 92 (92nd and SE Foster). I worked every shift there is to work, and some days I did well, and some days I did poorly. But I had plenty of company… I saw dancers go home with $8 from a night of hard work. I learned then the importance of regulars. Those with regulars did the best.
Then a series of incidents happened that I probably should not write about, centered on 505, and I left. I dropped out for 3 months, then I hit the audition trail again in late February. I hit 4 places, auditioned 3, got hired at 2, but only got on the schedule of one (Rooster’s), which is where I am now. I dance noon to 5-ish Saturdays and Sundays. It has turned out to be a great place with tradesmen and professionals alike passing through its doors. Nearly every dancer is a warm and wonderful human being, and nearly all the customers are as well. It is the nicest place I have ever danced.
So what does this have to do with my writing? Well, I have seen and heard amazing things that I wasn’t sure quite how to express. I saw a very raw humanity at its best and at its worst and everything in between. Sometimes I just listened to stories between dancers. Sometimes I was part of the conversation; other times I was part of the action. But the quandary was always how to present it.
In this next series, I am presenting life as a strip dancer pretty much as I hear it or see it or experience it, but it will always be through the eyes of a fictitious dancer named LemonDrop. LemonDrop does not exist. She is a figment of my imagination. 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.
So tune in on a weekly basis, and catch up with LemonDrop and her Conversations from the Back Room.
April 21, 2008
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