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
Monday, May 26, 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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