Chapter 3: Hello, Little Girl, Part 1

I must have seemed like a country mouse at her first Freak Show, wanting the part of Head Freak. I drove to Baby Dolls, a huge glamorous club, straight from my shift at the Garland Public Library. The manager's eyes raked over my black pants, chunky glasses, and long-sleeved, lavender button-up.

"Sorry," he said. "We already have enough entertainers, but you can try our sister club, Lipstick. They're always hiring. Ask for Little Jon."

At the time, I thought this was the manager's honest response, but I simply hadn't learned the tacit rules of the audition yet.

Slightly dejected, but no less determined, I drove down Harry Hines, passing tire shops, cheap Mexican restaurants, adult toy stores, and filthy-looking, no-name hotels. Baby Dolls was Reunion Tower, Lipstick, McDonalds. Baby Dolls was a gargantuan, loud affair, with flashing lights, glittering bars, two stories and 6 stages, and catered to large wallets and black credit cards; Lipstick had a glowing neon sign of a lip-print and a broken AC. If Baby Dolls was the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader with big, fake tits who worked as a high-end escort, Lipstick was its poor, trashy sister who let anyone fuck her for 200 bucks. I drove up the one-way lane that led to the parking lot. The entry door was covered with old, faded advertisements, and the smell of grease and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. A motorcycle revved up from the next-door biker bar. I turned off the ignition and sat in my car for a moment.

Don't think about it too much, too much, too muuuuch, Drake crooned in my head. I took a breath and stepped out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my feet.

As I entered the dingy, dimly-lit club, I felt like Dorothy as she must have when she stepped outside her house into Oz. Even though I knew cognitively what happened at a strip club, I was still shocked to see a topless woman slowly dancing onstage, her nipples pink and puckered. There were a few people half-heartedly watching, sipping beers, looking like they were at the DMV.

Is it always this slow? I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

As I yelled to the doorgirl see Little Jon over the blaring music, I glanced around, my heart pounding with the audacity of entering two strip clubs in one day.

I had never even watched porn.

The space was tiny, seating maybe 100 people, not that that large a crowd would ever fill up the space. It smelled like stale beer, 3-day old sweat, and a slight ammonia smell that I would come to associate with sex. There were 4 stages: the main stage, two adjacent "side" stages, and one stage in the "VIP" area, which was only a small, raised section that wasn't fooling anyone. There was a pole on the main stage, but not the slender, shiny metal poles featured in the movies. This was a fat, black chode of a pole that dancers couldn't even fit their hands around, much less do tricks on, since it was barely attached to other poles connected to the ceiling. It looked like it couldn't support its own dignity, much less the weight of a full-grown woman.

Jon walked up, a short, chubby man with blond hair and sink-water gray eyes, and we shook hands. He held a clipboard with my information sheet I had filled out at the reception. As he led me over to a table for an "interview," I had to pretend that my knees weren't shaking and that I wasn't a doe-eyed lamb trying to run with the wolf pack.

"So," he said, clicking open a pen. "Why the hell do you want to get naked for strangers?"

Sweat trickled down my ramrod-straight back.

"It's only temporary," I said. "Student loans don't pay for themselves, haha."

He didn't laugh.

"What do you do besides dancing?"

"I work in a library," I said. "Part-time."

This time he did laugh. "You're a librarian? God, they'll love that. A sexy librarian."

I hated the cliché already.

He scribbled some notes in the margins. He glanced up at me. "That is, if they don't eat you alive, sweetheart. If you don't think you can handle this, there's the door."

My stubbornness flared up.

"I can play with the big boys," I said. "And I can handle myself. I'll show up on time, come prepared, and won't start shit with anyone." That was the first time I had said the word "shit" in about two years. The word tasted like defiance and rule-breaking.

Jon eyed me over the clipboard.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Does he know about you coming here?"

"No."

"Good. Do you have sex?"

"Yes."

That's my business, though, not yours.

"Do you have a sexually transmitted disease?"

"No."

That escalated quickly.

"Have you ever accepted money for sex?"

"No."

Of course not.

He continued to scribble.

"Have you ever been found guilty of prostitution?"

"No."

"Have you committed any offenses or have been convicted?"

"I got a speeding ticket three years ago."

Jon laughed; I was serious.

"Gotta ask, honey. We can't have even a whiff of prostitution around here."

I didn't realize there were rules and regulations for a strip club. We stood up, so Jon could give me a tour of the place as he explained the "stage order" of dances.

"You'll dance three songs on the main stage," he said. "First song, your top stays on. Second song, take it off at some point, doesn't matter when. Third song, it stays off. Will you be ok with that?"

"Of course," I said quickly. I had streaked naked in college; this couldn't be much different, could it?

"You also have to wear t-back underwear. You can find 'em at Electrique Boutique around the corner. No G-strings."

G-strings? T-backs? The jargon tumbled around in my head.

"You also have to wear heels. I'm sure those are great for the library," he said motioning to my flats. "But you'll have to buy some heels."

My face flushed. We walked around to the other stages, the broken AC almost as loud as the music.

"Once you get done with rotating around each stage, you're free to give table dances," Jon continued. "Table dances are $20 per song. You're not allowed to charge any less. Customers can only touch your thighs, shoulders, and back. The customer must not be 'visibly aroused.' You must keep at least one foot off the ground."

The onslaught of new information made my head swim. I felt my anxiety level creep up a few notches.

"Why just one foot?" I asked.

"Because then it counts as solicitation for sex."

Oh.

We sat back down at the table, and Jon handed me the contract to sign. As an "independent contractor," I would pay a fee to use the club as a space to make money. Lipstick charged $10 per shift during the day (11am-7pm) and $15 for the night shift (7pm-2am). The club mandated that the dancer show up at least 3 times per week; any fewer and there was a $20 penalty fee. The contract also stipulated that each dancer perform at least one "slow" day, on a Sunday or Monday. If you didn't, that was a $50 penalty fee. If you came in late, it was $10 for every hour missed, same if you went home early.

Although there was considerable room for a dancer to make some money, I realized that I had very little rights as an "independent contractor," and not an employee. If I fell off the stage, because I slipped in sweat or alcohol and broke my leg, I couldn't sue the club. If I gave a customer five lap dances but the customer only paid for one, tough shit. Designating dancers as "independent contractors" also meant that the club could charge whatever fees they want. Even though the club didn't make anything based on the actual "transactions" of a lap dance, they made it up in the sheer volume of alcohol sales. Men came in to see the women and bought them lots and lots of drinks.

Jon led me back to the dressing room for my audition.

"Remove your top," said the House Mom.

I took off my shirt.

"And your bra," she added.

Oh, duh.

I slipped it off. They checked to see if I had any stretch marks and if I could actually get naked in front of strangers. For a moment, it felt surreal, to be that nonchalant about removing my clothes. Yeah, I'm cool and blasé enough to take off my shirt for you; when can I start?

"Oh, you've got great breasts," the House mom complimented me. "Gary! Doesn't she have great breasts?" The passing DJ looked me over briefly and agreed.

"You'll tip the House Mom and Gary ten dollars every shift," said Jon. " And what do you want your stage name to be?"

I stared blankly. I had not thought this far. Never had I created another identity for myself, unless you count the embarrassing anagram pseudonym I came up for myself in high school ("Kari Klesli"). But I couldn't be Kari. The name had to be sexy, exotic, and obviously fake. I put all my critical thinking skills into action.

"Uuhhhh...." I said intelligently.

A passing waitress said, "What about Rose? We used to have a Rose, but she left. You could be Rose."

Good enough for me, I thought. Anything that wasn't "Bubbles" or "Candy," or something equally stupidly sweet.

"Ok, sure."

So there I was: Rose, a newly formed creation. Only time would tell whether that creation was more like the Garden of Eden or Frankenstein's monster.

Jon led me to the reception area.

"You've got to get your fingerprints taken. It's sixty bucks. Bring a money order. As soon as you do that, you can start. When do you want to start by the way?" Jon smiled as if he challenging me to come back. Good thing I was competitive and didn't like to lose. It was Friday, and tomorrow was my turn to work the Saturday shift at the library.

"Sunday," I replied.

"See you Sunday."