Chapter 4: Hello Little Girl, Part 2

I came three hours early on my first day. I hadn't meant to show up that early, but it was a Sunday, and instead of opening up at 11, the club opened at 12 (to get around those pesky alcohol laws in Texas). Pulling up to the back, I could see the kitchen staff were already there, hosing down the parking lot and surrounding area to clean it from the previous night's alcohol spills and cigarette butts. It still stank of stale beer, smoke, and grease, a combination I grew oddly fond of.

When I walked in, Little Jon was snoozing in a corner, so I quietly went backstage to the locker room to unpack and get dressed. The House Mom hadn't even arrived yet. I found an empty locker and claimed it with a purple lock. The dingy room had ripped carpet, huge wall-length mirrors, and long benches for the dancers to sit on, or nap on, depending on how slow the day was. Not a single inch looked clean; the shower in the corner looked like a breeding ground for foot fungus, and nary a square inch was free from graffiti or scratchings in the wood.

I quickly changed into my shoes, fishnets, and babydoll, then began to make cosmetic adjustments. As I pulled the flat iron through my curly, brown hair, steam rose to the ceiling. The smell of singed hair mingled with the splash of Sweet Pea body spray I had spritzed all over myself.

Taking out my foundation and eyeliner, I cursed myself for not knowing more about makeup. I had always hated the three face-washings just to get the damn stuff off. But now I had a purpose to wear it, and it felt like war paint. It was the final touch of putting on a mask, to try to hide the "good girl" that everyone could sense I was.

It's just like theater in high school, I thought. You are now the character, Rose the Stripper.

I would learn that that's all a strip-tease is, really: a fantasy theatrical show, of the best kind, because everyone who sees it is more than willing to suspend their disbelief.

It was still two hours until opening. The regular house lights were on, although by this point Little Jon was up and about, fixing the liquor bottles, counting cash, and doing other managerial activities. Gary, the DJ, had arrived too; he slumped, hung-over, in the DJ booth. I knew I would quail if I simply tried to go onstage cold, so I took a few shaky steps toward the main stage to rehearse. I wobbled in my heels, unaccustomed to the height.

"Hey, look who showed up!" Little Jon seemed amused and impressed that I had actually decided to go through with this charade, for one day at least.

"Uh, yeah, sorry I got here kind of early. I just wanted to get a feel for the stage, I guess."

To make sure I don't fall off this damn thing.

The stage itself was about 6ft*6ft, raised about 4 feet off the ground. With the pole in the middle, it seemed even smaller. I would later joke that I didn't drink too much at the club because I was afraid of falling off if I got drunk (which plenty of girls had done before).

"Gary, will you put something on for Rose, so she can practice?"

My face reddened.

Guess it's obvious I need it.

I had gone to plenty of parties in college, so I was familiar with slutty dancing. But I wasn't familiar with slutty dancing while trying to take off clothes. In heels. Without falling off a stage. The DJ put on some top 100 hit, and I just walked around the pole for a bit, trying not to feel like a complete idiot. The pole was at least as round as a Big Gulp at 7/11 and was about as useful for doing tricks as a limp dick. But at least I could hold onto it for balance and spin around it, but it was clear that, even if I had the skills already, there would be no Cirque du Soleil-style dancing.

Jon hit the floor lights, and everything went dark; the darker the better, so no one could see my panicked, mangled expression, the diametric opposite of sexy and seductive. The DJ had asked what I wanted to dance to when it came to my turn; most strippers get their choice of music (depending on the club) and the variety of dancers usually meant there was a variety of songs. I asked if he could play any hip hop or rap.

"The most 'hip hop' we play is Justin Bieber."

I gave him the standard, "What the fuck?" look of disproval.

"I know, I know," he said, holding up his hands. "But the managers don't want to play anything that would attract 'a certain clientele.'"

"That's… racist as hell."

"I know. But them's the rules. Only stuff that's on 106.1, or rock, or pop. Or Prince."

"Uhhh…anything I guess. Something sexy."

After a couple of songs, I danced a few half-hearted moves that I had seen from the girls when I first came in. After enough of feeling like actress who was auditioning for the part of Stripper #3 in a C-movie, I left the stage and went backstage. The House Mom had arrived, so I paid her my fee for the day. She began setting up lotions, deodorants, body sprays, make-up sponges, make-up remover, baby wipes, antiseptic ointment, tampons, hair dryers and flat-irons (old and crappy, but they worked), bobby pins, safety pins, anything that a stripper might need. The various House Moms I worked with often sold outfits, t-backs, or locks for the locker room. This particular Mom had been there for fifteen years.

I chatted with her for a while, and she reminded me of the order of the club: each dancer usually goes on stage in the order that they come in for the day. Many dancers rolled in undressed, un-made-up; by the time their name was called, they were stage-ready. Technically, managers told us that we had to arrive ready, but no one ever followed that. Even though I had obviously arrived first, they put me about halfway down on the list to give me ample time to get ready (and fret and agonize).

"The DJ will usually give the names of the next few girls, but he'll always say when you're next up. When you hear your name, wherever you are, whether with a customer or on a smoke break or on the toilet, start making your way backstage," said the House Mom.

"Ok."

"And don't be nervous, you'll do just fine."

I laughed and smiled and tried to tell some joke about how the customers should be nervous to see me for the first time, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

"As long as you make it to the stage on time, the rest of the time is yours to talk to customers, take a break, fix make-up, whatever. Just be sure to be on-time. Managers hate it when the girls are late or don't show up."

The closer the clock got to 12, the sweatier my palms became. My eyes barely glanced over my X-Men graphic novel, failing to quell the nervousness that was making my body buzz. The club finally opened its doors and the bass started thumping and making the whole locker room vibrate. Only one dancer would be onstage at this hour, since there were only a few customers there at noon on a Sunday. I heard the stripper names called out: Destiny! Jade! Angel! until finally I heard, "Rose on stand-by, Rose, you're up next."

Dear god.

This was it. Like the Phantom of the Opera, I had passed the point of no return. I waited in the wings, like I had done a hundred times before in plays and improv.

This is nothing more than a role. Nothing more than scandalous theatre. Nothing more…

Except my heart was beating louder than the bass. Britney Spear's "Toxic" came on, and I barely registered the voice of the DJ:

"And next up is the beautiful Rose, Rose, you're up!"

I took the stage and left the wings for good.