by Joanna Angel
I lay on his chest, wide awake as he snored. I felt like this was our first and last night together, like something was going to change as soon as the sun rose, and there would be no going back. As if tomorrow I was going off to join the Secret Service, only it wasn’t so secret considering I’d be naked in a room full of people.
I had been so obsessed with this little bubble of pizza, beer, and orgasms that I’d forgotten about my life outside of Rob. I had friends. I had parents. I had . . . an elderly lady who worked at the bagel shop around the corner from me who always knew my bagel order. I had an occasional drug dealer who let me buy bags of weed on credit . . . because we were cool like that.
Was I supposed to tell all of these people that I was a stripper? Would any of them find out if I didn’t tell them? My parents never went to strip clubs . . . did they? Wait. WHAT IF THEY DID? My friends were mostly broke and, also, extremely anti anything that went on in Manhattan. My friends would only go to Manhattan if they were making money, and even that was a stretch. None of them would go to Manhattan to spend money. Would they?
I tossed and turned and stressed over who might accidentally show up and see me naked. But then I thought to myself—even if any of my friends, my parents, my drug dealer, or the elderly lady that always knew to lightly toast my poppy seed bagel decided to go to a strip club in Manhattan, it would never be during the day. It would be at night.
And with that peace of mind, I fell asleep to the sounds of Rob’s incredibly loud snores. They didn’t sound healthy. He should really get that checked out.
I woke the next morning at 8:00 a.m. It felt disgusting.
When I got up at 4:30 a.m. to go to the coffee shop, it almost didn’t feel real. It was sort of like I was playing a big joke on myself. When you’re on the subway at 5:00 a.m., no one expects anything out of you. Makeup is optional at that hour, and if you have on two different colored socks, no one is reporting you to the MTA fashion police. Not that they would in Brooklyn anyway, since different colored socks were just ironic enough to be acceptable.
However, at 9:00 a.m., the subway is completely different. Life is happening. People are in a rush, with important places to go, with perfectly tweezed eyebrows and carefully styled hair. People who contributed to the news we read, the laws that passed, the movies we watched, and the technology we used were all awake at this time, ready to be a contributing part of the world . . . and I was there just in case any of them needed to get a boner on their lunch break.
I wasn’t exactly sure as to how to prepare for today. I tried to be secretive around Rob in the morning, even though he was fast asleep as I was getting ready. I was worried he’d wake up and see me packing a bag full of things that no one would ever wear at a coffee shop. I grabbed a handful of necessities and threw them into a reuseable Trader Joe’s grocery bag. I never thought the same bag I used weekly to transport discounted produce would be used for this purpose, but it truly was the perfect size bag, and it was quite durable. I threw in some makeup, my highest pair of heels, which weren’t very high at all, and an American flag bikini that I’d bought ironically for a 4th of July rooftop BBQ last year. It seemed just as ironic now but . . . for different reasons.
Rob had no intention of waking up. He had no shame in making himself comfortable in a place he didn’t live in. Wasn’t he going to feel awkward waking up and seeing my roommate? More importantly . . . was my roommate going to feel awkward?
I arrived at Club 42 at 9:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes early seemed to be appropriate. No one was standing in front of the door. I guess the flyer guy didn’t begin aggressively handing out unnecessary free admission flyers until after the club officially opened. I walked through the door. The girl with the greased-up ponytail was in the same exact position she’d been in yesterday, tapping away on her phone as if she never left. There was no music on. It felt empty and strange.
Two girls entered in matching tracksuit-type things. They didn’t match each other, but the tops and the bottoms of their tracksuits matched. Both girls were short with large breasts—one was blonde and one had jet-black hair, but both had styled it in perfectly messy bun-ponytail hybrids. I mean, the perfect messy bun-ponytail that I was convinced only superheroes could effortlessly do. The perfect amount of hair falling down their faces, the perfect amount so delicately secured above their necks. One of the tracksuits was camo, and one was white with the word PINK spelled out in large letters. They were the same but different, with heavy Staten Island accents, speaking loudly over each other, but to each other, about construction on the Verrazzano Bridge.
My no-effort clothing consisted of mystery T-shirts that ended up in my drawers somehow, and quite frankly I don’t know how a lot of them got there. And of course, the quintessential “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs” T-shirt that had been in my possession since middle school. Were these girls’ stripper outfits underneath the tracksuits, like UFC fighters who enter the arena in their branded sweatpants and then strip them off when it’s time to fight? Regardless, I followed the tracksuits through the unopened club because they seemed comfortable here, and I assumed they knew where they were going.
A DJ was speaking into the microphone, saying “test one two three” as he turned all the different colored lights on and off. I respected the professionalism—the day simply could not begin without the assurance that the green, purple, yellow, and red lights all worked. The two girls didn’t notice I was following them. They actually didn’t seem to notice anything but each other. Perhaps anyone who wasn’t in a tracksuit was just . . . invisible to them.
They unintentionally led me to what appeared to be the locker room. The wall was lined with red lockers, with various types of combination locks and master locks securing them, and half-peeled stickers signifying a high user-turnover rate. The room was L-shaped, with a vanity mirror across one wall sporting half broken bulbs, and a long table beneath it. Now there were over a dozen girls, in so many different types of tracksuits. The room was filled with Louis Vuitton duffel bags, various oversized clear makeup bags, and lotions and sprays and eyeshadow pallets and foundations galore. I stood in the entrance taking it all in, with my stonewashed jeans and H&M oversized V-neck, my Trader Joe’s grocery bag on my shoulder, looking like I was dropping off a Postmates order for one of the strippers. Until yesterday, I would have thought that was the more likely option, myself.
I found an empty chair and placed my things in it. The girls in the room were all undressing and talking and texting at once, with so many varying types of shaved and un-shaved vaginas. Some had a perfect landing strip, some were completely bald, some had a little tuft on top of the vagina. Mine was a disorganized mess that was all of these and none of these. At some point, my pubic hair would have to commit to whatever it was trying to be. It’d been having its own identity crisis for several years, and this job would force it to make a decision.
I felt invisible. Everyone was engrossed in their own routine—slathering powders and foundations on their faces with sponges or brushes, making small talk with each other with their breasts out. One girl somehow managed to put eyeliner and lashes on, eat an Egg McMuffin, and Facetime with someone who appeared to be her partner . . . all at the same time. I wasn’t sure what she was saying because it was all in Spanish, but it was certain that she dominated the phone conversation, because the guy on the other end didn’t get many words in.
I took out my American flag bikini and studied it, as if it was just one option of my many amazing outfits, and not, in fact, the only option. While this bikini had managed to be the star of a Bushwick rooftop BBQ, it wasn’t even worthy of a third-rate act here. I slid off my stonewashed jeans, but kept my oversized V-neck T-shirt on. I attempted to squeeze into a small slice of mirror to fix my makeup, but I was elbowed in the face by a girl clipping in pieces of hair.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as if I’d bumped into her, when she had clearly, and possibly intentionally, bumped into me. She had pale skin covered in colorfu
l tattoos. She could have worked at one of the coffee shops in Bushwick that I couldn’t get a job at. However, as she clipped hair extensions onto her head one by one, she transformed from a snobby barista into a friendly stripper. It was astonishing.
“It’s cool!” she replied. That was generous of her, to forgive me for her own elbow hitting the side of my head.
She brushed bronzer onto her freckled cheeks and a clear iridescent lip gloss onto her lips. She was a redhead, with some extra red on her head from the clip-ins. The fake hair mismatched her real hair by a few shades, but it blended together into a unique highlighted ombre, like a modern-day little mermaid, in the sparkling ocean of a strip club. Her eyes were big and blue, her breasts were large and soft, like comfy pillows. She had a big toolbox of makeup—her own mini-Sephora at her fingertips. She slid her belongings over a few centimeters and gave me a half-smile. I now had about an inch of space to spread out my makeup collection, which luckily consisted of exactly six items.
I shyly slid on my American flag bikini bottoms without taking off my V-neck. I wasn’t sure why I was being so awkward in this dressing room, after how I’d performed on stage yesterday. Maybe it was the bikini. I’d only worn this thing once, and it was purchased for a few dollars online from one of those no-name manufacturers. I tied the strings on the left side of my hip together. Then I tied the strings on my right . . . and the string just . . . ripped off. Just like that. Shit. The strings on the side of this thing were the structural integrity of the bikini. I slid the torn flag off me and held it in my hands, sighing. Ten minutes into my life as a stripper, and this bikini had failed me.
The redhead was now fully dressed in a neon green bikini with a complementing mesh dress on top of it. Her blue eyes, red hair, tattoos, and neon green outfit made her such a colorful and beautiful character. It was hard to stop looking at her. I’m sure this aesthetic worked to her advantage in this establishment. I, on the other hand, just sat with my bare ass on a plastic chair in my V-neck T-shirt, holding my broken American thong, unsure of what to do.
“I’m guessing you’re new?” the redhead said.
“Yeah. . . . Is it that obvious?” I replied, complete with nervous laugh.
“Yeah!” she giggled. “I’ve only been doing this for a year, and I feel like I’ve been here forever. You’ll get the hang of it quick,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“I live in Brooklyn,” I answered, still dejectedly staring at the bikini strings.
“Me too!” she said. “Where at?”
“Bushwick!”
“No way! Me too!” She laughed again. I immediately felt more comfortable and forgot about the fact that my pussy was just hanging out on a chair, with nothing to cover it. I un-clenched the flag panties from my fist and threw them onto my one inch of designated table space, on top of my small but efficient makeup collection. The redhead looked at this pathetic little pile and chuckled. She dug into her bag and took out a neon pink minidress, with glitter interwoven into the fabric.
“Here you go. Take this. I ordered this online and it doesn’t fit over my giant tits.” She threw the dress on the table. Now my own little stripper-centimeter of space was starting to look more legitimate.
“Really? You sure?” I said.
“Yeah! I’m sure Tony didn’t tell you anything. You must have no idea what to do,” she laughed.
“Pretty much,” I replied.
“I’m Melody by the way!” she said. “Well, my ‘real’ name is Elizabeth, but I go by Melody.”
“I’m . . .” I paused. What was my name here? I hadn’t given that any thought. I mean, should I just go by my actual name, Naomi? I thought quickly ... a montage of all the powerful women I have ever admired in literature and movies and television charged through my brain. Was there some kind of algorithm to this—my first pet’s name and the name of the street I grew up on, or something like that? Damn it. Who was I?
I took a deep breath, intending to tell her the first thing that came to my brain, but just then, I saw my phone light up. It was a text message from Rob, with a photo of his beautiful, thick cock, comfortably hanging out in my bed. Melody clearly saw the giant penis on my phone—I had my texts and picture messages default to showing up on my home screen.
“Holy shit!” she laughed. I was embarrassed, as if it was my own penis that I’d accidentally flashed in front of her face.
“Sorry about that!” I said, flipping my phone over. My mind jumped to my date last night, and I remembered Rob’s ramblings about American Pickers. While I’d only half listened to what he said, I remembered that the show took place in “LeClaire, Iowa.” What a pretty name for a town in the middle of nowhere. I liked this name. Thank you, Rob. Your cock and your peculiar taste in television had inspired my stripper name.
“LeClaire is my name,” I said confidently. It sounded French, and all things French were sexy.
“Claire?” Melody said. She didn’t hear the first part, which was the part that made it exotic. The second part had zero sex appeal and made me think of the elderly lady with the hat and flowers in the game Guess Who.
“No, LeClaire!” I said, stressing the first syllable.
“Alright LeClaire. Nice to meet you!” She smiled and tightened up her bikini, which made her giant juicy breasts perk up even higher. I was still sitting there with a long T-shirt and no pants. It was time to get that sparkly pink dress on and bring this character to life.
But wait. Rob’s penis.
I picked my phone back up, and Melody kept laughing.
“You get it girl! Fuckin’-A,” she said. I blushed, secretly glad Rob’s penis was getting me some credibility around here.
Followed by his penis, I saw a text message: “Miss U. What place do U work again? I’ll come by and get coffee say hi!”
Shit. While I patted myself and my pussy on the back for getting a rock star with a giant cock to show interest in me so quickly, I certainly wasn’t ready to have this conversation. I had to officially begin my career as a stripper before I told him I was a stripper.
“I’m working in the back today! Not a good day to come by . . . I’ll text you when I’m done!” I replied. It was vague. I do remember when I worked at Fix, once a month I’d lose the privilege of serving coffee to unappreciative yuppies, and I’d be in a stuffy basement without much ventilation doing inventory. So . . . while this lie was based on a truth, it was not the truth.
I slid the pink dress on, and it felt tight against my skin. But it easily slid on, and it would also easily slide off.
“That looks WAY better on you,” Melody gushed.
Suddenly, Tony, the guy from yesterday, opened the locker room door.
“If you’re not on the floor in three minutes, I’m adding an extra twenty to your house fee,” he growled. The girls in the room giggled and hooted, seeming to equally respect and disrespect his authority all at once. In a flurry, they all perked up their breasts, sprayed themselves with various perfumes, and re-applied lipstick. It was like the last ten seconds of a Chopped challenge, when the chefs took their final moments to plate their meals.
“Come on!” Melody said. “I’ll show you around!”
To stay in the locker room, turn to page 138.
To go with Melody, turn to page 146.
“Thank you, but I need a few more minutes to get ready here. I’ll see you out there!” I replied. I know what you’re thinking, but no, it wasn’t because I was nervous to start my life as a stripper. I felt guilty about Rob and I wanted to call him . . . and give his dick pic a proper response.
Melody walked away without really responding to me. She’d offered me her hand and I’d figuratively slapped it away. She’d also given me the clothes off her back, or, well, in her bag. I made myself feel better by reminding myself there was no way her tits were going to fit in this dress. I’d saved this sparkly thing from the trash.
I saw a small restroom in the corner of the dressing room and went in there with
my phone. “Restroom” was a generous description—it was a toilet, a tiny sink, and an open pack of dried-up baby wipes on the floor. No paper towels. No scented candles. The amenities here were worse than a one-star Airbnb.
I called Rob. He answered immediately.
“Hey babe!” he said. I blushed. I had so many moral qualms with that word and how it even became a term of endearment in the first place. But none of that mattered right now. Rob had called me babe, and it made my pussy wet.
“Hi!” I said.
“What are you doing?” I giggled. What was I doing? I reread the text I’d sent him so I could continue this lie properly. Yes. I was doing coffee inventory. It was a shame I’d even started this lie, because telling him I was in a sparkly pink dress that barely covered my pussy and I was sitting on the toilet in the dressing room of a strip club in Times Square was so much more arousing than counting out quantities of coffee lids.
“I took a bathroom break, and . . . I was thinking of you,” I said. This was technically true! Go me.
“Oh yeah?” he answered. “I’m sitting in your bed, thinking about you.”
“Well,” I replied, “you better be. You can’t think about other people in my bed!” I laughed. He was quiet on the other end. Was that too . . . possessive? I mean, I thought it was a valid request. He would have to get his own bedroom if he wanted to have boners in other people’s honor.
But it turned out, his silence wasn’t because of my very first demand in our not-relationship. He was quiet because he was jerking off. I could hear his heavy breathing. The thought of him sitting in my bedroom in our puddle of sweat and sexual fluids from the night before and stroking his beautiful cock was so disgustingly hot. I reached down and touched my exposed pussy, finding it dripping wet. I wished he could bend me over this ceramic toilet and stick his giant cock inside me. I wasn’t sure how he would even fit in here because there was physically only enough room for one stripper-sized human, but my hungry, wet pussy would have found a way.