by Karen Bell
Mila was beginning to doubt her suitability to the job description. Neither power nor nudity had been her strong suits in the past.
‘The pay and the conditions are altogether better when you get out of the dives and into a decent gentlemen’s club. Better standard of clientele, better tips. You don’t have to be the dancer with the most tricks; it’s more about your ability to connect with the audience. I think you’d catch on quickly and you’ve certainly got the goods.’
Mila wasn’t sure if she was referring to looks, body or expertise but was grateful for the compliment regardless. She would need all the confidence she could muster if she was to go through with it.
‘I don’t have too many options and I’m needing to find a way to pay some bills fast,’ she admitted, ‘but if I do this, will there be an expectation at these places that I’m prepared to do… other things?’ Even as she said it, Mila realised how prudish she sounded. You’re asking about a job in the erotic dance industry and you’re too shy to use the terminology? In fact stripping might technically make you a sex worker.
‘In any of the clubs I would send you to, you would call the shots on that score. I’m not here to judge you Mila and there’s no typical sex worker stereotype in my book but you don’t strike me as being the exhibitionist by nature. I wouldn’t be recommending it to you at all if you didn’t sound desperate.’
‘Unfortunately I am desperate and I’m really grateful for your advice. One more thing,’ Mila lowered her voice, ‘could I ask you please for complete confidentiality on this? Adie and I are very close but I can’t share this with anyone, not even her.’
‘That goes without saying. Let me give you the numbers of a few clubs. Tell the manager at each that I sent you. They may let you watch a show or two so you can get an idea of what to expect.’
‘I’d really appreciate that, thank you.’
‘Take your time to make a decision. If I stick my neck out to recommend you I need your assurance that you’ll act professionally, that if you take a job, you’ll give it your best.’
‘Of course,’ replied Mila sincerely. ‘You have my word on it.’
Sarah went on to not only recommend places Mila could go to ask about work but also where to buy outfits, wigs, false eyelashes and stage makeup.
‘Oh and don’t be surprised when you’re stripping if you see men that you know. Usually those you’d have thought least likely – your second grade school teacher, your accountant, the church minister.’ She said it in all seriousness and Mila nearly choked. As much as she was still questioning what she was doing, Mila couldn’t have hoped for a better contact for a crash course in the field.
In her mind she had to thank Adie for that, for taking her on the cruise and organizing the classes back home.
Mila was a believer that things happened for a reason – not necessarily a divine plan but a spiritual journey. She had an innate belief that her parents would help to guide her. Within that, she also believed there was a silver lining to every cloud. Sarah was one of several threads weaving Mila’s silver lining. First Adie, then meeting Ryan, the bank manager, and now Sarah. Even at the worst times, one could find things to be grateful for.
She braced herself to forge on with investigations while she was feeling reckless and driven. She was afraid that if she waited, she’d talk herself out of it, so she went back to her car and immediately put in a call to the first club on the list. The manager wasn’t in yet, so she tried another. It was in the central business district and she could get there by train.
As luck would have it, someone who knew of Sarah picked up the phone, and he was keen to meet Mila that night.‘One of the girls is away for the weekend and I was about to get one of the bookers to ring around for a fill in.’
Mila’s immediate instinct was to hang up and run as far and as fast as she could. Mentally she went into a flat spin, but having already mentioned Sarah’s name, she just couldn’t do it.
They arranged that she would come in at eight p.m. between happy hour and the night crowd so that he would have time to ‘interview’ her in one of the private rooms. Mila hung up, hands shaking, stomach flip-flopping. What was she thinking? Suppose he was to give her a start, could she actually go through with it? Was she expected to go to an interview in stripper’s clothes and actually strip or did he just want to see her dance? He didn’t sound sleazy but Mila was in the dark and she just didn’t feel she could ask any more questions of Sarah.
It was a Thursday afternoon, Sydney’s one day of the week for late night shopping and traditionally payday, so bars tended to be more crowded. One of the places recommended for wigs and clothes was a shop not far away in Darlinghurst. Looking at her watch, Mila doubted that she’d have time to go home and get back into the city for eight. She was already wearing high heels, a pencil slim, black skirt and tightly fitted white shirt. She had wanted to look the part when she went to see Sarah. Still, she felt she looked more a like a waitress or a real estate agent than a stripper.
She had just three hours to get it together. If only Adie was in on it? If only it was an adventure of choice instead of a necessary ordeal. Mila repeated Sarah’s words in her head. The only girls who make it are the hustlers who love getting naked and love the power it gives them.
Her car was parked in a rare free-of-charge parking spot and she wasn’t about to give it up just to struggle for another closer to town. In normal shoes, it was walking distance but in these heels she’d end up a cripple. She opted for a bus ride and was soon standing on the street at the base of a narrow staircase leading to the store.
The wig was her first priority. The idea of being identified and outed to her parents-in-law or Holly didn’t even bear contemplation. Holly. Mila had a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly. Holly was now eighteen as were most of her Sydney friends; legal drinking and clubbing age. Many of them had met Mila at parent teacher nights or at their home. Every rational thought in her head was screaming Have you gone completely mad? Don’t you see how this could blow up in your face? Of course she understood the risks, but what other options did she have? Sarah had intimated that she could make upwards of one hundred dollars an hour on a busy night. Double, if she was prepared to do lap dances. Maybe she was deranged, certainly desperate, but the cards were stacked against her in this particular poker hand and she’d have to fake her way through it, if she was to save herself. If she was to go through with this she would have to make herself completely unrecognizable.
From outside, Mila imagined the shop to be small, and it wasn’t until she alighted the stairs at the top, that she saw it stretched about a hundred metres into building, its long walls lined with rack after rack of shoes, wigs, lingerie and clothing. Mila couldn’t help wondering if Robert had shopped here in the past. Ironic, she thought, that having recently destroyed every last item of come-fuck-me underwear he had ever brought home, she was now having to look for the very same. Those voices in her head were reproaching her again.
A buzzer sounded as she stepped over the threshold and a she heard a ‘Ciao, I’m coming!’ from the back of the store.
She, or as Mila quickly realized he came mincing down the aisle between the rows of merchandise, cordless phone pressed to his ear by crooking his head at an awkward angle and raising one exposed shoulder. He or she was multi-tasking; tidying garments on hangers while teetering along on the highest size-twelve platform shoes that Mila had ever seen. ‘Of course darling, I’m practically wetting myself with excitement too. Can’t wait. Got to go, I have a customer. Kiss-kiss, love you too.’
He hung up and beamed at Mila. ‘Helloo, lovely to meet you. Enchante.’
He took Mila’s hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it with old-fashioned civility. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
Mila wondered if he had mistaken her for someone famous. ‘Who me?’ she answered, tempted to look behind her in case there was someone important coming up the stairs.
‘Of cou
rse you, silly. I mean it’s always an honour to meet a new customer.’
Mila smiled awkwardly by way of reply. He, or she looked like a glamorous but middle-aged Rita Hayworth; perfectly set auburn waves cascading over broad shoulders; arched brows plucked to perfection. He, or maybe she was impeccably dressed in a stunning, silk 1940s gown with a gorgeous neckline and a split to the thigh that accentuated a great set of legs and a beautiful cleavage. Really, the only giveaway as to his gender or maybe original gender was his height, easily six foot, together with an ever-so-slight five o’clock shadow working its way from behind an otherwise flawless foundation. The total picture was worthy of a Hollywood billboard. Mila was fascinated.
‘Well I need some help looking for a costume for an audition tonight.’
‘Tonight? Nothing like leaving things to the last minute is there, but thankfully you’ve come to the right place. I’ve dressed a float-full of fags with half your assets in less time. Which club is it? You know, different locations different class of clientele, so it helps to know.’
‘It’s called Star Strip,’ answered Mila, tossing the name up in the air and hoping it landed on Park Avenue or Mayfair.
‘Oh goody, I love a theme! Hollywood on steroids.’
‘I don’t actually know anything about the place,’ admitted Mila. ‘But it was recommended by someone who knows the industry.’
‘Well yes, most girls would give their eye-teeth to start there. Think exclusive, like Establishment or Ivy, with lots of well-heeled regulars, so let’s wow them from the start shall we?’
His manner was inclusive without being too intimate and despite the sophisticated persona, Mila immediately felt she was with a confidante.
He clearly loved a good story, especially his own life story and it soon transpired that two decades earlier he had fled his suburban home, a sham of a marriage and a torrid affair with his equally married boss for the bright lights of Darlinghurst. He’d saved up his pennies for his first operation – breast implants – and immediately changed his name from Simon to Siren before going on to have the full sex change operation ten years later.
‘So now when you tell your friends about this weird and wonderful character you’ve met, you’ll be confident to say ‘she’ and not ‘he’ because honey, I am all woman.’
Mila didn‘t imagine she’d be telling too many people about this evening any time soon but with each confession he made, she found herself confessing more of her own story too. This was good. No time to stop and think or worry, Siren was engaging her with continuous banter.
‘The best news is that you’ve come just in time for cocktail hour. So, I’m opening a bottle of champers for us and you can tell me what look you were thinking of?’
‘Well I guess mostly I’m hoping for a look that is the antithesis of me. I absolutely can’t afford to be recognized, so I need to be a blond I imagine but beyond that I really haven’t thought it through. Definitely no school-girl or under-age outfits though. I don’t want to feed into those kinds of fantasies. I have a daughter of my own. ‘
‘Do I look like a designer of sleaze or trash?’ Siren exclaimed with mock indignation. ‘No, Star Strip is a celebrity themed club so all the girls impersonate either a famous actress, or diva or even a movie character, but it’s all class. Apparently men love the fantasy of seeing someone like Lara Croft or Lady Gaga getting their gear off – oh no wait, she does get her gear off!’ he laughed heartily at his own joke. ‘But looking at you, gives me a far more sophisticated and titillating idea. Of course we’ve all seen it done a million times badly, but I’ve been waiting for the right girl to walk through that door. How tall are you?’
‘One sixty-five,’ answered Mila.
‘A whisker shorter but that will help to make you look a bit curvier.’
Siren was clearly getting excited with her plan and although Mila had no idea what or who she was alluding to, she was along for the ride. Anything Siren could suggest was going to be far more appropriate than anything Mila herself could put together.
‘So, we can do this together or I can surprise you. The hair, the makeup the layers, I can see it already. Do you trust me?’
She’d known Siren all of twenty minutes and yet strangely she did. Mila was on a journey that she hadn’t asked for and she had nothing but her instincts to rely on.
‘Go for it. Surprise me. Work your magic.’
Seated with her back to the mirror, Mila couldn’t see what Siren was doing, but she could tell that a complete renovation was underway. Her hair had been secured tightly around her skull and tucked into a wig cap in preparation of the new head of hair that was to come later. She could feel the deft hand of a professional expertly plucking her eyebrows before applying foundation and powder, followed by the feathered strokes of a pencil, elongating her brows. There followed eye-shadow and liquid eyeliner. She was momentarily aware of the additional weight of false lashes being glued over hers in the outside corners of her top lids and then lashings of mascara.
Siren talked excitedly the whole time ‘Of course, her brows were slightly more arched than yours, but that’s easily fixed; you have the same shaped eyes and heavy lids, and with a little shading, a very similar nose.’ There was not yet enough information for Mila to even start guessing, so she stayed quiet and listened for clues.
It’s a pinup look so I’m thinking corset and proper silk stockings, as well as the obligatory bra and briefs but that’ll give you plenty to take off. They don’t make lingerie like they used to…and of course we’ll have to choose a gown that won’t interfere with the pole. That might be more difficult unless we go with the obvious. Oh and I have the perfect wig. You’ll die when you see it! It’s synthetic but it came from my best supplier.’
Small mercies. Mila was relieved to hear that the wig was synthetic. She’d heard that human hair wigs could easily run into hundreds of dollars and she was already panicking, trying to calculate what this whole transformation was likely to cost.
Siren continued chatting on, while she pencilled an outline of Mila’s mouth. ‘Now hold very still and don’t talk while I do your lips. Her mouth was almost identical to yours but she applied her lip-liner in a bow. You’ll be amazed at what a difference that makes. I’ll give you the lip-colour to take with you, so that you can reapply before your audition.’
Mila smiled inwardly. She liked the way he said audition. It sounded more Broadway, less Sleaze when he said it.
Mila felt as though she was playing a game of twenty questions except she couldn’t get a word in edgewise to ask the questions. Despite the clues coming thick and fast, she was still none the wiser as to which Hollywood star she was meant to be channelling.
She felt the pull over her forehead as the wig went on. Peaking for just a second out of one eye, Mila was pleased to see the colour of the wave that tumbled in front, was a platinum blonde. She hoped that the colour on her skin wouldn’t look trashy. You’re about to take off all your clothes in front of God knows who. It doesn’t get much trashier than that!
Inspecting her work, with make-up and hair now complete, Siren gasped, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘Oh my God. It’s even better than I could have imagined! I’m putting you in a dressing room without a mirror so you can’t peek while I look for the perfect ensemble. Prepare to be blown away!’ Mila took off all but her bra and briefs and stood waiting impatiently until some minutes later, Siren came back carrying a large box and a garment bag with its contents hidden. Catching sight of the label on the box, she marvelled that Siren had picked exactly the right bra size without so much as a tape measure.
Inside, was a 1950s style strapless bra, bikini briefs and a matching corset that fitted under the breasts with tabs at the bottom for old fashioned stockings, the style of which her mother had brought from the Ukraine. Mila knew enough about fabrics to recognise that these were not made of the cheap synthetic lace that Robert used to bring home but a beautiful black French Chanti
lly lace over a flesh coloured netting that would give the impression of predominantly bare skin. The back of it was cut into a deep V and appeared to be laced with black velvet ribbon. As stunning as they were, Mila couldn’t believe that men, who were used to barely-there G-strings would find them sexy.
‘You’d be amazed. Guys go wild for vintage lingerie. It’s like offering forbidden fruit. And remember for a man it’s all about the hunt. Normally he’d have to fight his way into it, which makes it even more exciting.’
‘How am I going to take it off on stage?’ Mila was already picturing herself trapped like Houdini, but without the escape skills. She couldn’t begin to think how she could actually do anything on the pole in it!
‘Don’t you worry, it’s all stretch fabrics and the boning is flexible at the waist. The ribbons, hooks and eyes are all for show. I believe Velcro was invented by a stripper but don’t quote me on that,’ he announced with bravado.
‘You’re close, I believe it was first used by astronauts to get in and out of their space suits but hey, rocket science, stripping, let’s not split hairs it’s all just semantics really.’ Mila amazed herself with the trivia she had accumulated over the years from her father the engineer.
She would have no hope of putting the lingerie on without help but she was now at least confident that she could get it off. She liked the fact that it was a change from the crass, cheaply made stuff that Robert had brought home. She had never actually worn stockings like these before but she’d seen her mother wear them enough times claiming that they were cooler than pantyhose in the Australian heat.
‘Just wait until you see yourself in that corset and what it does for your waist.’ As he said it, he was fastening it around Mila’s ribcage. The sensation of being restrained immediately stirred up unwanted memories and Mila had to fight the feeling and rationalize where she was.
‘Does it have to be that tight,’ she winced? ‘I have to keep breathing between now and eight p.m.’