by Jolie Du Prè
“Listen, I’m just here to do a job, okay? Just like you.”
They actually looked crestfallen.
“Oh, all right.” I glanced into the hall, just to make sure the coast was clear. “Start it up again.”
Start with the strut, I thought. The sexy strut is always the first and most important part of every routine. It’s all about being provocative. I’d learned a few things about sensuous stripping in a Learning Forum workshop many years ago. Now work those gloves. It was all coming back to me now. I tell you, it was tough to look slinky, peeling off those thick rubber gloves, but I managed. My butt bounced in time to the boom-box. Okay, maybe the butt-bouncing was a bit more provocative than I’d intended to be, but it felt fun and fine. The instructor had told us that you have to give any routine your own personal stamp.
They applauded when I was finished. I curtsied, and then shook my no-longer-rubberized finger at Scott: “Just don’t ever play ‘Private Dancer,’ or this shtick is over for good.”
I had to admit it was fun. Some small part of me craved the attention too. Hell, if I couldn’t afford nice stuff anymore, if I couldn’t have a lover . . . at least I could have semi-cute, young, male admirers. Life could be worse, I told myself. Somehow I knew that Stan was making a beeline for his bunk and whacking off a load every time the shift ended, but what harm was in it, really?
Believe you me, it was not easy to strip without heels, exposing flesh below my shoulders, or any other number of girlie-show basics, but I did okay. Until I walked in at the end of the week to find the boom-box missing.
“Scott’s out through next week,” Roosevelt informed me. “Laid up in bed. Twisted his ankle on the steps!”
“Oh, well. In that case, no show tonight, guys. There’s no box to work with.”
And still, I had dragged in my own boom-box to Monday’s shift. Music-free Friday had been a bore. I guess we’d all gotten used to me.
By now, I had a fairly well set routine, although I varied it a great deal. For instance, I liked running my hands over my trunk and ass. It may not sound sexy when I say it like that, but let me assure you, there is not a centimeter of flesh on my curves that does not belong there. Pushing forty-five, I doubt I could have held down two gigs otherwise.
One shift, I doffed my hairnet and tossed it at Stan the Stacker. He sniffed it, not entirely in jest. Hey, just one more prop to fling into the audience, right?
“I’m gonna take this home and send it to my mom right away for laundering,” he joked.
“Then I’ll just make it dirty again,” I purred. “Why not put that postage money in my tip jar instead?”
I held out the plastic, foodservice peanut butter jug I’d prepped for the occasion. I knew that at some point, it would make more sense to start charging for this routine, and that night had finally arrived. Would they go for it? There was a long silence.
Then two reluctant bucks went into the slotted jug.
“Happy now?” he leered.
I just put my finger tip into my mouth and spun around.
Bolder now, I carried the peanut butter jar over to Dan, Scott’s temporary replacement. “Put up or shut up,” I sweetly smiled.
“Huh?” he replied.
“It’s a game around here,” Roosevelt explained. “Our Lady of the Sterilizer puts on a bit of a show for us at the end of each shift, and now I guess we tip her.” Rosie was playing along! Maybe it was a musician thing.
So I traced my rubber-gloved finger down Danny’s torso. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a soggy dollar bill, placing it into the tip jar.
I visited the dollar store to stock up on cheap hairnets. I started playing with my hair a lot more during my set. I guess I do have great hair. Personally, I’m not so crazy about it, yet it has always seemed to drive guys wild.
My fan base started showing up during my third or fourth week of dish duty, just one or two at first, every several nights, but then more steadily. Just the guys’ friends, mostly from the dorms. They sneaked in through the back door, which Roosevelt had somehow managed to de-alarm, starting about twenty minutes before the end of the shift. By twenty till nine, we were just finishing up, and the rest of the staff had cleared off. It was left up to us to kill the lights and lock up.
By ten minutes to, the dishroom took on a completely different feeling. A speakeasy vibe, like from an old gangster movie, with about ten guys, and occasionally a girlfriend or two. Maybe those guys hoped their girlfriends would warm to the idea and put on a private show later, just for them? Scott had assumed bouncer duties, once he’d returned. He would put up the plastic rope and posts that we sometimes used earlier in the shift to keep the other staff out, whenever there was a major mop-up. Every guest had to literally toe the line.
Two songs a night, and then I was done. That was my entire set, usually running just under ten minutes. There was three extra minutes for an encore, if the crowd demanded one, and then we were outta there.
What had started out as a lame joke about some ditzy old broad behind the scenes in the dining center had turned into a pass-the-hat fan club. I couldn’t believe the tips. Twenty, thirty—one night I broke fifty dollars in tips. I locked myself behind the ladies’ room door, counted it, and cried.
Looking back, I cannot imagine how we got away with this for as long as we did. Pure dumb luck? The sheer unreality of the setting, I suppose. Who’d a thunk?
Roosevelt had a lot to do with it, I think. Foodservice has a blinding turnover speed. Yet Roosevelt had been on staff for years and gained each successive manager’s implicit trust. The old guy had charisma and confidence to burn, along with the cred that comes bundled with gray hair. Why should any manager worry, much less hang around until the dishroom clowns were finished? As our evening shift supe, Rosie had a lot of clout. Plus, he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head for anything amiss.
Yet nothing seemed amiss the night we got caught. Luckily, it was a slow night. Still, any unauthorized visitors were grounds for instant dismissal. I knew that.
I posed with my hand angled daintily atop my bent knee, propped against a rolling dish cart I had locked the wheels on.
I pouted. My hand went to my butt, elbow pointed at a rakish angle.
When I arced backwards across the cart, the guys went wild. Scott held out a dollar and I went for it, shoulder shimmying up, as my boots gripped the floor securely.
Walk as if you’re on a tightrope. Step up and bend at the knees. That shows off the calves.
One foot in front of the other, and then get the hips involved.
The guys looked very involved. I knew right then that I had them by the balls.
Use the cart like a big feathered fan. Put your foot up on the first shelf.
Place the body in beautiful, angled positions to show off its contours.
Run my hands up my leg, across the fishnet, plucking a bit at the string and teasing the guys further. Roll the shoulders back, now. The guys were clapping in time to the beat. Not too fast, guys.
Roll the hands up the body, above the head, pose, and show off the torso.
Elbows akimbo, lean back against the doorway, arms above the head. The guys stomped, cheered, and whistled.
I lay back across the front of the sterilizing machine. The stainless steel strip. Pose with one foot on the stool. Now step up. Last rack of dishes emerging from the guts of the machine, the dark, watery tunnel. Through the rubber flaps now, and out the mouth of the machine.
Perfect.
I took the cue to straddle the opening with both legs spread apart, so that that last rack had to emerge between my outstretched legs. Glistening, still steaming, it inched out slowly as if I were giving birth to the damned thing. As I shoulder-shimmied, I’m sure I looked more than a bit ridiculous. As if giving birth to a tray full of Melmac wouldn’t. But then again, I’ve noticed that whatever we women perceive as ridiculous regarding the act of sex—and all that it touches—most men find highly arousing. Go fig
ure.
And that’s when Don, the evening manager, walked in. Fuck! He’d never stayed past eight-fifteen before.
I stood up straight and kicked the machine to a stop by pressing my toe against the big button. “Hey, there, Boss,” I said in my most confident, comfortable voice.
You can bluff your way out of any situation in life, I have found, if you act like you know what you are doing. Stripping is about teasing a reaction out of your audience. It’s not only about how you move, it’s about the look, and the energy. Good advice to remember, wherever you walk in life.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“Just having a bit of fun,” I purred. “You can see that the last of the dishes are clean.”
“Get down off that thing.”
“No problem, Boss.” I smiled sweetly and dismounted. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the big bucket of bucks.
The only thing to do was to go with it. Go further in. So I started bumping and grinding like my job depended on it, which quite probably it did.
I think the only reason I could go so brazen on Don was because I just didn’t care. My desperate need for this job a few short weeks ago was, by now, strictly for a lark. I’d grown to like the guys, and yeah, I would miss the tips, but frankly, if I was fired, I’d just go looking for another dead-end job. My rent was paid.
“Hey, lighten up, Mr. Don. We’re just having some fun here. That’s all, honest.” I knew I was repeating myself, but who cared. I figured he wasn’t listening anyhow.
“So what about this?” he demanded, pointing at my peanut butter bucket.
“Oh, do you have a problem with me making a few extra bucks on dishroom time? I’ve got an elderly mom to support, you know.” That was a lie, but it popped into my head. I always say, whenever your ass is in a sling, run with anything that pops into your head.
That’s when I realized that the music was still playing, and my butt was still bopping. Nervous habit. Go further in, then. I toned down my moves, though. I marched in time to the beat. Shook my hips to the ka-choom, kuh-kuh-chee!, but not too much. Shook my shoulders and did a few moves I dimly recalled from the “Rhythm Nation” video.
“Turn that thing off,” he snarled. The boom-box snapped off. Scott opened the emergency exit, and the guests scattered into the night.
I surrendered my hairnets and gloves to the Dishroom Gods. Of course, Myrna and I had a grand old laugh about the whole affair, once I called her and explained what had gone down. Luckily, we had just found me a better deal on an apartment, thanks to the Old Girls’ Network.
“I don’t know how you could stand it for so long anyhow,” Myrna laughed over salad and iced teas, after I’d settled into my new digs. “Women always hate that gig. It’s that creepy young guy. They all complain about him.”
“Oh, he’s just got a thing for older women,” I shrugged. “I think he’ll get over it someday. Or not. He seems a little tortured about it. In any case, if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have gotten the bright idea to turn the dishroom into my own little burlesque theatre. Still, I can’t hold that against him, really, even if he did turn out to be sort of the Judas of the Dishroom.”
“Cafeteria food is its own form of torture,” Myrna replied. “The horrors of dorm food and mandatory meal plans. Oh, the stomach-cringing stress.”
“Yeah, I was always a microwave dormie myself,” I admitted. “I never ate that crap while I was working dishroom, even when I was running late from my day job. I always kept some healthy snacks in my bag.”
“Well, in that case, I hope your taste in boyfriends improves to match your taste in food,” Myrna cracked.
“I can’t help myself, Myrrh. I just know there are some young puppies out there, worthy of my bosom . . .” Oh, how we both howled at that. “Maybe someone should develop a Learning Forum workshop on how to keep it fresh with the young dudes. It’s a thought. There’s gotta be a market for that.”
“It’s a thought.” Myrna could see the wheels turning. “Oh . . . don’t you dare.”
“Hmmm. Now, I’ll bet that’s one way I could meet some hot young studs.”
Myrna scoffed.
“You know, the kind who are well-adjusted!”
She leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and just shook her head.
Just some bright idea I had. That’s how these problems always start.
A Taste of Ginger
Adriana Kraft
“There’s a handsome young man checking you out!”
“Where?” Ginger Nelson didn’t dare look around the sweeping bar to where Annette James pointedly stared. It wasn’t Ginger’s idea to come to this swingers club. That was Annette’s doing.
Apparently it was one of Annette’s frequent weekend haunts. Ginger thought she knew her co-worker better than that, but they hadn’t really started doing things together socially until recently, after her divorce. This was why she’d agreed to this crazy idea in the first place. Today marked the final divorce decree. She was a free woman again—at fifty-five.
“Don’t be so uptight,” Annette cautioned. “He’s a hunk and he’s really looking you over.”
“He’s probably looking at you,” she groused, staring into her wineglass.
Annette giggled. “No way. He doesn’t even know I’m here. You could at least peek at him. That’s why we’re here, to look at the guys.”
“That may be why you’re here.” Ginger groaned. “I know. I know you didn’t force me to come with you tonight. But—but this is different than I expected. The music is too loud. People are making out right by the bar. They’re all so young. And I feel so old.” She tried not to wail.
“Nonsense! You’re overreacting. There are plenty of people here our age. But don’t dismiss the younger guys so quickly.” Annette squeezed her friend’s elbow. “I bet the guy undressing you at the end of the bar doesn’t have a single gray hair on his body.”
Frowning, Ginger cocked her head sideways enough to peer out the corner of her eye and catch a glimpse of the far end of the curved bar. “I don’t see anyone. I only see a guy with a couple girls draped over him.”
“Exactly. And his eyes are on you. Think of the girls as accessories. They’re no competition. Not with you.”
“I’m old enough to be his mother,” Ginger gasped. “And those girls are hot. If they were any hotter, the skimpy outfits they’re wearing would go up in smoke.”
“And you don’t think you’re looking pretty damn sexy?”
Ginger tugged on the short skirt that had climbed way above mid thigh. She knew better than to touch the satin blouse that dipped dramatically between her boobs. She just hoped to God they stayed in place. There was no way to wear a bra with this outfit Annette had talked her into. She wouldn’t feel much more naked if she was naked. At least she’d inherited her mother’s boobs—very little sag for her age. That was more than many of the younger women could say. That was quite obvious.
“Oh my,” Annette purred and waved at a blond man who’d just entered the bar area.
He waved back, beamed a smile and headed their direction. Ginger groaned again. The guy looked like he’d just showered after playing a game of baseball. Mid-thirties, maybe. He was taking his time getting across the room, stopping to pat a guy on a back or give a girl a hug. The man was a social gatherer. Not her style. Not her type. And way too young. She panicked for a moment thinking maybe Annette had set her up with the guy.
“Hey, babe,” the blond fellow said, kissing Annette on the cheek. “Didn’t know for sure if you’d be joining us tonight.”
“I’m here,” Annette said breathlessly. “Jack, this is my friend Ginger. This is her first time at the club.”
“Welcome to the club,” Jack said, grinning easily. “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” Jack nuzzled Annette’s neck. She tipped her chin down and moaned softly.
“Not that way,” Annette said at last. “We work together at the university. We’re celebrating
. Her divorce is final today.”
“Congratulations.”
Ginger flinched. He was shaking her hand before she knew it. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Sexy outfit.” Jack glanced back at Annette. “So you want to play?”
“Of course.” Annette slid off the barstool. She glanced from Jack to Ginger. “You do know the bedrooms with the round beds we saw on the tour aren’t just there for people to take naps?”
Unable to speak, Ginger nodded. She gulped and glanced quickly around the bar. “You’re going to leave me here? Alone?”
“You’re a big girl. You can handle it. Or,” Annette arched an eyebrow, “you can come along and watch.”
“Hell,” Jack interjected, “she can join in if she wants to. There’s plenty of room on the bed.”
Ginger blinked. Annette wasn’t saying no to Jack’s proposition. She stood there with the oddest grin. Oh my God. Ginger swallowed hard. “Maybe another time,” she demurred. “I’ll stay here. You won’t be all night, will you?”
Annette laughed. “Jack may look virile. And he is. But he’s not an all night kind of guy. Give me an hour or so. You okay with that? I didn’t know if he’d even be here tonight.”
“I’ll be okay. Like you’ve said many times, I’m a survivor. You two go have fun. I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” Annette said over her shoulder as she led Jack out of the bar toward one of the bedrooms.
Why did she feel like she’d just sent the kids off on a date—a racy date—warning them not to be late? Because that’s what she’d just done, damn it. She nodded at the bartender to refill her wineglass. She might as well enjoy what she could. A fine wine usually helped calm her soul.
She tried not to think too hard about what Annette and Jack were up to. On the tour she’d seen the bedrooms with round beds and ceiling mirrors. This place was definitely set up for swingers out for a night of fun. She’d never seen a sex swing before, although she’d heard of them. It had been unoccupied so she still didn’t quite know how it worked.