Skin Game

by Lawrence C. Ross

  “Does anyone have any questions so far?” Belinda asked.

  “I have one,” Keisha said, raising her voice. Where all of the other students could rely on their parents to work things out, Keisha had to be aggressive. “I would like to get a mentor during my time at UCLA. Whom would I talk to about getting one?”

  “That,” Belinda said, “is a great question. Do you know what you want to major in?”

  “Yes, I do. I want to major in women’s studies.”

  “Talk to me after this, and I’ll give you a name. She’ll guide you through UCLA, and if you’re smart and follow her advice, you’ll find yourself graduating in four years.”

  Belinda turned back to the crowd. “Now, let’s get back to the tour. Over to the left is the student union. In there, you’ll find…”

  Keisha followed along, barely listening. UCLA was about school, and not about socializing. She didn’t care about the student union, the fraternities and sororities, or who was playing what game on what field. She wanted an education, and not the frills.

  After about two hours of walking around the UCLA campus, it was time to go.

  “I want to thank you all for coming, and I wish you nothing but success as you begin UCLA,” Belinda said. Keisha started to walk away.

  “Hey!” Belinda yelled, as the crowd began to disperse. It was noon, and the orientation was over. It felt like they’d walked ten miles around the campus. Now the crowd began walking to the parking lots. Belinda, however, had not forgotten about her promise to speak to Keisha. “Hey, you asked about getting a mentor,” she said to Keisha, striding across the lawn. “I didn’t get your name, so I’m sorry about yelling.”

  “No problem,” Keisha said, smiling. “I’m just glad you have some information for me. My name is Keisha, by the way. Keisha Montez.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Keisha,” Belinda said. “Did your parents leave already?”

  “No,” Keisha said. “My mother and I, well, we’re what you would call estranged. And God knows where my father is. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  Belinda looked at Keisha with compassion. “We’re finding more and more students who are essentially independent students, coming to UCLA without the same support as the traditional student.”

  “I don’t want any special treatment,” Keisha said, carefully looking at Belinda for any signs of pity. “I’ve been able to get this far by myself, and I can get through UCLA by myself.”

  “Keisha, no one goes through UCLA, or any school, by themselves. We all need help, and that help is here to make sure you’re ultimately successful, and not to make you feel dumb or incapable. You’ll have to make a choice. You can remain independent and then understand that when you need help, you ask for it. Or you can let your ego guide you—like a lot of these kids with two parents, silver spoons in their mouths, and Daddy’s credit card—and not ask for any help until it’s too late. You tell me which option meets your goals.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Keisha said. “I’ll take option number one.”

  “Good,” Belinda said, taking Keisha by the hand. “Let’s walk and talk about how we’re going to get you through UCLA.”

  They started walking through the campus, with Belinda waving to various students.

  “You said that you’ve been here for twenty years?” Keisha asked as they walked.

  “Twenty long years,” Belinda said, laughing. “But I live for this. I want all my students to succeed, because this is the chance of a lifetime. And that’s why I’m taking you to see Mary in the women’s studies department. By the way, why did you choose women’s studies?”

  “Circumstance.”

  “What do you mean, ‘circumstance’?”

  “Everything I’ve seen in my life has been about women, especially black women, getting the short end of the stick in life,” Keisha said. “My momma has moved from one bad relationship to another, always losing herself in men, and hoping that men will make her happy. The girls on my block, always getting screwed over by men, and then there’s me.”

  They started up the steps of an ornate building. It was the Stephenson Building.

  “What issues do you have?” Belinda asked, as they entered and then walked down the hall. “You’re about to go to college. You have your future in your hands.”

  “Yeah,” Keisha said as they stood before the women’s studies department. “But what did I have to do to get here, and hopefully, stay here?”

  They walked into the office, and a couple students were sitting quietly, reading books. On the wall throughout the office were posters honoring Betty Friedan, Angela Davis, Susan B. Anthony, and other heroines of the women’s movement.

  “Hi, I need to take a student in to see Mary Bronson,” Belinda said to the student receptionist. “Tell her that Belinda Enfield is here.”

  “Just one second. I think she may have gone to lunch,” the receptionist said, getting up from her desk. She walked to a room and knocked on a door. The door opened, and the receptionist walked to the front of the office.

  “She’s still here, and you can go right in.”

  “Thank you,” Belinda said. Keisha followed Belinda into Mary’s office.

  “Hello, Belinda,” Mary said. She had been eating a sandwich, and she’d gotten some mustard on her blouse. She quickly picked up a napkin and wiped her mouth and blouse. “And who is this?”

  “Mary, this is Keisha Montez. She is an incoming freshman, and she wants to major in women’s studies. I know that she has to take her general classes first, but she asked me a smart question about the department and about getting a mentor, so I naturally thought of you.”

  “Well, take a seat, Keisha,” she said, holding out her hand. Keisha shook it. “And welcome to UCLA.”

  Keisha looked around for a seat, but there were books everywhere. Mary’s office was a complete mess.

  “Sorry about the office, but this is what happens when you combine a pack rat, a counselor, and a professor in a small space. There’s a chair right there.”

  Keisha moved some books and found a chair to sit on.

  “Keisha is an independent student, and she tells me that she has a particular interest in women’s studies because of what she’s seen in life. Plus, she tells me that she has some particular circumstances, which she never told me about, that make this major interesting.

  “I’m going to leave you two, but, Keisha,” Belinda said, pulling out a business card, “if you need some more advice, feel free to give me a call at any time. Remember what I told you about help. It’s there if you need it, and everyone needs it.”

  “Thanks, Belinda.”

  “So, how can I help you?” Mary said as Belinda left.

  “I think I want to major in women’s studies.”

  “And how do you think women’s studies can help you?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m going to major in it,” Keisha said. “I know that I want to work with women on self-esteem issues,” Keisha said.

  Mary cleared a space from her desk, looking for something. Finally she picked up a brochure. “Here’s a pamphlet that discusses what we do in the department. And here”—she reached down and picked up a syllabus—“is what classes you can take. Read the descriptions, and you can get a feel for who and what we are.”

  She handed everything to Keisha, who started looking at them.

  “The reason I asked you about how you thought women’s studies could help you was that I want you to understand that we simply provide the tools, but we need you to use them. We then create more tools, so that we can solve women’s problems. But there’s another thing I want to know. What are your circumstances?”

  “I’m a stripper at the Chi Chi Room in Gardena,” Keisha said, looking Mary directly in the eye, waiting for a reaction. There was none. “And I’m about to get into porn to help pay for UCLA.”

  Mary looked back at Keisha and then smiled. She stood up and walked to a co
rner of her office, then began shuffling through books. Finally, she picked up one and handed it to Keisha.

  “Over the next four years, I want you to come to my office every two weeks and pick up a new book. In order to grow a plant, nice and healthy, you have to water it with nutrients. You have to start watering yourself with knowledge.”

  “When and Where I Enter,” Keisha read, “by Paula Giddings.” She put the book in her lap and smiled.

  “I thought that you’d fly off the handle when I told you that I stripped and was about to go into porn,” Keisha said.

  Mary smiled back at her. “Do you really think you’re the first girl at UCLA to strip and do some porn? I’m not going to say that I approve of it—and I don’t—but the point of college is for you to come to your own conclusions and your own solutions. You make choices in life, and you think things through. Again, the women’s studies department will give you the tools—”

  “But I have to learn to use them,” Keisha said, standing up to leave. “I’ll be in your office every two weeks to learn how.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” Mary said.

  Chapter 14

  That you may retain your self-respect, it is better to displease the people by doing what you know is right, than to temporarily please them by doing what you know is wrong.

  —William J. H. Boetcker

  Sean sat at the Chi Chi Room bar with Ray and Marty. Ray and Marty were scouting for new women, as usual, but Sean didn’t care. He just sat there with a silly grin on his face. It was Saturday, and the place was packed. Moving Keisha to Saturday as featured dancer had been a boon, because she was now the most popular dancer in the club. He was seeing new and younger men coming to the club, and that meant higher sales. He couldn’t have been happier.

  “We told you that Keisha was a winner,” Ray said, sipping on a Heineken.

  “I still want Patra,” Marty said, picking up his Heineken and then spilling it. The beer almost got on Sean.

  “Goddamn, nigga, can’t you do anything right?” Sean said, quickly moving out of the way of the spilled beer.

  “Yeah, where’s Patra?” Ray asked. “Steven wanted us to talk to her while we were here.”

  “You just missed her. I have her opening, and then Keisha closing. Keisha’s out next.”

  Right as he said that, the DJ turned up the music and approached the microphone.

  “Gentlemen, you’ve been waiting all week, but now give a big round of applause for the Chi Chi Room’s star performer, and Pimp magazine’s Girl of the Month, Keisha!”

  The spotlight hit the far corner of the room, where Keisha stood, wearing a white thong bikini. Her body spilled out of it, showing off her toned curves. The crowd went nuts, but she didn’t hear a thing. She was simply concentrating on giving a good performance. And that performance began with a damn good entrance.

  On the cue of the music, Keisha began making her way to the stage, which was fifty feet away. She moved in an exaggerated way, crossing her feet as she walked, almost stomping, making her hips and ass sway side to side with metronome precision. A man tried to touch her, and she stopped, took his hand, and licked his fingers. He was a puddle in her hands.

  “Shake that goddamn ass, baby,” a voice in the pervert pit yelled. Keisha walked up the four small steps to the stage and stopped. She then bent at the knees and jiggled her ass so that it popped back and forth. The crowd went wild.

  “That bitch is the bomb,” Marty said. “Goddamn, but I never get tired of seeing her.”

  “Yeah, she’s the goddamn bomb, and she’s going to make me a lot of money.”

  Ray looked at Sean. “Yeah, she’ll do that if you can keep her.”

  “What do you mean, if I can keep her?” Sean asked, taking his eyes off the stage for a second. “Nigga, she ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I don’t give a shit what Steven says about it. I found her, and that means I own her.”

  “Nigga, this ain’t slavery!” Ray exclaimed.

  “Yeah, nigga, Jefferson freed the muthafuckin’ slaves,” Marty said.

  “Nigga, shut up!” Sean said. “It was Lincoln, you dumb muthafucka.”

  “Lincoln what?” Marty asked.

  “Abraham Lincoln, not Jefferson, freed the goddamn slaves, you fucking fool!”

  “Whatever. Jefferson, Lincoln, who-the-fuck-ever. It doesn’t matter. She ain’t yours to keep. And if she follows Steven, he’ll make sure of that shit,” Marty said, dismissing Sean.

  “This muthafucka may be dumb as a fucking doorknob,” Ray said, “but he speaks the truth with that shit. Watch your step, Sean. Steven’s not a muthafucka to be fucked with, and certainly not after some ho.”

  They all turned their eyes back to the stage, where Keisha was sliding upside-down on the golden pole in the middle of the stage. The men watched her as though she was a goddess, and the twenty-dollar bills flew in the air as though it was raining. Finally, her routine was done.

  “Gentlemen, that was Keisha, the Pimp magazine Girl of the Month!”

  Ray got off his stool and began walking toward the dressing room. The men in the crowd began cheering, as Keisha picked up her money, stuffing it into her thong and bikini top, so that she looked like a tree with leaves. As she left the stage, she never looked any of them in the eye. She walked to the dressing room, where Ray, who was standing right by the door, stopped her.

  “Remember me?” he said.

  “Ray, isn’t it?” she asked, stopping as she was about to walk into the dressing room.

  “That’s right,” Ray said. “Steven wants an answer.”

  “What do you mean Steven wants an answer?”

  “I mean that he wants an answer tonight about whether you’re going to take him up on his offer.”

  She slowly began taking bills out of her bikini, gathering them in a bunch. Why did she have to make a decision right now? Why was it so important?

  Ray stared expectantly at her, waiting for an answer.

  “If I decide to pass on this opportunity, what’s going to happen?”

  “Then Steven instructed me to tell you thank you, and good luck with your stripping career. He’d never offer you this opportunity again.”

  “Whatever,” Keisha said disdainfully. “There are more people I could work for if I wanted to get into porn.”

  “Yeah, but do you know how much you’d be making for them?”

  Keisha shook her head.

  “About five hundred dollars a day, if you’re lucky. And you might not be lucky. Most of these fools doing black videos are fly-by-night. No quality control, and no guarantee that you’re going to get what they told you they were going to pay. So here’s your opportunity. Take it if you want. Or keep shakin’ your ass on that stage.”

  Sean walked over, followed by Marty.

  “Hey, stop talking to my girls. Keisha’s got to get ready for her next set. And as you know, time is money and money is time. And I don’t like it when y’all mess with my money.”

  It was then that Debra walked out of the dressing room. Sean had thrown her a bone by giving her one weekend a month. But she still blamed Keisha for her issues.

  “Oh, so it’s the bitch and her admirers,” Debra said, stopping for a second.

  “Get your black ass onstage and stay out of grown-folk business,” Sean said, scooting from side to side. “You wanted to get a Saturday—well, now you’ve got it.”

  Debra gave Sean a look, then shot Keisha a long look, when she started walking to the stage.

  “Gentlemen, you’ve loved her as one of the Chi Chi Room’s favorite dancers, and now she’s back on Saturdays. Put your hands together for Debra!” the DJ said. The applause was decidedly less for Debra than it was for Keisha, and Keisha noticed it. Men were ordering drinks, talking among themselves, and basically ignoring Debra as she made it to the stage. It was like they’d seen the movie before, knew all the lines, and could recite them from memory. Debra tried to act sexy, but her moves were tired. All of a s
udden, Keisha didn’t want to be Debra, working at the Chi Chi Room for years. She wanted money, and not a career stripping. And to get that money, and get it fast, she was going to have to take that opportunity.

  “Tell Steven that I’m in,” Keisha said, moving toward the dressing room door. “But on my terms. I want to have a choice in this. Tell him to call me on Monday.”

  “Will do,” Ray said. “Look for a call from him tomorrow morning. We shoot tomorrow. See you then.”

  Ray, Marty, and Sean turned and left. Keisha walked into the dressing room, wondering if she’d done the right thing.

  Keisha and Debra went back on the stage throughout the night, and both were making good money. But now it was three in the morning, and Blackie was throwing the last patrons out of the club. Sean was upstairs counting his money, and that left only Debra and Keisha in the dressing room. There was a stony silence between them.

  “I want you to know that I didn’t ask Sean to take you off of weekends,” Keisha said, putting on her shoes. Debra didn’t look up. She was putting on her makeup.

  “Debra, dammit,” Keisha said angrily. She was tired of this attitude between her and Debra, and she particularly didn’t like how two women couldn’t work out their differences. It was one of the reasons she was going to pursue women’s studies at UCLA. “Listen to me. I didn’t take your days. Steven from Pimp magazine told Sean to give me those days, and not me.”

  Debra slowly turned to Keisha. Her face belied the years of dancing at the club, and where Keisha had once seen a confident woman, she now saw a tired woman.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I know you didn’t do anything. I just couldn’t bring myself to think that my time was up. But it is, Keisha. It is. And I don’t know what to do.”

  “You have a lot of things you can do,” Keisha said, walking to Debra.

  “Girl, the only thing I know how to do is shake my ass, and even that is getting tired. The only ones that are getting a thrill from my ass are the ones in the pervert pit that need to take a blue pill to get it up. Do you know what happens to old strippers?”