Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  To Mom and Erich,

  and with great fondness, my dear Tom

  Copyright © 1995, 2011 by Heidi Mattson

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Some of the names in this book have been changed for reasons of privacy.

  All photos are from the author’s collection unless otherwise noted.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-488-8

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue Foxy Lady: Every Man’s Fantasy

  1 My Education Begins

  2 Where There’s a Will …

  3 … There’s a Way

  4 The Rabbi

  5 Choosing My Degradation

  6 Initiation: Amateur Night at the Foxy Lady

  7 Learning the Ropes

  8 Struggles with the Downside

  9 The Upside

  10 The Fringe

  11 Sex as a Weapon, Sex as a Tool

  12 Lust for Bust…

  13 … And Bigger Bucks

  14 The Good, the Bad, and the Just Plain Beautiful

  15 The Bottom Line: Call Me a Capitalist

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Reid, Laura, Dr. Paul Fadale, Cathy, Professor David Hirsch, Professor Stephen Foley, Vera, Alan W. Bean, Bobbie the Bruiser, my Knockout and Foxy Lady friends, the night nursery crew at EMMC, the Lanyi family, Prehab, and my sisters and parents. You always believed in me.

  And not only for helping bring my story to the world but also for befriending me, I would like to thank Alex Corman, Diane Cleaver, Shawn Coyne, Matt Bialer, Alan Fairbanks, and my editor, Dick Seaver.

  Prologue

  Foxy Lady: Every Man’s Fantasy

  She looks like a whore and thinks like a pimp — the very best sort of modern girl.

  — Julie Birchill on Madonna,

  Newsweek, 11 October 1993

  Yes, this is really me; every man’s fantasy.

  I check the look: breasts up, butt out, eyes sparkling, smile.

  Of course, it isn’t that simple.

  A group hurrahs as I boldly but resignedly walk toward them. This has become a familiar scenario, played over and over. The money, however, never loses its freshness, its appeal. The more you play, the more they pay, and the more you take home. Placing myself in their midst, men’s knees, hands, and heads in every direction, I appraise their open faces.

  No one looks like trouble here, although you can never tell.

  Bills are dug out of various breast pockets. A few large ones are offered to me. The rest, stacks of ones, are distributed among the excited businessmen. I toss my skirt on a seated “suit,” who eagerly, greedily, buries his hands, wedding band and all, into the layers of sheer black lace. One high step and I am perched on the table. As I grip the bar above my head, my body stretches taut in front of the men, and instinctively with the beat I spin on one spiked heel.

  This will keep them occupied for a minute and settle them down, too. Men in groups are so easily overs timulated. Ami a sort of witch, capable of entrancing them this way? Yes, but there is no real challenge here. The fact that I am female, in shape, and taking my clothes off is enough.

  I spin, they stare, my mind wanders.

  My eyes, long since adjusted to the muddy lighting, survey the action, scoping the next opportunities. I delight in the cool air as I move. The generously placed vents keep the dancers sweat-free on all but the most hectic nights. The air is so thoroughly soaked with the stench of cigarettes, however, that the familiar smell has become unnoticeable to me. I know the odor is there, it comes home with me, permeating my regular clothes. Every night I drop it in a small heap outside my door. I don’t like taking my work life home.

  Scanning the portions of the club visible from atop my pedestal, I see hunched shoulders. Dollars are offered, held meekly by clumsy masculine fingers, and a dancer stares into space. Another girl yawns while two middle-aged salesmen stuff money into her sparkling underwear.

  Yes, the same old, same old, but do the girls have to act so blase? Is it too much for them to have a personality? Are they more comfortable just being a body? True, the men come here for a body to look at, but does that mean we should stifle our personalities?

  Meanwhile the curve of my butt clears one man’s forehead by an inch or two, then, as my body circles, my raised knee brushes his nose. This reminds him to keep a safe distance, just in time for the other, more friendly side of me to come around again. Now, the salesman I am watching focus on the breasts of their sleepy stripper. She holds them up and together, with her standard Saturday night smile. As I spin I catch a glimpse, like a frozen movie frame — the pudgy hand approaching the swelling flesh, the stripper’s chest high and full with youthful breath, then the next spin, and she’s gone. He’s still there, the salesman is, the girl and the money gone. I remember then, mid-twirl, that I, too, am the entertainment. Slowly allowing myself to wind down, I glance demurely at my seated customers, then, sinking into a deep knee bend, offer my backside for perusal.

  How would my fellow students feel about this? Should I go to the campus meeting entitled, “Do images of women in the media anger you?” I had planned to go — interesting topic — but how would they react to my work? Am I the enemy?

  I occupy myself with the removal of my halter top. With one hand I lift layers of wavy blond tresses, with the other I carefully find the end of one of the ties holding up my halter. I pull the tie in slow motion, extending the fabric the length of my arm. Then with a slight flourish I let it go. The gauzy material hangs for a moment then floats downward. It comes to rest on my bare hip as I do the same with the other side. Then, catching both ends, I rotate enticingly on the platform with streamers of black gauze following me; in my imagination, a flimsy barrier between myself and the gaze of strangers.

  With my back to my paying clients, I notice various onlookers in the crowd watching me as I unclasp the halter at my waist. With a practiced flip it glides off me, up into the air. It arcs over my head and into the chosen businessman’s lap, joining the rest of my outfit. I am happy with my precise aim, but they don’t notice. Turning slowly with my eyes downcast I give them a little coquettishness, to vary the attitude.

  After all, variety is the spice of their lives — right?

  Again I spin, my pert torso offering itself to the men, then glide away.

  They, after all, are paying to be teased.

  The songs ends, I move on.

  Smiling, affectionate, and warm: I’m the perfect girl….

  “Put the twenties in here, you can tip me with the ones,” I direct the customer, holding the edge of my G-string open. I am squatting on a two-by-three-foot pedestal about a foot and a half off the dark linoleum floor. Twenty of these pedestal tables line the perimeter of the main room. Smaller, portable stands are whisked by a bouncer to any dancer with a customer seated in one of the thirty easy chairs between the table-dance sec
tion and the three stages. These I dislike; their eight-inch lift lines up your knees with the customer’s crotch, which makes me feel silly.

  I’m on a pedestal: I am to be watched. We better not talk. Granted, my pedestal is minuscule and with each movement I may bruise your privates!

  Besides the pseudo-status they confer, the pedestals are dangerously unstable. More than a few times I have found myself precariously stripper-surfing when my crafted, erotic motions overpower my sense of balance.

  The champagne lounge, adjacent to the end of the table-dance section, also has tables. These are larger and kidney shaped, glowing with embedded light sources. Besides being unflattering — try shining a giant flashlight at your body from below — on these the dancer must share her space with champagne, ice buckets, fruit and cheese platters, shrimp cocktails, and sometimes a fellow dancer or two.

  My customer has processed my request and politely slips the bill over my hip. I allow the elastic of my G-string to snap back with a sharp crack. It doesn’t really hurt, and I like the sound as it hits the money.

  Having been paid, I relax, content that my next few minutes are accounted for. Crouched on my pedestal, I lean forward suddenly, and quickly grasp the guy’s shoulders

  he has no idea what I’m doing — but he likes it

  and push him down. He sinks back into the cushion, tittering nervously, my bent body poised gracefully over and above him. My face is two inches from his, our eyes are locked, and my hands continue to hold him down. I mastered eye contact long ago, in high school theater, and I serve him an intense dose, shining my baby blues mercilessly into his obedient stare. Now I whisper slowly, “What a good boy” My lipsticked mouth finally smiles at him, and with a shove, I lift myself off him in order to stand on my pedestal.

  This guy is a talker. He wants to know what I do after work, before work, why I strip — all the familiar questions. He invites me to sit; in fact, he pays me for it (which is the only way I will sit). It costs him ten dollars (minimum) per song, each song lasting three to four minutes. I consider a creative response to his inquiries but settle for the same old truths, boring to me by now but much more easily remembered.

  I’m simply not a liar; I just find the truth to be more interesting. Perhaps this is why I kept my real name. I don’t need someone else’s name to be exotic and valuable. When management told me to choose a name, I was at a loss. I thought of a fake name as a form of hiding, but I don’t do things that have to be hidden. Although, I must admit I always liked the name Lolita. Ever since my teenage years, when I realized I was forever going to be blond and blue-eyed, my idea of beauty was tawny skin, big dark eyes, and thick, wavy, dark hair — basically Hispanic. Lolita sounded exotic to me, but it didn’t sound like me. Heidi sounded like me.

  Time flies, eight waitresses filling drink quotas have come and gone. The talker is out of money. I decide a costume change is in order. Besides, the pile of bills I’m carrying has become so unruly my skirt isn’t big enough to wrap around it. Turning down table dances and other less stimulating offers, I wrangle my way toward the locker room. Pushing through the mash of men, I have trouble ignoring one man’s face seeking mine out. It is my regular, the “puppy dog.” He has been silently but persistently following me all night. I give him a signal to wait, one finger raised and a flash of my “worried” expression. He looks desperate. I make a mental note of this, and quickly file it away.

  Don’t leave, I might want your money. I can’t deny, though, that I wonder, for a moment, what is on his mind.

  There is never enough money, but on a well-attended night like this it’s just a matter of choosing whose to take. I am excited and greedy. I worry that I won’t take full advantage, that I’ll miss the big spenders if I waste even a minute. I hurry through the crowd of suits, kids (guys in their twenties not wearing suits), and men sporting their work shirts or mechanic blues. Clutching my bundle of lace and cash, tottering a bit in my stripper shoes, I aim for the one door through which the customers are not allowed. The selling face is gone and I just maneuver through the men

  rather than maneuver them

  maybe a smile glued on, maybe not.

  A few seconds later I am free. Daringly, I sit on Cherry’s costume trunk. She is a fading, defensive old-timer. A naked Napoleon, she conquers and defends her “space” like a pit bull. I wouldn’t normally infringe, but her stuff is crowding my locker space, as usual. Egos tend to conflict on busy nights, the modestly sized dressing room overflowing with forty or fifty determined manipulators, feather boas and leather whips poised and ready for the hustle.

  I throw my heels toward a pile of my Foxy Lady clothes and doff my lacy unmentionables. Stark naked, I poke through various bundles piled high in my locker. Grabbing the edges of what I need, I pull hard and they grudgingly pop out. Bad-girl boots and a strippy bit of black stretch will do.

  With some effort, I also extract a couple of pairs of winter socks.

  Last winter I ice-fished in them with my dad up in Maine (seems so long ago). He always said to dress warm for the weather. He said these were good socks.

  I knock a disintegrating cigarette off my moist foot and pull on the socks. The boots, bought at a cross-dressing store in San Francisco, are a bit loose for my female foot. They fit more securely with the socks, and the padding the two layers provide cuts down on the torture my feet suffer.

  I may not be dressing for the weather, but the socks are still helpful.

  For a moment I consider what my father would think, but the thought is pushed away as quickly as it appeared. I am sitting on the floor, my Knockout towel barely protecting my bottom from the cold and dirty tile floor. I pull the bit of Lycra over the socks and slide it up my thighs. I am looking down, attempting to adjust the tiny crotch as Dynamite T steps over me, her metal spiked heels grazing my shoulder. “Sorry,” she mutters distractedly from the backstairs. Surely she’s late for the V.I.P. room, everyone’s least favorite set. I finish adjusting the crotch and through some feat of amateur engineering I cover, just barely, the essentials. (Satisfying the laws of Rhode Island, my overworked house mom, and my own modesty.) Resembling an overgrown elastic band, the garment winds between my legs, meets itself at each hip, stretches up and over each shoulder to meet what crosses my front, conveniently covering the middle of each of my breasts, and ties, in the low-lying land between, sweetly in a bow.

  Now clothed in two layers of socks and a super elastic, I reach for my nasty boots. The speaker above my head keeps me aware of how much time I am wasting. The songs pass; each equals ten dollars.

  I never forget that.

  Lacing takes a toll on my earnings, but it does force me to take a little breather. I finish with two double-knotted bows half way up each thigh. Jamming clothes, money, props, and shoes into the locker, I check the time. Five sets till I’m up, fifteen songs — that’s a hundred and fifty bucks, if I max out. With a slam of the metal door, catching a bit of black sequin and red lace in it, I quickly throw the lock. I grab my abbreviated mesh robe, a pair of handcuffs, and, sauntering lasciviously,

  how else does one walk in five-inch spikes?

  I enter the club again.

  Twirling the cuffs to ensure attention, I slip them across my body carelessly. I spot several interested parties, and, holding the eye of the wealthiest looking potential client, I dangle the cool metal between my breasts. Our blossoming relationship is abruptly canceled, however, when yet another excited man crosses my path.

  “Hey, you’re in my anthro class!” He stops in front of me, shouting above the always present blare of the DJ. Eagerly, eyes wide, he awaits my response.

  “Hi. Would you like to buy a table dance?”

  This is business, after all.

  I have been careful about not mixing my two lives; this unexpected breach unsettles me only slightly. I really don’t care as long as he has money.

  He stammers, feeling his pockets, “Oh yes, yes. How much?” Anthropology is forgotten,
and his amazement grows as he realizes that what appeared to be a sexual goddess is really the sleepy girl who sits in the front row of one of his early morning classes.

  Keep him distracted; it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  I lead him to a table, take his money, and seat him. He searches my face and body for something, perhaps for the explanation I just don’t have the energy to give. His curious stare becomes annoying once I realize I will have to deal with him outside of the club.

  This was inevitable, Heidi. Handle this with class. Remember, you are not ashamed.

  I politely introduce myself. “My name is Heidi.”

  How ridiculous it would be if I were using a stage name. I always knew I would run into people who recognized me. Calling myself Angel or Deja Vu would be silly.