Quickly I add, “What brings you here?”
Predictably, he takes the bait and attempts to explain to me and to himself just what it is he is doing here. He gives up, finally, unaware of my successful diversion. Cautiously he expresses interest in my handcuffs.
I don’t want to show him too good a time. He’ll remember too well.
I give him a Mona Lisa smile and my eyes sparkle. He squirms.
It’s so easy.
Before he knows it the song is over, as is his dance. With a thank you and a friendly “See you in class!” I am gone.
I’ve already forgotten his name and sold another dance by the time the next song kicks in. This guy is a regular: we smile, I kiss him, he pays, I dance. I hang the cuffs on the rod above me.
John doesn’t go for that gimmick.
I spin and grind automatically, occasionally smiling at him. It’s good to see John. He tips well.
The back of my mind practices irregular verbs (I have a Spanish exam in the morning), while the rest of my head concentrates on earning money. Grinning, I lean toward John and, careful of his toupee, dangle in his face. He tenderly pulls on the bow between my breasts and the bindings fall loose. He is in one of those moods where he shuns big bills for stacks of singles, gently tucking them beneath every allowable strip of elastic. Several songs pass and no words are spoken. I frown theatrically at him each time I reach maximum saturation and, his heavy body shaking up and down, he turns pink and guffaws.
This guy really guffaws.
Together we pull the singles out, letting them drop all over the table. He fills me up again, and again, and we laugh. Hundreds of bills later he tires and pats the cushion beside him, signaling me to sit. He helps me pile the money in my cover-up and with a touch on my arm thanks me. I rush to the locker room with my bundle, my blood pumping with excitement.
Things are looking good tonight!
Kristina glances at me and laughs. “Hey, pack rat!”
Squeezing by her to my locker I sprinkle crinkled green.
“John must be here,” she says.
“Yeah, what a help he is. So many watchers tonight — oh, and a student from school, too.”
She groans appreciatively. Kristina teaches kindergarten during the day. She cannot be recognized; it is her biggest fear. “Is he bothering you?” she asks, genuinely concerned.
Sincerity isn’t easily found at work.
“No, he’s just a babe. I took his money though, no problem.” Then I remember a little tussle I noticed in the dark corner of the table-dance section, where the champagne drinkers sit. “But, Kristina” — I turn toward her, finished locking my money away — “watch out for the Patriots, those football players in the champagne section. They’re rough. Lots of money, but rough.”
“I know, I know …” she agrees, rushing out to the club as her name is announced by the DJ.
I follow behind her and methodically head for the closest potential spender. I take his money; I make him happy. I find another man, do the same thing. The night rushes by.
It’s just a job.
Twenty minutes left to make money, so I go lock up the bills of my most recent customer — who calls himself the Messiah — and determinedly head back out. Sitting at the main stage, in my path to the center of the club, is good old Burlyman.
I forget his real name. He always remembers mine.
He looks at me as though at any moment his huge frame will explode into tears. I rest my hand on his flannel-covered shoulder and say hello. He’s been around a lot lately and I feel sociable.
It’s the end of the night, so I ought to try to wind myself down. Besides, he’s harmless, like an overgrown country boy, maybe even a Mainer.
He gazes at me. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, the nicest … girl … I … have … ever … met.”
Why does he drag his words? Does he think they’ll mean more to me that way?
“You have the sweetest face and the sexiest body …” he goes on and on.
And on and on.
“Would you like a table dance?”
Along with a thank you it is the only reaction I can think of.
He looks away dejectedly, supremely disappointed yet again. We’ve been through this before.
I don’t think his dream girl says, “Would you like a table dance?” He has no idea who I really am, that this is work, nothing more. That is the nature of the fantasy. I shouldn’t be surprised.
He persists, however. He offers me a ride to Nantucket in his helicopter, a trip around Europe in his jet….
I ask to be excused, carefully extracting myself from his desperate compliments and urgent gape.
“I love you,” he moans painfully to me as I back away.
This sort of talk is more obscene to me than sexual talk. He probably has a wife who would give anything to hear those words. Can’t he sense that I’m embarrassed for him?
Relieved to be out of earshot, I meander past the DJ booth and plant a kiss on the Plexiglas, much to Tucker’s appreciation.
The pink lip mark surprises me. I never wear makeup. Well, I never used to.
Tucker grins, his mammoth form surrounded on all sides by his beloved music and naked women. He is the son of a Midwest state governor and revels in the scandal he causes by working in a strip club and weighing three hundred plus pounds, and being ashamed about neither. Suddenly I feel cold liquid on the small of my back. As it runs down between my buttocks I turn to see Weird Paul’s infantile face screwed into a rosy-hued grin.
Just like last week, he is sporting a weapon, smuggled in. It is probably in his pastel-plaid pants, hidden below the sagging weight of the country club bulge collecting around his middle. And sure enough, I see spots of wetness, evidence of the leaky squirt gun he delights in carrying around. The handle is sticking out of the side pocket of his wilted leisure pants. Choosing quickly between irritation and amusement,
thank heavens for my natural optimism,
I grin at the retiree sweetly. His bald, ugly head focuses weakly on my face and he slobbers, “Honey?”
I reply soothingly, “No, Paul. I’m Heidi. Remember? Heidi.” I approach him confidently, smiling, and several moments before he realizes it, nimbly relieve him of his toy. I stroll away with the dripping gun held gingerly between two fingertips, leaving him gaping. Rapidly I secure a table-dance customer, slip the offending object into the lights above me, and make an easy thirty before the end of the night.
I’m here to make money. I enjoy the work too, but that is all it is — work.
One Night Stand is announced and all the girls gather on the main stage. While the drawing for the One Night Stand winner is conducted I start my calculations, dancing unconsciously on the crowded stage. I think I might have cleared five this shift. That’s pretty good and I begin to wind down; the hustle is done for tonight. I scan the room. The crowd has packed themselves around the main stage, necks craned, hands in pockets or holding that last drink. They search for the eyes of their favorite girls, while the girls look down, always ready to respond to a buck. The lucky number is announced and, when I realize Weird Paul is the winner, I hang behind the other dancers. I don’t want to upset him. He wobbles up the steps and most of the girls, familiar with him, recoil and laugh.
I feel sorry for him. Where did he come from? I came from such a simple place, surrounded by genuine people. I had such a happy childhood. What would my family think? How, if ever, will I tell them?
A couple of strippers place Weird Paul on a stool center stage and, braving his drool and mindlessly wandering hands, cover his stained golf shirt with his prize, a commemorative Foxy Lady sweatshirt. He has begun crying for his squirt gun and, confusing names again, asking for Honey. One of the stronger and more enthusiastic girls has actually ripped off the waistband of his underwear and fashioned it into a headband, framing his confused and teary expression with the words, “Fruit of the Loom, Fruit of the Loom.” I cringe to see him being
made a fool of, but to my relief his short attention span kicks in and he forgets his gun. Cheerily taking the arms of two girls, he proudly joins the traditional chorus line that ends each shift at the Foxy Lady.
1
My Education Begins
If you don’t know “their” rules, you have no limitations.
— Dianne Brill, Boobs, Boys and High Heels
As a child I dreamed of the extraordinary, but I’m afraid I appeared a rather ordinary, small-town girl. My Swedish father bequeathed Scandinavian coloring — my three sisters and I bore his intense pale blue eyes and blond hair. (From my mother I inherited a crooked tooth and a strong self-reliant streak.) I looked like a Marcia Brady clone, my dirty-blond hair stick-straight and long because I was intimidated — and bored — by the idea of choosing a style.
I lived in a small house with Mom, Dad, three sisters, a neurotic dog, three oversize cats, and varying numbers of boarder babies — local infants my mother took in when her regular work slackened. Of course, I spent much of my time outside. I wandered the woods, investigated the waterfront, dug for treasure in the mud flats, and tracked animals, imaginary and otherwise. I was athletic and excelled at longdistance running, a solitary sport that suited me perfectly while sculpting me into a lithe, muscular virago. My mind kept up with my body. I was, and still am, addicted to reading, and I still ask too many questions. In addition to my classical piano studies (baby-sitting money covered this), theater provided an escape in the evenings. My sunny disposition, nonthreatening looks, and manic energy earned me the lead in almost every production.
School was a joke. My classes required little if any effort, so I spent my free time developing my personality. Working alone, I was the ringleader of schemes, instigator of epic note passing, and above all, observer of clique mentalities and human behavior.
I was the girl next door who happened to live out on the river. That is, we weren’t townies and my dad didn’t work at the paper mill. To make matters worse, no one really knew my mother. She kept to herself, working too much (as a nurse). She had no choice. Dad was unemployed for years between retirement from the Navy and his eventual position as a custodian at, unfortunately, my junior high school.
Having my father at school was not exactly the type of attention I wanted. I affectionately nicknamed him “Granpa” (he had pure white hair and a sailor’s deeply etched face) and continued to go about my activities as the leader and ground-breaker of my class. Everyone loved him, and I couldn’t help but smile when I watched him sweeping up the cafeteria. I believed life was truly grand.
During my adolescent years the dinner table was the center of communication for me, my sisters, and our parents. Aside from sharing the news of the day, I found dinnertime to be an opportunity to entertain. Curious and energetic, I often related wild accounts of my adventures (to me, waking up in the morning was an adventure). It was a regular occurrence, and my family counted on me to share amusing stories and unusual observations.
Sometimes my sisters and I would gang up on our father — we would talk too fast and laugh too loud. He would give up with an exasperated shake of his weather-beaten head and a good-natured “d’ ow,” down east Maine-speak for “I doubt it.” Even my mother managed to have us all gagging with her stories from the newborn nursery at the hospital. “Surprisingly,” she told us one evening, “those day-old baby boys exhibit incredible aim. We nurses must practice defensive diapering.” Nothing was sacred, the dinner table heard it all.
Once I became a stripper, though, I held back. I was afraid my life and my stories had become too much for the family table. Asking me why I strip is the most common question I get from both my customers and my acquaintances. The answer is simple: I do it for the money. The original circumstances were more complicated, but they were also temporary. Why did I remain a stripper after my first situation was resolved?
These decisions, in my mind perfectly rational and practical choices, attract attention, usually negative. Capitalism may be rewarded in our country, but cross the blurry lines of American morality and you’re merely greedy, lazy, or perverted. Lack of confidence and a fear of hurting my parents compelled me to keep my topless dancing a secret from my entire family. Here is the adventure. This is not a defense or argument, it is a record of my experience and observations — the stories that for years I wanted to tell my family over the dinner table.
It was not a desperate act that transformed me from mild-mannered Maine girl into professional tease. It was a decision. Rational, practical, honest, and up-front — a methodical exploration of an option. I lacked the restraints of prejudice: I believed that anything was possible.
I could do whatever my conscience dictated or allowed. My parents taught me that. They raised me to be a discerning person but left intact an innocent belief in unlimited possibilities. I was dumbly brave, courageous without knowing it. I was always an observer, a clear lens devoid of distortion — able to accept what is: good or bad, normal or abnormal. I knew everything is relative, everything changes, and anything is possible.
Mom and Dad encouraged me to be confident and curious and open-minded. What I’m afraid my parents never thought of was how these same qualities might manifest themselves outside the simple country life of down east Maine. Did they realize they had created a dangerous situation: a young woman optimistically eager to begin her attack on a wide, wonderful world, with little or no knowledge of the insincere and wild ways of society? I merely did what had to be done, staying within the law and my personal ethics code. This was a lesson I learned (perhaps too well) from my mom. I thanked her for it years later when I finally told her I was a stripper. I hoped it would help her overcome the shock and disgust.
When I was a teenager, it had been a secret dream of mine to become a dancer. I envied those graceful women I occasionally saw on CBS, the one channel that reached my parents’ home. For the over-achiever that I was, this fantasy was too romantic to be disclosed or taken seriously even by myself.
“I’m going to be a doctor or a lawyer …” I would recite to the approving faces of my proud family Mom, perhaps a little bitter at her lot in life, appeared convinced that I was the chosen one of her four daughters. Dad seemed content with the status quo. He didn’t show his expectations like Mom, but I sensed the power I held over them both. I could disappoint or make proud. My three sisters were pleased to be related to the popular but individualistic Heidi. They could always count on me for a wild idea and a big dream. “You have such potential, Heidi!” they all would say. So much potential that it had to be guarded like a rare egg, expected to hatch years later, resulting in the culmination of all my parents’ hopes and dreams for me.
This pressure might have been too much had it not been for a fight between my parents and me when I was sixteen. Luckily the disagreement went beyond teenage angst and I learned an extremely valuable lesson. One night I was spied through the kitchen window receiving a kiss goodnight. The ever brewing suspicions and fears of my parents exploded in a verbal barrage: “Who brought you home? What have you been doing? If you ever so much as touch a beer you’ll be in rehab so quick your head will spin!” I was misunderstood, like every other teenager, I suppose. But tonight I had had enough, and I responded. (That in itself was shocking — no one stood up to Mom.)
Trembling, I defended myself: “Mom, Dad, I do everything right. I have perfect grades, I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink, I’m not sleeping around, I work hard, I even play the piano for the senior citizen group! I’m a good person, but you treat me as if I do everything wrong. What’s the point? It doesn’t matter if I get perfect grades and do the right thing! I might as well start doing drugs — I’m getting punished for it already!” Crying, I retreated to my room. There was no winning against Mom. I decided that night that everything I did would be for me. I needed no reward; I would expect no appreciation. I was alone and I liked it.
By this time I had forgotten any fantasies of dancing. Now I dreamed of being a
“rising executive,” straight off the glossy pages of Cosmopolitan. I couldn’t buy the magazine, of course. (“That’s for city people,” Mom would say, giving me an intimidating look that settled the issue.) I did, however, sneak peeks at the magazine’s pictures and headlines when I had the chance.
I was struck most powerfully by the images of lean women looking sharp in their bright suits and fancy shoes, striding purposefully down city streets. Nothing was more exotic to me. My heart actually quickened when I imagined myself as one of them. I was a “professional” I had an important meeting. I had something to say, and it was important. And I just happened to look beautiful. More exciting to me, however, than my red lips, smart hair, and long legs was that I was significant and strong. Someone was waiting to hear what I had to say. This fantasy propelled me through the restless years of adolescence, keeping me excited about my future.
I felt guilty about it, too. The images were so sexy and powerful, it was unsettling. I wanted that power and the freedom that came with the look. I would have to leave Bucksport behind. Saving injured seagulls and tracking deer would be difficult to reconcile with board meetings, writing memos, and looking spiffy. It was a long shot, but I believed I knew how to earn it. I was convinced that intelligence was the way. Excellent grades and being a nice person, that was how a modern woman got ahead. A good education at a respectable school would land me an important career in a city far away. The American Dream — money and independence — would be mine. Dancing was long forgotten. I was going places!
Ivy League Stripper Page 2