This is only uncomfortable because it’s new. It isn’t patently bad.
Men filled every chair. Fifty or more were standing, either tipping or staring. I rushed through, intent on reaching the dressing room and safety.
How long am I going to feel out of place? But then, do I ever want to feel at home here?
Allan greeted me and introduced me to the house mom, Kate. (I noticed with relief that she was not the screamer from Saturday.) Kate dryly explained the contest. “You’re going into the finals, there are two other amateurs …”
I could see them sitting between lockers and racks of costumes in the hallway. One looked like Barbie blown up and fried: huge blond hair, a chest sculpted of deep bronze, long red fingernails, and a painted, darkly tanned face. Her legs were long and thin, neatly placed in cartoonlike shoes of candy pink with ankle straps. The other “amateur” slouched off the side of a chair. Her body was droopy, pale, and chunky in the wrong places, although she did have a big bust. She wore a gold lame fishnet robe. I could see tears where the fishnet had gotten snagged. While the Barbie looked grossly unreal, this one was all too real.
I can’t decide. Which one is more alarming?
“Wear whatever you like,” Kate said, then paused, examined me perfunctorily, and continued. “Yeah what you’re wearing is fine. A floor host will escort you to each stage. You have one song on each. When the DJ indicates, take off your top — and skirt, of course.”
The other girls seem to be experienced—they’re even wearing stripper clothes. I am so out of place, and small. I should’ve worn makeup!
“After the third song, all three of you will come to main stage, the big one here.” She pointed to the closest stage. I looked quickly and saw the girl with the hazelnut coffee, Tamara. She was swinging from a metal pipe above the edge of the stage. She was smiling and laughing.
And she was flat-chested! And she looks good!
My apprehension decreased. She made the job look effortless, like hanging around in your underwear, bopping around to dance music.
I can do that.
I looked back at the amateurs with a critical eye.
I can’t do that. Yech.
Kate explained, “Votes from the hidden judges and audience applause will determine the winner. Any questions?”
“No,” I answered unsurely, my mind spinning.
Let’s just get it over with. I hope this is like learning to drive a motorcycle — excruciatingly stressful in the beginning, but easy and enjoyable once you learn.
“Wait with the others,” Kate concluded, and began to turn away, then sighed and looked at me again, pen poised over her notes. “What are you using for a name?”
My gut reaction, the one I usually trust, scoffed at the idea of a fake name.
If I need a fake name, then I must be doing something to be ashamed of. Surely, I don’t need a fake name. But, Heidi, you’re in unfamiliar territory now — can you trust your gut?
Some mysterious well of confidence bubbled up, fighting back.
Besides your head, Heidi, there is nothing else to trust.
Minutes later, I wobbled up the stairs to my first stage of the rotation, introduced as Heavenly Heidi. (I didn’t ask for the “Heavenly”) I know that I smiled and danced as hard as I could. Adrenaline fueled me. I fumbled with my skirt, nearly tripping, and literally threw off the jacket. I jumped around the stage clad in my twelve-dollar bodysuit from the mall. It wasn’t very revealing, but I didn’t have time to feel naked or not. I was too nervous. I barely managed to discern the DJ’s voice from the crowd as he gleefully ordered, “Drop … your … top!”
I’m so normal-looking. They won’t like me. I better act tough — or at the least, confident.
Recalling the night with the Knockouts, I steeled myself and pulled my shoulder straps down, revealing my little breasts. Men screamed and clapped maniacally. I heard an enthusiastic customer chanting, “Go Brown, go Brown.”
I’m glad I’m not trying to hide anything. This is amazing — I think it thrills them even more to think I’m a real girl-next-door!
I trotted to the second stage clutching the pumped arm of a floor host with one hand, the other pressing my now rumpled clothes into my chest. Here a distinguished older man motioned to me. I crouched toward him and noticed the judging sheet. “Oh!” I turned my head.
“You’re doing great. Slow down. You’re beautiful,” he assured me with authority. He introduced himself as David Drummand.
Familiar name.
‘I’ve never done this before. I’m not much of a stripper.”
“Nonsense. You” — he paused emotionally — “are a work of art. This” — he gestured grandly across the room with his arm, cigar smoking dramatically at the tip of his hand — “is a work of art.”
He sounds serious.
I looked at him, doubting his sincerity.
“You, my darling, are the most elegant and lovely creature here yet!” He then kissed my hand gently. He is serious. Seriously silly. But sweet.
My final song was on the main stage. The distances between the edges of the stage were greater and I began to feel fatigue and doubt creeping into my limbs.
Am I moving the right way? Am I sexy? Is my butt fat? Should I be ashamed of my small chest?
Then it was over. The Barbie and the droopy girl joined me on the stage, we stood to the side as a man with a mike bounded up in purple sneakers.
He lined us up and announced to the men amassed below, “You will choose the winner! Please applaud for one and only one girl. He then stood next to me and yelled, “Who likes Heidi?” I smiled shyly and listened as the crowd roared. The crowd also roared for the Barbie and even for the other girl. Art then grabbed my hand and declared, “Heavenly Heidi is the winner of the Foxy Lady Amateur Contest!”
Five hundred dollars! Yes! How they figured the winner — I didn’t care. It was over.
He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills and had me walk around the stage.
Just like Miss America, a meat market. At least nobody is fooling themselves here. That is, except for David Drummand.
In the dressing room I replaced my clothing, congratulating myself in regard to the money and getting the hard part over.
I hope that was the hard part.
My clothing felt different, not just wrinkled and dusty from the stage floors, but sexier. I was realizing the power of my body, of image, of the mind.
It’s easy. The men automatically think we’re hot; we merely have to get up on the stage and take it. Take their attention, take their money. It’s like modeling or acting or advertising, but more direct. And more honest. There is a world of difference between selling my image to strangers and selling my soul to the rabbi. I promise I will never compromise myself. I will exercise my power. And so began my career in the erotic arts.
7
Learning the Ropes
I am a woman meant for a man, but I never found a man who could compete.
— Bette Davis
My first night as a Knockout was Halloween. As I drove to the club, parties on campus were warming up. I was a Brown student masquerading as a stripper.
I’m not really a stripper, am I?
Because I wasn’t trained for anything else yet I was designated a round girl my first shift. My duties were to carry the round card around the Knockout Sport Saloon during matches, smiling and talking with the patrons, accepting their tips. Because matches ran continuously from nine to closing this kept me busy. But during the activities in between matches — Kissing-for-Tipping and fantasy dances — I was free to interrogate my co-workers. My fellow Beverly Hills Knockouts didn’t mind being bombarded with questions. What I couldn’t deduce on my own and through observation, they were happy to explain.
At the beginning of the shift we were introduced to the crowd upstairs, where the stage dancing and table dancing occurred. I had to spend seventy-five dollars on the uniform for this prewrestling performance. Every K
nockout wore an identical pink and white outfit. Satin short-shorts; doily-size tank tops, which, before they were torn and tied below the bosom, bore the insignia of the WWWF (World Women’s Wrestling Federation); and spotlessly white high heels. Occasionally the emcee running the Knockout show would insist on pink satin garters. (I quickly learned to despise them like the rest of the girls — garters aren’t flattering to one’s thighs.)
In this outfit we would appear, one by one, on the main stage. “Heavenly Heidi” had apparently stuck as my new name. I also acquired credits, fabricated by the emcee. “She is the St. Pauli Beer Poster Girl of 1989, and the winner of the Hot Legs Dance Contest on MTV!” Hearing this, I stifled my laughter, mostly because I was scared. This was only my second time onstage, the first being Amateur Night, but when I heard a young man in the crowd holler, “I have your St. Pauli beer poster! I have your poster!” I did laugh. I smiled at him, too.
The emcee then announced the features of the Knockout Sport Saloon. “Downstairs, downstairs now —- no extra charge to enter — seven beautiful girls just waiting to TAKE YOU ON! Wrestle with the babe of your choice. Matches going on all night! Top bid wins the auction and gets in the ring for three rounds of body slappin’, hair grabbin’, DOWN AND DIRTY ACTION! Choose from Bobbie the Bruiser, Heavenly Heidi, Tantalizing Tawni, Naughty Neeki, Rockin’ Robin, Ballistic Bunnie, and Badass Briana! You can’t miss it! AND the featured boxing match tonight — Bobbie the Bruiser versus Naughty Neeki. These wild women are gonna go three rounds, toe to toe, glove to glove, boxing for the WWWF title in just a few short minutes. It’s gonna be a slugfest! But first, wrestling! Choose from all the Knockouts. Downstairs, NOW! As I speak, the room is filling up for this pulse-popping
While he promoted us from the stage we trailed off and out through the main floor instead of the backstairs. This way, the men who hadn’t figured out how to get to the Sports Saloon could simply follow us through the club and down the front stairs.
Like rats following the Pied Piper.
Downstairs two of the girls headed straight for the locker room, while the rest of us climbed atop the tables lining the ring to entertain the arriving customers. Men were filing in, scrambling for the best seats. Waitresses in abbreviated black-and-white-striped referee outfits distributed beers, collecting money and empties as quickly as they could manage. Because I was a new girl, Willie, the emcee tonight, suggested I follow Bobbie and Bunnie to the locker room to watch them prepare for the first wrestling match.
According to the schedule devised by Willie, Bunnie was to do her fantasy first. She rushed to get dressed, since the Sport Saloon was filling up fast and the men would need new stimulus. The show must begin, and soon! Bunnies act was based on the movie Top Gun. Over a red, white, and blue bathing suit bearing the word Budweiser, she wore tight fatigues, a camouflage T-shirt and jacket, and a jet pilot’s helmet with mirrored visor and an antenna off the side. Coupled with the theme music, her act seemed quite impressive but hardly sensual.
“Is it sexy?” I asked.
“Yes,” Bunnie bragged, “because I know how to take it off. Like when I get down to the shirt …”
“She rips it off her heaving breasts like an animal!” Bobbie interrupted dramatically.
Bunnie agreed happily, pulling up her fatigues.
Bobbie’s fantasy act was the quintessential Catholic School Girl gone bad. She wore a green and navy plaid skirt, a plain green blazer, and a fully buttoned white blouse. She looked bad because her large breasts bulged against the white cotton and her skirt was so short that her full bottom managed to peek out, just enough. This was coordinated with a navy tie, white high heels, lacy white ankle socks, and bright pink Barbie lunch box.
“What exactly do you do during a fantasy dance?” I asked.
Bunnie, focused on dressing, ignored me, but Bobbie was happy to explain. “Pick a song you like, one that ties in with your fantasy. I use ‘School’s Out for Summer’ and Bunnie uses the Top Gun movie theme. When you’re introduced you go out, dance around the room to make sure everyone sees you, then get on tables — there’s a bouncer to help you step up ?— then, dance on the tables. Halfway through the song begin taking off your outfit. The emcee will be egging the crowd on while you do it. Tease them and —”
“How do I tease?”
“You’ll figure it out, girl. You got it in your eyes already. Once you’re down to your G-string and top, wait till your song is almost over, then take the top off Or don’t. It’s up to you.”
“Then what happens?”
“Then you get down — the bouncer or one of us will help you — and come back to the dressing room. Don’t ever stay out there when another girl is doing her show. It isn’t fair to distract the crowd.” “But how do you get your clothes back?”
“The bouncers or the ref or the emcee will collect them and put them in the box in the hallway. Check right away to make sure your stuff is all there. Some asshole stole my skirt last week!”
Neeki, doing her makeup, interrupted, “Nobody stole your skirt, Bobbie, it’s over by the shower. I saw it a few minutes ago.”
“Shit! Who put it there?” Bobbie went over and picked up the damp skirt and looked around for someone to accuse.
“You probably threw it there yesterday after boxing practice. Remember, when you cleaned out your locker looking for the fifty you thought you had?” Neeki said.
“How do I put a fantasy dance together?” I asked anyone. Most of the girls were loitering in the dressing room now that Bunnie had left to do her fantasy dance.
“Think of something cute. Or sexy. Something guys would fantasize about. No nuns or pregnant women — the club doesn’t allow that,” Bobbie commented. Past the skirt mystery, she was now digging through her Barbie lunch box. She found a pair of awkward eyeglasses and a giant fluffy bow for her hair. “Maybe someone will loan you a fantasy until you’ve got one.”
She didn’t offer, nor did anyone else. I didn’t blame them. As friendly as the Knockouts were, it struck me that the Foxy Lady was a place where, however subtly, you should watch your own back. I’d have an outfit soon. I already had three or four ideas.
After the fantasy dances both Bobbie and Bunnie returned to the locker room for a quick check of their faces and G-string coverage, then hustled back out for a song’s worth of Kissing-for-Tipping, announced by the emcee.
“Kissing-for-Tipping. Get a kiss for a buck. Get those dollars out, men, and get THEM UP! High in the air so the lady can see. She’s not gonna stop if you ain’t got a buck! Hey! You want extra attention? Forget the ones, get out your fives and tens. Ho! Who knows what she’ll give ya’ for a twenty?”
I had been horrified by the title. “What is this Kissing-for-Tipping? It can’t be real kissing! Can it?”
“No, silly,” Bobbie explained patiently, smearing her lips with a shade of mauve that matched her nails. “The man holds up a dollar, sometimes a five, and you come by, grab the dollar —”
“So, you don’t kiss him?”
“Wait up, hot stuff, I didn’t finish. You grab the dollar” — she slowed her speech — “grab the man’s hands, then you kiss him. Kiss him on the cheek, kiss him on the head, kiss him on the shoulder. Hell! Kiss the air near him!” She looked at me proudly. “Then move on, baby, you got money to make!”
For this the girls wore only bottoms, tops, and reminders of their fantasy outfits. Bunnie kept her dog tags on and Bobbie tucked a giant lollipop between her breasts. In a song it was over and they returned to the dressing room, each about fifty bucks richer. The bills were stashed away, secured in their lockers, while the emcee prepared the men for the auction.
“Who’s getting in the ring with these fine ladies? Who dares to take on the Knockouts?” He droned on until Bunnie appeared on the tabletop, then he began the bidding. “Do I see one hundred? One hundred, one hundred dollars to wrestle the Bodacious, Ballistic Bunnie in the ring
In the third tier of seats, a hand shot up, hol
ding a tightly clenched wallet.
Willie saw him and hollered. “I got one hundred! Do I hear one twenty? One twenty one twenty
A man’s voice reached above the din, “One fifty!!” Then another, “One sixty!”
I watched wide-eyed from the hallway between the Knockout room and the dressing area with Bobbie. “What if no one bids?” I asked her.
“It’s never happened, but we’ve only been doing this a few months. There’s always someone to bid. It’s good money Heidi, don’t worry.”
I’m not worrying, I’m calculating.
“Why don’t I get it all?” I asked.
“Fifteen percent goes to the house, another fifteen to the emcee
I looked confused.
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