Her fantasy dance opened with her running around the room, wearing a ratty robe and ugly fuzzy slippers, her head covered with rollers and a scarf, vintage horn-rimmed glasses sparkling dimly around her crazed eyes. Shrieking, she chased a bouncer around the saloon, wielding a rolling pin, emitting typical housewife barbs: “You don’t appreciate me! Where have you been all night?” Used to blatantly sexy acts, the crowd was hesitant to warm up to a berating bitch covered up in a robe.
A berating bitch without the robe would be okay.
The men came around in the split second it took for Amanda to rip the robe and curlers off. She truly possessed a magnificent body, and the pointed contrast to the frumpy look won her the crowd’s undivided attention. Undivided attention wasn’t going to pay the bills, though, and the bids were slow to come in. She sold for a hundred ten. Disappointing. But also insulting to her, coming directly after my high bid. It took a strong skin to remain impervious to the constant valuation, good and bad.
Amanda was ripped, and drunk. Someone would suffer. Why not the newgirl? The one who got the high bid (and doesn’t even have breasts!). Amanda didn’t get any closer than the nose-to-nose threat before three bouncers stepped in and bodily removed her. Management liked me. I didn’t drink or do drugs, so they probably figured I had a longer shelf life. Amanda was fired. She and her dealer, the Knockouts’ wrestling coach, moved to Florida to become contestants on “American Gladiators,” the television translation of classic gladiator contests.
Her replacement was Bambi. A model, she was another representative of the downside of stripper personalities. Her tools were the face of an angel, Bambi-like deer eyes (hence the name), full pink lips, glowing white teeth, and pathological lying. Appearances, as I was learning in varied ways, can be deceiving. Her radiant surface beauty nearly outshone her deep faults. It was only after denying to the cops that she stole Briana’s tips that she was cornered. (We all knew she had done it. Briana had showered, leaving her locker open. Bambi was the only one in the room. Apparently she hadn’t expected Briana to inventory her locker directly after her shower. But Briana had an eagle eye; she sensed right away that her locker had been touched.) Bambi’s delusions brought her down; she hid the bills — four hundred ones — in her underwear. Hard to do when you’re a stripper, at work, wearing very small underwear. She was deported to her native Canada, where we all presumed she went back to tormenting her parents. She was only nineteen. She had lasted at the Foxy Lady three weeks.
Bambi managed to dupe me during her short stint. Although I must admit I gleaned some stories, local gossip really, from the adventure. She was dating Dominic, an influential property owner in the city. (Actually Dominic’s wife owned the properties, but who kept track? No one, except for Dominic’s wife.) Dominic’s best friend and business partner, Carmelo Marciano, was another prize. They were big fish in a small pond, blinded by their own Rolexes. In order to see Bambi, Dominic needed an alibi, like some meeting for him and Carmelo. (“Honey,” he would tell his wife, “it’s business. Just me and Carmelo.”) This meant that Bambi was left having to find a plaything for Carmelo. Enter Heidi.
She set me up, inviting me to her apartment to “pick up some costume fabric.” She expected that I would be polite and “friendly” with her guests. I was polite and the men didn’t have any idea I saw through their “bachelor” ruse.
I asked Carmelo about business and local news, just to keep him occupied. He considered himself connected and liked to hear himself talk. The “meeting” flew by, with me nodding, dumping champagne into the plants, and silently cursing Bambi. I think Carmelo even deluded himself into thinking he was charming me; his skin was greasy with anticipatory perspiration. Toward the end of our conversation, I just happened to mention enough names to keep him off my back — and keep him on edge for months.
I knew from non—Foxy Lady friends that not only was Dominic married but Carmelo was, too, with three beautiful young children. Besides disclosing Bambi’s pseudo-personality and showcasing the hypocrisy of two supposedly upstanding businessmen, the evening kindled my interest in the local Mafiosi lore, of which there was plenty I heard the stories and whispered warnings, and I was intrigued. I had a very specific goal, however. I just wanted to make my money and get out.
Nightly I heard the girls complaining, ‘I’m so broke,” or “I have to work every shift this week. My rent is due.” To have money problems as a stripper? Unthinkable. Full-time Knockouts made at least a grand a week, and the upstairs strippers even more. I was only working a few shifts here and there and was able to supplement my loans. How could these girls be broke?
My co-workers did not fit the stereotypes of junkies and prostitutes; they were young women paying for their cars, apartments, and bills. They were often interesting and vibrant, and likable. I appreciated the uniqueness of each one I met, but how could they be broke much of the time? I wondered what was fueling the broke-stripper phenomenon.
Easy come, easy go?
I had something to show for my work; I had earned the money needed to satisfy Brown’s short-term financial demands. I celebrated by taking a break from the Foxy Lady and concentrating on school full time.
As I was becoming enlightened about the ways of the world I discovered a sense of gratification from selling my visual attributes honestly and openly. (Granted, on the auction block!) My emotions were still raw because of the rabbi, but I was feeling more and more indignant and less embarrassed. I found it interesting that, within the confines of the club, I was accepted with open arms, but my fellow Brown students were less genereous. Those aware of my new profession, thanks to the frat boys, whispered about me and eyed me nervously: the guys disapproving, the girls disdainful. To them, the yawning girl in the front row of Art History 172 had become a sleepy siren, a treacherous sex-selling slut, betraying their Ivy League pretensions.
Regardless, my college experience was enhanced by my nighttime activities. The short hours with great pay left me with quality time to devote to school. I was fulfilling the dream I had harbored since my freshman year when I watched, disbelievingly, as Amy Carter frittered away her education, missing classes in order to demonstrate on the green and attend rallies.
I was happy and reveled in my relative financial ease.
I was increasingly aware of my status as a sex object. Shoppers in the grocery store, students on campus, or men leering at the Foxy Lady — all were capable of seeing me as a sex object. This wasn’t new; I just hadn’t thought much about it until I became a stripper. I had always reacted in the same way. On campus and in public, I would smile nervously, stare at the ground, cover my body with baggy clothes, hide my bright hair, all to downplay myself. It depressed me, but that’s the way it is, right? I wondered how the Cosmo girl flaunted her power and beauty so proudly. The magazine hadn’t mentioned the stares, comments, and disapproval. Image and appearance possessed a power of its own, that was clear.
It happened with or without me, head up or head down. Why not take charge of it? Make it mine and use it constructively. It was powerful, I could be powerful. I decided that I deserved to be powerful. It was my right and I would exercise it and be responsible for it. Did this make me immoral? The question seemed absurd, but how could the majority of society be wrong? I began to contemplate more deeply the morality of stripping and the morality of an unfair society.
Just a few months earlier I had been given a choice. I didn’t realize the parallel at the time, but the rabbi’s offer was comparable to disrobing for dollars. What was I, a modern-day girl (ahem, woman) to do? Sell my soul to a lying, almost eighty-year-old rabbi, parading and being respected as his just-happens-to-be-comely but very qualified assistant? Immoral, unethical! I did need money, however, and I wanted it fast. I had the opportunity to work at a campus job (hmm, five dollars an hour times what equals Ivy League tuition?), but the campus job angle doesn’t always work. In fact, that was why I was granted a financial leave by Brown three years earlier. I had r
efused to enter that catch-22 again, working so much that school became a second priority. Stripping was honest, felt honorable, and allowed me the luxury of making school a priority. After all, isn’t Brown — and the Ivy League image — worth it?
Hadn’t Mae West said, “It is better to be looked over than overlooked?” Being looked at on the job paid the bills; being talked about at school was, I suspect, the inevitable downside.
As a full-fledged student at Brown I discovered the elite society of Ivy Leaguers who wore glasses with mass media-tinted lenses. I was disappointed to find their supposedly open minds were drawn to the most scandalous (uncommon) denominator. They were victims of tabloiditis! To the ever increasing number of people who knew what my part-time job was, I was no longer Heidi, Brown student, or that country girl from Maine, or even the blonde from Psych class. I was “that girl who strips,” a disgrace to womankind and the sterling Ivy image. I knew I was more than image. I believed in the extraordinary, that I was extraordinary. This was a lonely position.
My first open exchange about my job on campus was with a female student. We knew each other casually from art history class, and one afternoon I gave her a ride across campus. Making conversation, she asked if I was attending the rally on the green that evening. I mentioned something vague about having to work later. Innocently she asked me, “Where do you work?”
I answered, “Foxy Lady.” I said it calmly, but my pulse quickened. If my pulse quickened, hers surely sprinted. She looked over at me curiously, cautiously, and wide-eyed. I smiled casually and asked, “Do you work?”
“Uh, no. No, I don’t.” She was anxious.
So am I.
She indicated the Sciences Library. “You can drop me here. Thanks.”
It worried me that it had to be such a big deal. Then I remembered how intimidated and fearful I had originally felt. It really wasn’t so horrible or grossly sexual. I knew this — now. How would I ever assure an outsider of it?
The next week I told Hillary, a girlfriend from my Am Civ seminar. She laughed it off easily. “That’s so cute.” Her reaction reminded me of Raj from my freshman dorm commenting on my “cute” waitress outfit. Then Hillary surprised me, asking me about it. I didn’t mind that she bestowed a romantic twist to it; at least she was respectful and open-minded. This reminded me of my co-Knockouts’ attitude, appreciative of and familiar with my independence and individuality.
Perhaps I had overestimated the possible bad reactions? I still didn’t want to involve Isabella and Tony; I wasn’t sure of my scandal quotient. But I was sure I’d never have a boyfriend while stripping. I didn’t feel my work was a betrayal, but, realistically, how could I expect a man to deal with me sexually teasing hundreds of anonymous men for money? At school the men asked anyway, and after a few months I gave it a go.
The first student I attempted to date ended up bragging to his frat brothers about me — “I took Heidi-the-stripper to a movie!” — then felt hurt when they teased him for taking the stripper to a movie! The entire idea of dating was silly. No man would understand. I was resigned to this. It was the cost of being unusual, the price of wanting an efficient method of funding my education. I was prepared for the sacrifice, although I did suffer some weak moments.
Will I lie about this until I reach my deathbed, then with a shudder reveal the truth to my loving children?
But life didn’t have to be dramatic and tragic, it was a party of infinite possibilities. Thinking anything less grand was self-defeating. I was open for anything.
Mark, a handsome classmate of mine, began staring at me intensely during lectures. He would turn away, shy, when I looked back at him matter-of-factly. A few weeks later he admitted to me that he had organized a search party with some buddies and explored the Foxy Lady looking for the blond girl from class (me!). I almost wrote him off as a shallow thrill-seeker, but he convinced me otherwise, mumbling, “I’m glad we didn’t find you.”
That was different. And interesting.
He continued, “I liked you before I even knew about the stripping. I don’t care about that stupid club; the search party was just a guy thing.”
He didn’t pass judgment on me! Mentally I scolded myself for almost stereotyping him.
If I can remain above the fray, so can he.
We developed a trusting, joyful friendship — studying, playing, talking. We even shared grilled cheese sandwiches at Betty’s. He understood and accepted me, loved me for me. My activities at the Foxy Lady were irrelevant; he never watched me and we rarely discussed my work beyond my complaints about sore feet. It wasn’t long before we became lovers. Although I wasn’t sure we would be together forever — it didn’t matter — I enjoyed our simple, sweet sex. We shared ideas and emotions and activities; my job was only a job, the place where I earned my rent and tuition. Only occasionally did I worry about it being held against me.
- His roommates, however, gave him trouble, subtly and cruelly, about dating a topless dancer. One afternoon they heard us making love. I wasn’t ashamed and Mark was only a little embarrassed, but his roommates considered our noises to be proof of my nymphomania. (“She’s a stripper, you know. She can’t get enough!” they told Mark when I wasn’t around.) They were two of the more privileged young men at Brown. Every advantage in the world had been afforded them, allowing them to reach levels of boredom and malaise so extreme that toying with Mark became their favorite activity. Together, Mark and I laughed off their tricks and comments, enjoying ourselves and Brown. It was the first semester I was ever able to concentrate more on school than on finances, a dream come true.
But the stigma persisted with those who didn’t know me personally. I shocked some students in my classics class. The lecture hadn’t started yet when I confirmed one loud-mouthed student’s challenging inquiry: “You work at the Foxy Lady, don’t you?”
And how do you know about the Foxy Lady?
“Yes,” I responded, feigning calm but also curious as to the response. Professor Nugent walked in then, ready to begin. The boy stammered, “Oh, uh.” Class began. It was nearly the end of the semester. How long had he been wanting to ask that? Had he been watching me, looking for stripper activity? My baggy sundresses and plain face must have disappointed him. My experiences were becoming lessons in stereotype breaking: How could this girl be a stripper, if she’s sitting in the same class with me? The combination confounded my peers.
The shock usually turned to curiosity on the men’s part, abrupt coolness on the women’s. I couldn’t be bothered. I was a warrior tackling larger problems than pleasing society in general. I would save my sensibilities for those who cared to understand, or at least accept me.
It was later that same day when I met Honey, who happened to be a living, breathing (and sometimes grinding) Barbie doll. We planned to enjoy a few cups of coffee and organize a support fund for Tawni. Her ankle had snapped when an excited fan pirouetted into the ring, body slamming her. There was no insurance and no support from the club (we were all free agents, self-employed entertainers), so the Knockouts were helping her during her recovery.
Honey and I were relaxed, deep in a conversation about work, only to be harassed by a pair of insecure faux feminists. They eavesdropped, then stared blatantly, shocked. Finally one remarked coldly to the other, “I didn’t realize people like that came here.” (It was a coffee shop on campus). They left, but not before checking our faces for a response. They succeeded. Honey, terribly shy despite her star-quality looks, was teary-eyed and speechless. Then she hung her head, as though studying the drops of coffee on her napkin. I refused to hang my head like her, but failed to do much of anything else.
Thankfully, my friends were supportive. Reid and Maurice were willing to listen to the stories and descriptions, and Mark, of course, was a devoted fan of Heidi the regular girl. Loyal to my rules, I watched my boundaries religiously. I was finally a normal, if low-profile, student. The Foxy Lady was only a job.
Through the campus grapevi
ne I heard that my stripper skills were being discussed derogatorily behind my back by a student I’d met once, not at the club but under normal circumstances at a school function. When introduced, Erich had charmed me with his sincerity and humor, and we had shared an extended friendly conversation. I hadn’t run into him since, but I felt that we’d connected and were friends. To hear that he was the culprit disappointed me. Conveniently, we crossed paths a few days later and when he invited me to dinner, all sweetness and light, a plan formed in my mind. He was one hypocrite I wouldn’t pass by. I was going to enlighten him.
Dinner began pleasantly. It was a warm evening and our table was on a terrace. Flowers surrounded us, we ate fine food, and Erich was genuinely interesting. And deliciously attractive, like a blond, extra-masculine Kennedy. He was from South Africa, an Olympic athlete and a world traveler. Like me, he was a few years older than most Brown students. Our rapport, by the middle of dinner, was relaxed and comfortable. So he was taken aback when I said, calmly and sincerely curious, “I’m told you said a few unkind things about me and the fact that I work as a stripper. If it’s true, I’d like to know why you would do that.”
He was speechless for a moment, then sighed. “I apologize. Yes, I did make a few jokes about you. It was dumb, I admit, and now that I know you I’m really sorry. You’re obviously a special person —”
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