I’d been wrong. Those dollar bills do add up.
The physical contact was wonderfully nonexistent, but replacing it was a greater level of interpersonal relating. Talking. More than half of my customers paid me to give them verbal attention. To listen and care. Of course, there were the others, men who just wanted to stare quietly or share a few beers with their buddies while a pretty girl danced, laughed at their jokes, or corrected their grammar. The subject of the communication was less important than the warmth. I smiled and responded, believed they were special. I did this as sincerely as possible, always respecting their right to escape and relax, to be. But money was always the issue at hand.
From their hands to mine.
I learned from the best how to hustle my way to excesses of one hundred dollars an hour. Nikita, the house heavy breather, laughed about her art when I naively asked her, my first weekend upstairs, how to be a “top girl.” She threw her big brown eyes at me, their whites flashing, and sighed, “It’ll be easy for you, with that natural innocent look — they all fall for that.” She had a point, I hoped. I had been watching her; the slow sultry slink she employed fit her almost Ruben-esque figure, and her downcast lazy eyes, lax full mouth, and nonchalant gestures completed the image of a barely moving pinup girl. My energetic nature and athletic body needed a different approach.
I found my niche quickly, but to be honest, the men didn’t care or even notice. The money rolled in, regardless. I was exhausting myself needlessly. My nervousness caused me to dance at a hyper pace and think excessively. I cut my energy consumption two-thirds by integrating my true personality into my onstage persona and by developing a fantastic fantasy dance — The Kinky Cop! — for occasional forays into role playing. The first comforted the crowd, the second wowed them off their chairs.
By midsummer I was in a groove. The weekend nights were an intense blur of cash, sweat, and public relations aplomb. One night in particular I will always recall. Usually I only remember big money nights, and big money clients, but this night was more than big money, it was the night I counseled a teary-eyed policeman, handcuffed the wrong guy, and met the Messiah.
The club was hopping, pulsating with a seemingly infinite mass of warm bodies. Warm male bodies, that is, which to me connoted nothing but endless cold cash. Under these circumstances the job became deliciously sensual. Not only was I infected by the enthusiasm of the hundreds of men, but the prospect of a big-money night excited me, increased my adrenaline to manic levels. I would vehemently focus on my objective, eager to max out every possible wallet and credit card sitting helplessly in the steamy pockets of the enthralled men on the floor. I was up for the challenge, and my energy was boundless.
It was mid-shift, about 9:45, and I was finishing my last set on Pure Platinum, one of the two smaller stages orbiting the main stage. As my body effortlessly commanded the attentions of the men below me, I noted a handsome young man shyly watching me. He slumped slightly, revealing his lack of confidence, and kept his hands stiffly smashed into his worn khaki pants. He was my regular and had been following me around the club since my shift began at 6:30. Weakly he fought the crowd, losing me and then finding me over and over again. I knew he wanted a private dance. Tonight, though, I had plenty of cash-soaked customers and wasn’t interested in taking the puppy dog’s money. I was appreciative of his loyalty, and a little surprised to find I had a regular.
Does this make me a real stripper?
But I couldn’t even remember his name. In my mind I always called him puppy dog; it described him succinctly. I didn’t understand why he was in the club on a Saturday. It wasn’t his regular night. Polite and quiet, he was overwhelmed by the throng and startled by the loud displays of activity going on.
Normally I would have been thrilled to see him (he equaled an easy eighty bucks), but I wanted him to hold on to his money for a later shift. I would need him more then, and could be more relaxed with him. We were “friends” and wild Saturday nights were for the anonymous. There was no time to carry on a conversation. I didn’t have the patience for it, distracted as I was by the continual cash flow surrounding me. Besides, I didn’t enjoy seeing him pushed and confused by the overstimulated crowd; he was just so gentle.
Besides, I’m the one who’s supposed to handle him.
I had last acknowledged him about twenty songs earlier. I had given him a smile and a second of eye contact.
Quite literally, time is money.
I knew he was still waiting. I was eager to table-dance, however, and was finally free to do so because my onstage set was over; Tucker the DJ was calling me down. “Say good-bye to Heidi, leaving the Pure Platinum stage. Catch that pretty lady for a table dance!” Clutching a floor host’s fist for support, I stepped down holding my frilly mini, wearing the matching halter, heels, and G-string. Hungrily I maneuvered toward the table-dance area. I could tell by their expressions that several men were waiting for me, eager for some attention, apparently desperate to be parted from their cash.
I began to feel irritated, however, sensing the slight form of the puppy dog following my every move. I did not want to be responsible for him tonight. I knew that he was depending on me to give him an audience.
I can’t ignore the guy!
Impatience screaming in my greedy head, I paused, simultaneously gestured to both men awaiting my time to wait a bit longer, and turned abruptly.
I was now perched on the top of the three steps leading up to the table dance section. The puppy dog, who had been trailing me patiently, was directly in front of me but level with my shoulders. Looking up hopefully, but embarrassed to be so close to my lace-covered chest, he stammered his shy hello. I didn’t want to be distracted — I had big, easier money waiting for me, so I answered, somewhat distantly and automatically, “Hi, would you like to buy a table dance?” I didn’t want to acknowledge his status as my regular, in which case I’d have to be warm and exchange pleasantries. To keep up my “public relations.”
Also known as “being human.”
His humble, pleading eyes didn’t falter, so I couldn’t help but smile.
I am human, despite my efforts otherwise. I do feel.
He bravely took advantage of the moment and said, “I need to talk to you, I need just a few minutes …”
Immediately pulling back, single-minded, I countered, “I really don’t have the time. I’ll find you later.” This I followed with the old standby, “You’ll be here for a while, right?” and a quick squeeze of his unmoving arm. He mumbled faintly, but I turned back to my waiting men, selling attitude switched on high.
Damn! They had been claimed by two of my more timely coworkers. Any attraction the men had felt for me was swayed by the closest available body; winning their gaze was as easy as taking candy from a baby. Not to be deterred, I turned my sights on other prey. A man was sitting in the table-dance section just to the other side of the DJ booth, no dancer within four feet of him. Fair game. I cheerfully offered him a private dance, or rather, offered to sell him a dance. He accepted quietly, seemingly unaware of the tumult around him. I responded happily. No time wasted! And another ten bucks in my pocket.
G-string, you mean.
He sighed. Bent on keeping my pace up, I placed my leg next to him and, almost rubbing his clothed calf, slid my top off and dropped it on his lap. He didn’t respond. I looked into his guarded eyes, smiled, and stepped onto the platform in front of him. He appeared to be a zombie.
But a zombie with money.
Gripping the bar above my head, I spun, one leg lifted — modestly, not like an exhibitionist but like a ballet dancer. Dream on, Heidi. Modest, yes, but ballet dancer?
The lights flashed; rock music pounded. I saw bits of men, fists holding miniature drinks that cost too much, the bulge of a hand stuffed into a jacket pocket, a glazed expression on a customer, a bored expression on a dancer. Recalling my customer, I slowed the spin, allowing my hair to glide across my arched back. I was selling, playing the part
. My zombie was looking quite depressed.
This is just your job. You’re here for the money. Nothing else. Don’t bother.
So being a live, caring person under the stripper facade, I asked, “Are you all right?”
Looking like a pudgy grade-schooler ostracized during recess, he lifted his head to my face with an effort and whispered passively, “No. I’m not all right. I shot a man on Thursday.”
I twirled, my mind spinning.
Let it go. You’re here for the money, for the money, for the money. But you’re not that cold.
He was a Boston cop. It had been his night off. Divorced and depressed, he filled in for a buddy and worked the night shift. A bust went down. Guns were drawn. He was the quicker man. The criminal went down. Paralyzed, maybe dying. Now Patrick O’Malley, a well-meaning Irish boy from Precinct B, was in bad shape, slumped in the Foxy Lady, with plenty of nights off. No. He was not all right.
His high school sweetheart had married him. Loved him for being a policeman. Then left him for being a policeman. He was twenty-five, soft-faced and sensitive, and had been suspended today, currently awaiting investigation. Standard operating procedure.
I crouched on the platform, lights twitching on my unmoving form, the music distant. Watching his bent face, I said all the right things. He held back, but I played him right and it wasn’t too long until he had to hold back the tears. He lifted his head finally and I could see that I had gotten through to him somewhere, somehow. Peering into my eyes, he asked me quietly, “Would you want to marry a cop?”
Fifty bucks later he was alone again.
I had to go!
My feature was coming up. Not that I would have stayed with him for free. I was loyal to my boundaries. I rushed, my only speed at work, into the locker room to dress for my set. It was on the main stage, so I had decided to do one of my shows. The stashed bills flew as I pulled my police gear out of my locker. My eyes followed the paths of twenties and tens. I picked those up first, then the small bills, stuffing them into the very bottom of my locker, underneath the magic wand and strings of beads. Kristina, used to my messiness because her locker was adjacent to mine, laughed as she adjusted her wig.
Too busy to do more than laugh with her, I proficiently laced up my bad girl boots over several layers of socks. Next, I prepared my tear-off pants. They were actual police issue, purchased at the cop supply store a few blocks up from the Providence police station. I had, however, replaced the seams with Velcro (the better to titillate). Although hesitant to sell me badges with a city name, the guys in the store were happy to open their stock to me. They knew I was from Brown, from my identification, so maybe they figured I was a theater student. I saw no reason to explain the facts outright; they never asked so I never told. Besides, it wasn’t relevant; I was just a pleasant customer. They even fixed one of my .22’s for me. No charge.
I chose a studded black G-string, slid a .22 into my right boot just above and alongside the knee, then pulled the pants on, careful not to pop the Velcro seams. Next I warmed a bundle of chains and leather with the nearest hair dryer (but not Cherry’s — nobody touches her stuff.) The bundle became a sort of top: a leather collar with a metal ring for an attachable leash, bands of chain mail crossing my chest, clipping together on another leather strap in the small of my back. I hung handcuffs from the strap above my rear and tucked them into my pants, the cold metal more shocking than soothing to my sweaty skin. Then I threw a real police shirt on, buttoning the neck and then every other button. The look was embellished with a whistle on a chain, badge, identification pin reading “KINKY COP,” and various service awards — I was most proud of the “Pistol Expert” — pinned below.
By both watching the clock and subconsciously following the music I deduced that I had about seven minutes, or two songs, until I was up. I sat on a crushed pile of prom gowns and checked my face. As usual I added lipstick and nothing more. I just couldn’t get into the heavy makeup mode. It didn’t make me any more money.
And I wish to recognize myself.
With a few minutes free I decided to go out early and walk around the club looking tough, harassing men, threatening arrest, basically getting the men fired up. Swiftly I finished my look. I strapped a thick leather belt around my waist. Besides holding up the men’s pants, it carried more cuffs, my billy club, and a holster, which I loaded with my second gun. Over it all I wore a heavy police jacket. To lighten the load a bit I had removed the liner, but I was always soaking wet after the show anyway. Tucking my hair under the police hat, I managed to disguise my last trace of sexuality. (My face was shielded with mirrored sunglasses, of course.) Almost forgetting my tie, complete with mini-handcuffs for a tie tack,
God is in the details
I hurried down the hallway. A tuxedoed bouncer (to be proper, a “floor host”) opened the door for me. I sneered in his general direction (it was dark behind those glasses!), threatened him with the billy club, and swaggered by
Strutting among the swarming men, I returned their astonished and edgy looks with my best stern expression. I did hear a muted, “Hey! Got two nipples for a dime?” I ignored the comment. I played the act well. It was a diversion for me and much more stimulating than the “sequin stroll,” parading atop the stage, resplendent but predictable in an overdone gown, pretending to be alluring. Surprising the customers with the disguise was much more amusing for me, and memorable for them.
There were always a few suspicious characters who gave me a wide berth, looking the other way. They were too paranoid to realize that I was part of the entertainment and not part of the security. Messing with these guys could really upset them and I generally avoided that, although toying with them became tempting when business was slow. I was curious. Were they hit men? Enforcers for the local mob? But I didn’t have time to ask; I was working.
In character, I gruffly informed a few apologetic men that they were blocking my way. Guiltily, they jumped aside, clearing a path through the crush for me. By now I was familiar with the time delay in their ability to recognize me as a dancer (fuzzy as they were in their inebriated states). Taking advantage of it, I slipped gracefully through the crowd. I could barely hear them when they began their usual, “Hey, I’ve been bad, arrest me,” or “I’m a cop — I sure wouldn’t mind having you for a partner,” or “Where are your cuffs, baaay-bee?” Same old responses every time.
At last, the current song wound down. I headed toward the stairs leading to the main stage and Tucker quickly announced the dancers for the small stages, then began to promote me. “How’d you like this officer to strip search you? Yes, gentlemen, it’s the Kinky Cop! It’s Heidi, the original Officer Easy on main stage right now …”
With disdain, I roughly waved off the hand offered by a floor host and made my entrance. At the top of the five steps I paused, coolly adjusted my hat, and checked the cuffs at my hip with a little jangle. Then, imperiously grasping the club in front of and across my chest, I theatrically froze my pose.
All the while smoke gathered around my still form and the music gained strength and volume as the stage darkened little by little. All eyes were on the Kinky Cop.
What a blast!
Sitting to my right, a suit moaned fervently at me, writhing a bit in his chair. I suppressed a giggle and waggled the handcuffs at him. I appreciated the especially attentive stage-sitters, men who lucked into a seat at the stage and stayed and stayed. … A few seconds later the music began.
With the first heavy beat of my song, a rough rap, I stepped off the lip of the stage. Thanks to Tucker, the strobe lights hit at the same exact moment. I moved a hand to my holster in order to fondle the gun, while with the other I slid the billy club into my belt. In the meantime I was strutting like an overconfident cop down the center of the stage. As I approached the far end, I raised my hands to my head and with one fluid motion flipped my hat twenty feet behind me. While my hair cascaded and glittered in the flashing lights I eased the club slowly, tantalizingly
, out from my belt. I caught the puppy dog’s eye out of the mass of men and gave him an especially stern frown.
My actions with the billy club were especially intriguing for the crowd.
As the thick rod ponderously slid free of the belt, I swung it through the air, rotating it in my loose grip. First it arced down, then around and up, then with a little slap, landed definitively in my other hand. Staring soberly at the customers below I tapped the club menacingly against my sweaty palm, pink and small in contrast to my dark uniform, then suddenly I turned and sashayed back to the front of the stage. Tucker replaced the strobe with multi-colored flashing spots while I, threatening and very tough, swung the club. Then, with an obvious beat, I struck a proud pose and slowly, gently,
No need to be crude. A little goes a long way.
guided the stick between my legs, grinding, just enough, back and forth.
Who am I kidding? This is crude.
With attention riveted on me, I took a moment to scan for potential participants. I spotted an enthusiastic flock at one corner of the stage. One guy in the middle of the bunch, fortunate to have a seat at the stage, was silent and foggy-looking. Drunk, I assumed. I figured he was a bachelor, and because they were all sporting button-down shirts and neat haircuts, details suggestive of deep pockets, he became potential victim number one. The electric white strobes started up again. Nearly blinded, I glided down to the edge of the stage, knocking baseball caps off the heads of starstruck men, either with my boot or my club, as I passed by. Before they had enough of my antics with the club, I tossed it carelessly across the stage behind me. It hit the raised edge and threatened to blast a lusting patron in the face, but luckily it managed to topple back into the confines of the stage. Half-amused, half-concerned, I noticed this out of the corner of my eye. I allowed myself no more than a pout, however, and approached the foggy-faced man, exuding attitude with my every move.
Ivy League Stripper Page 21