She fit the mold of those who got breasts for personal, non-economic reasons. Yes, the money was often better with big breasts, but they were not necessary. They did allow their hosts to be lazy. A stripper could show up with a pair of those babies stitched in and only have to keep their eyes open (to watch the money roll in). It was inevitable that they’d become a crutch for some, girls like Flutter. Supplemented, breasts became just one effort among many to support weak egos and deeper problems than bra size.
Some girls, however, were capable of placing bags of silicone more sensibly in perspective if also within their bodies. Sparrow’s were pure economic tools. The decision came naturally to her, due to her down-to-earth attitude. Like me, she understood the concept of “my body is a commodity.” Nudity did not equal sex; nudity was natural. Business was conducted on a separate plane. Males paying her to be sensual was by now no big deal; to her it was a given. Even her high-tech pump paraphernalia failed to amaze her. In fact, she was becoming tired of the scene. “I want to learn more,” she told me late one night. “I need to be around new faces and new types of people … I’ve been here four years. I think I’ve gotten all I can out of this place.” Sparrow wasn’t talking about money; she was referring to knowledge.
Her well-adjusted attitude regarding her body and its uses was the exception. Besides psychological confusion, physical problems with the implants abounded. Bunnie, a former Knockout, had popped her bags three times (twice on the right, once on the left) and was forced to give up her beloved sport. She retired from boxing as soon as she made enough to cover the replacement surgery. Her deflated breasts didn’t slow her profits, however.
Again, female, topless — good enough.
Newly rebuilt, Bunnies aggressive demeanor didn’t translate easily to the seduction scene upstairs. Her strength upstairs gravitated to the girl-on-girl act. Unfortunately for her, simulating a sexual act (between two women) or touching another woman was strictly forbidden. We were warned that the Foxy Lady could lose its license for even one violation.
Of course, the men loved girl-on-girl situations, probably because they rarely saw them.
If earlobes were taboo, customers would obsess over them.
Bunnie tried flirting with me one night onstage, passionately unfastening my bra, shaking it around, then tossing it aside, all with her teeth. I was playing passive, giggling inside. We were driving the men wild, and their excitement increased my adrenaline. Bunnie had moved around to the other side of me and was zeroing in on my bellybutton when we heard, barely, over the din of the screaming, testosteronized men, the protests of Jackie. “Bunnie!” Clearly she had been yelling for more than a few moments. Her face was inflamed, her manager’s radio clenched tightly in her fist. She growled a command into the radio to some unfortunate soul, then turned back to us.
But we were quick. I was now innocently swaying to the music, a good five feet from Bunnie, who had cleverly and quickly extracted herself by busily hypnotizing a gaggle of salesmen. Spinning her dog tags (props from her Top Gun show that she was still wearing), she lulled the men into a stupor. They didn’t notice and certainly didn’t care that she, only nine days before, had undergone surgery to install bags of plastic under her breast skin. She could have done anything, even scratched her nose, and they would have translated it into a suggestive move. She had that power.
Like any stripper worth her hustle.
Jackie, meanwhile, stormed off — I watched her out of the corner of my eye while slipping tips into my sweaty shoe. Momentarily relieved, I turned back to my men. The set ended four tips later (one of them a fiver) and with apprehension I started for the dressing room. Halfway to my locker, Jackie looked up from the coffee station, saw me, and laughed. “Hey, Heidi-Ho, you were really heating up the stage with Bunnie. Sure you can handle it?”
Stunned for the moment it required to realize I wasn’t being chewed out, just teased, I smiled. She had looked so angry only a few minutes before.
She must have caught the bouncers telling dirty jokes over their security radios.
“The Waldos really buy that crap,” she continued, busting on the clientele.
I agreed, relieved. Jackie wasn’t so bad, especially when you were on her good side, which I always was.
Our casual banter was interrupted by a jarring, high-pitched scream from the main floor, from the main stage area. I immediately thought of Bunnie, but surely she wouldn’t scream like that. She was too tough. I ran out, followed by Jackie, who was lagging behind attempting to decipher the garbled voices panicking over the radio system.
Bunnie was clutching herself desperately, moaning and panting. Sweat popped from every pore of her body and I noticed Rudy’s hand slip as he held her up, moving her into the dressing room. I made room as they pushed by, then looked out to the stage, ready to jump up and entertain if need be. But Felon was up there, sitting on the edge of the stage. She looked horrified and confused. I scanned the area, wondering what had happened.
Then I saw it.
It was appalling. Sparkling grotesquely under the lights, like an opalescent oyster, Bunnies new silicone bag sat lonely and shivering. After a moment of mental overload, I understood. One of her breast incisions had opened. The prosthetic had slipped out, then flipped and flopped, coming to a moist and only slightly bloody stop center stage.
Bunnies friend (and lover, it was rumored) Barbie rushed breathlessly onto the stage. Gracelessly she scurried to the lost breast and grabbed it in both hands. I saw it ooze and mold to her palms. I imagined Bunnie’s pain, but at the same time realized what a great war story it would make. Bunnie always enjoyed retelling the perils and pitfalls of her career. I could imagine what she could do with this one!
Lost: 300 cc’s of silicone, greatly missed. Was part of a matching set.
Barbie scuttled off the stage with her friend’s body part. The men were agape, although a surprising number of them hadn’t even noticed. The two other stages were still rocking; table dances continued.
Felon, the beauty onstage, was shaken and incapable of providing any distraction from Bunnie’s show-stopping accident. Entertaining at this moment was a tall order for any dancer, but Felon was hypersensitive, physically and otherwise. Merely being grabbed, or verbally insulted, invariably sent her weeping into the dressing room. Bunnie’s breast casualty sent her positively reeling. She made her way along the edge of the stage toward the stairs, panic in her doe eyes. She needed to suck on a Marlboro.
In addition to handling pressure poorly, Felon had a skin problem. For her, diaper rash wasn’t only a childhood problem, nor was it for most of us strippers. Dirty stages, much-handled bills, and continual sweating gave every girl butt-bumps occasionally. Felon, however, had a certain proclivity for them. The stress of witnessing Bunnie’s “fallout” would surely make her break out in an ugly rash.
As a floor host helped Felon off the stage, Kate, the other house mom, shooed the next two girls up while Art announced them, as if nothing was wrong. Screams from backstage drew me there. I poked my head into the hall far enough to see Barbie’s half-nude body shaking uncontrollably. “Did anyone call a fucking ambulance?” she demanded frantically, glaring angrily around her. All the while she gently cradled her friend’s errant breast against her own body.
Most implant accidents were humorous and pain-free, although uncomfortable to squeamish bystanders. After Bunnie, Barbie, and the breast had been escorted to the local emergency room cum body shop, Jeeney related a lighter story. She was a six-foot-tall Native American who wore her dark hair slicked back to accentuate her perfect face. She didn’t have a perfect body, however, so her fake chest had greatly helped her stripping career. Amid laughter and nods of recognition, she described a recent sexual interlude she and her husband had shared. She demonstrated her position, joyously bouncing up and down, up and down, then — whoops! Her right breast, or rather the silicone sac within, had suddenly slipped under the skin, up to her shoulder. “Oh!” she had sa
id to her husband. “Sorry, honey.” Mimicking the motions of that night for us she reached to her shoulder, cupped the uncooperative body part, and swooped it back to its proper spot.
Who else but a roomful of strippers could appreciate this story?
As absurd as most strippers’ nonchalant attitudes toward implants seemed to me, I was more flabbergasted by the super-size class of strippers. There was a flood of them; silicone sirens with stage names like Rocky Mountains, Toppsy Curvey, Letha Weapons, and Heidi Hooters (no relation). Their small niche in the market was generously stuffed. Had consumers — passive men, for the most part — demanded larger and larger bustlines? Was striving to break the one-hundred-inch threshold good for anyone?
It was good for Moanah, the feature that week. It was rumored that she made seven grand a week, and by watching her I tended to believe it. I met with her after her last night in town. There was no sense in asking her why she had disfigured her body (each breast was the size of my head, at least). It was sadly obvious: more breast, more money. The inhibited American male would pay for anything; my 34-A to Moanah’s 88-EEE freak show. Marketed correctly, the extremes of the spectrum, as surgically created as they clearly were, could and would make Moanah a wealthy young woman. Fast.
Proudly, she proclaimed her terrible twins to weigh fifteen pounds. I asked her how she knew. She giggled and huddled over me, her breasts an awkward third party, and proceeded to tell me. As if we were two girls at a slumber party, she told me about the grocery store. She had surreptitiously weighed her breasts on the scale hanging above the fruit in the produce section. They were equal to the weight of four gallons of milk — and looked to be similar in bulk. Her skin was grossly stretched; she had two volleyballs permanently attached to her otherwise naturally beautiful body.
I asked how she made the transformation. She told me she had been making good money as a regular stripper, then thought, “Why not really go for it? Retire richer, sooner?” She went bigger and bigger. She decided there was no sense messing around, it was business. A shrewd move for her — her financial planner told her she could retire in three years. She was twenty-two. I asked if she would have the bags cut out afterward. “Are you kidding? Oh yeah!” she responded. She explained that her surgeon had her on a “frequent flyer” plan. She qualified for a discount rate. She already had problems with her back, she couldn’t wear regular clothes, couldn’t move about normally. Driving a car was nearly impossible. She was cheerful, funny, and had a plan. I liked her very much and respected her choices.
All fifteen pounds of them.
Her case was simply a response to business, to the market. The Internal Revenue Service even allowed her implants as a deduction; they were a legitimate business expense. Unfortunately, other cases went beyond simple exploitation of a male obsession and became the woman’s obsession. An obsession with perfection, money, and acceptance.
13
… And Bigger Bucks
Money speaks sense in a language all nations understand.
— Aphra Behn
A man being rich is like a girl being pretty.
— Marilyn Monroe
I didn’t need to feel like a member of “the team,” but I was interested in earning the maximum. It began to dawn on me that I was actually going to graduate. In fact, the great event was only a few months away.
As graduation neared I found I lacked the excitement my teenage self imagined would be present. I couldn’t afford a purely socially redeeming career like some Brown graduates, not with my loan payments. I hardly considered that sort of career. I wanted a job with financial rewards and satisfying work. Stripping gave me that, and free time. Perhaps there was more to the Foxy Lady than a means to graduation.
It wasn’t only money. I was interested in expanding intellectually. Sparrow was a good example of this. She had planned to retire to her native Norway in a few years. One night, waiting for the lot to clear, she mentioned that she might leave stripping a year earlier than she’d planned. This surprised me — she was famous for her determination and drive. I asked her why, recalling her comments over the last few weeks about needing new experiences. Carefully arranging and straightening her dollar bills, she answered me in her lilting accent. “This job has become too limiting. It is time to move on. I don’t want to sta, sta—”
“Stagnate?” I asked, impressed with her answer.
“Yes, stagnate. There is nothing new for me here. It was good for a while, and the money, of course, was good. But there is a time to move on.”
I could see that time coming for me, too. I was young, college-educated, healthy. I had every option. Stripping just happened to pay the most money. Erich, who was migrating to Wall Street, put it this way: “Heidi, baby, we all prostitute ourselves — one way or another. It’s the American way! Isn’t it damn great?”
I was learning to be comfortable with the reality. No longer did I believe, as I once naively did, that simply by being a skilled, nice person I would get ahead. It wasn’t black and white. Appearance mattered, politics mattered, diplomacy, tact, persuasion, schmooze-ability, it all mattered. I had developed in all these areas. Stripping had been good for me, perhaps I could take it further.
How far was too far?
Charming customers for cash was my job. Maybe I could lead men on more, exploit them even further. I watched the old-timers do it. Cherry’s Jaguar was a gift from a man she danced for, and Queenie was wangling her surgery money from customers. I decided to pump an old-timer for information about their methods.
I chose Queenie. If I was considering a career as a stripper, she was a woman I could learn from. Further, we had several things in common: we had both studied writing at Brown; we both looked at stripping as a practical, positive opportunity; and (before her surgical procedures), we’d looked like twins. However, more than surgery differentiated us. She appeared to possess not one scruple.
Queenie also had major idiosyncrasies. The bad vibes I had felt from the beginning were correct, I couldn’t trust her. She had been difficult the summer before, tampering with my schedule and music requests, but she still had a wealth of experience I could benefit from. If I played the novice she would be flattered into bragging.
What a manipulative little sneak I’ve become! But I am Sweet Stripper — working for the forces of good.
One night after work, soon after Christmas, Queenie and I went to Betty’s, the late-night diner. It took us a good forty minutes to get out of the Foxy Lady mode. We were both especially intense strippers, we were both coming down slowly. But from looking at us, our scrubbed pink faces and messy blond hair, we could have been sisters out for a study break. Molly — Queenie’s real name —
I think. You never know for sure.
fiddled absentmindedly the clear Lucite rod on her key chain until she pushed it away carelessly with a deep sigh. It rolled into the napkin dispenser. I exhaled heavily and slouched in my plastic chair. Stretching an arm across the tacky Formica tabletop, I picked up the bauble. Glitter floated inside; it was a silly piece of plastic, something I would have treasured as a child, when its cost equaled three months’ allowance. Now I wouldn’t waste a dollar on it, and I had money to waste, relatively speaking.
“Not so good tonight, huh?” Molly muttered softly.
I agreed. It had been a slow night. It was the holidays, time to be with family. I attributed it to the season. Molly nodded assent, but mentioned she had made thirteen hundred the night before.
The news made me sick. Literally. I felt it in my stomach. It was a warning of possible addiction, money addiction. Every shift I failed to work, I lost money. The potential for cash was always there, from the Sunday afternoon shift to the Friday Legs and Eggs at 6 A.M. to Saturday nights. There was a constant supply of men with money. Where would it end?
Where I chose to draw the line.
As disciplined as I was, it was difficult to hear about a great shift I had missed. I feared focusing my life on money, but I could
n’t help moaning, “I knew I should have worked last night!” (Plus it made Molly feel good.) I wasn’t threatened, there was cash for everyone in the strip business. I knew that if Molly had honestly made thirteen hundred I could have done well, too — but not quite as well.
My anxiety about wasting opportunities for money unnerved me, as if there was something to feel guilty about. I fought the feeling. I knew, deep down, that I deserved money as much as the next person, regardless of the nature of the work.
While we waited for the waitress, I counted my cash.
Ivy League Stripper Page 31