(Scary) Cherry never got drunk — she didn’t need to. Her moods traipsed up and down the scale, generously fueled by insecurities and guilt. Angry at the world, she, now nearing thirty-six, struggled to maintain the glamour and energy of her early stripping years. Times had changed. Girls fifteen years younger were enjoying the strip scene, grabbing the cash, and leaving for bigger things. Cherry was being left behind over and over. Still, she had made a nice future for herself, or so I thought. She owned a house, the Jaguar and other cars, and at least three furs. I assumed (and hoped) that she had also invested. I knew her intense schedule and how many years she had been stripping. Wealthy beyond words — she had to have half a million tucked away! — she was at a loss as to what to do with her fortune and free time. She spent her life at the club, the pile growing larger and larger, despite her waning status.
I couldn’t work like Cherry. When I covered my bills and made a little extra, my thoughts inevitably turned to my dreams. Even so, I was amazed at the luxurious lifestyle I enjoyed. My daily bills were paid. I could imagine saving money, paying off my school loans, perhaps securing my future. Stripping could do that. But I had even bigger plans.
The advantage to making fast easy money was more than financial. More valuable was the leisure time. I was able to dive into my writing projects. They took priority over my stripping career. (I was aware, of course, that without the dancing money I wouldn’t be able to afford to write.) I was determined to make the most of the lifestyle I earned dancing. Someday, when the writing was closer to being mastered, I hoped to travel and study further.
It was a luxurious future that I imagined. Stripping could get me there, no doubt, but I wasn’t ready to take the easy route. I had enough time and mental energy left over after my shifts stripping that I could explore possible careers. Writing seemed the most logical. My work was well received so far, and the book idea was moving closer to reality. An editor was helping me find an agent, but still I knew getting published was a long shot.
Brown had been a long shot.
But I’d never know until I tried! Topless dancing gave me the time to try.
The introspection and discipline involved in writing was a healthy contrast to the unnatural level of stimulation at the club. Although the majority of the clientele was unobtrusively normal, the unusual customers were hard to avoid. They ran the gamut from sexless nerds to tempting adventures waiting to happen. Besides being the most interesting, these characters were usually the biggest spenders and most reliable regulars.
Davenport, the “Esquire,” was both. In the months since my graduation we had spent more time together and gotten to know each other better. No longer was I intimidated by his high-roller look and the fact that Sparrow seemed to have jurisdiction over his wallet. Weekly she purred, growled (literally), swiveled, and swayed her way into his pockets. I finally made my move on him, simply asking for a table dance. My confidence paid off. I happily discovered his pocket was deep enough for both of us. And Sparrow, normally quite territorial, had nothing to be upset about. Davenport possessed an innate sense of fairness. He heartily and frequently expressed his belief that a couple of hours of relaxation is worth a couple of thousand dollars. He held court every Friday afternoon around four from his chair in the champagne section. The dancers would snuggle and crowd around. “Hi, Esquire!” “How are you today, Davenport?” He looked like a tired Don Juan, his arms tending to his alcohol rather than the babes leaning toward him. Once we all took turns attempting to cure his notorious hiccups. He was happy to be mothered.
By winter I was a player in his game, liar’s poker. Each player held a dollar bill, then guessed how many twos (or fours or nines …) were present in the serial numbers if all the bills were combined. The winner received everyone’s bills. The rules changed a little with Davenport. It was always my twenty against his hundred. If I won I kept all the bills, if he won he got to keep his hundred, but I kept the twenty. All the bills originated from him, and if I was on a losing streak, he would simply hand me the hundreds when I needed to leave. He was so generous he would hand me money when I left for a set, or another customer, even if we had only exchanged hellos.
One day he motioned me over to his side of the stage. “Heidi,” he said, “the office just paged me. I have to leave — I apologize.”
I squeezed his offered hand, “That’s all right, Esquire. Drive carefully.”
He grimaced and jokingly twisted my arm, pained by my subtle reference to his Rolls, which he had recently totaled. He squeezed my hand back, slipping his fingers — and something else? — into my palm.
We both laughed. Then he left, tossing over his shoulder, “See you Friday, Heidi.”
I turned back to the stage, a glance down revealing a couple of his hundreds clenched most appreciatively in my little fist.
He was the best sort of extreme customer; nonsexual, intelligent, and wealthy. In the real world, playing the devoted family man and prominent attorney wiped him out emotionally. The Foxy Lady was a safe environment for him to unwind and recharge his sense of humor. A few drinks, relative anonymity, and a staff that catered to his every need (from Chinese takeout ferried across town to a back massage) didn’t hurt. Scantily clad beauties interested solely in pleasing him helped, too. But he just wanted a few laughs and pressureless conversation, not sex. He was too tired for that.
Another easygoing regular was X-Ray Man. He was young, chubby, intelligent, and lonely. He was good for a hundred at least, but only a couple times a month. He didn’t go nuts at the club, just made friends with the friendly, natural-breasted blondes. I fit his criteria and had no problem talking for money. Usually we discussed his work and whatever was going on in my life at the time. As mild mannered as he was, he managed to get himself kicked out of the club one quiet afternoon. His offense, obscenity. It was our, the dancers’, fault.
He worked graveyard as a radiologist in a hospital in the worst section of Boston. He collected the X-rays of the various foreign objects found (mysteriously and not so mysteriously) inside his uncomfortable and often hugely embarrassed patients. We had discussed this collection of his many times. I would ask him what his newest image was, and what the accompanying excuse was. Light bulbs, golf balls, and batteries of all sizes were found inside his patients. Their explanations varied: “I sat on it.” “I slipped and fell on it.” Even “I don’t know.”
“Wait, wait!” I stopped him the first night we talked, wanting to be sure I understood. “Which orifice are we talking about here?”
“Up their bums, their behinds.”
“All of this stuff? Men or women?”
He nodded proudly. “Men, usually. It’s a sex thing.” He had been telling me about a man who arrived at the hospital complaining of severe gastrointestinal distress. The patient was eventually sent to Radiology, where X-Ray Man photographed a sizable bottle lodged in his innards.
“Ketchup?” I asked, incredulous.
X-Ray Man smiled at me, pleased with his story and with me for taking his bait. “No,” he said, “A-l steak sauce!”
I was suspicious. “I don’t believe it!” I finally said. He only smiled.
The next week he brought his collection to the club. Repulsed (and thrilled), the girls who knew him gathered around, oohing and ahhing and groaning. Then the other dancers examined his pictures. He was popular — and he wasn’t even paying us! The bouncers and the DJ checked his collection out, too. The manager eventually investigated the subversive source of excitement. X-Ray Man was promptly escorted to his vehicle to put the distracting items away. He didn’t mind because they allowed him back into the club, and he had also convinced me more completely than I would have liked.
Weird Paul was another sexless regular. When separated from his squirt gun he busied himself distributing gifts to his favorites. Honey was usually the lucky, if hesitant, recipient, mostly of jewelry. Some was very valuable, some complete trash. Except for the Rolex that she wore, she either gave away
or sold the rest. Other times he showered her with evening wear in assorted sizes, from Neiman Marcus. (Weird Paul left the tags on everything.) Honey must have slighted him, bored by his babble and drool, because for a three-night span he turned his attention to me.
He gave me compliments, cash, and strange gifts. Apparently he had run out of Rolexes (or I didn’t rate one). The range of items he did shower me with was wide: a sterling silver stamp dispenser, a partially consumed bottle of vodka, several extra-large silk dresses from Neiman, and — literally — his wallet, empty. The third night he found himself empty-handed as well as moneyless. Dapper as always, he kissed my hand and pleaded with me to wait while he ran to his car. He returned a few minutes later, having found something to give me. Eagerly he offered me his golf bag, complete with soiled clothes. He would have given away the sorry clothes off his back if I asked. I began to think he was raiding any unlocked trunk in the parking lot.
The next night his loyalty returned. Nervously wandering through the club, he didn’t see me. He had eyes (and gifts) for Honey only. This didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t even disappointed when Honey displayed his latest gift, as extravagant as it was. She had sought refuge in the dressing room holding a sheaf of papers. They contained deeds and such for a brand-new condominium on the water — all in her name.
Stage name, that is.
His desire was strong but chaste.
Drummand, the vertically challenged, cigar-wielding politician who called me “Angel Breasts,” was different. His attentions were focused on the possibility of connecting with a young beauty. Early in my Foxy career he had pursued me. He scored me high on Amateur Night, contributing to my win. Occasionally he would buy table dances, but only enough to keep me there through his pitch. “Have I told you tonight that I love you? Did you know that I think you are exquisite?”
“Thank you,” I would always say. Sometimes my face was turned down to be coy and hide my disgust; other times I looked him straight in the eye, trying to figure him out. I wondered, did he really think he had a chance with me?
“Come with me to Aruba, Heidi. You won’t be sorry” Over and over he reminded me of his wish.
Over and over I reminded him of his wife and infant daughter. “How is your new little baby? How is Angela?” I didn’t care if I lost his patronage. He was a cheapie, and his delusions were boring. But we remained friends and he never stopped trying.
He always expressed enough interest to allow for the possibility that I would run away to paradise with him. He sent me Xeroxes of his favorite sonnets and articles related to stripping just as a thoughtful friend would. He knew only that I was “interested” in writing. I didn’t share my private life with him. My modesty, however, did nothing to suppress him. His whispered accounts of the private lives of his fellow politicians didn’t thrill me. And I didn’t care to hear about the smalltime scandals the local government supported or the wife swapping and the Democrats’ porno parties. As time passed, he wasted his time with the most childlike dancers because they wasted their time with him. Still, he would blow me kisses and stop to caress my hand whenever I let him.
On only one occasion did I see him take a respite from the endless struggle. Conscious, he could not allow any soft new body to pass by without a “Have I told you how exquisite you are?” But one night his body gave up, escaped into dreamland (or unconsciousness). For once he wasn’t scoping or seducing anybody. He slept, snuggled against the leather upholstery of the couch in the VIP room. It was the safest place he could have collapsed. Aside from the waitress selling six-dollar drinks, no one would bother him, and he wasn’t bothering anyone else lying limp like Raggedy Andy. I tapped his shoulder and asked, “Are you all right? Shall I call a cab?” Sluggishly he raised his jowly face and looked at me blankly. Then, abruptly, his head dropped, the bone in his temple clunking against his Brown class ring and wedding band. I left him napping soundly.
Another Foxy Lady fixture was Nago-wee-go. (No one knew his name, but he uttered that strange phrase as a response to all inquiries and most greetings.) A narcoleptic, he also frequently fell asleep at the club. The time he did it right on the edge of the main stage was the last straw. The bouncers dragged him and his chair into a dark corner. Because he had always been decent to me I took it upon myself to protect him. With some difficulty I woke him up and instructed him to secure his cash against the less ethical girls, who would raid his packed wallet given the chance. In the middle of my speech he rolled onto the floor, out like a dead light bulb. Awake, he was an attractive thirty-five-ish Peter Pan. A trust-fund baby, it was rumored. He also worked as a stockbroker and played as sailor and lady killer. I had a soft spot for him. Most of the time I didn’t even take his money. It was too easy.
He wasn’t fair game.
I didn’t need his money. Plenty of regulars were lined up, ready to fill my coffers. Joe the Grunt spent our table-dance time smirking and muttering at my butt. It was literally months before he really spoke with me. On the other hand, Pucker couldn’t stop talking and making kissy-faces. He charged our $160 double shower on his credit card and babbled through the shower dance about buying my underwear. Out of cash, he promised to return after he cashed his next paycheck. He was unaware of my mostly nude body close to his, he just wanted to talk.
Steve also wanted to talk. He was a middle-aged, intelligent but desperate drunk. One night I was sitting next to him, for ten bucks a song, making conversation. I noticed he was leaning closer and closer, mumbling. I had half-tuned him out until I realized he was very quietly voicing his sexual fantasies. I tuned in in time to hear, “… never told anyone this but, well, you see, I’m a voyager.” He droned on about a “kinky New York City party where I watched …” It took me a long moment to understand — he was gravely admitting his voyeuristic tendencies to me! I stifled my surprise, but inside I exploded with laughter. Eyes wide, I smiled and turned my amusement into sparkle for him. He was entrusting me with his secret life, and I appreciated that.
Pucker, Joe the Grunt, Steve the Voyager, the ancient Wandering Henry, Drummand, and countless others paid their loyalties to me. Every night it was another ego trip, another bill paid. I had a group of Brown alumni cheering me throughout one wild evening shift. They announced that they had been looking “just for me.” One young man in the group pointed to his buddy and whispered in my ear, “All he’s talked about the last three weeks is you. We drove two and a half hours just to see you.”
Another night Honey and I stepped onstage the first set of a night shift and strolled around in circles while men covered the floor of the stage with ones. Hundreds and hundreds of them. We were literally able to roll in the green. (The rule was: no picking up tips during the first song of a set.) Mischievously we began hamming up our performances for each other, sharing our amusement wordlessly. I had my goddess attitude switched on high, as usual. “I deserve tons of money, I deserve adoration,” I chanted to myself.
Mom taught you to work for your rewards.
It was a high — being loved en masse (and showered with cash, too). I amazed customers by walking past them, even by merely existing. It was empowering, as only the strongest, highest-paying fantasy can be. The power emanated from the fantasy level but served as a source of motivation. I craved this power elsewhere. I didn’t especially want power over men. I wanted power over myself.
One of my regulars, Jeff, surprised me during my cop show by falling to his knees in awe. He was a friendly sort of guy who happened to buy two hundred dollars of my time every couple of Saturdays. He was prepared to leave, but wanted to watch my show. He wandered over to the stage during the first few minutes of the Kinky Cop extravaganza. Enthralled, he stood motionless as I showered him with personal attention.
I liked him.
In character I ordered him, “Hands above your head, you bad little boy!”
He raised his arms without moving his eyes from mine.
I cuffed him, then grabbed him by the nape, pulling
his hair. I leaned over him, bending his neck farther back as I did, and moved my mouth within an inch of his face. “Are you going to be good now?” I demanded politely.
He was mute, unblinking.
I released him and moved on to the next swooning man, entertaining the entire crowd as I did, spinning cuffs and shooting my aggressive, but mirrored, expression across the throng. Then I heard Jeff.
“Look at you,” he seemed to be saying. “You have all the power in the world. Look at you, you are so strong! Jesus!” He swore and dropped to his knees, weakened by emotion. Jealousy. Awe. Wonder.
Or was it beer?
I made a point of checking with him after the show. Apart from removing the handcuffs I wondered if he had totally lost his mind. He knew me and was comfortable with me. Didn’t he understand it was a show, that I was playing a role? I slipped the cuffs off him and he immediately stuck his hands into his pockets; coat pockets, jean pockets, breast pocket. He smashed the bills he was left with resolutely into my palm and stared at me. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and asked him, “Are you OK to drive?” He nodded, still staring. Then he scurried away and out. He had given me several stacks of twenties — over fifteen bills in all!
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