by Catlyn Ladd
“That’s awful.” I give his hand a squeeze.
He glances at me very quickly and I see tears in his eyes. “It’s okay. Donnie came and rescued me.”
I glance at the door where Donnie lurks, a hulking figure of at least 300 pounds of muscle. My opinion of him goes up. “Good for Donnie.”
He lets go of my hand and swipes his eyes furtively. “I just want to wear pretty things.”
I pick up the green velvet. “So do I.”
Two months later Donna asks me to go shopping with him. I’m always cautious about accepting invitations to meet customers outside of the club, and so I ask “Shopping for what?” to buy myself time to think.
He’s holding my hand, gently stroking my lacquered nails the way he likes to do. I think he likes to see his polished nails next to mine.
“Clothes,” he says. “You have such wonderful taste.”
I wonder why he thinks that, given that all he ever sees is stripper clothes. While what I wear in the club is a partial reflection of my personality, my wardrobe is a careful presentation of the femme fatale to appeal to my mostly male clientele. Red catsuits and schoolgirl skirts are not what I wear grocery shopping.
“You want me to take you shopping for women’s clothing?” I’m still baffled. His style, what he wears to the club, can only be described as “liberal granny”: sandals with white socks, tweed pantsuits, sweater sets.
“Yes!” He squeezes my hand. “I need to update my look.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Just take me wherever you go.”
I shop mostly in thrift stores and Hot Topic. I don’t think it’s what he has in mind.
“Where do you shop now?”
“JCPenney catalog.”
That explains it. I think quickly. “Dillard’s?” I finally suggest. They have edgier items while retaining modest sensibility. Plus, I need a dress for a family reunion and maybe he’ll spring for it if I agree to take him.
“I’ll go wherever you say.”
We make plans to meet at a local mall.
Getting dressed to meet Donna takes some planning on my part. He’s cast me as a fashion icon without ever seeing how I really dress. And how I usually dress to go to class or run errands is jeans, a tank top, and flip-flops with my hair piled on top of my head. I don’t want him to see me and realize that he’s made a terrible mistake.
I settle on skinny black jeans, motorcycle boots, and a babydoll T-shirt with “goddess” written on it in red glitter paint. I brush the makeup on heavier than usual but lighter than I wear at the club, foregoing the black eye makeup and dark lipstick. I twist my hair up into an elegant roll on top of my head.
I meet Donna in front of the mall at 11 a.m. I’ve never seen him dressed like a man, and it takes me a minute to recognize him in jeans and a white T-shirt. He looks grandfatherly with his white beard and little potbelly.
He greets me by telling me how beautiful I look and kissing me dryly on the cheek.
“So, Don,” I say, shortening the name he asked me to call him to a male moniker. “What are we shopping for?”
“What I really want is a ball gown. With all the accessories. And shoes!” His eyes light up. “But I’m not good in heels.”
“You got it. Let’s start at Dillard’s and work from there.”
I’m a little concerned about his body shape in dresses. He really is shaped like a middle-aged man, as opposed to a middle-aged woman. He turns down my initial selections as being too frumpy. He wants sexy.
I flip quickly through the plus-sized selections and find a floor-length gown in deep blue satin. It hangs almost straight from rhinestone shoulder clasps, and I like the weight of the fabric and the cut.
Donna looks at me doubtfully.
“I think it will hang really well,” I explain. “The fabric will cling just enough to make you feel really alluring and move with your body. I think you should try it on.”
At that, Donna looks truly alarmed. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean …” he stumbles. “I can’t go in the men’s dressing room with that. And they won’t let me in the women’s.”
“Ooooohhhh.” I clearly haven’t thought through this whole cross-dressing thing. “Give me a minute. Stay here.”
I make my way quickly out of the women’s section and go over to lingerie. The sales clerk is a friendly-looking woman in her mid-sixties. She looks nice enough and there are no customers around.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I have a bit of a problem and I could use your help.”
She smiles warmly. “How may I assist?”
I don’t beat around the bush. “I have a friend. A male friend. He likes to wear women’s clothing.” I pause to gauge her response.
“That is a bit unusual,” she says. Her expression stays blank and warm. “What seems to be the issue?”
“He can’t try on clothing in the men’s room because … well … it can be dangerous for him. And he can’t go in the women’s room for obvious reasons. So he has to buy things, take them home, try them on, and then return items that don’t work.”
She narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “You know, I think I have just the thing.”
“Yeah?”
“We have a handicapped changing room that’s unisex. Just around the corner here. Bring your friend over and I’ll take care of you.”
I grin. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She smiles primly. “It’s really no trouble at all.”
I think that Donna is going to hug me when I tell him the news. He takes the sapphire gown from me and insists on trying an orange sundress with an empire waist. I think it will make him look like a pregnant orange, but whatever.
I’m right: the floor-length blue hangs over his figure in a flattering line. His wide shoulders and hairy arms look a bit odd but I’m getting used to that.
I select lacy panties (loose in the crotch area), a matching bra, and stockings with a garter belt. We hit jewelry next for a rhinestone choker and clip-on faux diamond earrings. Finding pumps with a low heel in his size is a bit difficult, but we finally agree on a pair of Mary Janes that aren’t awful.
Under the bemused eye of the sales clerk we also buy a whole array of skirts and tops in modern prints and fabrics. She rings everything up without ever losing her cool little smile. At the end of the transaction I ask for her card.
“If my friend comes in alone in the future, will you help him?” I ask.
“Of course,” she replies.
“Just don’t let him buy anything peach or orange,” I say. “Hideous with his complexion.”
She laughs merrily and Donna shrugs with a small embarrassed smile. “That’s why I brought you,” he says.
That Friday, Donna arrives in the full sapphire ensemble. I tell him that he looks fabulous.
Chapter Eighteen
Rain
I sit with a customer at a table one row back from stage. He tells me that his name is Brad and that he’s a long-haul trucker. Every month his route brings him through town.
I listen with half an ear, nodding at the appropriate places. What I’m really doing is watching Rain.
She is my complete opposite. On stage she wears cutoffs so short that they’re almost a thong, the tattered edges cupping her ass like a lover, red G-string flashing when she bends over. She has a flannel shirt tied up high on her stomach; the sleeves have been cut off so that the sides of her breasts flash tantalizingly in the lights. She is tan, golden, with thick brown hair spilling down her back in loose waves. She dances to “country pop” and white trash metal: Garth Brooks, Kid Rock, Nickelback.
She’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
She has just started at the club. She’s danced in Birmingham and Atlanta. Now she’s here. She is bubbly, her mood contagious, making me laugh in spite of myself. She is completely without inhibition, stripping naked, exulting in her body.
“Do you li
ke her?” Brad asks.
I jerk out of my reverie. I have forgotten about him. I glance at him, gauging his facial expression. If I say the wrong thing, I’ll lose his money. Is he the sort of man who likes it when girls like other girls? Or is he threatened by that?
“She just started,” I say. “I think she’s beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” Brad says and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb lightly over my wrist. I want to jerk my hand away and wipe it against my skirt.
Instead, I smile at him, lowering my chin to peer up through my lashes. “Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
“You can go ask her to come sit with us when she gets off stage.”
“Yeah? You’d like that?”
“Very much.”
“Okay.” I get up and leave him, signaling the waitress to see if he needs another beer. His is getting low and men with several drinks in them tend to tip more.
Backstage, Rain drops her clothes in a pile on the dressing counter. Dollar bills spill off onto the floor. She’s sweaty, her skin gleaming.
“Good set?” I ask.
“We’ll see.”
She starts scooping up the money, and I lean down to pick up the scattered cash on the floor. I straighten the wadded bills, automatically facing them so that all the money is oriented in the same direction. I count 15 and she has another pile that she’s also flattening and organizing. I see a five.
“I’m sitting with someone who invited you to join us?” It comes out as a question, though I didn’t mean for it to.
“Yeah?” Now I have her full attention and she turns to face me. Her lips curve like a doll’s, the lower a bit fuller. Her eyes are green, the pupils rimmed by a lighter gold. “He worth the time?”
“He tipped me $20 on stage and now he’s paying $5 a song.”
“Sweet! Thanks, girl.” She hits me on the shoulder. “I’ll be right out.” She starts pulling on the shorts.
I return to find that Brad is halfway through his next beer. I slide into the seat next to him and purr into his ear, “She said that she’ll be happy to join us. She’ll be right out.”
Instead of pulling up her own chair, Rain slides into my lap. She smells of clean skin and sweat and musky body spray. I slide my arms around her waist and rest my cheek against her back.
Rain leans toward Brad and her breasts strain at her bikini top. His eyes drift from her mouth, glossy with lipstick, to her cleavage.
“You didn’t tip me on stage, now did you?” Her voice is pure Southern drawl.
“He was busy looking at me,” I offer. We never make a client feel bad or even hint at something that might cause them shame.
“Well, let’s fix that right up.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and flips it open.
My eyes slither quickly over the bills. They are large denominations, and, while there are not a lot of them, there’s about $300 in his wallet. This is a good sign, as men often take out the amount of cash they plan to spend before arriving at the club. It’s way easier to take cash a man already has than get him to go to the ATM and pay our $6 withdrawal fee to get more. I slip the doorman an extra $5 every night; in exchange he tips me off to the men who come in with wallets bulging. Brad had earned a nod in my direction.
By the time Brad looks up to slide a five-dollar bill across to Rain my eyes are safely on his face. The illusion that it’s all about him, not his money, must be maintained.
For the next couple of hours he is exclusively the property of Rain and myself. He sits at stage when one of us is on, and the other sits glued to his side encouraging him to tip. In between our sets we sit at a small table tucked cozily in a corner, ordering drink after drink.
Ours are served basically alcohol free with just a tiny drop of vodka floating on top; sometimes customers check to see if the drinks they’re paying for have alcohol in them. The vodka is typically enough to fool them without intoxicating us. The tiny bit of alcohol also serves as a mild diuretic; over the course of an evening a girl might consume as many as 10 or 15 glasses of juice and soda. While we do sweat some of it out on stage, customers ply us with drinks, leading to overhydration. The alcohol helps.
By 1 a.m. Brad is very lubricated. Luckily, he’s a sweet, sloppy drunk and we’re all telling stories and roaring with laughter.
Rain tells a story about a time in Atlanta when she had found a wallet dropped by a customer. Upon returning it to him, the grateful man had emptied the contents, a whopping $500, into her hands.
I have no idea if this is a true story. It illustrates that Rain is not in it for the money, casting her as the stripper with a heart of gold. Customers eat this up and Brad is no different, patting her hands and telling her how kind and generous she is, how she deserved the reward.
I tell the story about the time I had skewered the hand of an overly aggressive customer with the metal heel of my shoe. Brad swears to protect me with undying devotion.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Rain says suddenly.
“What’s that?”
“I think we should celebrate this wonderful evening with a private dance.”
Brad is not too drunk to ask, “How much does that cost?”
“Twenty dollars apiece,” Rain says, leaning toward him, holding his gaze. Her lips part. I want to laugh but don’t.
“Great idea!” Brad responds promptly.
I catch Rain’s eye and she shrugs imperceptibly. He’d agreed very fast, and she should have set the price higher.
We order another round and escort him into the private dance area, which consists of a long couch with screens strategically placed to separate the dancers and give customers an illusion of intimacy. While state law forbids touching between customers and dancers when the girl is topless, here we push the limits of the law. While our clothes are on, we can climb all over the customer and we take advantage of the loophole to give the customer his money’s worth.
Rain climbs into Brad’s lap and purrs in his ear. I face away and lean forward slowly so that the skirt I wear climbs up my thighs. In a full forward bend I place my face between my knees and look up at them upside down. Rain laughs and slaps me on the ass hard enough to leave a handprint.
“Hey!” I protest, standing abruptly. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her off of Brad. She protests demurely and mock wrestles me. I wrap my leg around hers and trip her, easing her to the floor and pinning her. She squeals and wiggles. I exert more effort in holding her down. We are face to face, lip to lip, and I smell the juice on her breath, the fruit scent of her lip gloss. We writhe, ostensibly for Brad’s benefit. I enjoy the feel of her skin against mine.
At the end of the song we detangle, breathless and giggling. Brad looks at us, his previous mirth replaced by drunken righteousness. He flings two twenties down at my feet. I gape at him in astonishment, not understanding the sudden shift in his demeanor.
“Fucking dykes,” he spits at me and storms off, staggering slightly.
I am speechless, my mouth hanging open. Rain stoops and scoops up the money. Handing me a twenty she says, “Well, it’s a good thing we took all his money before.” She turns and yells after him, “Faggot!” She rolls her eyes at me. “Asshole. Real men like girl-on-girl.”
I wince at her cavalier words and take the money.
“We should go dancing!” Rain flings herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me into her. “Fun, right? I’ll bring Trevor and you can bring Gabe.”
I feel her breath in my ear and along my neck. Thoughts of Gabe, who I am intermittently dating, cease to exist.
“Yes,” I say. “When?”
“Let’s take next Saturday off.” She breaks away and takes my hands, jumping up and down in excitement. “Yay! This will be so fun.”
“Saturday’s my money night,” I protest.
She swipes at me playfully. “Who cares? You can afford it.”
The next Saturday Gabe and I meet Rain and Trevor at the club and pile into
their car to head out. I’ve never met her boyfriend, though she’s met mine. Gabe comes into the club sometimes and works as a bartender at another club in town.
Trevor is average-looking: just under 6 feet tall, broad shouldered, brown shaggy hair, brown eyes. He wears jeans and a flannel shirt with cowboy boots.
Gabe is also in jeans but with motorcycle boots and a black button-down. They shake hands affably.
I wear a velvet catsuit with knee-high go-go boots and a spiked dog collar. Rain wears a denim miniskirt with stiletto heels and a white oxford tied just below her breasts, leaving her tan midriff exposed.
We arrive at the nightclub and park. The club is huge: enormous dance floor, three bars, lots of cushy chairs and couches. The seating areas are dim and lit with red and black lights. The dance floor pulses with lights.
“I forgot my ID,” I tell the doorman, pouting. Gabe flashes his club badge. All the clubs in town issue their paid employees club badges so they get in free at any of the other clubs.
The doorman waves us in. I make a beeline toward the dance floor.
I love to dance. Stripping is one thing, but dancing, my body in motion to the music, is another. I miss dancing like this, just me and the pounding beat. Everything else fades.
Gabe and Trevor take a spot at the bar. They’re manly men and don’t dance.
Rain comes to join me. She loves to dance as much as I do, and we lose ourselves in the music, spinning and twisting and writhing.
We’ve arrived early and for a while it’s only us. Then the floor begins to fill in.
The drinks keep coming. I don’t usually drink much, and I pace myself but it goes to my head. The lights blur. I spin, a manifestation of sound.
Tan arms around my shoulders, mingled sweat, breath in my ear, along my throat, in my face. Our bodies move in perfect rhythm to the pulsing beat. Twice, men try to shove between us and we push them away. “I have a boyfriend,” Rain tells one. “You’re not my type,” I say to another.
I am vaguely aware that we have attracted a crowd, but I am used to having eyes on me. I am more aware of Rain’s body, her breasts against mine, her arms around my neck, the feel of her tight skirt against my leg. I hear only the beat of the music.