by Catlyn Ladd
She gives me a sly look with her dark eyes. “Come on over. I’ll introduce you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Very mysterious.”
She shoots me a tight smile. “He’ll like you. But he usually won’t talk to a new girl without an introduction.”
“Are you serious?”
She just tips her head for me to follow. Which I do. I love a good mystery.
As we approach the table, I see the man’s head bent attentively toward Bobbie. “And what is your argument that Kierkegaard was the first existentialist?” I hear him ask. I can’t hear her murmured response.
“‘The paradox is the passion of thought, and the thinker without the paradox is like the lover without passion …’” I quote.
He looks up and regards me with light hazel eyes. “‘… a mediocre fellow,’” we finish together.
He stands and holds out a hand for me to shake. “And who are you?” he inquires.
“I’m Lex.” I take his hand and he encloses my fingers with a firm, dry grip.
“Of course you are,” he says, his eyes sparkling. He places his left hand on his chest and executes a prim little bow, his mouth stopping just short of my hand. I feel his breath feather across my skin. “And I am Rodney.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I am most pleased to make yours, I’m sure. Any woman who can quote Kierkegaard has my heart for eternity.” He releases my hand and flips one of the chairs at a neighboring table around. “Please, sit. You as well, Kris?” He turns his gaze to her and she smiles, a rarity for her.
“In a bit. I’m with a regular right now.”
“Ah, yes.” His hand rises to his heart again. “Well, we shall all pine for you in your absence.” He looks at Bobbie and me. “Ladies? Will we not?”
I drop dramatically into the chair. “I am breathless until your return,” I say, the back of my hand to my forehead.
Kris positively giggles and smacks me with her purse as she walks away.
I sit up and return to the interrupted conversation. “Now, is someone making the argument that Kierkegaard isn’t the first existentialist?”
Bobbie shoots me a very tiny glare. It’s clear that I’ve encroached on her territory and I smile at her reassuringly. I am not here to make enemies.
“Well,” says Rodney. “Bobbie is taking a philosophy class and she says that her professor labeled Kierkegaard the father of existentialism. Then I asked, upon what grounds? After all, the man wrote almost a hundred years before existentialism proper.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to steal this conversation from Bobbie.
“Well, when I think of existentialism I think of Sartre. And Camus,” she says.
“Yes. The French.” Rodney nods thoughtfully. “And what do you think? Lex.” He says my name deliberately, marking me, recognizing me.
The force of his gaze is powerful. The whole club seems to fade into the background under his regard. The opportunity for a real conversation about real things intoxicates me. Who is the seducer here?
“I think it depends on how you define existentialism,” I say.
“Very interesting.” He strokes his neat little goatee thoughtfully. “And how would you define it?”
“Well, I think there are two main characteristics. The first is the absolute belief in human freedom and responsibility. The second is a recognition of the absurd.”
“Okay,” Bobbie says, jumping forcefully in. “So by those criteria, was Kierkegaard an existentialist?”
“Personally, I do think so,” I say carefully. “That quote about paradox as the passion of thought seems to me to be a profound recognition of the absurdity of life. The paradox is that which thought itself cannot think and yet we are compelled to pursue the unthinkable. That’s pretty absurd.”
“And what about freedom?” Rodney asks. “How do you read Kierkegaard there?”
“That’s a bit trickier,” I admit. “In ‘Philosophical Fragments’ he seems so deeply rooted in post-Reformation thought that free will seems to be part of the way he explains our pursuit of knowledge. But in the ‘Teleological Suspension of the Ethical’ he may suggest that ethics cannot be rational but is superseded by faith.” I shrug. “But I’ve never entirely understood that piece so I might be wrong.”
Rodney gazes at me, rapt. His eyes never leave mine. Bobbie fidgets, running her fingertip slowly over her lips. That’s always a ploy to get attention. I’m stealing her thunder.
“At the very least,” I say, “I think it’s undeniable that his thinking influenced later thinkers like Sartre.”
“And don’t forget the Russians!” Rodney says.
I laugh. “Never. Dostoyevsky forever!”
Rodney turns his attention back to Bobbie. “If Lex will excuse us, I do believe that you owe me a private dance, young lady.”
“Of course!” I leap to my feet, taking the cue to leave. “It was wonderful meeting you, Rodney.”
He stands and executes that perfect little bow again. “Please join me again. I want to hear your opinion on a feminist reading of Plato’s cave.”
I blink at him, amazed. Who is this guy? He’s clearly trying not to be Kierkegaard’s mediocre fellow, but part of me suspects that we are all mediocre, at least sometimes. The passion drives us to pursue even unknowable knowledge, like true connection with other humans, and we always fall short. Therein lies the existential paradox. So many of my experiences in strip clubs revolve around people trying to connect. For pleasure, for money, for sex, for friendship, for simple human companionship. Rodney thrived on intellectual exchanges surrounded by the tawdry costumes, the stink of intermingled body sprays, the hustle of naked flesh in exchange for paper our society has deemed valuable. If that’s not delightfully absurd, I don’t know what is.
The night after meeting him for the first time I notice him arrive and hurry back to see him. Kris has beaten me, but she gestures toward another seat and I slip in next to her.
“I prefer the tragedies to the comedies,” she’s saying. “Hamlet’s realization that it was all for naught, Juliet waking to find her ploy gone horribly wrong.”
Rodney takes a sip of his brandy. “I love the use of masks and concealed and revealed identities most in his comedies.”
“Shakespearean tragedies use the same device,” Kris counters.
Rodney turns his penetrating gaze on me. “What do you think?”
I hesitate. He’d seemed so impressed with me the night before and I don’t want to admit that I don’t know a lot about Shakespeare. But I also can’t fake it with him; he’ll know I’m bullshitting quicker than a teacher reading an essay. I opt for honesty.
“Kris is the Shakespeare expert in this place,” I say. “Though, to return to our conversation of last night, there’s an existential absurdity to much of the great bard.”
“You’ve read Shakespeare?” Rodney queries.
“Um … in high school.”
Now Kris looks as astonished as Rodney.
“It’s not my area!” I protest. I feel my cheeks grow warm. I am not used to having my intelligence questioned. In fact, I’m used to being the smartest person in the room. “I can’t be an expert in everything!”
Rodney nods. “A valid point,” he concedes.
“But Shakespeare is so … so …” Kris searches for a grandiose enough word. “Excellent.”
I shrug. “Honestly, I am not one of the people who gets him. I tried. I enjoy performances of his plays, but reading him just feels like a constant reminder that forcing everything into iambic pentameter just usually sounds stilted.”
They both look at me with such horror that I can’t help but laugh. “But ask me about how the Ramayana reinforces patriarchal ideals and I’m your woman.”
Rodney looks back at Kris. “What do you think? Should we let her stay?”
Kris rolls her eyes. “I suppose. But only because I’ve been wanting to ask someone about why India has suc
h a rich goddess culture and yet treats actual women so badly.” She sits forward and crosses her hands attentively like a good student.
Rodney turns to me, fascinated. “That is a most excellent question. Please. Enlighten us.”
I look back and forth between the two of them. “Okay. But then you have to tell me about your favorite Shakespeare play and why you like it best.”
“Deal,” they chorus.
And that is how I found myself discussing Indian religious history surrounded by naked women and the clatter of pool balls.
I have a hard time asking for private dances. Some girls are really good at it, but I struggle to find a way that preserves the fantasy that we’re all here to have fun times at a naked party. I feel fake asking.
Rodney saves me the trouble and asks me himself. It’s the third night I’ve sat with him.
“Of course!” I say relieved. “Right after my next set?”
“Come and get me when you’re ready,” he replies.
I dance my next set on stage two, on the main floor, and then hurry to the dressing room to change into something I think he’ll like. He hasn’t batted an eyelash at the metal and chains I’m known for wearing, but I want a more sophisticated look for him. I also don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Stripping is like dating but more difficult. Dating is about getting to know someone. Stripping is about pretending to get to know someone. More specifically, it’s about revealing certain aspects of self while hiding others.
I select a floor-length velvet skirt with a slit high up one leg and a halter top in matching deep blue. I pair it with a rhinestone choker and black patent heels with crisscrossing ankle straps. I strip off the studded leather bracelets I wear on each wrist but leave my signature silver rings in place.
Rodney doesn’t say anything when he sees the outfit change. I don’t know if I’m exasperated or relieved. He’s playing me, and I’m used to being the player. He sees how intoxicating actual conversation is to me, and I recognize that he’s using my intelligence to court my interest. But he’s still the one with the cash. His ability to converse on a wide variety of topics does not change the fact that I am taking my clothes off for his money.
I take him to the private dance area and go into my show. He nods his head to the beat, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes are intent and he looks mostly into my eyes. His forthright regard unnerves me a little and so I break his gaze by turning my back.
The existential paradox is that it is impossible to ever really know a person; we can never live in another’s skin and inhabit their mind. Stripping is the paradox writ large: my essential self coated in layers of artifice and yet used so that I do not seem a shell. My self repurposed, exposed only in calculated ways. But isn’t this the truth of all life? It’s just harder to lie about it in the club.
Rodney shifts his eyes to catch my gaze in the mirror. Though he does look at my body his gaze quickly returns to my face. What kind of connection is he seeking?
Søren Kierkegaard died young at 42 years old. The son of a wealthy father and the household maid, he lived a life of privilege, walking the streets of Copenhagen, writing in his journal, and publishing philosophic tracts. I have long suspected that psychological angst and existential crises are First World problems experienced by those with privilege. Kierkegaard exemplified the “modern man” plagued by doubts, anxieties, and phobias. Never married, he appeared incapable of forming deep connections with others; his broken engagement to Regine Olsen remains a matter of speculation and seems to epitomize his inability to overcome personal uncertainties in order to maintain deep relationships with other people.
In the months to come I will discover that Rodney has never married and lives an extraordinarily solitary life. Virtually his only social interaction is with his employees, his invalid sister, and strippers. Though he jests amiably with the other regulars, often seeming to genuinely like them, he counts none of them as friends. He seems incapable of having relationships that dissolve power dynamics.
I lie down on my back and gaze at him upside down. The smile stays on his lips and I meet his eyes. He holds my stare, unflinching. I smile back at him and his expression does not change at all, only the small smile and cool regard.
We can either respond to the existential realization of absurdity by accepting our limitations as fact and working to overcome reality with communication and empathy, or we can accept ourselves as isolated and inhabiting only our own minds. The best of us, in my opinion, attempt to do both, delving deep into self-reflection while seeking increasingly sophisticated ways to bridge the gap between ourselves and others.
When I remove the top and skirt, Rodney glances at my breasts and then his eyes skate quickly down my legs. But then his gaze is back on my face, his expression gently bemused, as though he is laughing at the farcicality of the scene. I mirror his smirk back at him and he grins at me. We are co-conspirators of the absurd.
When the dance is over Rodney stands and thanks me with his small bow, and hands me double the price of a dance.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you,” he replies.
The next night I feel more confident and ask him for a private dance immediately. If I spend time with him early then I’ll have time for my regular who will arrive a bit later.
“Not tonight,” he says, glancing up at me. He’s engrossed by something Nikki is saying and his eyes immediately return to her. He barely pays me any attention at all, and after a few minutes of being ignored, I wander off into the dressing room.
Kris is curling her long, black hair, striking poses at herself in the mirror.
I sink down into the chair at my spot along the long counter that serves as a dressing table. “I think I did something wrong and pissed Rodney off,” I say.
She glances over at me. “Why do you think that?”
“Last night he asked for a private dance and tonight he just told me ‘no’ and barely looked at me!”
To my surprise, she laughs. “I doubt you pissed him off. See if he tips you when you dance the smoking lounge.”
“Then … why did he treat me that way?”
She sets the hot iron on the counter and turns to face me. “Rodney has a group of girls he likes,” she explains. “You know, the smart ones.”
I nod.
“He rotates through us, giving each girl a dance each night.”
“Ohhhh,” I say slowly.
“Currently, there are five or six of us that he’s paying attention to, so your night will come up every third weekend or so.”
I recalculate my monetary assumptions. I can’t count on a dance every night but I can count on his stage tips.
“He’s really kind of perfect,” Kris is saying. “You have plenty of time to give attention to your more high-maintenance guys and still count on him.”
“Got it.” I stand up and start peeling out of the elegant outfit I’d put on for him. I’m glad that I understand the rules. It amuses me that he has a stable of women. He tries to play the intellectual, but he’s still gratified to be surrounded by beautiful, young female flesh.
Rodney comes in almost every Friday and Saturday night. He arrives between 8.30 and 9 p.m. and is always dressed immaculately, not a hair out of place. He takes his place in the corner of the smoking room; if someone is sitting in his seat, he sits as close as possible to “his” spot and waits for them to move. Often, a dancer comes over and gently relocates the interloper. He chain-smokes to the point that I wonder how his lungs survive but limits himself to two small glasses of brandy. The bartender keeps a very good bottle in stock just for him.
He only favors girls who he considers smart and capable of keeping up with his conversation. He shows no preference for physical appearance or educational attainment; his preferences tend toward the college girls but only because we’re likelier to be able to converse with him. He is equally stimulated by Kris, with her easy elegance and simple style; Kitty, who dresses like
a baby doll in lace and satin; Bobbie, older than us at 30 and a little on the trashy side with her feathered bangs and spandex; or me, in spikes and leather. We are nothing alike on the outside, but all of us are quick-witted, capable of talking art, history, philosophy, and science.
Every time “his” girls appear on the smoking-lounge stage, he tips them $5 a song but never sits at stage. He buys drinks for everyone sitting at his table, including other regulars who often wander over to say “Hi.” I can’t keep track of how much money he spends but it’s a lot. However, he favors a different one of the girls each night. Most of the time when my night is up he buys a single dance but pays double. Sometimes he buys two dances and still pays double for each one.
I’ve known him for three or four months when he suddenly turns to me and says, “I have tickets to A Midsummer Night’s Dream next Sunday. Didn’t you admit to enjoying Shakespeare’s plays?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m the one who watches Shakespeare but doesn’t read him.”
“And you defended yourself so eloquently on that point that I cannot hold it against you.”
I smile, wondering how to handle this turn of events.
“I would be most honored if you would accompany me,” he continues. “We can have dinner beforehand.” He lists the name of a very posh restaurant.
“That should work,” I say, buying myself time. “Let me just go and check my calendar to make sure I don’t have anything I’m forgetting about.”
“Of course. I await your response.”
I hurry to the dressing room and am relieved to find Bobbie changing clothes.
“Rodney just asked me to a play,” I say without preamble.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “Go,” she says with a shrug.
“He’s okay?” I verify.
“Yes. I’ve gone out with him a couple times. I know Kris has. He’s harmless.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, pulling a complicated neon orange strappy dress over her head. “That artsy fartsy crap isn’t my bag.”
“It’s totally mine!” I exclaim.