Amateur Night at the Bubblegum Kittikat

by Victoria Fedden

  “Good I guess. You ever miss it?”

  “Only the money,” she said, “Once you get out and get a real job it feels weird to get your check at the end of the week and you realize it took you forty hours to make what you made in a couple days stripping, but other than that I don’t miss it. I mean, it was fun sometimes, but no.”

  “I wonder what it would be like to dance,” I said, “Sometimes I think about it.”

  “Are you considering it?”

  I shrugged and said maybe.

  “Weren’t you thinking about going back to school?”

  I shrugged again.

  “If you do it, just do it for fun and keep it in your head that it’s only temporary. Don’t get sucked in,” Angelina advised.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s addictive. You think you can play around with it, do it a little while but it’s like cocaine, I swear to God. It’s hard to go back to regular life. The club becomes your whole world. Everything else seems boring. You don’t want to give up the money.”

  “So how did you avoid getting sucked in?” I wanted to know.

  “Number one, I didn’t drink at work and I never did drugs. A lot of girls can’t get out because they’re addicts and they need the money to buy drugs or they’re so fucked up they can’t function anywhere else. I mean, where else can you get trashed at work every night and still make a good living?”

  She was right. Most of the dancers drank every night to drown their stage fright, but I was still One Drink Vic, so that wouldn’t be a problem for me. I’d be fine.

  “Two,” Angelina continued, “I had a goal in mind. I knew what I wanted for my future. I wanted to teach elementary school and I knew I was dancing toward that goal. Dancing was the means to that end. Most girls don’t think past tomorrow and they get sucked in for life, except you can’t really strip forever obviously and then what? They have nothing else they can do. That’s why so many of them are looking for sugar daddies. It’s like their only way of getting out.”

  “Do you want to go in the water?” I asked.

  She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked out over the ocean.

  “Looks like it’s getting rough. We’re going to have to go soon. Storm’s coming.”

  The sun over the horizon glittered on the waves. Out over the ocean the skies were bright and clear but behind us dark clouds moving in from the west threatened to ruin our beach day. The thunder sounded like an angry ex trying to break down a front door.

  “It’s going to be a bad one,” Angelina said, turning around to look at the bruise colored masses of cumulonimbuses.

  “So let’s jump in before the rain hits,” I said.

  Angelina tapped the end of my nose with her index finger.

  “You’re getting burned,” she said.

  “I am not.”

  “Promise me you won’t get sucked in, Vic. You’re too smart and funny for that life.”

  “Are you kidding me? Of course not. I’ll never get sucked in.”

  Famous last words

  50

  That night I went to Velouria for aloe. There appeared to be a pube dying convention going on in the dressing room and it stunk of ammonia from all the Miss Clairol. Samba was helping Stormy Nair her asshole (oww) so Stormy was bent over the break room table while Samba held her butt cheeks apart. The absurdity of the scene barely registered. I had a blistering sunburn and it was all I could think about.

  “Hey,Vic,” Stormy said with a casual wave. I smiled and returned the wave.

  “You dumb ass. You look like a boiled crab,” Velouria said. She rustled around in one of her many stacked bins and came out with an economy sized pump of green aloe gel.

  “Do not mess up your skin!” she admonished, “I need you.”

  Instant relief. I didn’t even care that I’d be sticky for the rest of the shift. I sighed with pleasure.

  “Please tell me you don’t have tan lines,” Velouria said.

  “Why?” I asked, trying to reach my hand past my shoulder blade to slather the green goop on the middle of my prickling back.

  “Your skin was flawless, my dear, flawless, and I want you in this year’s Bubblegum Babes.”

  “No way. You’re pulling my leg. You don’t want me in the calendar,” I said.

  “Oh yes I do. I’m dying to have you in there. I need someone with your look. It’s unique. You have a certain appeal that’s not represented in the project so far,” Velouria explained.

  The Bubblegum Babes annual calendar was her creative outlet and she took it very seriously. It was her art and she wanted to put together something we could all be proud of.

  “Diana’s in, Taylor said yes, Savannah’s in, the other Victoria’s confirmed, as is Valentina from dayshift. I think you’d be perfect for what I have in mind,” Velouria said.

  “Really? With all these glamorous strippers you want me?”

  “Have a little confidence, will you? Of course I want you.”

  “Will I be naked?” I asked.

  “Tastefully. Probably not totally nude if you don’t want to be. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  I pondered this for a second.

  “Aren’t I too, I don’t know, Velouria I don’t have an amazing body like these girls,” I said.

  “Don’t you worry about that. You’d be amazed what we can do with props and photo retouching. You leave that to me.”

  My co-workers had practically started a petition to get me to sign up for Amateur Night, and I swear I would’ve done it were it not for my tragic downfall.

  I can’t dance.

  I mean not at all. Period. My arms and legs are incapable of moving in tandem to a rhythm. Most people, at the sound of a good beat, will relax and start to tap and sway in time, but not me. I panic and stiffen. Situations where I might be expected to dance in front of other people give me severe gastrointestinal distress. I try to avoid nightclubs, weddings or any event with a DJ and a dance floor at all costs because inevitably, people will try to get me to dance. They’ll ask why I don’t dance. I’ll explain that I can’t. Then, and I really hate this, they’ll proclaim that they can teach me. It’s so easy! Move your hips! Do this with your feet! And then they’ll realize like the three hundred people before them who’ve unsuccessfully attempted to teach me to dance, that it simply isn’t possible. Trust me on this. I was politely asked not to return to ballet class after ruining the first grade dance recital.

  I don’t really care that I can’t dance. I don’t exactly feel like I’ve missed out on any great thrill because I can’t dance. The way I see it is that when God or The Universe or whatever you want to call it, made me, It gave me many other talents. I can draw and paint. Few can come close to my cooking. I’m a natural born storyteller, a ridiculously fast reader. With all of these talents, it just wouldn’t be fair for me to also be a great dancer.

  Except, you can’t strip if you can’t dance at least a little bit, and deep down I knew perfectly well that I could never do it. I’d get on stage and freeze, probably clinging to the pole for dear life, slipping and floundering in those absurd heels like a dog trying to run full speed across a freshly mopped tile floor. As much as I loved to fantasize, I knew myself. I’d overcome many hang-ups by working at the Bubblegum Kittikat, but my inability to dance wouldn’t be one of them.

  But having my picture taken? I could definitely do that. Posing for the annual Bubblegum Babes calendar was the perfect opportunity for me to experience the glamor, the power and prestige of being lusted after. It was my chance to be a stripper without trying to wiggle my butt to the unedited versions of popular rap songs. So was I going to do it? Hell yeah.

  I wish I could say that I struggled over the decision even a little, but I didn’t. I have honestly exhausted more mental energy on trying to decide between a Snickers and Reese’s peanut butter cup. Both have chocolate! Both have peanuts. They’re both delicious! It’s a difficult choice, but posing nud
e for a calendar? Of course that was a yes and I couldn’t wait until my shoot.

  Most girls would have some trepidation about announcing to their parents that they were about to become a pin-up for a strip club, but we have long since established that my parents were not like other peoples’ parents and while my mother still nagged me daily about enrolling at the nearest community college, she was totally, one hundred percent ok with my decision to embark on a nude modeling career. My father, well, I guess he was fine with it too, although he didn’t have much to say about it either way.

  “What do you think about it, Boo-Boo?” my mother asked. That was her nickname for my dad.

  “Whatever she wants honey. I’m staying out of it,” he replied and promptly went to take the dogs on an hour and a half walk.

  So that was that.

  The greatest gifts my parents have given me are enthusiasm and freedom. I had friends over the years whose parents inflicted many harsh restrictions on their children’s lives. They had to go to this school, major in business, become a lawyer. They had to marry a Jewish guy or a Catholic guy or else. My poor friend Rachel wasn’t even allowed to cut her hair without it being a major malfunction, but me? I could do whatever I wanted and my parents celebrated as long as they knew I was happy, passionate about it and fulfilled. So not only was I allowed to choose my own path, but when I did, my parents were always there on the sidelines cheering me on. When I cooked in a hotel they bragged to all their friends that their daughter was becoming a chef. When I managed the paint your own pottery studio, they glazed bisque right along with me. If I had up and decided to become an Idaho potato farmer, potatoes would have become their favorite food. We would have had potatoes at every meal. Hash browns, fries, whatever. Knowing that I had this unusual freedom from parental judgment and criticism allowed me to experiment and to flourish without being crushed under the oppression of their expectations. For this, I have always been thankful.

  But my mom still wanted me to go to school. Pose nude, fine, but you can pose nude and go to school at the same time. And she wasn’t pushing me to enroll because she wanted me to conform to her wishes. She knew that school was a place where her bookish daughter could truly thrive if only that daughter could get over her fear of change and uncertainty.

  At least I had gotten over my fear of being seen without clothes. That was a tremendous start, I thought and I was going with it.

  I am almost loathe to admit this, but I really love the movie Titanic what with all of its schlocky, predictable romance. Don’t tell anyone, but I love that stupid Celine Dion song too and every time I hear it I choke up and think of poor Leo slipping below those icy waters and dammit MY HEART WILL GO ON TOO! There is much I adore about Titanic, but the one scene that has always resonated with me somehow is when Rose poses nude so that Jack can sketch her, immortalizing her in that one perfect moment where she is young and free and madly in love and her body and soul haven’t yet been ravaged by age and family drama and inconveniently placed icebergs. What gets me in that scene is Rose’s assertiveness. She is the one who initiates the whole thing. She decides to take off her clothes. She is in control and poor Jack is a nervous wreck trying to capture that kind of self-assured radiance on paper with charcoal. And better yet, by Hollywood standards (not mine), Kate Winslet is fat. She’s gorgeous, but she isn’t flawless. She’s rich and lush and full of a real woman’s passion. She’s not a cookie cutter, anorexic blonde starlet with hard abs and implants. This makes me love that scene even more and when Velouria asked me to be in her calendar, I couldn’t help but think of Rose reclining topless on that divan wearing nothing but a gigantic blue diamond. That was going to be me

  Except, instead of boyishly charming Leonardo di Caprio sketching me with awe and reverence, I got a middle aged dude with a skinny grey pony tail wielding a Nikon asking me if I minded showing my pussy.

  51

  I’d followed all of my instructions perfectly. With Velouria as my teacher, I was a diligent student of nude modeling. Don’t tan because lines are unsightly. Don’t eat carbs for a week to reduce bloat. Get a good night’s sleep so you don’t have bags under your eyes and if you still have bags under your eyes apply cold wet teabags. Moisturize. Use conditioner. Fresh manicures and pedicures, preferably French. Don’t get any new tattoos or piercings. Ok, that last one definitely didn’t apply to me but for the ladies representing the other eleven months it was probably important.

  My shoot was early in the morning. The club was closed, but I met Velouria in the dressing room, which was eerily quiet except for the buzz and chatter of Good Morning America on the TV in the corner. Instead of sugary body mists and acrid depilatories, the scent of fresh brew burbled from the Mr. Coffee. I declined a cup and Velouria got to work.

  “Miss August, I’m turning you into a harem girl,” she said.

  It takes a lot to transform a former kindergarten teacher’s aide into Scheherazade, but an hour and a half and a boat load of products did the trick. Velouria wouldn’t let me see a thing until she finished, which was maddening because I was dying to know how I looked. I expected the Aquanet, the hot rollers and the rat comb. I knew she’d bust out the peacock colored glitter shadows and the feathery fringes of fake lashes, but what I wasn’t expecting was lipstick on my nipples.

  “You want them to stand out in the photograph,” she explained, “Nice and rosy. Here, rub it in so the color blends and looks natural.” Because nipples painted in something called “You Look Mauvilous” are definitely going to look natural. Uh huh.

  She even used bronzer and shadows across my abdomen to make me look thinner and more toned. I guess I hadn’t considered that if you’re posing without clothes that you need makeup on more than just your face. I mean, you wouldn’t want lifeless looking pale nipples would you?

  I have to admit that standing there in nothing but my underwear with a professional makeup artist using my skin as her blank canvas was weirdly thrilling, and also a little chilly. I stood very still and let Velouria, my fairy godmother, cast her spell. Velouria’s magic wands were makeup brushes, huge pom-poms of real fur as puffy as squirrels’ tails, which she dipped into black pots of sparkling loose powders before she daubed and dabbed, swiped and tickled them over every inch of me. She even put make-up on my knees – concealer to cover up all the scuffs I’d gotten from slipping on the driveway. I apologized. I said I supposed I was a pretty big challenge but she laughed dismissively and said I was an easy fix. Hardly any work at all. You wouldn’t believe how many black eyes and worse she’d had to disguise over the years. Skinned knees were nothing.

  The magazines in the checkout lanes at the grocery store had me fooled and good. I’d believed since middle school that the cover models always looked as they appeared on the fronts of Elle and Vogue and Cosmo. I thought they were lucky enough to be born with those heavy, long lashes and that creamy, smooth complexion. I had no clue that they had foundation on their knees and eyelash adhesive practically burning their retinas. Back in eighth grade my best friend Alexandra (the one who shared my enthusiasm for Penthouse “Forum”) and I wanted desperately to be super models. We’d waste our allowances on fashion mags and pray to the powers above that we’d grow to be over five eight and somehow develop the high cheekbones and full lips required to be signed on with the Ford Agency. She’d gush that I looked just like Paulina Porizkova and I’d promise her she looked like Cindy Crawford’s identical twin one day and Linda Evangelista’s the next. If we could be super models, we thought, all of our problems would be solved. We’d be instantly popular and adored and have any boy we wanted. If we were beautiful enough to be the muses of photographers and designers we believed we’d never have to be heartbroken ever again, that no one would ever not want us or leave us out or make us sit at the loser lezzie lunch table because being beautiful and being looked at was all that mattered. But I stopped growing at five and half feet. My cheekbones never did appear and my lips remained earthworm skinny while my pot bell
y expanded with every chocolate chip cookie. Alexandra, well, I never saw her after tenth grade but at fifteen she looked a lot more like Barbara Streisand than Christy Turlington and she remained well under five eight. I haven’t seen her gracing any Sports Illustrateds lately, so it’s safe to say that neither of us had gotten our wish. Until now, kind of. I wondered what Alexandra, wherever she ended up, would say if she knew and for that matter what would Evan say if he knew? Would he be shocked? Better yet, would he be sorry? Would he want me again?

  “Stop daydreaming, Cinderella,” Velouria said, snapping me back to consciousness, “You’re ready.”

  She tossed a silky black kimono over my shoulders and led me to a full length mirror.

  “Check it out!” she said, proud of her handiwork.

  By now I’d become accustomed to seeing myself done up. Hell, I’d even gotten to be pretty nifty at doing my own hair and makeup. But this took it to a whole new level of vamp and glam. I didn’t even look human. I was a genie uncorked. Covered in luminous powders and glitters, I gleamed and shimmered. My normally flaccid hair, which had grown quite a bit since I started at the Kittikat, now spiraled down my back, somehow seeming darker; ebony and lustrous. My spare mouth had been painted into a plump, berry stained pout and somehow those elusive cheekbones had appeared. I was no longer Victoria. This is what Vixen looked like.

  “She’s got gorgeous skin,” the photographer said when he saw me.

  I was still in the kimono, wearing nothing but panties underneath. I’d even bought a new pair for the occasion. Victoria’s Secret appropriately and bright red because pink seemed too innocent. Calendar girls wore red panties. I was certain of it.

  My photo shoot was held in a spare room up in the club’s corporate offices, which I’d never seen and which looked like any other messy, shoddy operation’s headquarters. Grey, carpeted, mismatched office furniture, scattered papers, outdated promotional posters hanging off the walls with tape that’s lost its stick, the smell of burnt microwaved popcorn. Bright lights and an umbrella pointed towards a white screen set up against the wall. On the floor below the screen, white bed sheets covered the rough, stone colored carpeting and that was it. This wasn’t Hollywood and I was starting to get a stomachache. I wiped my palms on my robe and began to chew my lower lip but Velouria caught me and said I’d better cut it out so I didn’t get lipstick on my teeth.