The New York Doll

by Ellie Midwood

  - Oh, there’s a whole bunch of Russian girls here! It’s just you must have been probably working the “American girls nights” so far, - I smile at her. She seems very nice. I’m not even mad at her for taking my potential customer away. – Oh, by the way, that guy over there is waiting for you.

  - I know… I’m not coming up to him though. He’s been stalking me since he saw me in “The Stable”. Such a creepy guy.

  - You worked at “The Stable”? I worked there too! I mean I tried working, but I quit because they are all nut-heads over there!

  - I know! I hated that place too!

  And that’s how I met my future best friend.

  _______________

  Mikky’s story was as simple as mine. She also came to the United States not too long ago, but as a J-1 student, and soon realized that she’s not coming back to Russia ever again. Insecure of her English, she worked almost a year in one of the Russian strip clubs in Brooklyn, but soon she made a conclusion that Russians in Brooklyn are almost all broke bullshitters, and as she’s always been a very smart and ambitious girl, she started going to New Jersey.

  When I was asking her about the Brooklyn club where she used to work, she would only laugh and say, that comparing “Velvet” with the Russian club is like comparing a day with a night. Customers, mostly all Russian Jews with a little percentage of Turkish people and some ghetto blacks, had their own politics of how to treat dancers. “Why would I spend money on dances? I will much rather take you out for a sushi!” And another one, one of Mikky’s favorites: “Do you want something to drink?” – “Yes.” (moves his beer to a girl) “Here, enjoy”

  Micaela was saying that the funniest part was that the girls were actually drinking that beer and going out for sushi instead of dances, and, as Mikky called it, “were selling themselves for a $2.50 Philadelphia roll set”. Nobody was there for those poor girls to tell them that normal men do exist, and Mikky was thanking God every night spent at “Velvet” for getting out of that place. The only good thing about that place was, as she was saying, her lesbian relationship with the club DJ Leila and her heterosexual relationship with the rare representative of a successful Russian businessman, who helped her with her marriage to one of his friends. Couple of thousands that she had to pay her “husband” every month, and Mikky was expecting to get her papers in as little as six month. These boys who marry girls for money is the whole different and a very funny story. For example Mikky’s “husband”, an American born, but Russian by mentality and origin, was one “pathetic loser”, as Mikky was calling him. “What a waste of citizenship,” – she used to say. – “He was born here, and it’s such an easy country to fulfill any of your dreams, do whatever you want… and look at him, he’s a 35-year-old cab driver, who still lives with his parents and can’t even rent his own place. So when he finds a girlfriend, he can only go to her place. Can you imagine?”

  Oh yes, I could imagine. Those Russian (or Ukrainian) Jewish boys are so spoiled by their mothers, that they can only leave their mommy’s wing to jump under the wing of an unfortunate girl, who had a bad luck to marry them. Hey, just look at my cousin Ari, who, after we all came back from Brooklyn in the same car, would yell to his mother as soon as we entered the house: “Where’s the dinner? I’m hungry!” We all came here at the same time, for Christ’s sake! Go make yourself a sandwich or something! But all he would do is go upstairs and watch TV while my aunt and I would make the frigging dinner.

  Another example of one “pathetic loser” was Mikky’s friend’s “husband”, who had to marry her because he was in desperate need of money to pay his ex-girlfriend’s child support. And here we go, another waste of citizenship. You can take a Jewish boy out of Russia, but you can take Russia or “Jewishness” out of a boy. And that’s when I realized that some stereotypes do exist: Jewish boys living with their mothers, - check. A Jew (me) not liking other Jews, - check. Funny, but sad at the same time.

  Chapter 10

  Regular customers is the best thing that can happen to a girl in a strip club. It’s almost a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, but unlike girlfriends, who only get their presents on Valentine’s Day, Christmas and her birthday, we get ours every night. And you know what’s my favorite part? A girl who only pretends to be “a girlfriend” several hours a night when her customer is there, has to deal with a lot less shit than the real girlfriend. And she doesn’t even have to have sex with a guy! The biggest sacrifice a dancer has to make is to give her admirer her phone number and talk to him nicely every time he calls or texts. But several hundreds or thousands a night can totally pay for this little inconvenience.

  My first regular customer’s name was Bill. He worked at some big ass company as an accountant and has some big ass misunderstanding with his wife. He was an immigrant from Philippines and knew how to work hard. He also didn’t have too many friends here, except for his co-workers, so when the situation with his wife got really bad, he turned to the only place every guy turns to: a gentlemen’s club.

  I remember the night when I first met him. It was a Thursday or a Friday and it was pretty busy. I was making good money, I had my new shoes on and I was on a roll. I first noticed Bill when I was collecting tips after the stage, and a shy looking Asian guy gave me a twenty. Oh yes, we always notice a guy who tips us a twenty! Luckily for me, no girls bothered with him, as we all knew that Asians aren’t really big spenders. But his twenty did the trick and instead of another white collar, I chose him as my next victim.

  After a couple of drinks and a short, very typical conversation between a dancer and a customer, I offered him a dance.

  - Would you rather do a room with me instead? – Bill asked me very shyly as if he was afraid to offend me with this offer. – The lap dance zone is open and I would prefer something more private.

  - Of course I would! – I smile at him and call our hostess, Deena. - Is one hour enough for a start?

  I have to say, I hit a jackpot with Bill. In the room, of the whole hour I probably danced for 10 minutes only, and the rest of the time we were talking, as Bill turned out to be a pretty smart guy. He gave me really nice back massages and I was nice enough to give him a couple of back rubs too. Too bad he had a meeting early in the morning so he had to leave, but before he did, he left me couple of hundreds as a tip “for an amazing time” he had. I was smart enough to take his phone number. Not every day you get tipped so well for having a back massage!

  Pretty soon Bill started showing up 3-4 times a week. He got so addicted to our rooms that he didn’t even care anymore about his 7 in the morning meetings; he was staying for 3 or 4 hours and soon spoiled me so much that I didn’t want to work at all, instead I was just chilling in the chair drinking my martinis and waiting for him to come. Girls, who didn’t have their regular customers, or whose customers didn’t come to see them as often as mine, started to get jealous and asking me what was that guy doing in the room. “Really, nothing, - I would say. – We mostly talk, rub each other’s back and talk again. He’s just very lonely and needs a friend.” “You’re so lucky! – they were saying. – Don’t let anybody else steal him!” But even though some girls tried to lure him into the room, Bill stayed faithful to me and would nicely decline their offers and just wait there patiently till I get off the stage.

  Bill was a perfect customer: nice, polite, very considerate, never drunk, never pushy or dirty, a perfect gentleman. He did try to ask me out, but I was experienced enough to make him believe that we will go out eventually, just not next week because I have a laser hair removal…oh, the week after that is not good either, he has a presentation to make, too bad… You know, it’s an art to make your customer keep coming back and spend money while you are totally screwing his brain. It’s like putting a carrot in front of a donkey to make him move forward. So what that he’ll never reach the carrot? You know that, but he doesn’t, so you get what you want.

  Everybody loved Bill for his ability to spend money without thinking, and I
was smart enough to let some of my co-workers jump on this money train. You see how it works in gentlemen’s clubs, you are nice to a shot girl and let her sell your customer a bunch of shots, next time she’ll point out a quiet, invisible guy who spends a fortune, but nobody knows about it as he only speaks to the shot girl. Or you buy massages from a massage girl and she tells her customer to take you to the room next time. Oh yes, the universal law that one hand washes the other one, works here as well, and everybody wins.

  And very soon our regular night with Bill would look something like that: he would come at 10 or 11, watch me dancing on stage, give me a shower (all dancers love that, when a bartender gets on stage and makes it rain money on you) and then we would relax in the lounge area for some time. Relaxing means that Tori, a shot girl, would do shots with me (Bill was only drinking water) while Margarita, a massage girl, would rub my back. Then Tori and I would do more shots while Margarita was massaging Bill’s back. After this little routine we were ready for our private room. Deena, always a perfect hostess with years of experience, knew perfectly when to come up and escort us to the Champagne room. And after we got inside and got our drinks, I would start asking Bill about his day, his work, discuss upcoming movies, the book I just read… I was talking about everything that his wife would talk about at their family dinner. Too bad she kicked him out and he had no more family dinners, but was still craving that “family-ness”, and I was more than willing to be his wife substitute for several hours. I actually felt sorry for the guy. After all, he was a little bit like me, an immigrant, alone in the country, just out of a serious relationship, still heartbroken… So I was trying to provide the most comfort and warmth I could. Bill knew that, appreciated it and was showing his gratitude with lots of hundred bills. As I’ve said, a perfect regular customer.

  _______________

  If you think that a dancer’s job is to dance, you are terribly mistaken. A dancer’s job is to sell a sublimation of a personal life a customer doesn’t have. Or it just plain sucks. And so he comes to the club to escape his 24/7 life that he hates, his jobs that pays the bills and his wife who he hasn’t spoken to in days.

  We are always here to listen, to support, to understand, to help to make the right decision…as long as you pay us. We are the best therapists that you can possibly talk to, we never judge or laugh at you, we love you here and now, as long as you keep putting twenties in our bras. But don’t count on us as soon as you run out of money; we’ll thank you for a drink, we’ll wish you a good night and tell you to come again. Right after your pay day.

  I’ve always felt sorry for those poor Wall Street guys, whose personal life was only existent within the gentlemen’s club walls. They will take you to the private room and pay cash for 3 or 4 hours just to tell you how his job sucks, what an asshole his boss is and how he would just give it all up to go to Himalayas and live there with Buddhist monks and be happy. But too bad that he has three kids with his ex-wife and a child support to pay; and too bad that his new wife loves Chanel and cocaine so much that he has to pay for it with half of his salary. I can understand it too, if I were a wife of one of those Wall Street guys, I would probably do the same thing. I wouldn’t have a choice: if my husband isn’t at work, he’s at the business meeting. If he’s not at the business meeting, he’s away on a business trip. Or a business lunch with his partners. Or a business dinner with the same partners, at the strip club. So much money and nobody’s happy. Good thing I understood it by 26 when it wasn’t too late for me as it is late now for those poor Wall Street wives. And I recall the times, when I was nothing but a poor Russian girl, and all I wanted was money. Cash. Louis Vuitton bags. Christian Louboutin shoes. I mean like every normal girl I still like those things and I still buy them now, but occasionally, not on a daily basis as a therapy for my fucked-up married life. I know that all I want is just to be comfortable with what I have, I want to have just enough to do my laser hair removal monthly; to do my gel manicure weekly; to get a full body massage when I need it. But I would never want to kill myself physically and morally by 40 and realize that now I have money but my life isn’t worth shit. Like in that saying that you probably heard: some people are very poor, all they have is money. And thank God, I’m a blessed girl, I’m very happy with what I have now, I have my boyfriend who spoils me rotten not only with presents, but what is more important with his love and care and I wouldn’t trade it for any Louis Vuittons in the world.

  Some girls aren’t all like me though. Megan just got another Chanel bag from a customer and is very happy about it. She travels all over the states when she doesn’t dance and uploads her bikini pictures on Instagram. Good for her! I guess she’s happy at where she is. A week ago, at the club anniversary, Lexi, another former dancer, said that Megan looks shabby, that she got fat and her hair looks dirty. Megan did get a little chunky, but don’t put the girl down because you are jealous. I honestly never understood Lexi’s thirst for gossip and hostility towards almost all girls. She retired from dancing more than a year ago, after she met her future husband (the president of some company) in the club and married him (or shall I say, made him marry her with a Tiffany ring) after 4 months of dating. Now all she’s doing is spending her husband’s money on shoes, clothes and bags and adds trendy locations she’s been at to her Facebook. Looks like a very pretty picture perfect suburban Jersey housewife life, so how come Lexi is so mad at Megan’s white outfit from Victoria’s Secret that “looks dirty on stage”, or at Megan’s hair with “too much hairspray on it”? It’s hard to believe now, but they were good friends at some point, they went on vacations together and now hate each other with the same passion that they loved each other with before. Because Megan was laughing at how Lexi would die thirsty before she would pay for her own drink and Lexi keeps telling each and everyone how Megan fucked four different guys on that trip. And that’s how, my friends, female friendship dies.

  We both don’t work anymore, but unlike Lexi, who hates even mentioning of her former “career”, I like remembering something good that came out of my “stripper” job. And now, sitting by the bar with Lexi and her invisible husband Kevin, I’m thinking of how much fun I had on Sundays with my good friend Emily, when the club would just open its doors and there were no customers yet… We would change early, do our make-up and hair and go to the main stage to learn some new pole tricks. Emily would get us a couple of Red Bulls from a bartender and we would start the fun.

  - I hate you so much right now! – she would yell at me, laughing. – How did you just do that?

  I drink more Red Bull and laugh too.

  - Look here. Just jump on the pole and slide your legs down, and twist. That’s it.

  I show her the move again. After a couple of shots she gets it.

  - I did it! Did you see? I did it! – when Emily smiles, you can’t help but smile back; she has that little cute doll’s smile that just lights up the whole room.

  - Good job! Now show me that move again, when you put your legs back and turn, - it’s my turn to learn now.

  Customers start coming in and the DJ calls the first girl on the bar stage. We keep fooling around on the main one. I hold the pole tight with my hands and put my legs above my head to slide upside down. It doesn’t look too gracious and it makes me laugh even more. Emily can’t stop laughing too.

  - Oh yeah, baby, that was really hot! – she says, giggling. – Keep doing that and you’ll make a million tonight!

  - Shut up! – I’m wiping my hands on my skirt and hold the pole again, getting ready to do the move again. – You try to do it yourself!

  We both jump on the poles at the same time and do the same routine. Customers at the bar are no longer interested in the girl dancing on the bar stage and look at us instead. Later on we’ll tell them that we are lesbians, we are renting an apartment together and sleep in the same bed. They have no choice but to take us to the room together. Men are stupid, they will pay ridiculous money to see two girls make out. And tha
t’s how we make our first several hundreds tonight.

  Chapter 11

  I’m celebrating today with a can of a diet Pepsi. As it happened many times before, God interfered and helped me with someone very precious to me. God saved my little baby, my sweet little Chihuahua Eliana.

  I bought her a year and a half ago, because I knew that only a puppy could help me to get out of the deepest emotional crisis. I just found out that my fiancé, the man who I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, cheated on me…again. He was stupid enough to reveal himself. Thank God, he was always dumb enough to cover up what he was doing; he was the worst liar ever. But if at the beginning of our relationship I kept closing my eyes on many things and pretending that I didn’t know anything, this time it was the straw that broke a camel’s back. I gave him back his ring, blocked him from my Facebook page and from my life. Now, if I saw him one day, I would probably tell him how grateful I am for his cheating, how great it is that he was such an asshole with me, because now I am as happy as can be with the love of my life, with the man of my dreams, who shows me every day what love really is.

  But at that time I had only two choices: to start popping pills and get wasted in the club to forget not only his face, but even my name…or get a puppy and start doing yoga. I chose the second option. Frankly speaking, I’ve always loved myself too much to destroy such a remarkable body and mind with alcohol.

  So I went to the puppy store, but got very disappointed when the owner told me they were out of female Chihuahuas. But boys they have are just so cute! Do you want to hold one?

  - No, I’m sorry, I can’t see myself interacting with males of any kind in my nearest future!

  - Well, we have one girl left, but someone is getting her this week.