I Was An Exotic Dancer For Exactly Four Nights

“I’ll pay you $200 if you come to my car with me,” he said with hot breath, piercing my personal space bubble. “I really can’t, that’s against the rules” I rebuffed, implying that I ever would agree under different circumstances. “Come on now,” he persisted. I stood with my head cocked to the side to get a little further away from him. I watched as my friend Kadence flirted across the room with another man. “What do you think my name is?” she asked with her seemingly innocent, doe eyes. Finally getting away for some air, I whispered “Why did you tell him he was correct when he guessed ‘Christina’?” She leaned in slyly, “I’m not telling him the truth!” she giggled. “This is how you play the game. This is how you intrigue regulars to come back to see you dance.” I looked behind my shoulder to the stage. I was already way out of my depth.

Newly twenty-one, I was working at a dental office in a small part of town. I just acquired my own one-bedroom apartment; this shoebox with a pink bathroom, dirty beige carpet, and barely enough space to make toast in the kitchen. It was a fresh start nonetheless. I transitioned out of the hell hole that is retail, learning the trade of insurance breakdowns and spotting cavities on x-rays I mounted myself. But the hours waxed and waned depending on our schedule of patients. I didn’t mind going home early on a whim, but my bank account was suffering. My bills were piling up more than I was comfortable with. The thought of finding a part-time job, by any traditional standards, made my stomach turn. Then a lightbulb went off one day while watching Rose McGowan in Planet Terror. The opening credits certainly didn’t glamorize exotic dancing; her character slumped in front of the pole and sobbed. What could I find out about dancing in real life? Then I remembered my old middle school friend, Kiley. With one message on Facebook, I inquired about her life as a stripper. “You just have to try out and then find a girl to hook you up with shoes and show you the ropes,” she typed. “This is probably a misguided idea,” I thought to myself. Still, I needed extra money to keep the lights on.

Shy and introverted to the core, I needed to recruit one of my friends for this plan. I needed someone to hold my hand while I entertained this uncomfortable but lucrative hustle. That’s when I found Kadence. She was this tiny, 5-foot-nothing blonde with a little misplaced charisma and self-assurance. She was young and pretty with two small children she was fighting for custody for to boot. I met her and her sleazy boyfriend through a mutual friend. The first night we went out, we went to a karaoke bar. Kadence bounced up to the DJ and leaned over his equipment. Minutes later above the crowd I hear “Next up we have Natalie and Mark!” My face went bright red, “I’ve never sung in public!” Kadence nudged me to the front of the room while the DJ handed reached to hand me the microphone. I wanted to bolt out of the door when Mark looked at me, “Just go with it!” I belted, to the best of my capabilities, the first line of “Love the Way You Lie” by Eminem and Rihanna. Not my song choice, but I was flabbergasted at the ease of an activity that usually would have never attempted in my wildest dreams. This was Kadence and my dynamic, pushing me outside of my comfort zone.

Thursday nights were “amateur nights”. Anyone could walk into the strip club, pay their entrance fee, and gear up to “audition” which in this case meant having management watch you dance and decide that your body was at least minimally attractive, and you’re at least not embarrassing yourself or falling off the stage. Kadence, Mark, and I sat near the main section on sticky leather stools. A thin and toned redhead with a septum piercing gyrated towards the edge of the stage. She had a basic nautical star tattoo that sat above her strategically shaved and shaped pubic area. As I tossed a few dollar bills in thanks for her performance, I dared to ask, “what’s it like working here?” “It’s great money. And it’s easy,” she smirked back. “We’re thinking of auditioning tonight, any advice?” I followed up with. “Just make sure you don’t live too close to here; it gets awkward when you run into let’s say, some dad you know,” she suggested with honesty. “Go talk to Magnus,” she pointed out, “he mans the DJ booth. Tell him you want to dance, and he’ll set you up.” Kadence and I met eyes as if to agree silently that we were all in. We walked towards the enclosed glass booth and up the stairs towards Magnus; an overly tan individual with muscles that looked like he was comprised of a bag of ropes. “Hey, we want to try out!” Kadence yelled over the blaring music. He sized us up with his tongue in his cheek, “alright. Let the girls finish their set and I’ll introduce you. What are your stage names?” “Candy!” Kadence responded with no thought at all. It was like she had this sugary, stereotypical pick all along. “Umm…Cherry. Cherry Darling.” I countered with a just as sugary taste, but at least it had reference. We stood waiting for what seemed like only thirty seconds. My stomach was a pit of butterflies. We were instructed to strip down to our bras and underwear as if we needed a head start. God bless the two double whiskey and gingers I had for liquid confidence. Magnus’s voice reverberated off the walls like a wrestling ring announcer, “please welcome Candy and Cherry!” I followed Kadence under the glare of the lights but had to pass her to the next pole. The next thing I knew, I unhooked my bra while I walked to the last spot. Trying to be seductive, I threaded the banding between my fingers and flitted it in the air. I hopped up on that greasy, palm printed silver pole like I knew what I was doing at all, and spun slowly around, thighs tight. Mark was sitting right in front of me, eyes wide watching me naked. The night before he attempted to hit on me while Kadence was in the bathroom. As I slid back down, I watched him intently. I wanted him to know while he could watch me, he could never have me. That felt powerful.

A short, olive-skinned man in his sixties approached us after we dressed, cigarette in hand. He wore tinted sunglasses with his black hair slicked. It’s like he read what a sleazy, yet presumably, powerful man should wear in “Stripper Managers 101”. “I’m Ronny. You girls can dance here any time. Once your name is on the list, you can come back in days, weeks, months, I don’t care, you’re on the books,” he told us with a leisurely, scratchy voice. He led us to the bar provided to dancers for free, located in a closet-like room. He briefed us of the driving service and the staff that could escort us out at night. We met the girls in the upstairs dressing room. There was a cloud of smoke and a smell of about five different brands of perfume and body spray. On the counter sat hairbrushes, false eyelashes, deodorant, loose powder, and neon-colored bras. “They have cameras in here and the liquor room,” one dancer exclaimed, pointing to the corner of the ceiling. “It’s really to make sure you’re not getting trashed. Just fill up one cup and don’t keep coming in and out or they’ll lock the door.” Another dancer sat in the corner with dark brown mermaid-like hair, but a haziness in her eyes. “I knew this girl..” she said drowsy and like she had a mouth full of molasses, “who used to pour vodka on her tampon to get around the booze lock. One time she knew I had my period, so she splashed it on my pussy while I was dancing. I was pretty wrecked for a while.” This confession also came with suggestions on exactly how to hide feminine hygiene products while dancing. The first dancer took us around the top floor, showing us the VIP rooms where we could potentially make the most money. “You ever hear the phrase ‘no sex in the champagne room’? Well, customers will literally try to. And it’s a big no-no.” On the same floor sat a black desk that housed multiple screens, feeding on the cameras set in each room. If a customer would get fresh, insist on sex, or try to keep a girl longer without paying, the guys could take care of business in a hot minute.

The first real night of dancing, I showed up with a role to play. I pinned my hair up in 1950’s Victory rolls and wore a black garter and thigh highs. I ran to an adult store that morning to find shoes. I grabbed these seven-inch leucite beasts with a stripe of silver glitter across the plastic banding. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to pretend I could walk without twisting my ankle. Kadence and I headed to the liquor closet after gabbing in the dressing room for a minute. I poured a generous amount of whiskey with a splash of Coke for liquid courage and headed back.

One would think this kind of environment would elicit a toxic, petty vibe, but all the girls were welcoming and kind. We were all there for one reason and it wasn’t a competition. Soon, it was showtime. The same introduction style blared above with our music choice. I just had to repeat the previous night with the same amount of false confidence. I followed the same basic steps, attempting to be a little sultrier. I mimicked a dancer I saw on the first night, her heels pointed to the ceiling as she shook and twisted her legs like a Cirque Du Soleil chick. You get used to a stranger’s face right in your crotch really fast. The truth is, most men don’t need fancy moves or constant gyrating. If they can scan your body up close, the cash will come to you. It is embarrassing however to collect your bills in a crumpled wad like a homeless person. I used a rubber band on my calf as a solution. That way, men could slip money in and feel like they had permission to touch you for a second. After our set, I had a wave of confidence. I stripped without wanting to throw up or bolt home. But then Kadence and I were summoned for a private lap-dance, paid in advance. We lead these two normal-looking fellows upstairs to the leather seating next to the desk. My newfound confidence diminished quickly when I went to bend over and twist in front of this guy, except my ankle rolled in my shoes and I heard him chuckle. I must’ve looked like a total buffoon. Weirdly, it was easier to dance on a stage than it was to be directly in front of someone, feeling like you need to sit on their lap or touch their shoulders. It was too intimate. With my face beet red, I was just glad it was over and the dude didn’t demand his money back.

You assume customers are going to have their kinks and disturbing behavior. Some of the girls told us of their regulars; one man who wanted them to lay on the floor while he walked around you, saluting the air for about two hours. One man would pay them mad cash to watch them urinate into a cup. I was too grossed out to ask if he was allowed to keep it or god forbid, what he would do with it upon containment. One just wanted to brush their hair, and honestly, some just wanted to talk. What you don’t assume is that some men are frankly disgusted to be at a strip joint, usually because their buddies dragged them there. An individual with a furrowed brow and stand-offish vibe made you feel like garbage more than the excited, overly persistent ones. It’s not fun or cute; we were there for a job just like anyone else, despite how untraditional it was.

I got my first private room request from this kind, albeit derpy-looking guy in a flat-brim and jersey. Kadence was off using her talents to get her cash. I stood by the bar in this cherry-red teddy, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. Flat brim spotted me and tried to spark a conversation. I couldn’t help it, I outright confessed that I didn’t want to be there and was antsy to go home. I honestly believe he thought it was a part of an act of sorts like I was trying to rook him in with a nonchalant, who-gives-a-shit attitude. He complimented me up and down, asking if I was “real” but it was in a manner more innocent than what I’d encountered. He actually asked the bartender to borrow her wedding ring and got down on one knee, “please marry me!” It got me to laugh, at least. We headed up to the private room and I had no idea what I would do when I got there. He wasn’t someone I was intimidated being with or thought he expected something more salacious. I attempted this line of “are you an ass or titty man?” and tried to bend over and touch my toes, very inflexibly, trying to give him what he paid for. What ended up happening was me laying, ankles crossed over each other on the floor, while he sat on the couch. After the allotted time, he asked for more. We headed out to the desk for another charge on his card. The bouncer, inevitably watching the footage of our room, chuckled in total mockery. “I’ll give you a discount, man,” he said like I didn’t do enough to deserve the payout. The establishment doesn’t want us to give in to sexual acts, but if a customer is getting his rocks off just conversing and wants more, why do we get slighted? Nevertheless, I made $330. Enough to pay my two months over-due electric bill in one single night.

Ronny offered Kadence and me an opportunity to dance at a bar downtown one Saturday. We were given t-shirts displaying the club logo and instructed to wear black shorts and our heels. I got kudos for cutting my neckline and tying my shirt in a knot above my naval. “You girls order anything you want, it’s on the club,” Ronny explained while the female bartender side-eyed us in disdain. She didn’t utter more than two words to us the whole night. We would take turns dancing on the carpeted platform surrounded by a thick mirror. Being clothed was a bit of a breather, and it made me special we were picked for this outing. We were the entertainment. In between sets, Kadence and I had to pass out flyers for the establishment and drink tickets to get more foot traffic. I was certain I was going to eat it and fall on my face walking through cobblestone in seven-inch heels. I clung to Kadence as if taking her down with me would be less embarrassing. Some patrons flirted and whistled while we walked around the strip. Then there were the same curmudgeons who didn’t even make eye contact with us in our pitch. Cold and dismissive, they acted as we had just asked to blow them for crack or something equally as derelict. Finishing up the night with a tray of cocktails and wads of cash, I was feeling relaxed and free. All of the sudden, when I twisted back up from my rehearsed backbend, I saw a familiar face in the crowd. Holy hell, it was my middle school, science teacher. Half mortified and half adopting this “I can do whatever I want with my body” mentality, you can’t help but feel judged or cheap. Here I was with a full-time, legitimate job, supporting myself with this side gig, and still wondered if he recognized me, he would think I threw my life away to titillate drunkards and barflies.

I was over-tired and begged for Mark to drive me home instead of back to the club. The place was packed, so I squeezed in for one set and planned to call one of my friends to pick me up when I was done. The other girls were in their element, like the one that could pulse and wiggle her breasts with her arms up. Another girl with some goddess stage name climbed up to the ceiling lights, upside down, the watchers went wild. Here I was in the midst of the excitement, eager to leave. When I hopped down, I realized I left my bra and my garter piece at the beginning of the stage. I couldn’t grab it because the next set of girls were already starting. I headed into the downstairs dressing room, reserved for some of the more seasoned dancers, and panicked as I looked for some spare items. Not a brazier or even some boy-shorts to cover up my whoo-ha. I had this cheesy, homage to Madonna, fishnet fingerless gloves on for pizazz. Not even finding a pair of scissors handy, I ripped the fabric enough to stretch it into a tube and awkwardly got it over my boobs. At least it appeared semi-intentional as I creeped out of the room with just my black thong in between my butt-cheeks. Walking as fast as I could on leucite stilts, if I could just get to other dressing room, I could catch my breath and hide for a while. Almost reaching the stairs, this burly, very noticeably wasted man slurred at me, “Hey baby, how bouta’ a lap dance.” My stomach sunk. I was so close to ending this night. “Sure, honey,” I replied in as much enthusiasm as I could muster. As he took me by the arm, another dancer caught his eye and he stumbled away forgetting the interaction completely. I was relieved.

Part three of that night ended with me sobbing in the dressing room stall. There was a pang of deep-seated guilt entering into this business that I could not shake. I questioned what my father would think of me. He was a single parent, left alone with three children after my mom died of cancer. “He didn’t raise you to be doing this,” I thought to myself in sheer self-loathing. Startled as one of the girls came in to re-apply lipstick and perfume, I sniffled and wiped my eyes. She paused for a second, probably noticing my mascara bleeding down my face, “that top is really cute!” she squealed. I was wearing this aqua blue stretchy T that I turned in reverse to seem sultry, showcasing the see-through lace in the front. I still didn’t want to seem like a square even if I was blubbering over my morals. “Uh thanks, Gabriel Brother’s,” I blurted unsteadily. “I love that store!” She exclaimed and stepped out with a “cya later!” I glanced at my bruised and banged-up knees where my cover-up was fading. Every time I swung around that pole, my legs bashed into the ground when I reached the bottom. Questioning my self-worth and analyzing my battle wounds from being the most un-graceful woman on the planet, I decided I had to be done. Say goodbye to Cherry Darling.

Like anything else, there is a harsh stigma tied to exotic dancers. For me, my shame latched on like a spider. A voice telling me I was going to be nothing but trash and used by men if I continued to dance. Becoming a little wiser later in my life, I realize I had nothing to regret. I got the money I needed in a short amount of time and was lucky enough never to be taken advantage of or, god forbid, sexually assaulted. When you confess to people that you’re stripping at a club, most people, who aren’t devout bible-thumping Catholics at least, react pretty nonchalantly. I would giggle with my girlfriends about it like it was a joke; just some risqué, fun thing I was doing for a minute. My guy friends would ask to come to see me and inquire about my outfits. But the light-hearted, flirty sharing of information turned into an accusation of “you’re a whore” with a particular group of toxic masculinity. Then I realized instead of feeling belittled or maligned, I would be liberated. This was a colorful piece of my life story that I didn’t have to apologize for. Instead of believing that exotic dancing was simply getting naked for unsavory strangers, I thought of it as an art form. All these men were paying for what they could get for free at home. Paying to watch these beautiful, bombshell women contort and hang by their upper body strength. They play a role, they have a chosen name, and they don’t take any nonsense. Society has told women to “cover up” and “be modest” for centuries. Our bodies are picked apart and judged depending on the decade or the season. We own them; it’s our choice to show them. Dancers are single moms paying cash for their child’s dental work. Dancers are working their way through college and making tips at night. Dancers are rehabilitated sex workers finding a safer outlet to earn their next meal. They are human, they are your daughters and friends doing a job. They deserve respect.