Give 'Em What They Need

"Give 'em what they need."

  Stripping isn’t for everyone.

 I entered the world of adult entertainment, knowing what it could entail. I walked through that door with not only an open mind, but a heart that had been broken more than once. So many people believe that the industry is the root of all evil, corrupting all who step foot into its clutches. NOT TRUE. Myself, and many others (including friends), are living proof that it’s not all partying, drugs, alcohol, and physical/mental abuse. This is our job, our income, our passion. We not only enjoy what we do, but we also have many perks (pun intended). So in this entry, I’m going to give you a small taste of what I experience on a daily basis. It’s not all fun and games. It’s rewarding, and it’s also hard fucking work.

 I pulled up to the parking lot, and maneuvered my little silver dodge into a random spot and shifted into “P”. My hands on the steering wheel, gradually released their iron grip and relaxing, slid to my knees. I sat and stared at the outside of this large building with almost zero windows, and only doors for outside light to peep through. A deep breath in, slow and cool, and out again. Wondering how many other girls in the past do exactly what I do before each shift. I like this, though. Leaving the outside world behind before immersing myself into the club atmosphere, it helped. Another deep breath...and...okay. That was all I needed to exit my car and grab my shit from the passenger side, close my car door and lock everything up.

 “Breathe in that industrial air. Mmm, mmm, delicious.”

 “No door guy today. That’s safe.”

My mood reeked of sarcasm, which wasn’t abnormal.

The lack of staff as of late was a little disconcerting. My hand reached for the faux brass handle. Before the door even cracked, a mixture of cigarettes and stale beer seeped through and entered my nose cavities. I walked through the first set of double doors, and then through the second. This was the “employee entrance”. Now the smell was even more pungent, and I imagined having a black light wand, scanning the carpet, walls, doors, etc. They were all heavily lined with the ashy-alcohol residue.

 “Hey, Heidi.”

 Calvin greeted me from behind the front counter. He looked unbelievably bored. It was only 3 pm in the afternoon, so I wasn’t surprised. Customers didn’t start showing up until 7. That’s when the dinner/after work crowd came in.

 “What’s up, Calvin.”

I smiled, wondering if he would even see me in the dim lighting.

 “You need anything today, Heidi?” Calvin asked, genuinely.

 Calvin always made sure I had everything I needed. He also made sure I always had my fix. Candy fix, that is. If the vending machine was out of skittles, he made sure I had plenty for my upcoming double shift. Yeah, I’m a work-aholic. Being in the club for 14 hours isn’t my idea of a good time, especially considering I don’t do drugs or drink (not judging anyone who does).

But the facts were still this: more money was to be made if a dancer worked one and a half to two shifts. Plus more regular customers were seen, gained, etc, etc. Such a never-ending cycle of now normalcy. But still better than working 5-6 days a week, at a normal job.

 “This is now my normal”, I told myself. And I was O.K. with it.

 In the beginning, there had been a sense of otherworldliness. A constant thrill. Adrenaline rush. I still experienced this, but not nearly as often as before. Going from “real jobs”, to getting naked for loads of money, doing what I love most: dancing. Miss Nude Pageants, nude modeling, the world of constant photoshoots and being asked to be filmed, taken home...wanted. After feeling unloved and unsexy for SO long, it was nice. And even though I did not always take up all offers, it made me feel like I was someone. Society loves doing that...making someone feel unwanted, unloved, unneeded, useless, unforgettable. Deep down, I knew I was none of these things, but I had almost started to believe it was the truth. People need to be made to feel. To feel important, not insignificant. And I enjoy doing this.

 Yes, it’s true, I enjoy making people feel loved. And they pay me for it. So sue me. It’s something that needs to be more present in our everyday lifestyle, our culture, but very few people actually come to this realization on their own. Or figure out how to break the cycle.

 “Later, Calvin, I will definitely need some later on!”

 “Cool, I’ll get them on my break.” Calvin replied.

 (I tipped him every time he made a run for me, so in the end we both won).  

 That’s really what this business is about, though. Making each other happy, feel respected...not being a douche. And the dancers and employees who are assholes? I’ll just say this--they don’t last for long. They may make money initially, but as far as a long-term career? Doubtful.

I climbed the two steps that lead to the upper platform, which was the main part of the club. Waved at the bartender as I passed, nodded to the girls on the side stage, greeted the dj inside his booth. Something I also made a point to do, was weigh the crowd and scan for regular customers that may be there waiting on me to arrive. Only one potential client, and not even a for sure bet. Still, it could be advantageous to hurry and get ready.

The song I walked in on finished as I passed the Dj booth, and Spicy, put the mic to his mouth. I opened the dressing room door, Spicy’s voice echoing through the club and trailed behind me into the dressing area. Only a few dancers were actually present for their shift today. I gathered this from the lack of bags, street clothes and other belongings not strewn about. Most entertainers would store their things in their private lockers, but 90% of the time would leave behind at least one or two items. This was a pretty safe club, not much theft occurred between girls. They knew they’d get sacked. Zero tolerance for theft, open drug use and fighting. It’s one of the better clubs, and every shift I walked into, I realized how lucky I am.

 “...My next entertainer on the number one stage...Kylee. Go say hello to our lovely Kylee.” Spicy’s voice over the dressing room speaker came through semi-audibly. “Bad To The Bone” was Kylee’s first song, one of my all time favorite oldies.

 “Great choice, Spice”, I thought to myself as I found my spot at the one of three circular vanities, and started to unpack. I say unpack, because I take almost all of my costumes home with me at the end of each shift, just in case some dickhead decided to break into my locker. Jake also packs my meals for me so I don’t have to spend a lot on food whilst working. Such a sweet boyfriend I have. But seriously, he’s fucking amazing. Dating someone who used to be an entertainer and dj himself, who still performs, is one of the coolest, more surreal things that has ever happened to me. He understands the job because he's been there himself.

 The key for my locker was still in my clutch from the last shift, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Although my costumes return with me every night/day, my shoes are still stored in my locker. Kind of impossible to dance without them in this place. It took me a good while to learn how to dance in stilettos, but now I love stripping in heels. I opened my locker and took out the towel that’s always placed carefully (dirty side down) onto my seat. Am I OCD? Yes. Am I a clean freak? No. But this place is filthy. Seriously, all clubs are gross, no matter how gorgeous looking, how much money comes into them, or how popular they are. They are nasty.

 “I love your pink hair!” someone from behind me yells.

 “Oh, hey Lacey”, I smiled at her. “I didn’t recognize your voice, how are you? And thank you for the hair compliment.”

 “I’m alright. Bored. I’d love to dye my hair grey at some point.” She informs me.

 “You should, that would be really pretty on you.”

Lacey removed her waitress corset and put on a hoodie, then headed to the dancer/waitress bathroom. She checked her face in the mirror and then back out to her spot at the vanity.

 “How’s it been in here this week? I’ve been gone for several days.” I asked, actually curious to know.

 “Oh. So terrible, girl. Fucking shitty.” She made a face of disgust.

 “That bad? Fuck. That sucks.”

Lacey rolled her blonde, mid-length hair into a bun, grabbed her phone and started scrolling. I shut up.

 Working in the industry wasn’t nearly as amazing as it had once been “back in the day”, but I still managed to make good money. I constantly wondered if it was my approach. And I knew that friends of mine were doing decently also. At least 1-3 grand a week was not abnormal if you worked for it. Or course girls giving extras made more, but I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t judge what others do for money. But that wasn’t for me. I’ve never felt comfortable giving that much of myself to a stranger, or even someone I’ve known for a while. Plus, I really like my job, and girls who get caught sucking, fucking, etc, they got fired automatically. So in my opinion, not worth it. Plus, if I decided to go that route, I’d get a bodyguard, go to a hotel, and name my price. I wouldn’t put out for $100, $200, $500, or even $1,000 dollars. I can make that money without doing any of the above. It’s all about how you present yourself, manage your time, and most importantly, how you treat your customers. When I tell other dancers this...that they don’t need to put out to make money, sometimes they act surprised. I guess it’s because I was trained and taught by “old-school” entertainers, in a small hole-in-the-wall club in Illinois.

It’s amazing how much the industry has changed.

 Before the recessions, money was flowing like water in clubs across the nation. Making 3,000 dollars in a shift was not unheard of. Buying new cars, houses, property, and living like a rock star was the norm. Currently, it’s still better than your average job, but if you're not on your game, it isn't by much. The key for me is my character and making my customers feel appreciated. Between those two things, and managing my time during my shifts, I can walk out with several hundred to a grand, no problem. 
But... IT’S HARD WORK. 
Don’t be fooled. You can’t just waltz into a club and expect it to rain on your first set. But on a Friday, Saturday, even Sunday night, it’s not unlikely. As long as you play your cards right.

 After I unpack and get dressed (my makeup is always done at home), I go to the DJ booth to get my name put on the board. That way my stage set is in rotation and I can start dancing. Being seen is another important factor. Not only seen on stage, but walking around the club. If no one knows you’re there, how will you start making money? So I sit at the bar or by the DJ booth, warming up, chatting, just looking like I’m having a semi-decent time. The moment I stop smiling, that’s when the cash stops flowing in. Grumpy dancers are no fun.

 A guy walks up to me, middle aged, white hair, friendly. He asks me how my day is going, and I tell him my shift just started. He’s wondering when I go on stage again, and I inform him it may be about 30-40 minutes. He offers to buy me a drink and I tell him I’d like a sprite (seems lame, but nobody wants a sloppy drunk. Middle aged guys actually like the fact that I don’t get drunk.) I introduce myself and ask his name (sometimes happens later in the conversation). The bartender brings us our drinks, he pays, tips a couple of bucks, and turns to face me.

 “Would you like to do a dance?”

 “I’d love to have some fun with you” I reply, very coy, smiling.

 

 I know nothing about him, other than the fact that he wants to spend more time with me. We walk to the private area, and I take his hand. I want him to know that I am an affectionate person. We arrive at the private counter, and he’s asked to produce 5 dollars for a dance wristband, which will be his “golden ticket” in and out of the dance area for the remainder of the evening. He pulls out five ones, paper wristband placed onto his person, and we enter the first booth available (I tend to go to the nicest one, not too far back because those are notorious for being filthy and unpleasant...in other words, “sticky”. Which could be anything from booze for bodily fluids).

 I can tell this man has some class, because he doesn’t balk at it. He doesn’t want his dick sucked, at least not at this moment. He just wants a dance. A good, old fashioned private dance. I ask him if he’s interested in doing three songs for $100 dollars. He says he is. We do the three songs, he tells me to keep going, and we dance for three more. We’re now at $200. He’s not quite ready to stop, and asks me if three more dances is okay with me. I shake my head yes, and smile making eye contact, sitting on his lap and caressing his neck. After the third set of dances, he says he needs to go home now. I don’t ask him any questions, but thank him for the dances and for spending time with me. He looks satisfied, that makes me happy. As we walk out of the private area, he tips me another $100. This seems unrealistic, but it’s not. $400 dollars and approximately 30 minutes later, and I’m elated. Because not only have I made money, but I’ve done my job the way I wanted to do it.

 The night goes on, I dance on stage several times, finding two more guys who want something similar to the first. As it gets later into the wee hours of the night, the requests become more...intense. Sometimes I turn down men (and women) who ask me for more than what I want to do. Sometimes I’ll play along and get as many songs out of them until they realize I’m not putting out (depending on how rude they are to me).

It’s all up to the dancer. So you probably see where I’m going with this. The stigma is not 100% accurate. Have I been in uncomfortable positions that I didn’t necessarily want to find myself in? Yes. Have I ever been forced to put out for a customer? No. 

I greatly enjoy my job, and I’ll never apologize for getting paid to make people happy and feel loved. They need it. We all need it.

Once A Dancer, Always A Dancer

Once a Dancer

Always a Dancer

I walked in with excitement and anticipation. This was my first time in a gentleman’s club, and I had come alone. Yes, alone. I had moved to the area only a few months prior, and wasn't the most gifted at making friends. From age 13 to 22, I lived overseas as a “DOD bratt”, and had moved from place to place more times than most people would in two lifetimes. I was now twenty-five and incredibly curious. My shoes made no noise, as I crossed the threshold of the entry way, carefully choosing a path across the colorfully carpeted floor. A girl was moving around on the stage, and I watched her from a distance as I made my way to the bar. The inside of the club really wasn't anything special. On my left was a pool table, tucked away in the corner. There were also two upright arcade-type coin-ops beside it, one for practicing use of a firearm, the other I couldn't quite make out.

‘’This really is the sticks’’, I thought to myself. ‘’A shooting game? Really?’’ I took a seat on one of the bar stools. Despite having lived in the area for a few months, I still found myself overcome with culture shock from time to time. I tried not to judge, but everything was still so foreign to me.

 ''What're you drinking?'', a tall brunette seemingly appeared out of nowhere, questioning in a lackluster tone.

 ''Uuhh, a rum and coke, please'', I replied continuing to look around.

 To my left, at approximately 9 o'clock was the dj booth, and at the far end of the building, another, smaller stage with two poles, and what seemed to be a room semi-hidden behind them. The bartender returned, rum and coke in hand.

 ''5 bucks'', she said indifferently, yet attempting at a pass of politeness.

 I handed her 7 ones and smiled politely, ''Thanks''.

 Sitting on my bar stool, it revolved as I surveyed my surroundings, sipping on my drink. The dancer on stage finished out her song, gathered her tips, and headed down the stairs. When she was halfway down the small stairwell, she helped the next girl onto the stage.

I was instantly stunned.

The beauty of this dancer was unmatched by any other woman I'd ever laid eyes on. She thanked the other girl for helping her, grabbed a spray bottle and towel, and began cleaning the poles with a bounce in her step. I got up from my stool and made my way to a small, circular table approximately seven to ten feet from the stage.

 ''Now if only she can...'' I started, but the dj interrupted my thoughts.

 ''And up next, we welcome Rooossse!'' He announced in a very drawn-out manner.

 She quickly finished with what appeared to be the sanitizing of the poles, and began gliding across the floor. And damn, could she dance! Just the way she moved her legs made me think of an anime cartoon. Long, lean-yet-muscular, intimidating 7-inch high heels. Rose red hair, and amazing tits. But it wasn't a sexual attraction I felt to this woman at that moment. Don't get me wrong, she was utterly gorgeous, draped in her flowing red gown, shoulder length hair, and matching red garter to boot. It was her movements that had me entranced. I fixated on her legs, the arch of the back, her feet. Even her arm movements and the placement of her head were perfection. In my 14 years of dancing, I'd never experienced anything quite like this.

The Nutcracker was delightful, Swan lake was emotionally moving, Giselle, unearthly, and Les Sylphid...well, that was just a pain in the ass. Seriously, ask anyone who's danced in the chor. Literally, those arabesques had given me butt cramps for weeks.

 But this style. . .her. This dancer was exquisite. I wasn't sure what to do. Should I continue sitting? Throw money on the stage? Go up to her? If only I'd previously researched the protocol. . .

. . . and then she motioned to me. Yes, this goddess of a woman motioned for me to come to her. I got up, eagerly, (‘’but not too eager’’, I told myself. ‘’You don't want her thinking you're a weirdo, I'm sure she gets enough of them in here’’). I chose my pace accordingly, and made my way to her stage, which happened to be on my far right, the table closest to the entrance/exit. Just in case I needed to make a dash for it, I'd decided upon my choosing of the table.

My heart beat faster, my palms sweaty. I wondered if this was how it felt to be a teenage boy picking up his date before the prom. I stopped about four inches from the stage, unsure of how close was close enough, or too close for that matter. She bent down (which I imagined to be a feat in those six-inch stilettos), and spoke to me softly,     

 ''Closer.''

 With a very playful smile, Rose took my hands and pulled me in next to her. Now close enough that I could feel the heat rising from her sweat covered skin, she brought my hands onto her neck.

 ''You're so soft'', I spoke, not sure what else to say.  

 And for the record, I'd touched girls before. Quite a few, actually. And I couldn't remember any of them feeling this soft. Rose nodded and continued guiding my hands down her body. And then I remembered. . .my hands were still sweaty. And despite her skin also beaded with sweat, I felt the urge to wipe my own hands. I pulled away, and not wanting to insult her, explained what I was doing. She let out a small giggle, and grabbed my hands again. I happily allowed her to continue her work. First her neck, shoulders, her sides, and OH MY GOD. . .her boobs. (‘’They're real!’’, I thought astonished, open-mouthed, and I was sure I looked far too surprised at this realization.)

 ''You are beautiful. . .and a gorgeous dancer'', was all that managed to escape my lips.

 ''Thank You'', Rose giggled again.

 I tipped her a couple of bucks, (although I was sure that wasn't nearly enough), and right then and there, placing the money into her white g-string, I knew. I knew not only did I have to meet her. . .I also desperately had to dance like her.

********************************

Now on a side note, when I walked into the club that evening, I was sure I'd walk out with a waitress position. Coming from a sheltered and religious childhood (not to mention being trained as a professional, classical dancer), becoming a ''stripper'' would be seen as a huge insult to my family and my former profession. A ''step down'' in morals and career choice, if you will.

''But would it, really?'' I wondered. Nothing about this environment or profession struck me as inappropriate, ''unchristian'', or unethical. In fact, I had never personally had an issue with adult entertainment. And who was anyone to judge, anyway?

 I stayed at my table for close to twenty minutes, weighing the pros and cons of what my decision could entail. Two more dancers came and left the stage as I sat in solitude. On one hand, family, friends, future employers. . .random strangers even, could find out what I was doing. And what about future boyfriends or starting a new relationship? Wouldn't the career choice be selfish to put on someone? I was currently single, divorced to be exact. One small child with the ex-husband and no prospect of a serious relationship with man nor woman. Thankfully, the marriage had been pretty shitty, and the fact that it was over was a huge relief. But on the off chance I did meet someone worth getting involved with, what would I do?

I imagined being at work one evening, and taking my place on the stage--the one currently standing not but a few feet from my face. Then, in the audience, a guy I've been dating for about a month comes into view. He looks up at me, mortified and devastated. He gets up, and promptly exits. Would I be embarrassed? Ashamed? And eventually everyone and anyone I knew would not only see me butt naked, but automatically stereotype me. Did I want that?

I stared intently at the curved doorway to my left next to the dj booth, where I assumed the office was. 

But on the other hand, at heart, this seemed like a perfectly honest way to make a crap ton of money, and have fun in the process (my other shoulder angel had decided to join in and do her job). Did I mention my current employment sucked? Working two jobs, neither of which I would consider ''career material'', barely making ends meet. 

I also had a child to raise, bills to pay. A life to live. I was torn. 

Here was a serious life decision before me, and I needed to do one of two things: 

1. March straight into that office and ask how I become a stripper, tonight (it sounded so dirty when I said it like that) 

OR

2. Make a dash for the door, and head for hills.

 ''That's it'', I said aloud. ''I'm doing it''.

 I arose, collected my jacket and purse, and made a beeline for the dj booth. As I approached, the guy in the booth looked at me suspiciously.

 ''Can I help you?'', he asked.

 Not completely sure what I was getting myself into, I paused before answering.

 ''Well, possibly...'' I replied hesitantly. ''I was hoping to speak to a manager about a job''.

 ''I see. Well then you'd have to come back on Saturday for the contest. Winner gets a hundred bucks or a job''. 

(I don't want to do a contest, I thought. With all of my dance experience and background, that just sounds lame.)

 ''Would it be possible to also speak to the manager, anyway?'' I asked again, now feeling annoyed.      

 ''Yeah, I guess, but you'll have to wait'', the dj told me and he pointed back to where I came from.

 I nodded that I understood, and walked back to my table.

 ''Man, I really hope this isn't a waste of my time'', I said to myself, trying to decide if this was a huge mistake.

 About 10 minutes later, I was ready to leave. I had had enough of the waiting. Ever second that ticked by made me more anxious.

''This is ridiculous, I'm going to leave.''

But as I readied myself, a larger man emerged from the curved entryway. He stopped at the dj booth and they spoke briefly before looking over at me and pointing. 

''Oh shit, now I'm really ready to leave, this was a huge mistake…''

But before I could even stand, let alone escape, the man was already halfway to my table.

 ''Hey, I'm Teron, did you want to talk about a job?''

 Based on his attire and overall behaviour, this guy seemed pretty professional. I resolved to not run. He motioned to his office and I followed.

I've always been obsessed with extreme sports, but never really had the balls or gumption to get into any one, at least not one hundred percent. Until Pole. Dance had always been my ‘’sport’’ of preference, as it combines artistry with athleticism. But an extreme sport that incorporates dance, and originated from the circus? Sign me up. And from that point on, I was completely hooked. 

I knew that this type of dance and performance would be a challenge for me. I mean, I wasn’t out of shape. I was definitely fit, but I was ballet fit. This type of dancing not only requires upper body strength (which I didn’t have a whole lot of, being a former ballet dancer), but it also requires having the ability to alternate between floor work, lifting, maintaining meticulous musicality and choreography, while holding the audience’s attention all at once. It would be a challenge I was definitely up for. You see, I was never very fond (or good at) performing with others, in a group. I would often go onto stage with my own timing, flourish off of the choreography, and mess up the chores shapes, lines, etc. It wasn’t that I was a diva by any means, or that I was clumsy. Analyzing now, I guess just wasn’t a natural team player. I'd see my own timing, my own movement and choreography. 

Quite socially awkward from childhood until college, even now I still find myself having difficulties making friends and fitting in. But this was something about myself that I actually enjoyed. My take on seclusion and alone time: healthy. People don’t typically get enough of it. Don’t get me wrong, as human beings, we do need each other. And as of the past six months to a year, I've come to treasure and love the time I spend with others like myself--my Pole Sisters and family, if you will. But I feel I’ll still always just be one of these individuals, passionate as I am, wanting, nay, needing to do my own thing. 

Holding a ‘’normal’’ 9-5 job was excruciating for me. I hated every minute of it. I adore being a dancer, though. As well as dabbling in other areas in the performing arts. But back then, I had been convinced for some time that artists don’t typically make money from their craft, and rarely become employed. Only the ''best of the best'' survived off of their craft. And while that will always ring true to some extent, it’s an ever-changing, growing world out there. And while this may have been the norm 20 years ago, I do believe it is changing and has changed. Society wants artists to inspire, to entertain, and to teach them. Comedians, actors, writers, musicians, painters, and yes, even dancers. Whether it be in the club, burlesque, doing competitive pole, or teaching others their art, we want to be captivated by performers, pole dancers and entertainers. However, I didn’t actually know this at the time, and Pole has evolved quite a bit even from over 5 years ago when I started. At this time, I was unsure if poling would be socially frowned upon, the way stripping has been for so long. 

And it was.