In Manhattan, circa summer 2006, while the economy slouched in the corner and tried to avoid eye contact, job hunting was sucking dog. I suffered the phony enthusiasm of temp agency doyennes, and I ducked the student loan mafia (thank you very little Columbia University, for my MFA in Creative Writing). My resume was beginning to feel as welcome as a turd in a punchbowl. A cosmic cheese grater had been taken to both my ego and my checking account with open bets as to which would whittle away the fastest. So I decided it was time to drop the suit and pantyhose. Literally.
I was no stranger to stripping. After graduating from Rutgers in ’96, I took a gig at a dive in Jersey called the Lampost. It was the kind of joint where the dancers came with bullet scars and dirty feet. This was a place where gals stuck nicotine patches over their nipples as makeshift pasties (bare breasts and liquor aren’t allowed to share turf in dirty Jersey), a place where ladies rocked “wedgie thongs” (homely cotton briefs stuffed in freckled ass cracks). This was a job where the management checked your breath to make sure booze was on it. My Smirnoff-fueled first night ended with me stepping dizzily off the stage and into the ice bin where I sank up to mid-shin and had to fish out my shoe from beneath the gritty cubes. Apparently, I wasn’t the only dancer to have wound up in the ice bin, and my advice to patrons of the Lampost would be to order your drinks neat.
But, time passes, things change—bit by bit—and almost a decade later, I found myself auditioning at a strip club in Long Island City, Queens, that fancies itself fancy. “Valet Parking” is even spelled correctly in day-glo spraypaint. The girls are pretty, with upswept hair and gowns with matching g-strings. And so, taking careful note of the location of the ice bins, I ascended the stage for an audition. Years had passed since my first turn on a clammy catwalk pole, but a man calling the shots who claimed the handle “Butch” offered me work the following night. Sugarplum visions of groceries, electricity and cigarettes danced in my head.
Now, there were a few things I knew going in: I knew there was a house-fee, a disgusting practice whereby a club not only charges the clientele a fat cover to watch bored and desperate girls get naked, but also charges the same girls for the very dubious privilege of getting naked and earning tips. I assumed, going in, that the guys must be super high rollers for the girls to put up with that level of exploitation. I pictured clients spitting fifties at the dancers like broken ATMs and expensive jewelry with Mardi Gras abandon. But alas, no such luck. The house fee for a Saturday night comes out to $80 per dancer. Ten bones for the DJ, that’s more than fair: You piss off a DJ, you wind up subjected to the Macarena every time your top comes off. But 60 freaking dollars to a freaking club that gets away with charging ungodly sums for weak booze and a fat cover because of my naked butt? Oh, and then there’s the 10 bucks on the “house mom.” I’m not sure what a house mom is supposed to do. This one spent the shift sitting pretty in the dressing room chatting in Russian on her cell phone and trying to get dancers to buy crappy rhinestone encrusted T-shirts from her display area. I suppose her primary duty was to keep the girls from doing blow off each other’s butts in the locker room.
And “between sets” is a good hour plus. You’re expected to dance intermittently for eight hours, not including prep time. That means to break even for the night, you have to get at least 10 guys to tip you a buck at the end of each set. But I sighed and buckled myself into a costume. There would be at least 10 guys watching me dance each set. And surely one of them would be a high roller, right?
One guy gave me three dollars. Most guys were too busy getting the hard sell from the girls, who apparently only make their scratch by dragging guys to a VIP area for lap dances (a row of slightly damp upholstered chairs with the texture of mushrooms and the smell of armpit). Rows of obese men in dungarees and nude anorexic Russian girls grinding like their livelihoods depended on … it all made me feel a little kicked in the soul. I went to the stairwell to smoke and spew all these complaints out to the girls crouched back there with me. These girls were gorgeous and spoke English laced with sexy Eastern European accents, but they had no answers. At this point, I was channeling Barbara Ehrlich, and I pressed the point with one girl I cornered alone.
“Is true. They (the club) ask a lot of money for to dance.” But they don’t ask for green cards. She then told me that she paid $160 a night, twice my fee. She and several other dancers, who couldn’t afford to live near public transportation, had to pay the club for a driver.
I remembered what made me so angry while reading Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed: The fact that Ehrenreich was doing research—unlike the others gals cleaning houses or restocking shelves at Wal-Mart, she could leave. And not only that, she could leave with the dignity that is afforded those who do low work for a high cause. But, halfway through the night though, I was taking mental notes—but I still needed the money badly enough to stay.
I had arrived at the club at seven. I left at half past midnight, about two hours earlier than I was supposed to. If I choose to ever go back, the club will fine me $100 for this breach in protocol, the same amount they fine girls who show up late because they can’t find a sitter for their kids or their driver doesn’t show up. The club’s girls are expected to work a minimum of four days a week. There are, of course, no benefits or breaks, except the ones the women make for themselves.
I left the club with bruises on my knees from “floor work” on the stage, and an ache between my legs from slamming my naughty bits against the pole. In my pocket, I had nine dollars. One dollar less than what I tipped the house mom who appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open when I left. Nine. Fucking. Dollars. This had not gone according to plan.
They say God laughs when we make plans. I say it’s a good thing my legs are too short—and too bruised—to kickbox God in the nuts. But when I make it to those hallowed gates (because surely all of us angels who alleviate the loneliness and quiet perversions of men in these clubs get to go to the head of the line), I swear that motherfucker’s getting no lapdance from me.
