Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away named PovertyMeetsAnEighteenYearOld, when I was just a young and rebellious princess sneaking out of the castle through the servant's entrance, I ended up becoming a stripper.
It was a quick and easy way to make cash, save a friend from eviction, and as I would quickly discover, the most efficient way to discover what having a crack addiction would actually mean.
I only worked there for a week. Long enough to earn the cash for an entire month's rent (the amount needed to keep my friend from the streets), a new wardrobe, something like fifteen hundred lipglosses, and a new collection of drugs I'd never heard of. Long enough to play hero to a girl whose name I barely remember, and who was probably kicked out the next month anyway. Long enough to leave a lasting impression on a man I would work with three years later. So much so that he would even be able to recall the very obnoxious and long Victorian name I'd chosen to dance to among a sea of Candies, and the first song I took it all off for.
I packed lightly for my first night at the club. Just the tallest heels I could get my hands on and a small bag of tight slutty dresses I had found on discount at the mall. I'm not sure if I am supposed to arrive to the club ready to dance, my interview had been a short tour of the pole followed by a drunken conversation in a dark back room that had mostly revolved around someone else's sickly pet dog. So I wear just a thong under one of the new dresses, slip on shoes, and a flannel half buttoned for modesty. It is a cold night and I hurry across the parking lot toward the bouncer.
"It's my first night," I explain, already digging nervously through my bag for my ID in case he wants to see it. He does not and he waves me through the big wooden door impatiently, already looking past me as I slide around him. Just inside is a small entryway with another giant door and I can hear the pounding bass pouring through. A rack holding free zines is bolted to a wood paneled wall, advertising local escorts and other persons of political importance. I take a bracing breathe and opened the door. The smell of smoke hits me at the same time the darkness does and I stop short on bowling alley carpeting, stunned by this forbidden underworld.
The first thing I notice is how brightly lit the stages are in contrast to the rest of the club. The women on the stages are lit up like bright crayons in glitter thongs, melting under neon spotlights while the patrons themselves are shrouded in anonymous darkness. It is a stark contrast to the quiet of day when I auditioned in dim overhead lighting that reminded me of college basements. I look around for the man in charge, the man who hired me, whose name I either never got or can’t recall. I don’t see him so I tap the arm of the girl walking by in tassels and a thong so tiny it might as well be a rubber band.
“Today’s my first day,” I tell her. She looks me up and down and I feel myself turning red under her scrutiny but square my shoulders. “I’m supposed to start to work? As a dancer?”
“Backstage.” She jerks a thumb at the far corner of the room to the entrance of a corridor at the edge of the mirrored wall. I wind my way through a throng of men and women, of smells both sickeningly sweet and sinister, and burst into a tiny harshly lit room filled with lockers, mirrors, and women in various states of undress.
That’s when I see her. She is leaning over another girl, her naked breasts pressing gently against the other girl’s shoulders as she applies her lipstick in the mirror. Her perfect hair falling in waves around her shoulders and arms, tickling her perfect waist. I let my eyes fall to her legs. Legs that tortured me with all that I was not, that went on forever. Her thong says Candy across the ass. My eyes crawl back up her body stopping at her eyes, now gazing sharply back at mine in the mirror. I know this look. It is painful and familiar. It belongs to my high school nemesis.
I want to laugh at the irony. The cruelness of the Gods. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to throw up. Instead I take a step forward and brace myself. I am no longer the sad tortured soul on the school bus trying not to make eye contact. I am not the idiot little girl that cried alone in the locker room. I am a fighter now. See me? With my mission? With someone to save?
“Its my first night,” I announce to the floor. I feel the instant silence and all eyes on me. Never in my life have I felt more like the mountain girl I was raised to be and suddenly I realize two things. One: that I am playing this part to save a friend, that this is not the real me: this hardened carefree city girl I will get up on stage and pretend to be tonight; and Two: that this makes me better than her somehow.
She recognizes me. She knows. I can feel the weight of every interaction between us coursing through her, radiating off of her. I can feel the scrutiny bouncing off the glass and boring straight into my forehead. And I can see her deciding and time feels frozen. Then she straightens, turns slowly to me, and says, “Well anyone who can do this is alright in my books. Come on, I’ll show you the ropes." I set my bag down next to the row of lockers as she grabs my hand and pulls me back down the corridor. There is silence, briefly, then Def Leopard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" starts to play...
