Chapter 5: Of First Tips, Customers, and Lap Dances, Part 1

I danced like a robot. Not a sexy, Westworld kind of robot; an old Issac Asimov robot with huge, square movements that only seemed to operate at 90-degree angles. True, no one laughed at me or threw tomatoes (or cocktail napkins), but my repertoire of stripper moves included sauntering around the pole and the bend-and-snap from Legally Blonde, (and that didn't even work in the movie).

When it came time to take off my top in the second song, I felt…nothing. My nerves only came from the performance aspect of it, but I was numb to the stares. I was just another exotic animal in the flesh menagerie, protected by the invisible barrier of the stage. No one was technically allowed to touch me onstage, only enough to tip me. That didn't stop a drunk redneck woman from licking between my breasts, though. My chest stank of coffee breath for hours after that.

Toto, I have a feeling we're not in ballet class anymore…

Someone eventually felt sorry for me, seeing how completely new and out-of-place I was; fresh meat is hard to beat. Or they just wanted a good peep. A man came up to the stage; I shook my ass at him for a few moments and proffered my t-back for a dollar.

"I haven't seen you before, are you new?" He tucked a bill into the elastic band.

"Yeah, actually, this is my very first day here."

"No kidding. Well, you're doing a great job."

"Why, thank you!" I flashed him a smile.

Just like that: dance half-nude, get cash. Magical. Intoxicating.

I quickly learned that tips were the gateway. If a man offered a dancer a tip, it could mean that he was interested in a dance after. The probability exponentially increased if that tip was a $5 or $10 bill. I made a mental note to visit my first patron after my set had finished. Once my clothes were back on, I walked over to his table and greeted him with the biggest Texas smile I could plaster on my face. Some dancers approached men still half-nude, but I always liked to preserve the illusion of the social normalcy and obligation of clothing.

"Hi! My name is Rose. I just wanted to thank you so much for the tip!" My tone was pitched about 2 octaves above my normal voice. God, I sound like Malibu Barbie.

He seemed almost surprised that I came over to talk to him.

"Oh, no problem, no problem. Do you want to sit down for a bit?"

"Sure, thank you! These heels are killing me!" Thus, the birth of a joke that I would use at least 1500 times.

The requisite small talk began. Mostly hi, how are you, where are you from, what do you do, etc. We had talked for about twenty minutes before I finally got up the courage to ask, "So, would you like a private dance?"

"Oh, not right now, maybe later. Thank you for offering, though."

Damn. Not so magic after all. I slowly started to get up, trying to keep the sting of rejection from blooming on my face.

"Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me." Wink, wink, more do-me smiles.

"Of course. Good luck out there."

"Thanks!"

I stood and walked backstage, to the changing room. This was more complicated than I had imagined.

Suddenly, I felt shy. Not self-conscious, exactly; I would have been just as timid dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. All my life, guys had approached me, not the other way around, as I had followed traditional dating norms. Now making money depended on my ability to effectively flirt, tease, and approach men. I looked out from the doorway of the changing room: the club was about a quarter-full, with plenty of men who weren't already occupied. It felt exactly like my awkward middle school years, the new kid deciding on a place to sit at the lunch room. I took a couple of deep breaths. I started to walk out again, but I hovered in the doorway of the dressing room, the smell of beer and bad breath gaining strength in my nostrils.

Nope! Retreat!

I walked back into changing room. I deserve a break, I told myself. The first time is always the hardest. No one else had tipped me, so I had zero confidence to simply walk up and say "Hello! My name is Rose." The words caught in my throat, and I waited for my next stage appearance, hoping for more tippers-as-potential-clients.

By mid-afternoon, the club started to fill up, as people left the Sunday church service to come to the strip club. As I rotated from stage to stage, I accumulated more tips and eyed potentials. One man tipped me a $5 bill, and asked me the same question: "Hey there, are you new?" Lord, is it that obvious or does everyone have every stripper's face memorized?

"Yes sir, but I am ready to please."

"Come see me after you get done. I'll be waiting right over there." He pointed to a dark corner near the DJ booth.

"Sure thing." Smile, smile, smile…

My first (guaranteed!) customer!! Ok, maybe this wasn't so herculean.

I walked over after my set, sweat still dripping down my back, and slid into the booth beside him. My ass stuck to the faux leather seating.

"Thank you so much for the tip!" This phrase would become my holy mantra.

"You're very welcome. So tell me about yourself…" The small talk began and didn't last long.

"Would you like to start on the next song?"

I gave a flirtatious smirk.

"Sure, that'd be fine."

I started the dance about two feet away from him, leaving enough room for Jesus, then gradually moved closer. I tried to operate on generally the same principle as stage dances, in taking my top off around the middle of the song. But this guy was aggressive. He quickly pulled me close and buried his face in my breasts. I tried to gyrate around him and pull away, but he kept a firm grip. He spun me around and tried to spread my ass cheeks.

Whoa there, cowboy, this is definitely my first rodeo. I felt trapped. I tried to guide his hands toward more acceptable places, like my thighs or stomach, but that was like trying to push a wave back into the sea. His hands went frantically from my boobs to my ass like he was on a shopping spree. Finally, after three songs, I said, "Well thank you so much," and ended my time with Mr. Ass-Spreader. He looked slightly confused as he pulled out three 20s. Dancers never stopped the flow of songs if a customer wanted to keep going, but this guy was trying to pry apart my anus like it contained the secret to youth.

"Do you want to do one more?"

"Um, actually, I think I heard my name for the stage, so I'll have to go soon."

"Well, alright. I'll be looking for you next time."

"Ok, great!" Please dear god no.

I walked back to the changing room. I tried to saunter away, as if I had all the time and cash in the world, as if I weren't the awkward newbie running away from a creep. I desperately wanted to withdraw into the sanctuary of the changing room, with the House Mom.