Even a strip club is entitled to advertise, my ad-exec husband told me indignantly. They're just trying to make a living like the rest of us.
And that was how we came to be in a seedy, dark and slightly disreputable strip joint at 2am on a Saturday morning. The club was across the river in an area known as "The Strip" - a place built of flashing neon and unlit doorways, crowded little no-name bars, anonymous dives catering to the darker instincts of the patrons, a place that was quickly living up to all my pre-conceived notions. The owner, an olive skinned, dark haired and mustached little man who just missed being good looking, was Jimmy. He and his tall, leggy, blonde wife had been running the bar for years - both bartended , kept the books, acted as bouncers, and Darlene filled in for absent dancers as needed. Drinks on the house! Jimmy yelled as we entered and embraced us both vigorously then stepped back and gave me an appraising look, nodded and said Pleased to meetcha, what'll you have, and began steering us toward the bar. I accepted a glass of wine, grateful to have something to focus on besides the roomful of sad, hunched over men drinking in solitary silence and watching the stage with tired, spiritless eyes. The jukebox began a scratchy country song, and a waitress in pasties, a G string and spike heels gave it a kick as she passed, not even causing a ripple in the tray of drinks she carried. Dancers came and went on stage, their faces bored and indifferent, their bodies moving to the music by rote and habit. Rotating colored spotlights flashed on them, briefly lighting up breasts or buttocks but not their faces. There was something dismal and weary in their performances and something even more randomly discouraging on the faces of the men waching. There was sadness and bitterness in the very air.
A second glass of wine appeared at my elbow, delivered by a young woman with tassels on her nipples and a cloud of blonde hair. Hi, she said with a genuine smile, I'm Linda and she stretched out her hand. She was in her 30's, I imagined, heavily made up with streaks of sweat across her naked shoulders and down her sides. Even in her 4 inch heels, she was petite with bright blue eyes, good teeth and a fresh manicure. A $20 bill was tucked inside her G string. If I can get you anything else, hon, ask me now, she said, I'm off in ten minutes. I shook my head and she gave me another smile and staccato'd her way around the bar, tassels swinging with her every step. Later I was to learn some surprising things about Linda and most of the other dancers - she was a single mother with two little girls and a school teacher during the day. Another girl was working her way through law school and yet another worked for the local arts council. All were alone and raising children, struggling to make ends meet and doing what they had to. They considered stripping a low class but high paying way to supplement their incomes and it was very clear that they all considered it just another job. None were invested beyond their paychecks, none ever saw customers outside the club, none drank or did drugs or liked getting home late to their kids. None felt proud of or diminished by their stripping. Minus her blonde wig, makeup and 4 inch heels, dressed in sweats and running shoes and carrying a copy of The New York Times, Linda shrugged and said, It's just a job, hon, just a job.
And that was how we came to be in a seedy, dark and slightly disreputable strip joint at 2am on a Saturday morning. The club was across the river in an area known as "The Strip" - a place built of flashing neon and unlit doorways, crowded little no-name bars, anonymous dives catering to the darker instincts of the patrons, a place that was quickly living up to all my pre-conceived notions. The owner, an olive skinned, dark haired and mustached little man who just missed being good looking, was Jimmy. He and his tall, leggy, blonde wife had been running the bar for years - both bartended , kept the books, acted as bouncers, and Darlene filled in for absent dancers as needed. Drinks on the house! Jimmy yelled as we entered and embraced us both vigorously then stepped back and gave me an appraising look, nodded and said Pleased to meetcha, what'll you have, and began steering us toward the bar. I accepted a glass of wine, grateful to have something to focus on besides the roomful of sad, hunched over men drinking in solitary silence and watching the stage with tired, spiritless eyes. The jukebox began a scratchy country song, and a waitress in pasties, a G string and spike heels gave it a kick as she passed, not even causing a ripple in the tray of drinks she carried. Dancers came and went on stage, their faces bored and indifferent, their bodies moving to the music by rote and habit. Rotating colored spotlights flashed on them, briefly lighting up breasts or buttocks but not their faces. There was something dismal and weary in their performances and something even more randomly discouraging on the faces of the men waching. There was sadness and bitterness in the very air.
A second glass of wine appeared at my elbow, delivered by a young woman with tassels on her nipples and a cloud of blonde hair. Hi, she said with a genuine smile, I'm Linda and she stretched out her hand. She was in her 30's, I imagined, heavily made up with streaks of sweat across her naked shoulders and down her sides. Even in her 4 inch heels, she was petite with bright blue eyes, good teeth and a fresh manicure. A $20 bill was tucked inside her G string. If I can get you anything else, hon, ask me now, she said, I'm off in ten minutes. I shook my head and she gave me another smile and staccato'd her way around the bar, tassels swinging with her every step. Later I was to learn some surprising things about Linda and most of the other dancers - she was a single mother with two little girls and a school teacher during the day. Another girl was working her way through law school and yet another worked for the local arts council. All were alone and raising children, struggling to make ends meet and doing what they had to. They considered stripping a low class but high paying way to supplement their incomes and it was very clear that they all considered it just another job. None were invested beyond their paychecks, none ever saw customers outside the club, none drank or did drugs or liked getting home late to their kids. None felt proud of or diminished by their stripping. Minus her blonde wig, makeup and 4 inch heels, dressed in sweats and running shoes and carrying a copy of The New York Times, Linda shrugged and said, It's just a job, hon, just a job.
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