The next morning, as the crackhead climbed out my bedroom window, I lay motionless in bed, nursing the worst hangover of my life. Wondering how the fuck I was going to deal with this new curveball, where I could go to make so much money so fast.
And I knew what I had to do.
Fighting back waves of nausea, I stood up, popped a couple of aspirins to dull the throbbing pain in my skull, and went upstairs to shave off my pubes.
I had driven past La Rogue, Austin’s stripper supply store, many times on my way to HEB, but I’d never stopped by. It was one of those small, shady-looking boutiques off the side of the road with the windows painted black and an 18+ sign on the door. Sketchy and kind of intimidating, like a porn shop.
Inside, it was all clothes. Corsets, bras, nighties, g-strings, thongs, boy-shorts, all in every imaginable color. Colorful fishnet everythings. Slutty nurses, teachers, maids costumes. An entire isle of leather. Another one full of wigs. And in the back: shoes.
After trying on about 50 different items, I settled on a number in pink, which I paired with simple, mid-heeled shoes (much to my disappointment, I could not even try on the outrageous platformed stripper shoes without toppling over).
That night, I did some research on strip clubs in my town. Everywhere I called, they were hiring. I settled on The Landing Strip, because I liked the name, and it was closest to my house.
At 6 PM, I started getting ready. Figuring I should look sexy for my interview, I put on a halter and my roommate’s low-rise jeans, which left my midriff bare but were so tight I could barely breathe. I applied dramatic lavender shadow to my eyelids, outlined my eyes in black liner, brushed several coat of mascara unto my lashes, and finished my makeup with a liberal powdering of blush. I fluffed out my hair, and just for good luck, sprayed in some glitter.
I looked like a hooker. Perfect.
The Landing Strip turned out to be kind of hick: a little ways out of town, it sat off the side of the highway, a low, simple building with a large dirt parking lot up front. Parked in my car in the dark, cars whizzing a hazy distance behind me, I felt in the middle of nowhere.
Right in front the entrance, I noticed, stood a bouncer. Huge, dressed in a suit, he was smoking
A group of young Mexicans walked in.
Then a businessman. Another businessman.
Two girls. Carrying bags. Strippers.
I began to panic, at the prospect of walking through the lot, past the bouncer, inside. To ask for an application.
Luckily, my good friend Tequila was just a reach away. I took a few swigs from my flask, to calm my nerves. Listened to the radio for a couple of minutes, while the booze kicked in. A sad song was playing: “With or Without You”, by U2. I felt lonely.
Finally, I took a breath, got my bag, locked my car, and began to walk towards the club. My legs were shaking, but it was important, I realized, to look confident. So I raised my chin. I smiled. I waved to the bouncer, on my way in.
Inside, it was dark and smoky. Music blasting.
The door girl was dealing with some customers. I waited for her to finish, leaning against the wall. A large blonde girl, topless, with breasts like pillows, walked by on her way to the bathroom. Drink in hand.
When the door girl was free, I asked for an application. She looked me over. “I’ll page the manager,” she said, handing me some forms.
The manager’s name was Daniel. He was shrimpy, with a face like a rat’s, and smelled of hair gel, gobs of which kept his curly hair slicked backwards. He was dressed in a red suit and accessorized like a pimp: in both his ears, large diamond studs twinkled.
I hated him immediately.
He led me to the back, to the office. Sitting behind his desk while I stood in front of it, he asked me to tell me about myself.
I decided, correctly, that pretending to be retarded would work in my favor.
“My name is Violet and I want to be a dancer!” I said. When he was silent, I followed up with a fake little laugh.
“Have you ever worked in a strip club before?” he asked me.
“No, but I love them!” I lied. “I am such an exhibitionist!” The little laugh again.
“Did you bring something to dance in?” he asked me. I pointed to my bag.
“Go ahead and change then,” he said, “and then go talk to the door girl about signing in.” He got up, running his hand along my shoulders as he left the office. Pervert.
The dressing room lights were very bright. There were girls everywhere, in various stages of undress. Rubbing lotion into their breasts. Lounging on tattered gray couches, in front of a mirror, straightening their hair or putting on makeup. Sitting on toilets, which were in the back, and elevated, and had no doors or screens, no regard whatsoever for privacy.
They were chatting, drinking, helping each other get dressed. All sorts of girls: blondes, brunettes, red-heads, black girls, Hispanics, girls with small tits, huge tits, tattoos, piercings, scars.
I changed into my outfit, noting, with some relief, that it fit right in.
When I was ready to go, I went upstairs into the music booth and introduced myself to the DJ, Jason. I would be next, he said; and were on a 3-1-1 rotation.
Three songs. Fifteen minutes on the main stage, almost naked, dancing. All eyes on me.
I must have looked terrified, because he said, “Don’t worry, girl! You look hot, you’ll do fine. Just have a drink!”
Heeding his advice, I walked to the bar. The bartender bought me a shot. Sex on the beach. It was delicious.
Back in the dressing room, awaiting my turn, I took a couple more swigs of Tequila. Finally confident, I turned to the girls in the room.
“Anyone want some alcohol?” I asked loudly, waving my flask in the air.
I didn’t expect them all to say yes, or to polish off everything I had left, but at least now they were friendly. Aiden asked me where I was from and where I got my outfit. A thin girl, Cherry Lane, who didn’t look a day over 19, showed me a picture of her baby. “CPS got him,” she said.
Soon I would learn that CPS, black babydaddies, money, and coke were the staples of dressing room conversations, but not now. Now was my turn to dance.
Jason introduced me by saying, “And now, making her very first appearance in her life, is the very beautiful… Violet!”
I stumbled onto the stage, legs shaking. The lights were blinding; I could barely see; but I felt dozens of eyes boring onto my body. For a couple of seconds, which stretched infinitely in my frozen mind, I had no idea what to do. I just stood there, in my heels; feeling naked.
I realized I had no idea how to dance. I’d never even danced at bars or parties before; nor by myself.
So I decided to imitate everything Jersey was doing on the other stage. Smiling, I walked to the beat toward the pole. I wrapped my leg around it, threw back my head (attempting to look sexy), and did a spin. I landed on my ass, with kind of thud, but kept smiling. She was slithering up the pole sexily, in time to the song. I couldn’t do that. I got on my knees instead and started touching my breasts. Pretending I was in a porno.
A man came up – a fat, red-faced man dressed in paint-splattered clothes. I crawled to him, on all fours; and when my breasts were nearly touching his face, removed my bra.
“Ya girl, show me those titties.”
I turned around, crawling in time to the beat. I shook my ass. “Oh yah,” he said. I FELT like I was in a porno now, and it was kind of fun, to turn him like that. I humped the air for a little while, then turned back around and pulled my g-string aside, at my hip. So he could tip me.
Then it was back to the pole. I swung, humped from several directions, slithered up and down. Noob moves, but I knew I was doing ok. I made sure to look confident, so know one would know how insecure I was, how scared. Men came and tipped me. Before I knew it, my time on the main stage was up; and I knew, at that point, that I was officially a stripper.
Dressing Room Confessions 