Stripper for a day…
The bouncer looks at me and asks “You here for an audition?”
The bouncer standing in front of the strip club has his shoulders raised to braise himself against the cold February wind. His nose is slightly red. He must have been standing there for a while.
I peer over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the inside but the windows are blacked out. Figures.
I’m curious to know what a real-life NYC strip club looks like. I walk up to the bouncer. I see a sign that says $20 to enter. I feel fine paying that to take a little look-see…The bouncer looks at me and asks “You here for an audition?”
Before I know it, I nod my head implying that I am in fact here to audition. I hear my voice answering “Yes, I am.”
Without a word, he spins on his heels, opens the door, and leads me into the club. The air shifts from cold and crisp to sort of damp and intense. I smell perfume, cleaning spray, sweat, and something…musky.
What in the f*ck did I just get myself into!? But I play it cool and walk confidently as if I know what I’m doing (I don’t.)
At that moment, I completely surrender to the experience and I’m there. Ready to apply for an audition. A girl ready to do what it takes to make that moolah.
I pass a stage to the right with two dancers gyrating. He leads me to a woman sitting on a barstool. She’s in her late 50’s. Bleached hair pulled up in a messy platinum blond bun on the top of her head.
She peers at me over leopard readers and asks. “You here for an audition?”. Stereotypically her voice is deep and sounds like she’s smoked at least a million cigarettes in her life. “Uhu!”, I reply. Then follows a series of questions ”How old are you? (24). Where are you from? (Sweden). Have you done this before? (A little. This is somewhat true because I’ve at this point been a skimpily dressed go-go dancer, danced on stage at a sex club, and spent maaaany nights shaking my stuff in minimal clothing at various electronic nightclubs).
“There’s a slot open at 3:30 pm this afternoon, you want it?”
“Yes”, I say.
The last question catches me off guard. “Do you have your outfit?”
No. I do not, in fact, have an outfit…
“You’re in luck. The lady who sells the dresses is here right now. Let me show you to the dressing room…”
The plot thickens
As I’m nearing the door to the dressing room I get butterflies in my stomach. This part feels a little bit like stepping into a lioness’ den…
There’s a weird step up to get into the room. To the right – a row of lockers. To the left, mirrors line the walls, and women are sitting in a row, applying makeup, adjusting clothes, and chatting. Most of them look Eastern European as far as I can tell. It gets real quiet as I enter. They look me up and down with eyes that oozes with skepticism and suspicion. The platinum-haired lady points me over to a woman sitting by a rack of dresses.
She looks at me with kind eyes. I’m guessing she can see that I’m a bit clueless because she starts looking at my body and pulling out dresses that could work. I try on one orange, one red but finally get into a shimmery turquoise dress. I tell her that I’ve been told that turquoise is my “power color”. The dress looks hot. Even my small boobs get a little lift. The dress reminds me a bit of the famous 2000 Grammy’s dress worn by JLo. Because the fabric only attaches at the crotch and has a biiiig plunge.
I also pick out a pair of see-through plastic platform heels. Boom! I’m 6’2”.
Complete in my outfit, I stand in front of the mirror when a tall, boobilicious woman that has that kind of Russian bombshell look starts walking across the room toward me (and the door). She is clearly the top bitch in the place. She is by no means threatened by me. Au contraire. She catches my eye and says “Good luck, babe” before breezing past me.
I smile. Slip back into my regular clothes and head back to the main room. The two women are still dancing on stage, and a few men are scattered around the room by tall tables. I look at the dancers. I take in their beauty and power for a second, then I walk back out into the biting wind.
I know that I won’t return that afternoon. And I feel a pang of guilt to leave the women hanging. I make a sharp left and walk quickly down the street. My walk turns into a run and I burst out into wild laughter.
Part of me wishes that I could return and really know what it would be like to be a stripper for a day.
Reflections
Thanks for reading this little glimpse into my life in NYC back in the day. When this happened I had met KB (my husband of 12 years that I met in NYC) at school and we were acquaintances. It was less than a year after I was brutally sexually assaulted in Costa Rica and I was in such an “F-it all” mode.
I really love the part of me that has kinda thrown herself head-first into adventure and experiences. (Think Hannah, from Girls…”anything-for-a-story” kinda vibe). There are times when I reflect back on my life and realize how lucky I am to still be alive. Since having children I’ve definitely developed more self-preservation which I am now also grateful for.
I wish I could reach my arms back in time and just pull myself in for a big ole hug. My mental health was fragile and I did not have a good support system. I lived with a mentally ill friend who I was desperately trying to save. (You can read more about codependence here.) Thankfully, I found KB and my IIN friends who were kind, loving, and supportive. Thank you, AJ, Kari, Rosa, and JLove from the bottom of my heart. 💜
Shoutout to Sex Workers
I see you strong people out there hustling for a better life in whatever way you can and choose. This is a complex topic that I have no merit talking about. However, it is an important and much misunderstood topic, so here is a good educational article for those of you who are interested in learning more - here’s another one by Vox.
This is actually the second time I read this post. Rarely does writing make me chuckle the way this does. Love your voice.