Chardonnay
During the years that I should have been in college, I received an education of another sort. I learned to differentiate more than a dozen types of pills, and the effects of each, separately and in combination. This knowledge required research that on two occasions resulted in visits to the emergency room. I also learned that men who were sweet and considerate while leading you to their beds were often less so once they had achieved their goals. I learned that it was wise to always have a little extra makeup with you, in case you needed to cover a bruise. I learned that there are always men who will provide you with drugs in exchange for sex, but also, that there is usually a prettier, or at least a newer, girl who will make the same deal. I learned that some of the men who will make you such offers are cops, and that they won't necessarily tell you so until after the blowjob.
There were, of course, gaps in my education. For example, I didn't learn to appreciate my stepfather Ron, who had done so much to give my mother a better life, and had tried in vain to do so for me. Even after he suffered a massive heart attack and died on the kitchen floor, I did not come to understand what a fine man he had been. Perhaps if I had not been high on Percodan at his funeral, I might have.
I did not learn compassion for my mother, despite her unwavering attempts to teach me by example. No matter how low I sank, she never gave up on me. Her door was always open, no matter how stoned and disheveled I was when I knocked. When I came home battered and bruised it was open. When I came home in the back of a police car, it was open. When I came home pregnant it was open.
I did not learn the identity of the man who impregnated me. I never learned the joy of holding my baby boy, who my weak and toxic body could not carry to term.
I had a few entry level jobs during that period, but none lasted long. I was uninterested and unreliable. More often, I was either living off a short term boyfriend, or falling back on my mother's good graces. I had no work ethic and no marketable skills. But I did possess one asset, one that women have fallen back on for centuries. There is always work for young women who are willing to use their bodies to make money.
When your social life revolves around the drug scene, you are certain to know at least a few women who have financed their habits through sex work. I'd done so myself, in a sense, dating and fucking men because they could get me high. I had never gone to the length of actually turning tricks, but I had come close. Still, I drew a moral distinction. I might be a slut for drugs, but I was not a whore for money. It was a distinction without a difference, but it allowed me to hold on to at least a small piece of my pride.
One night, I was partying with a group of friends and two of the women began talking about how much money they were making dancing at a joint called The Cheetah Lounge. I asked them if they thought I might be able to get work there, and they said that I probably could, but first I'd have to meet with the manager, Jordy, and pass an audition. I decided that I would give it a try. It was almost an hour drive each way, but if I could make the kind of money they were describing, it would be worth the trip. It wouldn't take me long before I'd be able to save up enough to finally get a place of my own somewhere closer. I called The Cheetah the next day and was told to come in any afternoon for an audition.
A few days later, I was sitting on a stool The Cheetah's bar, waiting for Jordy to return from lunch. It was a bigger place than I had imagined. The bar ran down the length of the main room. There were a dozen scattered tables, and along the opposite wall, four semi circular stages, each centered around a floor to ceiling pole. There was only one girl dancing, looking bored and not giving the half dozen daytime customers much of a show.
I was nervous, not sure just what was meant by an audition. I brought a good pair of heels and my nicest lingerie to dance in, but I did not know if more than a dance was required. I had heard stories about dancers having to fuck club owners to get jobs. I wasn't sure if I was prepared to go that far or not.
I had imagined Jordy would be like one of the guys who worked at the Bada Bing on The Sopranos, some big mean looking dude in a cheap suit. But Jordy was a woman. She looked to be in her sixties. She was rotund and wore her hair in an old fashioned beehive.
She gave me skeptical look. "Let me see your I.D."
I showed her my drivers license. She called over the bartender and told him to make a copy of it.
"You're a bit on the skinny side, dearie." She said. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. Easier on your knees. And on your back. But if you want to stay in this business, you might want to invest in some boobs."
The bartender brought back my license. She handed it to me, then gestured for me to follow her. She showed me the VIP area, which consisted of a dark rear corner containing a half dozen alcoves, each containing a leatherette love seat behind a heavy black curtain. We entered the dressing room area. Compared to the dimly lit lounge, it was so brightly lit that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. There was a long make up table to one side, and a row of lockers on the other.
"Get changed, and come on out. Just climb up on the first stage and show me what you've got. Don't be nervous. Nobody's expecting Ginger Rogers."
I put on the outfit I had brought, a thong and a powder blue babydoll nightie. I strapped on my heels and went out into the club. I wobbled a bit climbing the stairs to the stage. Jordy sat with a burly bearded man in a denim jacket at the nearest table. Generic dance music was playing over the sound system.
Jordy motioned for me to start and I began, tentatively, to sway my hips back and forth. I felt very self conscious. I glanced up at Jordy and she did not look pleased. But the man with her smiled and gave me a thumbs up gesture. I smiled at him and focused on dancing for him. As I started to get into the music and move more freely, he nodded his head enthusiastically. I did one spin around the pole and nearly tripped on my own feet, but recovered quickly. After a few minutes, Jordy beckoned me. I got down off the stage and sat with them at the table.
"This is Randy, he's in charge of security." Randy smiled, said hello and shook my hand. "OK, let me explain how things work here," Jordy continued. "We don't hire dancers, we engage independent contractors. You pay the club a fee of fifty dollars a night, and you keep all your tips. On a good night, you'll be able to take home two, three hundred dollars. Well, not right off you won't, because, dearie, you are terrible. But you'll get better and you'll do fine. Just a couple of things we need to be clear on. Any TROs, protection orders, anything like that? Do I have to worry some pissed off asshole is going to come in here and start trouble when he sees his woman up on the pole?"
"No, nothing like that."
