Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 7

  I began to wonder what it was inside Dr. Turner that was so afraid of connecting with a real woman that he was willing to pay me thousands of dollars a month to stand in her place. When I was feeling particularly sorry for him, I'd even have imaginary conversations in my head with a future girlfriend of his, telling her things to watch out for and where the tender spots on his heart might be. Mostly, I wished her luck.

  My biggest problem was coming up with activities to fill the hundred and sixty-seven hours a week I wasn't with Dr. Turner. I felt like all the days watercolor-bled together, and I sometimes found myself asking Justine what day it was.

  I'd told Justine that I'd gotten a job modeling for classes at the Academy of Art University. She hadn't asked many questions, other than if it was nude. Testing the waters, I told her it was. She'd given me a playful lift of her eyebrows and told me to have fun and see if there were any cute artists who wanted to chat afterwards. I rolled my eyes and didn't bring up my fake work again. She was working so many hours a week at the nonprofit and so many hours a week as a nanny, she didn't know that I was home all the time. I was home more hours than I knew what to do with. I cleaned every crevice of our apartment, save Justine's room.

  It became apparent I needed more to do with my time.

  While I'd been on the message boards looking up tricks of the prostitution trade, I'd seen plenty of posts written by strippers, many of whom worked in San Francisco. I began to wonder how many of these girls I'd run into without knowing it. Was the girl in line in front of me at the grocery co-op also the busty brunette who advised new strippers to regularly wipe their asses with antibacterial wipes so they didn't get "dirty stripper butt"? Was the girl at the laundromat the same girl who swore on her life that strippers made more money when they wore white shoes? I started imagining that everyone around me had a secret double life. Maybe I needed to do that to feel better about my own.

  I knew I was going to have to find something to do with my time. I didn't want to go back to academia, and I certainly didn't want to work in a stuffy lab. I wanted as little to do with neuroscience as possible. When scouring Craigslist for possible new career endeavors and being subsequently depressed by the pitiful number of jobs I was qualified for, my mind flickered back to the message boards. The girls who posted there had raved about being able to set their own schedules, feel empowered while making good money, and work in any city in the country.

  I knew I had to try it or spend years wondering why I hadn't.

  After a quick scan of the message boards, I decided I wanted to try my hand at a traditional hustle club, where dancers do stage performances and then work the crowd selling lap dances. I was comfortable being naked. It would be fairly dark, the music would be loud, and I'd be in a costume with tons of makeup on. Those things would be mask enough for me.

  I wasn't sure how hard it would be to get a job at one of the dozens of clubs in the city. I decided to pick the area most dense with clubs and try my luck at each one. In the middle of the day on a Tuesday, the bus emerged from the Broadway tunnel and the stripping Mecca unrolled before me. The flashing signs were mesmerizing. The proximity to the Financial District meant these clubs probably had wealthy patrons and would be geared to a more upscale crowd. Hopefully that meant they were less seedy and complied with strip club laws. I knew that clubs that served alcohol were required to have the dancers wearing some semblance of panties, and I knew that prostitution was illegal. But I also knew, from message boards where strippers complained about customers asking for "extras," that laws didn't always translate to practice.

  It occurred to me when I walked into the first club that I probably should have scoped out clubs at night when it was more active. As it was, the first club I walked into had about five dancers milling around, and no more than three customers. That made it seem quaint.

  Farthest from the door was a small black stage with a gleaming silver pole on it. A tall, leggy blonde woman was winding around it to the beat of Rihanna's Jump, and though she was wearing nothing more than a pleather bra and matching g-string, I was mesmerized by the athletics of what she was doing. As she pulled her entire weight up the pole, her arm muscles surged. Then, wrapping her legs around the pole into a precise position, she leaned back, inverting herself and letting her hair graze the floor as her arms ran up and down her torso, squeezing her breasts. My stomach tensed, hoping she wouldn't fall and break her neck. But she didn't. She dismounted gracefully in a variation of a cartwheel and proceeded with a few more spins before removing her bra, tossing it onto what must have been her discarded dress. She ran her hands up into her hair and strutted to the corners of the stage, undulating.

  She was confident, strong, and sexy, the picture of the empowered woman all the strippers on the message boards had talked about.

  The rest of the club was clad in burgundy and black. Around the walls were curved velvet benches with small tables in front of them, and a sort of awning over top from which a curtain was drawn back. I thought these were just tapestries installed for ambience, but when I saw one of the girls get up and draw the curtain back, concealing herself in the bench enclave with a customer, it was clear that these curtains were used to create a more intimate space for giving lap dances.

  The woman dancing onstage finished her dance by removing her panties and crawling on the floor, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs in a wide V, then rolling over again and flicking one of her heels up before sliding back onto her knees. She stood, collected her clothing, and walked offstage to no response whatsoever.

  Considering two of the customers were busy talking to other dancers and the lone solo customer had just stared blankly at her the whole time, I'm not sure what kind of response I had expected her to get.

  When the woman emerged from a side door dressed in her g-string, I walked up to her. She seemed startled to be approached by anyone besides staff, much less a woman.

  "Hi," I said with a friendly smile. "That was awesome."

  She looked my up and down with a critical eye, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears.

  "I was hoping someone could tell me what it's like to work here."

  She bit down an amused smirk and raised her eyebrows. "Ever danced before?"

  I shook my head, wringing my hands together.

  She let out a silent snort. "What do you want to know?"

  I looked around, not sure what questions were okay to ask. "Does it — does it get busier later?"

  "You could say that."

  "And you make good money?"

  "You could say that," she repeated.

  She was either mocking me or stonewalling me. I glanced around, wondering if there was anyone else I could talk to. But everyone seemed busy practicing pole tricks or attending to customers.

  "Who do I talk to?" I asked.

  She pointed toward the DJ booth that sat next to the stage, then turned and walked away without further comment.

  Steeling myself, I approached the DJ.

  "I was told I should talk to you about working here," I said.

  He frowned and tapped his headphones, signaling he couldn't hear me over the music.

  I repeated what I'd said, only louder.

  He tipped his head back in a lazy nod of comprehension, then pointed to the bar where a young man in a black t-shirt was sorting bottles and glasses.

  "Can you tell me who to talk to about getting a job here?" I asked.

  He looked up at me. "Staff or entertainment?"

  "Entertainment."

  He nodded. "Ever danced before?"

  I shook my head.

  "Rent is a hundred fifty a night and you're expected to tip the DJ and support staff. You're an independent contractor, so you show up when you want and leave when you want, as long as you pay rent. Got a costume?"

  Lying, I said I did.

  He gave me a stiff nod. "Be here tonight between eight and nine. Bring an ID and shoes that are at least five inches. Do you have a stage name?
"

  "Violet."

  Turning around to pick up a case of beer, he muttered. "See you tonight, Violet."

  Stunned, I gave him a nervous smile and turned to walk out of the club.

  My whole body felt like it was racing. Had I just been hired at the first club I walked into? I was pretty sure I had.

  Now I had to prepare for my debut. A quick Google search produced a smattering of stores selling what I would need to buy before my first shift. I decided to jump in feet first by purchasing my first pair of shoes.

  I was overwhelmed with the array of shoes in the store I went to. Plastic shoes, leather shoes, suede shoes, boots, pumps, studded stilettos, light-up shoes, furry shoes, sparkly shoes, shoes with feathers, shoes with pearls, shoes with huge buckles, pointed heels, heels with locks on the straps. There were shoes of every size, color, shape and persuasion.

  I wandered through the aisles, in awe of the ingenuity and sadism of the designers. How did strippers manage to walk around clubs all night and not twist their ankles or fall over?

  The salesgirl must have noticed my concern, because she walked up to me and asked if I was looking for beginner shoes. Relieved, I said yes.

  "Club shoes?"

  I nodded, and she beckoned me over to a corner of the store. "Height requirement?"

  "Five inches.”

  She gave me a reassuring smile and said, "It sounds worse than it is. If you get a shoe with a decent platform, it's more like two or three inches." She pointed to a basic black shoe that had a two inch platform to accompany its large, sturdy pump heel.

  It looked intimidating.

  "I recommend these for beginners. You can't go wrong with a basic pair of Ellies."

  I tried them on and was pleasantly surprised to find they were not impossible to walk in. After a few trial laps up and down the aisle to make sure, I bought them and headed next door to by a pair of a lace panties, an outfit to strip out of, and makeup in shades I hadn't worn since Halloween in middle school.

  I was ready for my first shift.

  I was so nervous and excited, I couldn't eat. I told Justine I was going out that night with some friends from school, and hoped she wouldn't ask about the gym bag I was taking with me to the bus stop.

  I had taken that same bus hundreds of times, but it felt different that night. I looked around at my fellow passengers, wondering if they could tell something was different about me. Could they tell I was on my way to display my body for strangers? Could they tell I had five inch heels, false eyelashes, and a see-through dress in my bag? Did they know by the end of the night I would have writhed against a dozen men whose names I didn't know? Logically, of course they didn't. But my nerves were draining me of my logic, and whenever someone made eye contact with me, I was convinced they could see through me.

  And yet an hour later, I had donned my sheer dress, heels, bra, and lace panties, glued on my eyelashes and vamped up my hair. In the all-but-deserted locker room that smelled like synthetic fruit sprays, I looked at myself in the mirror.

  For the first time, I came face to face with Violet.

  She had a nice figure. Round enough in the hips and breasts, angular enough in the shoulders and legs. If I had seen her on the street, I would have given her a double-take.

  But the thing about Violet was that nothing was real about her. Her eyes were overdramatic and seemed to take a full second to blink. Her cheekbones were more defined than mine, and her lips appeared bigger under the thick coat of lipstick. Her calves looked harder, given the angle of her heels. Her cleavage was heaving up and forward in a bra that defied the laws of physics. And yet she hadn't crossed over from human to Barbie. She was just the right amount of vixen and girl-next door. She was money, baby.

  After taking off the dress and bra, saving them for my stage show, I ascended the spiral staircase into the closet of a backstage that was used as a holding place for dancers about to go onstage. To the left was a door that led onto the club floor, which I took now. I wasn't ready for my stage debut yet. I needed to get a feel for the crowd first.

  Taking a deep breath, I felt the sure-footed attitude that was Violet flow through me. I put on my smile and opened the door.

  The club was much more active than it had been during the day. Every velvet bench and table was occupied, mostly by single men, but a few tables in the center of the floor had groups of young men seated around them. Dancers milled around, eyes sharp like hawks as they did whatever calculations they needed to to find a likely customer. I shivered as I realized the club floor was freezing cold, most likely to keep and the girls' nipples alert and the customers awake as they drank and drooled.

  But as I looked around, no men were drooling. They were just staring. Not even in approval or awe. Just staring and sipping. I thought about the way Dr. Turner looked at me sometimes, like I was the only thing in the world he wanted in that moment, like I was more attractive than I would ever be able to see.

  So maybe I wouldn't find that here. I was confident enough to strip without their validation. Right?

  I milled around as I studied the other girls' costumes and lap dance techniques. It occurred to me I probably should have done more research on lap dancing. But after a few songs, which all seemed to fade out after a certain length of time, I saw that it was just a lot of undulating and pressing your chest and ass against the guy in time to the music.

  What interested me were the girls' faces. All the girls were smiley and bright before the dance, but then when they got up and started working over the guy, some of their faces fell blank. None of them closed their eyes, but they might as well have.

  The place was swarming with dancers that were strutting between customers and the stage door. I started to worry I wouldn't be able make enough money on dances to pay my club rent for the night. I didn't know how to attract customers, and no one was offering to teach me. It felt like a weird, amplified high school social rank system with the girls, and I hadn't even spoken to any of them. But I could tell who the Queen Bees were, and who idolized them. And that meant they all knew I was the new girl.

  I worked the crowd, spotting a man who looked a bit like Dr. Turner and chatting him up before offering my first dance. Maybe it was the familiar features that made me pick him as my first target. Maybe I just have a type. All I know is that once he had accepted my dance offer, I realized I had to follow through.

  No matter how confident I thought I was, rationalizing that I had no trouble dancing with strangers in clubs or having sex with Dr. Turner for money, I realized about thirty seconds into my first dance that this was different from what I imagined it would be. It's one thing to dance with a stranger on a dance floor and find a rhythm together, knowing you can go back to your friends or move away, but it's another to know that you are expected to writhe against a stranger for the duration of a three minutes — the DJ conveniently faded every song out after three minutes — and get no reaction whatsoever. The man I was on top of was just staring at my tits, expressionless in his slouch, unresponsive to even my best hip rolls and booty-ups.

  I thought his unresponsiveness was disappointing, but it was welcome compared to the opposite reaction. After my first dance, I ventured toward san older man, about fifty, who was sitting alone in a booth drinking whiskey. He looked decent enough that I could stand a conversation and a dance. I approached him — always from the front, giving him time to appraise my assets as the message boards had advised me to — and gave him a flirty smile and a wave. I shifted my voice into what I called "stripper voice," about an octave higher and five times airier than any normal female voice. I asked him if I could sit with him, and he gave a stiff nod.

  Crossing my legs daintily and turning my torso toward him with my best posture, letting him ogle my breasts, I started asking the standard questions. How he was doing tonight, what his name was, what he did for work. He said his name was Sal, and then asked what mine was. I told him Violet, to which he smirked and said, "Yeah, but what's your real
name." I gave him my best coquettish giggle, leaned in, and whispered as though it were a sneaky secret, "Violet."

  He huffed and picked up his drink, frustrated by my refusal. After smoothing things over with a few flirtatious questions and compliments, I asked if he'd like a dance. He nodded and put a twenty on the table. When the current song ended, I stood up and closed the curtain, sliding onto his lap and setting my smile in place for the next three minutes.

  I wasn't sure what to do when he started grunting as I rutted against him. His grunts weren't small and clean like Dr. Turner's. They were long and low and vibrated through him into me in the most alarming, unpleasant way. I immediately realized he was worse the an unresponsive customer. At least when the customer was unresponsive, you didn't have to deal with their weird noises and —

  Oh god.

  I hadn't noticed Sal was wearing sweatpants, which provided almost no resistance for his quick-to-rage hard-on beneath me. Who wears sweatpants to a strip club?

  Apparently the kind who wanted to feel as much friction from the dancers as possible, resulting in a horrific, grunting ejaculation timed precisely to the music, occurring just as I was lifting off his lap to escape.

  Grossed out and seriously rethinking my decision to work here, I grabbed my money, yanked back the curtain, and made a beeline for the stage door.

  Even though I hadn't directly touched more than Sal's arms with my bare skin, I felt the immediate urge to shower.

  Down in the dressing room, I washed my hands and ran a baby wipe over my thighs and breasts. I half considered walking out right then, turning in the money tucked in my garter belt and paying the rest of my house rent out of my pocket for the chance to escape. But the leggy blonde woman who had been onstage when I first walked into the club the day before entered the dressing room at that moment.

  She eyed me, baby wipe in hand as she opened her locker. It didn't appear she was going to speak to me as she retrieved a costume, stepping out of the one she had on. Then, without making eye contact, she said with a smirk, "You get stuck with Sweatpant Sal?"