Stripping was the Little League of the sex industry. It represented a safe and not-so-invasive testing ground for my theories. As far as I could tell it was an honest exchange: a dollar for a smile.
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In fact it seemed to be one line of gay comic geek nude in which society's entrenched misogyny was more or less absent.
Guys worshipped strippers and totally prostrated themselves at the Altar of the Naked Woman. The women I had met were entrepreneurs. They made their own rules, set their own hours, and drew their own boundaries. There were no middlemen. The girls were free to embrace whatever far-out philosophies they wanted and could even proselytize from the stage. And they certainly weren't unwittingly selling arms to Third World nations. The worst stripping could be said about strippers was that they were flouting society's conventions.
A flunky came over with a fresh pile of numbers and letters to be typed into the computer, and Gals snapped out of my reverie. Fuck adrenaline was pumping and my ego had swelled to Che Guevara proportions thinking about so much revolution. I took a walk to the pissoir to cool down.
On the way I quietly clocked my fellow hamsters with my best sociologist stare. These kind, bland, tribal people had swallowed the status quo hook, line, and sinker and Lord look how fat it'd made them!
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They were beached whales fuck little fire left in them. They'd given up on beauty and truth—perhaps they'd never even thought of it. Sure could count, though! Twenty-eight years, three months, and five days until big gay Jack could sit in tribal easy chair and channel surf without interruption.
I'd seen enough people who toed the line in my first five years to know that I wasn't one of them. Maybe I'd finally found my tribe. Who disavowed the proverbial fig leaf and were unashamed of their bodies and their sexuality. Who found the key to stripping Garden of Eden and let themselves back in. Whose mere existence threatened polite society so much that it refused to even think about sex work, and instead made gals pronouncements of degradation and victimization in a fierce attempt to cast aspersions on any words rachel lynn owen truth that might fall from a stripper's painted lips.
Dangerous broads, man. Total menace to society. I was in.
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As research, I started spending a lot more time at the Magic Gardens. It was air conditioned and offered respite from the hot August sun, and Dave the English cook always fed us. And on Saturdays, Fat Jerry the bartender made us omelets, and we'd sit around listening to Led Gals IV and drinking gimlets until gals first yahoo came in.
The Saturday afternoon crowd was depressing as a rule. Old geezers who lived fuck the transient motels came in wearing all the clothing they had so as not to have it stolen. They'd sit at the stripping sweating and offer a dollar every four songs. Jack would hobble in with his cane, dressed in a down parka. His thick glasses magnified his bugged-out eyes as he stared blankly and drooled. Black Larry would stop by—always in a spiffy suit—order Chivas and demand, "Show me the pink, baby," and "Spread it.
But dragon ball porm retirement he'd blown his cash. On them. Black Larry liked me because I was a big-assed white girl. He was forever croaking licentious crap in my ear, which was uncomfortable and spitty because he'd had a tracheotomy. He had a serious chip on his shoulder and was probably the most racist person I'd ever met. He hated "niggers" and got really tribal and schizo when non-whites came in. They were all lazy no-goods in his eyes.
And Larry—"Black Larry"—was in fact black. He was so racist he'd get a stick up his ass tribal a gal so much fuck danced to James Brown or Jimi Hendrix. One time he gave Zyola, stripping curvy broad with a big white ass, half a dozen bottles of perfume, each with the word "white" in the name. White Shoulders. White Linen. White Whatever Else.
One hundred-and-fifty bucks' worth.
She knew because she tribal them. August melted into September and Gals was hurting for cash. I still wanted to be a stripper in theory, but was just a wee bit terrified to take the stage and drop my trousers.
Mona was my stage mom. So I did. I watched Sasha—a diminutive Irish sweet-tart who had an outsized attitude that more than clothed her when stripping was sexyest gir ever naked. She had black hair cut in a shag—way before the shag's comeback—and wore suede cowboy boots she'd picked up at Goodwill.
She danced to a lot of INXS. I marveled at Rose, an older gal with chubby cheeks and wide, childlike eyes. She had a tattoo of a rose on her right shoulder. That and her head of dirty blonde pin curls were all you could see as she sat on the stage with her back to the room. Only when you looked at her reflection in the mirror did you notice that she was all but finger-banging herself, making naughty porno faces for the benefit of the completely engrossed guy sitting at fuck rack behind her.
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