“I’m Amy.” She takes my hand in hers. No last name, just Amy. I’ve always been under the impression that dancers took there names from household spices and weather seasons. Amy is giving me the glance over, no doubt trying to ascertain if I’m worth her time. I’m trying to figure out what kind of conversation I want to have.
“So, is this your only job Amy?” I’m not sure what a conversation with a stripper is supposed to entail.
“Yeah, it’s my second job while I pursue my Master’s in nursing. Gotta pay the bills, ya know. Actually, tonight is my first solo shift.”
This makes me think of an old comedy bit by Chris Rock about the myth of strippers needing to dance to get through school. Amy seems authentic though; this being her first night makes sense, giving how uncomfortable she looks with everything. The other dancers work with a sense of efficiency, evaluating every John (no pun intended) like a venture capitalist, wondering which investments will ultimately pay off. This could just be the game she’s running, but I doubt it.
“So, you have a bachelors degree and are pursuing a masters, what lead you to a place like this?”
“Sallie Mae,” she give me a sad smile. It brings humor to the proceedings but, like every joke, there’s a cold truth at the root of it. She drops her head for a moment, like she’s rethinking what got her to this point. .
In life, I feel we wear masks everyday. It could be a mindset or a job but, for most, it’s probably pride. We have the need to portray to the world that everything is ‘okay’; that, whatever the world is judging us on, is merely a speed bump on a long journey. Some people are better at keeping the mask on than others, but every person has a moment in life where it slips off, even if it’s just for a second—like right now—where the soul shines through and illuminates the vulnerability we all have as people.
My mask shattered when I tried to kill myself, and I’m trying to experience life without it for as long as I can.
Amy’s mask fell off when she dropped her head. She’s staring at the floor while biting her bottom lip, telling herself that this job, this moment with me—or any other male she encounters in this line of work—is just part of the journey. I know, because I had the same look the first time I stood at the door of Dr. Felt’s office; it’s the look of someone giving themselves a pep talk to keep fighting. That getting to the end of the rainbow is the real reward, not the pot of gold we subconsciously place there.
Business has started to pick up and the music has gotten louder. I slowly scoot closer to Amy, as if I’m approaching a caged animal. She looks down at my wrist.
“Were you in the hospital?” she asks, and I realize that I never took my hospital band off. I’d love to say it was kept as a reminder of what I’ve been through, but I really just forgot. Before I can answer, Lily interjects.
“He had an allergic reaction to a dick pill he bought at a gas station,” Lily says giving her two stripper minions a good laugh and making Amy slide away from me. I lean closer to Amy so she can hear me over the booming bass.
“That’s not true,” I say loudly for the group to hear, “I actually tried to kill myself. But don’t worry, the bills in my pocket are legit and I pose no threat to the safety of you or your coworkers.”
They say the truth shall set you free but, judging by the horrified look on her face and her suddenly remembering she’s needs backstage before scurrying away, I call bullshit.
“Congratulations little brother, in one sentence you probably made that poor girl switch career paths.”
“Don’t feel bad, you’re probably only the fifth most creepy guy she’ll get tonight,” says one of the dancers in Lily’s lap.
I can’t even come in first place in a contest for perverts. Every time I think I've hit rock bottom, I bust through the floor again.
Lily orders drinks and tacos for us, and after they head off I try to take in sheer absurdity of the situation. As I survey the surroundings, a small flash of light catches my peripheral and I turn to see Lily holding her phone up to take a selfie. Actually, it’s a Snapchat with the caption, “Look who’s back from the dead” followed by three emojis that look like they’re crying.
“Is that really necessary, Lily?”
“Given this reunion, it most certainly is”, she says as she posts her video. “I see milquetoast Miles hasn’t changed much, lighten up.”
“Why are we here?”
“I turned both of them,” she disregards my question.
“Both of them?”
“Not at the same time.” She gives me a dirty smile, no doubt relishing the idea of such an accomplishment. “In strip clubs, consistency is the key. You show up consistently, give more of yourself, and they usually reciprocate. If you’re lucky, you become more than a trick.”
“Why is turning someone such a turn on for you?”
“Because, there’s something arousing about watching them give in to something they’ve denied themselves for so long, like watching them evolve into their true selves.” She’s watching the dancers move from one patron to the next, like a lioness watching a herd of gazelle, waiting for the weak one to show itself.
“If you enjoy watching them evolve, why do you let them go so quickly?”
“Because, after it’s over, they just don’t seem as interesting anymore. They let the world force them to hide who they really are, and it makes me think that if they can’t be honest with themselves about who they are, what else will they hide?”
“Do you still like guys too?”
“Nope. Can’t deal with the unrealistic expectations of you boys,” she says with disgust, “and the egos, my goodness.”
“What do you mean the ‘unrealistic expectations’?”
“You guys spend years watching porn and substitute that for intimacy, then you hump your little selves out on top of us and have the nerve to ask us if it was a fun experience. This isn't fucking Best Buy, there’s no customer satisfaction survey. Besides, with women, it’s a very intimate experience; actual kissing, more of a give and give situation instead of give and take.”
“I've never thought about it that way,” I tell her. Looking back, I've done that several times with Sara. Never once did I wonder how sex made her feel but, looking back, I could see how weird it would be. I get annoyed when customer surveys come on receipts, so I could see how irritating it’d be after sex.
One dancer approaches Lily and they exchange hugs. I immediately notice how different this interaction is, compared with the two that went off to fetch drinks.
“Harmony, I’d like you to meet my brother Miles.”
I have no idea what her face looks like with the mask, not that her face should be the focus in the current environment. She nods to acknowledge me, then whispers something in Lily’s ear before briskly heading towards the back.
“You turn her too, Lily?”
“I tried like a motherfucker, believe me, but she wasn’t going for it,” she cracks her knuckles. “She’s the only one here that’s not running game, and over time she’s become more like a therapist.”
“At least yours is hot, my therapist looks like Bea Arthur,” I’m reminding of Dr. Felt explaining that we couldn’t have sex. I envision her wearing a one piece like one of these dancers and I want to excuse myself, “I don’t think I should be here Lily.”