Audition!
The day of my audition, I couldn’t eat anything. Michele’s friend, Kathy came to visit from Philly. They used to work the day shift at Flashdancers together. Michele said that she started out in places like that and worked her way up to the night shift at Ten’s. She was helping me to work at her great new gig, but she made it clear by her attitude that she actually resented me like I was a freeloader. All I knew was that everything was a lot more complicated than just dancing topless in front of strangers for money, which was more than I could handle in the first place.
Kathy gave me some of the most valuable dancing advice I’d gotten so far. "When you’re dancing, just pretend like you’re rubbing against an invisible cock. Like here, watch. See? The cocks’s rubbing against my leg, now it’s at my arm, now my ass, see? It’s easy."
Kathy was a cool chick, but I couldn’t say much all day. We ended up in a diner about 2 hours before my audition, drinking beer. I was like a zombie.
"Hey, Stef, thinkin’ about the stage at Ten’s?" Kathy asked me.
"Yeah, no shit. Why don’t you talk? It’s not that big a deal, Stef. Just do it and stop torturing yourself."
I was drinking everyone else’s beers. "I’m sorry, guys. I’m just nervous, y’know."
Michele rolled her eyes. She did this every time I said I was either nervous or excited.
When we got to Ten’s, we went downstairs to the locker room. The house-mom greeted me. "You must be Stefanie! Michele’s been telling me about you. I’ve never seem her so excited." I looked at Michele in amazement.
"C’mon, Stef, let’s go change."
The night shift was about to start and there were like 50 girls fighting for mirror space and elbow room. They were so nonchalant. Some were even naked while they applied their makeup. I thought they were so much cooler than me. I tried to fake confidence while I changed. After I was dressed, all of my nervousness went into trying not to fall on my ass in those ridiculous heels. I was led to the "try-out" stage, which was in a dark corner and only used by the club on really busy nights. A bouncer meathead in a black suit was standing on the floor, waiting to watch me wiggle and hopefully give me a job. I was told, "Dance around for a song, and when the next song starts, take off your dress."
I danced for about 15 seconds and the meathead gave me a motion to take off my dress. I was clutching a brass railing the whole time to keep my balance. I dropped my dress and danced for about 30 seconds more, and he motioned for me to get off the stage and walked out of the room. Michele came up to meet me. "He said you can work Saturdays through Tuesdays, cuz those aren’t the money days. So hey, girl, you got the job! Aren’t you happy? You’re so lucky to start out at a place like this."
I picked Jillian as my stage name. It was 1998, and the X-Files were in full swing. In those days, I looked so much like Gillian Anderson that people in Manhattan were stopping me on the sidewalk for an autograph. Jillian is actually a dumb choice for a stripper name, but I didn’t know any better and Michele was only happy to con me into it. I had to wait a couple of days to start work, since it was Wednesday. I was both releived and annoyed. Shit, let’s just get this over with!! I felt like a lamb being led to a slaughter that was very, very far away.
Preparation
The first two days in New York were like a beautiful nightmare. I saw beauty everywhere in all of the old buildings. I mean, the beauty really blew me away. In Florida, hardly anything is over fifty years old or not made of stucco.
The nightmare feeling crept in almost immediately, though. I was terrified of everything I saw, and I felt that every New Yorker was smarter and cooler than me, and therefore capable of doing me harm. At first, Michele would leave me at night to go strip, and I would smoke her pot, cowering in her Greenpoint, Brooklyn brownstone apartment.
Then, the big day came.
She brought it up. "So, Stef, let’s see you naked. Take off your clothes."
I felt shy even though I’d known her for years. Also, ever since I’d arrived, she treated me with annoyance and spoke with cruel authority. I was too terrified to stick up for myself, and she hardly ever let up with her attitude. She was obviously enjoying herself.
I took off all of my clothes, pausing with gym locker-room shyness when I shed my bra and underwear.
"Damn, girl, you got a slammin’ body!"
It felt good to hear that for once. No one except my boyfriend ever saw my body. I was looking al myself in her full length mirror when she said it. It made me excited. I was really gonna do this thing.
"So, move around or twirl or something. Can you dance?"
"Not really."
"So what, they don’t care. You just have to sway anyway. They’ll just be looking at your tits."
I moved around a little, while she inspected me as if to diagnose me with something.
"Okay, girl, but I gotta ask you, what’s up with those armpits?"
I was a little hurt. "Why, what’s wrong-"
She burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, you think you’re gonna be the hot hairy chick? Armpit queen? C’mon, let’s go tot he bathroom. You absolutely have to shave that bush, too. Holy shit, AND your legs. I can’t believe you showed up in New York looking like that. It’s not gonna happen."
She marched me into her bathroom and I shaved everywhere. It took forever. I was about to get out of the shower when she put her head in the shower. "Uh, don’t forget your ass."
"What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes. "Stef, squat down, reach your hand back, and feel."
Oh. Guess there was hair there. I had never before given it a single thought.
"Just shave it in that position. It’s easy." It actually was easy.
"We’ll go into Manhattan tomorrow and get you a dress. I know a good place right around the corner from Scores. They have nice dresses."
The next day, I picked out a cream colored velvet gown with a cowl neck and rhinestone straps, and coordinating thong. The gay shop owner asked us where we worked.
"Well, I work at Ten’s, and my friend here is just trying out to work there. We want her to look nice." Michele had the tone of a skinny mother who was trying to find clothes to fit her fat teenage daughter.
"Well, that dress looks hot on you, sweetie," he told me. "You look like you’re ready for the Oscars." It cost $90, on sale. Most of the other dresses were over $200. Flimsy, cheap gowns that also looked surprisingly expensive. Well made for their purpose.
For my work heels, Michele had a pair that were way too small for her (size 9), but fit me (size 7). They were black platforms with a 7 and a half inch heel. I tried to walk in them, but it was freakin HARD. I couldn’t even fake a believable gait. "Oh, so what they won’t care," Michele repeated. I didn’t feel like I could believe her anymore.
We were all set to go to Ten’s the next day for my big audition.
I Have Arrived
March 1, 1998
My train left the Winter Park, Orlando train station at 10:00 a.m. in the morning. It’s right across the street from the restaurant I’ve been working at, so I had to be careful not to be noticed. I was surprised at how quickly the terrain became foreign to me, even while we were still well within Orlando. I guess that when you travel on the railroad tracks, that kind of thing happens. I saw some beautiful graffiti around the D.C. area. When we got north of that, the towns became so incredibly shitty. There would be a solid coating of trash reaching fifty feet out from the tracks. Around Maryland, some of the towns appeared to be completely made out of mud and straw. Even the graffiti seemed archaic. Like, just one word, and not even stylized.
I sat next to a man who was about 60 years old. He was of the Mohican tribe. Really, a "Last of the Mohicans" scenario. He claimed to have 20 children. I asked what their ages were, and he said "They’re all either 19 or 20."
He said that the Mohican tribe is in a crisis. Since he comes from a wealthy family, about 20 years ago, the tribe rounded up 20 women of childbearing age and had him impregnate them all. He said it happened for about 2 months straight (all that sex) and then it was over: he got them all pregnant. It’s such an unbelievable story. So I believed it.
When I got to Penn Station, Michele was not there. I stood there, waiting and trying not to cry. I was standing there with all of my luggage, a target for predators (I felt.) I tried to call her, but she was not home. Just as the tears fell, I heard my name being paged. "Please come to the Information Center!! Your friend is waiting!!"
I ran up to her, crying.
I Can't Wait
February 28, 1998 - I leave for New York tomorrow!!
I am so excited!!! I can’t wait to go to New York and become an "exotic dancer." Is that what I should call it? "Stripping" seems so crude, but better than "whore", right? God, I hope no one asks me to touch his dick. I wonder if they’ll ask me to talk dirty to them. That would be so weird. I do it with my boyfriend, but even then, it’s only when we’re having sex. I lied to all of my restaurant co-workers and told them that I am moving to New York permanently. I guess I didn’t have to do that, but it feels so glamorous.
They’re all jealous, of course. I really plan to just visit Michele, learn dancing, and come back to work at Danette’s. I found out that it’s the most high-class, clean place in Orlando. I’m kicking my ass right now, pre-paying most of my bills, and hoping I’ll come back with a wad of cash to pay the rest of them. I was wondering if I should shave my armpits and legs, but my boyfriend loves them hairy and so do I. I figure, probably a lot of guys like it, too. I want to dance to Portishead when I’m on stage. Maybe I should bring my own CD. I just don’t know!!! I bought a train ticket cuz it’s all I can afford. I leave Orlando on February 28, 1998 and arrive in NYC on March 1, 1998. It takes a whole day!! That’s so crazy. I can’t even let myself think about anything real because I’m afraid I won’t go through with it. I just think about the money and being beautiful and glamorous. My boyfriend is totally okay with it. He doesn’t really have a choice, though, and he knows it. He knows how hard it has been for me and is just supportive of my new scheme to feel a little better. I love him and I’ll miss him so much!
You Might as Well Know. . .
Before I begin my journal entries, I should give you some background info.
I already lied: it all actually began in December of 1997 with Michele. We were friends in high school, but it was a friendship fueled with pot and acid. I’ve tripped with Michele many crazy times. She's the kind of girl who could be on ten hits of acid and still rob a bank. She dropped out in our junior year and moved away under mysterious circumstances in 1996, the year I graduated high school. We went to high school in a little BFE redneck town in Florida. I after high school moved to the big city, Orlando! Michele had already moved to the ultimate big city when she was just 17 - New York!
She would come back to visit us during the holidays, act like a movie star, show off her brand name clothing, and insist she was a cocktail waitress back in NYC.
When she came to visit for Christmas 1997, she finally revealed to that she was a stripper. "At a NICE place."
After that, I would daydream about stripping. I'd been waiting tables and was barely able to meet my $575 total monthly living expenses. I stole from my bosses as often as I could. I averaged about $20 extra "tips" a day by stealing. (I’d push people to drink beer and eat dessert, and would pocket the money from those items.) I knew from experience that doctors and lawyers were the worst tippers. I also knew that they would be the same men forking over the most cash to see me strip.
I had really naïve ideas about stripping. I thought that it consisted of going on stage every half hour to dance artfully to music that you selected yourself and being showered with rose petals and hundred dollar bills the entire time. At that time, I had hairy legs and armpits. I thought that my bold personal choice would win me tons of admiring fans.
When I heard about "personal dances" and lapdancing and all of that shit, I had really naïve worries. I thought that strippers would give handjobs as they danced and get spattered with cum constantly. That really scared me. When I told Michele about my cum-soaked worries, she got really pissed at me for even thinking she’d do a thing like that. "You’d get fired and arrested if you tried that shit! Gross!"
Still, I would daydream about stripping as I’d eat my nightly dinner: an Arby’s French dip sandwich with provolone and fries. I knew I’d have to start eating better after I started dancing, to stay in shape. Whatever, I was so skinny, but of course I thought I was fat. I had a slim, curvy body with perky, natural D cup breasts. I had a perfect body. I knew that my breasts were incredible and knew that they’d sag earlier than most women's breasts. Sometimes I’d think that they were going to waste since practically no one saw them. I plan to post a lot of pictures with this blog, so you’ll see for yourself.
Michele called me one night with a proposal. "Come up to visit me for a couple weeks, and I’ll get you a job stripping where I work and I’ll show you the ropes." I said yes immediately. "You’re so lucky," she said "I wish I had someone to help me when I started! It’ll be fun and you’ll make mad cash."
I decided that I would "learn the ropes" from Michele and come back to Orlando and strip at the best club in town: Danette’s.
Declaration of Truth
The story I'm going to tell you is completely factual, as I saw it. It begins in February of 1998, when I was 20 years old.
That's a long time ago, I realize. I am the type of person who can remember conversations verbatim from my childhood, so I'm going to do that as best I can.
My story: I was a stripper during the dot.com boom, a totally different world.
I promise you that I will do my best to tell the truth and not idealize about those stripping days.
Through telling these stories, I'd like to try and get back in touch with some of the inner strength I had back then. There are alot of blogs of sex workers out there, and this is not meant to compete. It's here for me and for you. So enjoy, if you're feelin' it.
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