Chapitre 6: Chapter 6: Of First Tips, Customers, and Lap Dances, Part 2

What was that?

Were all lap dances going to be so terrible? I felt like I had just been grubbed and treated like a literal piece of meat, the kind that swings in butcher shops, blood dripping onto the floor and flies buzzing around. It wasn't so much the feeling of being touched that bothered me; it was the sheer force and insistence of the man. I plopped down onto the bench and stared at myself in the mirror. Would it always be periods of molasses-like slowness punctuated by grimy, forceful, ass-spreading men?

The House Mom glanced up from her magazine. "How's it going out there?"

"It's pretty slow, I guess. I just needed to take a break."

"It's always slow on Sundays, but it'll pick up."

I nodded and laid my head down trying to collect my thoughts.

"You don't seem like the kind of person to be here. What do you do besides this?" she asked.

"I work in a library," I responded.

"No shit," she said. "Well honey, let me just tell you one thing: don't quit your second job. This one's nice, but always have that second job on hand."

Thanking her for the advice, I lay my face down on the makeup counter again, as I listened to the DJ go through the list of girls. Eventually, my new name came around again, and I stood up to wait in the wings.

After my set, I sat down near a few of the other girls in the VIP section. Not that any customers were in the "VIP area," anyway. Watching each dancer, I tried to learn and copy. Every girl had essentially the same repertoire of stripper moves, but each had their own distinct style, like a fingerprint. After a few cycles, I noticed that they almost always did the same moves in the same order, cemented by habit. I marveled at the seasoned fluidity of the veteran dancers, having their languid, aloof movements down to an art, with the perfect combination of apathy and insipid carnality in their facial expressions.

Little Jon appeared beside me.

"Catching on?" He was smiling.

I laughed a little.

"Trying to, at least."

"Keep on watching them, and when you go home, practice in the mirror. Practice slowing everything down. A couple of times when you bent down, wondered if you were going to make it back up!"

I winced. Jon continued his stream of advice.

"You're doing fine. But seriously, if you have one of those big, full-length mirrors, practice watching yourself in that. Believe me, it'll help. And be sure to stretch before you leave here and when you get home. You'll need it." He lifted his eyebrows at me and smiled a knowing smile. "I'll let you get back to studying, Rice."

I danced one more time onstage that day. I managed to choke "Hi, my name is Rose, may I sit down with you?" a couple of times, but I was politely rebuffed each time with a, "Sorry, I'm already waiting for Chloe," or "I'm ok for now." I knew to not take it personally; my skin was already growing thicker, just like the callouses on my feet from walking in 4-inch heels all day. Competition is tough when you can clearly see the exact number of men in the club versus the number of dancers. Exotic dancing is a game of hustle, but I had about as much hustle as a turtle. By the time 7 o'clock rolled around, I had earned $68. Sixty from the awkward lap dances and the rest in stage tips.

Sixty-eight dollars. Barely $8.50 per hour. I wondered if I would have better luck just being a cashier someplace. I thought about quitting right then and there.

But It was in my blood now: the lights, the stage, the dirty mirrors, and thumping bass. The looks of admiration and the feeling of being untouchable onstage. I wanted more. I knew I would relish the challenge of making more each day I came back. I vowed to myself that each day would be worth it, as long as I made at least $68.

As I changed into my street clothes, the House Mom congratulated me on my first day.

"Just be sure to go home and stretch. Take a nice, long bath and soak your muscles."

I certainly would; I was already exhausted from dancing and walking around in heels all day.

One of my favorite books is Holes, by Louis Sachar, where teenage boys are sent to a "camp" to dig holes as punishment for crimes. One of the characters insists that the first day is always the most difficult to get through, because you have no idea what you're doing, and the physical exhaustion seems insurmountable. Zero (the co-hero) says it's not the first day but the second.

I woke up the next day with every back, thigh, calf, and shoulder muscle cramped and screeching in pain. And I had to dance that day like that, sore and stiff.

The second day is always the hardest.

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