As she finished the fourth dance, the man’s attention began to wane. She had a knack for never pushing beyond the threshold of a patron’s interest, because invariably it led to resentment. At home, when interacting with their wives, the obvious outlet for such resentment was often a mistress. In the club, the women were less fortunate. It was not a matter of violence, as perhaps implied, but rather a risk of permanent disconnection of the spigot. If one tried to bleed a man, who could ill afford it, or who was no longer interested, invariably he might pay, but he would always recall the experience with the distaste of a bait-and-switch. Thus, a woman could make a modicum of money off of him that day, however, the end result was like the adage about “winning the battle, but losing the war”.
The trick with locals and regulars; lay in maintaining a delicate balance of intuition coupled with the creation of the illusion of supreme desirability, unavailability and scarcity. First, she snapped her G-string back in place, then retied her top, before casually adjusting her dress downward. While maintaining eye contact, she shook her head and surreptitiously tugged at the nape of her neck to make sure that her wig was still securely fastened. Always pleasant, she considered congeniality and gratitude a requisite component of excellent customer service and a successful sale.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously, enhanced by the reflection of her caramel tinted contacts, as she smiled serenely and gently reminded him of the fee owed. He leaned forward slightly, shifting his weight onto his right hip, to enable him to clasp his black, leather wallet between thumb and forefinger and remove it from his back pocket. As if counting gold, he carefully removed four twenties and handed them to her with a smile.
“You’re nice. I like you. I might want to see you again after I look around at the other offerings.”
“I understand,” she replied, perfectly at ease with the predictable exchange. Many times because of her gracious departures, most clients would often request a few more dances. She purposely abandoned her drink, and proceeded to navigate between the crowded tables and cacophonous din to the cul-de-sac directly beneath the stage.
She typically didn’t like to engage customers in this area because it was tight, and she felt it was disrespectful to the women working the stage. It tended to cut into the performers tips, because the patrons positioned closest to the stage were these women’s best opportunity to pick up extra money, especially if they were having a slow night. In addition, since she was straight, she didn’t particularly enjoy the view from that vantage point, preferring to observe the female body in its entirety, as a work of art.
Whenever she happened to find herself working this area, she would divide her attention between her patron, and the 1500 gallon coral reef aquarium balanced on a steel reinforced frame above the heads of the bartenders. No matter how many times she saw this tank, it never ceased to amaze her. It was absolutely stunning and surreal in both its size and capacity. The slow, fluid movements of the salt water marine life, including baby sharks and stingrays was hypnotic; and the vibrant blue, pink, yellow and orange coral reefs that complimented other exotic, dazzling flora highlighted by the overhead lights seemed to take on an otherworldly quality.
As the calming effect of the tank scene began to take hold, the DJ sudden announcement abruptly jarred her from the reverie. “Ivana, on deck!”
This announcement forced her eyes away from the tank, and toward the crowded pathway that led to the front of the club and the raised area illuminated by neon lights hugging tightly to mirrored walls mounted table height to ceiling. Adorning each of these panes was a string of elaborately designed neon lights which cast an anemic glow. Inside this area, ringing the walls, were burgundy leather sofa benches bolted to the walls. Positioned irregularly about, were round mahogany bar tables, chairs on casters, and cheap, beveled red and orange candle holders providing additional dull illumination.
That area was also filled to capacity, but she didn’t pay attention to the young patrons as she mounted the crude wooden box that served as a step up into the DJ booth through which one had to pass to access the stage. The club’s disc jockey was a muscle bound, long haired, blond WASP northeastern transplant who came to Miami to pursue his undergrad degree in music from the University of Miami. He had earned both his bachelor’s and master’s degrees, but saddled with loans and working on his post-doctoral, he supplemented his income by working here. His steroid ripped body belied the depth of his intellect, but like her, he was an anthropomorphic conundrum wrapped in a prosaic package.
“You ready?” Vincenzo asked, as she arrived at the DJ booth.
“As I’ll ever be,” she replied. Just as her name was not Ivana, his was not Vincenzo; but like the clothes they each wore, stage names were yet another artifice and necessary accoutrement of the business.
She asked him to queue up music by Depeche Mode and the Goo Goo Dolls. She preferred to dance to music that was slow and sensuous and that allowed her to fully inhabit her body in a way she rarely enjoyed during her daytime life. Although performing was an opportunity to pique interest and show one’s wares, for her it became an artistic expression, albeit without clothes.
Vincenzo was her kindred spirit. A man with a plan. They often talked about what they were working toward, and as cliché as it may have seemed; they also talked about literature, psychology, music, and played a running game of chess whenever she was in town.
“I want to make a lot of money, but I am far too unorthodox to let some large corporation masticate my talents without commensurate return. It’s all about investment. I spend a few mind numbing years here and walk away a rich man,” Vince declared.
He picked up a pack of Natural American Spirit cigarettes with an Indian Chief on the pack and shook one free. He broke off the filter tip with a quick flick of forefinger, thumb and wrist, then lit. It was a ritual bordering on the compulsion. She smiled to herself and thought, “she who lives in a glass house”.
Every woman had a different style, and different strengths. Some were athletic and preferred to work the poles, performing incredible feats of acrobatics on the brass fixtures which reached from stage floor to ceiling.
Others tended to move up and down the stage as if on a runway, or incredulously, some seemed shy and embarrassed. Most often, she observed this kind of response in the few Caucasian American girls who worked the club. They were Zaftig, with rather plain faces and unusually long, typically blond hair. The one exception was a natural red head, whose hair flowed down her back nearly to the top of her thighs. She often wore thigh high dominatrix boots, which further accentuated her style.
These ample women usually appealed to men who were attracted to wholesome, fleshy, Midwestern farm girl types. Unlike Manhattan, where these women would not been able to work anything other than Peepshows; here her lean, muscular figure often worked against her, as the Latino clientele that frequented the club, preferred the softer, more plump figures of the Latinas. Finally, there were the girls who lacked coordination, business acumen, and professional standards; who therefore resorted to more vulgar and crass displays in an attempt to engage the patrons.
She observed through the opaque window of the DJ booth that there were two girls on the stage. One was totally nude and she was finishing up her second and final set. As the song neared conclusion, she gathered her G-string and clothing before reaching down to gather the last of her tips as she made her back to the DJ booth nude.
On the surface, it was all very normal, because as with any environment, one becomes acclimated, and with repetition, inured to even the most bizarre environs. So much so, that Ivana and Vince didn’t pause their conversation as the girl pushed into the impossibly crowded booth. She was slightly drunk, and leaned against vinyl records and CDs, as she balanced on one platform clad foot while getting redressed.
Vince eventually became annoyed that the woman was taking too long to vacate the cramped space, and he turned to her and said, “I told you girls you can’t dress in here. Get out and dress by the tables. This is my work area!”
She looked at Ivana, but meekly complied. Vince could be very terse and brutally honest, qualities with Ivana enjoyed, but which others found caustic and offensive. It was his way of maintaining a clear, distinct, and very wide fence around his personal life and his job at the club. As with the other individuals who worked in this industry, and for whom it was simply a job to be completed in an efficient and professional manner; Vince did not fraternize with anybody in the club outside of its four walls or beyond his work hours. That was why Ivana was taken by surprise when Vince told her about his girlfriend, now wife, whom he had met in the club.
She was a lovely, sweet person, and one of the aforementioned wholesome buxom women. She was considered by most of the girls in the club, extremely lucky because, not only had she met the man of her dreams, he knew exactly what she did for a living and he loved her anyway; even if he did make her quit after they married.
For the longest time, Ivana thought Vince was gay, and never had an inkling that he was remotely interested in women, because he was so dispassionate, perfunctory and business like in all of his interactions with the performers. In fact, she didn’t know they had gotten married, until after her return from New York.
Vince put on the song “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls, and Ivana segued onto the stage, commanding the full attention of the patrons seated below; while psychologically forcing the other dancer to move to the far gangway.
If one were to characterize her dancing style, it would be more in line with early burlesque, minus the “bump and grind”. A firm believer that sexual attraction, arousal and intimacy occur first in the mind; she always focused on telling a story through her movements. She prided herself on being able to engage the audience in the dreams and promises that she wove into each performance. She believed that anybody could get undressed; but it takes a confident, intelligent, self-aware woman to be able to captivate and hold an audience.
She had already removed her dress and was topless, when she looked toward the front of the club to see the leather clad doors swing inward as one of her favorite clients walk in. A Miami Heat basketball player, he was tall, lean, brown and very handsome. Plus, he was a really, really nice man. Never demeaning nor condescending. Their eyes locked as they silently acknowledged each other. She was happy that he had come.
He preferred to treat the members of his entourage to dances and he made sure that they were always respectful. He tipped generously for great conversation, and unlike other high profile individuals, he liked sitting out in the open. He was married and his wife sometimes accompanied him to the club, but one of the things Ivana admired most about him was how committed he seemed to be to his marriage.
He never got dances for himself. He never propositioned or solicited anyone. He always kept his party in check, and he tipped generously. He was a perfect gentleman, which in that environment equated to a prince.
It was her experience that many women who were not familiar with clubs and the women who worked in them, or who were unduly religious or morally rigid, felt that the men who came to strip clubs were all cads and cheats. Ivana’s experiences had taught her just the opposite. Many men came to these clubs for a mental break and as an opportunity to experience in real life what online interactions could not give them.
She totally understood the wives and girlfriends who sometimes came to the club because they recognized it for what it was; adult entertainment. She had often been asked by patrons and co-workers if she would allow her husband or boyfriend to go to a dance club. Her response had always been, “it is not the club that corrupts the man, but man that corrupts the club experience by expecting more than illusion”.
Men are creatures like any other male animal. They were designed to look, imagine, chase and conquer. It is only through Western Civilization and particularly the influence of the Catholic Church, that men have had to sublimate these natural tendencies. She had observed that repressed desires manifest in far more deviant expressions, than if allowed to safely percolate to the surface. So, for her, the men who came to enjoy looking at women in a controlled environment was preferable to those sneaking around with the secretary, or worse prostitutes, who could transmit to them, and by proxy, their wives, any number of sexually transmitted diseases, the worst of which was HIV infection.
The basketball player approached the stage, where because of his height, he was only about a head shorter than her, even though she wore platforms. It was amazing to her how tall professional American athletes were, especially basketball and football players. He stuck a $100 bill in her garter, and told her to come over when she was finished. She nodded in assent before he turned and moved toward his seat near the DJ booth. Simultaneously, she navigated toward the far stage to finish up her set.
Once there she unhooked one side of her G-string, and left it hanging casually askew, thus providing the barest glimpse of the cleanly shaven skin beneath. Then she closed her eyes, and allowed the rhythm of the music to consume her.
She could feel that it was going to be a good night.
To be continued……….
Filed under: Short Stories , Adult Entertainment Industry, Burlesque, Coconut Grove, Coral Gables, Cuba, Exotic, Exotic Dancers, Experiences, Feminism, G-String Divas, Gender, Gender Relations, Gentlemen's Clubs, HIV, Latin Americans, Latinas, Latino, Life, Memoir Shorts, Miami, Miami Beach, Miami Dance Clubs, Observations, People, Platform Shoes, Psychology, Relationships, Sexuality, Sexually Transmitted Disease, Short Stories about Women, South Beach, Upscale Clubs, Women's Issues, Working Women
tball shorts that hug thick thighs snapped to hairy atrophied calves, gartered at the knees with sock suspenders. As an ostensibly benign, old man providing a discounted transportation service to the girls, he was able to satiate his predilections for the youngest, most nubile innocents. In addition to picking up and delivering girls to the club, he was a procurer of any vice, from drugs, to sex, to stolen merchandise.
