New Beginnings.

Chapter One

Seattle; Winter, 1994

"Jen!" a deep, gruff voice calls my name but I can barely hear him over the bass line thumping through the walls.

I've been staring at my reflection and slowly peeling off the body glitter sticking to my collar bone. My reflection is highlighted grotesquely by the harsh lights jutting out and surrounding the mirror. A "show girls'" mirror as Phil, our boss, likes to refer to it. As if we are entertainers but we all know what we are.

The face that stares back at me is tired and looks older than the 21 years it is. My eyes are lined in dark coal and the deep red lipstick smeared across my lips makes me feel like a clown. But I'm not too far from it, I think to myself. I've only been hired for the purpose of gratifying others too. And instead of inflating and manipulating balloons for the desires of another; I inflate and manipulate myself. I too am a balloon animal of sorts. Tonight I will twist and turn and inflate myself into "Brittany." My alias.

"Jen, honey, you're up next." Courtney puts her hand on my shoulder and jars me from my moment of self admonishing. Courtney is 29, has three babies, and a spine stronger than steel. She's standing next to me, her large breasts are only inches from my face and her large saucer-like nipples are staring back at me.

There is no point feigning modesty around each other with this job. And I would recognize many of these girls by their nipples and asses as much as their faces. This job "strips" you of many things, your modesty being only one of them.

She hands me my sparkling bikini top and gives me a kind, knowing smile. I swipe more eyeliner under my eyes, and add an extra layer of lipstick. I am wearing only a tiny black g-string and my feet are barefoot on the dirty vinyl flooring. I curl my toes before jamming my feet into the towering platforms.

I tie the sparkling bikini top around my neck and at my back, then drop my eyes so I can't see my reflection. Since starting here, I refuse to look at myself in my "uniform." I'm too afraid that if I see myself like this, I will identify myself as a stripper. And right now, I have been lying to myself that this is just temporary. But temporary has turned into a year and I am losing myself.

I stand at the side stage and Mary exits carrying a wad of sweaty bills.

"It's a good night tonight, those grunge bands are back in town." She says to me quickly as she exits the stage.

"Great," I reply through gritted teeth back at her, forcing a smile.

I hate it when these guys are in town. They come into the strip clubs and expect all of us to fall all over them. Some tip well, yes, but I always feel like they are the most demanding, the most judgmental.

My song comes on and I step out into the lights. I begin my routine, I'm not a dancer, but Phil puts me on late when the guys have had a few drinks. I am mostly there for the ones that have a kink for young bodies or young men who want to fantasize about the high school cheerleader they had a crush on.

When I first started, I refused to look the men in the eyes. Thinking that if I didn't see them, they wouldn't see me. But now, I turn the voyeurism back on them. They watch me, see me, and I look back into their eyes and ask them why.

Some feminists argue that stripping is empowering. That it is women freely operating within the economy of their greatest commodity. I say fuck that. Stripping may not always be demoralizing but it sure as shit isn't empowering. No one dreams of being a stripper. It is a job you do when you are desperate. It is an opportunity created by men for women who are unable to break into a male dominated economy. They created this world, then they look down on us for engaging in it.

I don't look down on stripping but if I were to describe it, I'd say the first word that comes to mind is: exhausting.

I scan the crowd looking for the "grunge band" that is in town. I spot a group of long-haired men at the front left side of the stage. I turn to them and make eye contact with a man with long wavy brown hair. He whistles and catcalls at me to "take it off" so I slowly crawl across the stage towards him.

He tosses a twenty at me and I rise onto my knees in front of him. His eyes rake down my body and I slowly untie the bikini top. He reaches for me and Randy yells at him not to touch me. This is the only part about stripping I don't mind. I love knowing that even though they have stripped me of so much, no matter what, they can never have me.

I stand and bend my ass back towards him and he tucks a wad of bills in the thin g-string waist band then slaps my ass. Randy yells at him again. I pull his money out of the band and toss it back to him.

He laughs and turns to say something to his friends then cheers me on louder.

My song ends and I leave the stage, refusing to bend to pick up the money they had thrown at me. I don't know how to explain it, but I never want money from those guys.

This was my final dance of the evening and my feet and body ache. Not to mention the weight this job has on my soul. I pull on my jeans, slip my feet into my sneakers, then drag a warm sweater over my head.

"You doin' alright honey?" Courtney asks.

"I'm having a rough one, Court," I admit. She knows this feeling all too well. We all do. Some nights are ok, but other nights, the weight of the "profession" hits hard.

Stripping isn't a big deal to Courtney. At least she doesn't lead on that it is. I think it's because she a has a thick skin and a strong spine. She knows her worth. But me? I don't know mine and I refuse to find it in the lascivious grins and stares of my patrons.

She nods in understanding, then says, "Bill is looking for someone to help out at the shop, do you want me to tell him you're interested?"

I smile and hug her. "Court, I don't know anything about motorcycles."

She laughs and says, "just talk to him, the money won't be great but it will help you get out of your head a bit."

I give her a hug and grab my bag. We wave goodbye and I step out into the parking lot to walk to my car.

As I walk out, the long-haired man is leaning up against the entrance of the club smoking a cigarette. Randy usually walks me out at night but he was busy. I look around and notice that the parking lot is crowded with other people so I'm not too nervous about the man watching me.

He pushes off the side of the building and walks over to me. I brace myself, preparing to run or scream.

When he nears me, he puts his hands up and says, "I'm not going to hurt you." He chuckles slightly, and says, "which is probably what every serial killer has said to the girl he is about to murder." Then he bends his head to light a cigarette.

I can't help but laugh slightly at his comment.

He looks up at me with a grin, and I can tell he likes that I laughed. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

He pulls out a wad of cash and extends his hand out to me.

I stare at the money in his hand and he says, "here, take it. You were great tonight."

I shake my head at him "no" and he smiles slightly. He is wearing ripped black jeans and a leather jacket.

"I think I get it. I know what it feels like to want some control in a time of your life that feels chaotic and ugly." He says to me thoughtfully.

I smile slightly and say, "That's part of it."

He laughs and says, "take it easy...Candy."

I laugh at his joke referring to the stereotypical stripper name. Then I reply, "You too...Axl," referring to Axl Rose.

He laughs heartily and shakes his head. He smiles at me then turns to go back inside the club.

I smile to myself, unlock my car door, and slide into the driver's seat.

"Tomorrow is a new day," I say to myself and drive out the parking lot.