If you think that a dancer’s job is to dance, you are terribly mistaken. A dancer’s job is to sell a sublimation of a personal life a customer doesn’t have. Or it just plain sucks. And so he comes to the club to escape his 24/7 life that he hates, his jobs that pays the bills and his wife who he hasn’t spoken to in days.
We are always here to listen, to support, to understand, to help to make the right decision…as long as you pay us. We are the best therapists that you can possibly talk to, we never judge or laugh at you, we love you here and now, as long as you keep putting twenties in our bras. But don’t count on us as soon as you run out of money; we’ll thank you for a drink, we’ll wish you a good night and tell you to come again. Right after your pay day.
I’ve always felt sorry for those poor Wall Street guys, whose personal life was only existent within the gentlemen’s club walls. They will take you to the private room and pay cash for 3 or 4 hours just to tell you how his job sucks, what an asshole his boss is and how he would just give it all up to go to Himalayas and live there with Buddhist monks and be happy. But too bad that he has three kids with his ex-wife and a child support to pay; and too bad that his new wife loves Chanel and cocaine so much that he has to pay for it with half of his salary. I can understand it too, if I were a wife of one of those Wall Street guys, I would probably do the same thing. I wouldn’t have a choice: if my husband isn’t at work, he’s at the business meeting. If he’s not at the business meeting, he’s away on a business trip. Or a business lunch with his partners. Or a business dinner with the same partners, at the strip club. So much money and nobody’s happy. Good thing I understood it by 26 when it wasn’t too late for me as it is late now for those poor Wall Street wives. And I recall the times, when I was nothing but a poor Russian girl, and all I wanted was money. Cash. Louis Vuitton bags. Christian Louboutin shoes. I mean like every normal girl I still like those things and I still buy them now, but occasionally, not on a daily basis as a therapy for my fucked-up married life. I know that all I want is just to be comfortable with what I have, I want to have just enough to do my laser hair removal monthly; to do my gel manicure weekly; to get a full body massage when I need it. But I would never want to kill myself physically and morally by 40 and realize that now I have money but my life isn’t worth shit. Like in that saying that you probably heard: some people are very poor, all they have is money. And thank God, I’m a blessed girl, I’m very happy with what I have now, I have my boyfriend who spoils me rotten not only with presents, but what is more important with his love and care and I wouldn’t trade it for any Louis Vuittons in the world.
Some girls aren’t all like me though. Megan just got another Chanel bag from a customer and is very happy about it. She travels all over the states when she doesn’t dance and uploads her bikini pictures on Instagram. Good for her! I guess she’s happy at where she is. A week ago, at the club anniversary, Lexi, another former dancer, said that Megan looks shabby, that she got fat and her hair looks dirty. Megan did get a little chunky, but don’t put the girl down because you are jealous. I honestly never understood Lexi’s thirst for gossip and hostility towards almost all girls. She retired from dancing more than a year ago, after she met her future husband (the president of some company) in the club and married him (or shall I say, made him marry her with a Tiffany ring) after 4 months of dating. Now all she’s doing is spending her husband’s money on shoes, clothes and bags and adds trendy locations she’s been at to her Facebook. Looks like a very pretty picture perfect suburban Jersey housewife life, so how come Lexi is so mad at Megan’s white outfit from Victoria’s Secret that “looks dirty on stage”, or at Megan’s hair with “too much hairspray on it”? It’s hard to believe now, but they were good friends at some point, they went on vacations together and now hate each other with the same passion that they loved each other with before. Because Megan was laughing at how Lexi would die thirsty before she would pay for her own drink and Lexi keeps telling each and everyone how Megan fucked four different guys on that trip. And that’s how, my friends, female friendship dies.
We both don’t work anymore, but unlike Lexi, who hates even mentioning of her former “career”, I like remembering something good that came out of my “stripper” job. And now, sitting by the bar with Lexi and her invisible husband Kevin, I’m thinking of how much fun I had on Sundays with my good friend Emily, when the club would just open its doors and there were no customers yet… We would change early, do our make-up and hair and go to the main stage to learn some new pole tricks. Emily would get us a couple of Red Bulls from a bartender and we would start the fun.
- I hate you so much right now! – she would yell at me, laughing. – How did you just do that?
I drink more Red Bull and laugh too.
- Look here. Just jump on the pole and slide your legs down, and twist. That’s it.
I show her the move again. After a couple of shots she gets it.
- I did it! Did you see? I did it! – when Emily smiles, you can’t help but smile back; she has that little cute doll’s smile that just lights up the whole room.
- Good job! Now show me that move again, when you put your legs back and turn, - it’s my turn to learn now.
Customers start coming in and the DJ calls the first girl on the bar stage. We keep fooling around on the main one. I hold the pole tight with my hands and put my legs above my head to slide upside down. It doesn’t look too gracious and it makes me laugh even more. Emily can’t stop laughing too.
- Oh yeah, baby, that was really hot! – she says, giggling. – Keep doing that and you’ll make a million tonight!
- Shut up! – I’m wiping my hands on my skirt and hold the pole again, getting ready to do the move again. – You try to do it yourself!
We both jump on the poles at the same time and do the same routine. Customers at the bar are no longer interested in the girl dancing on the bar stage and look at us instead. Later on we’ll tell them that we are lesbians, we are renting an apartment together and sleep in the same bed. They have no choice but to take us to the room together. Men are stupid, they will pay ridiculous money to see two girls make out. And that’s how we make our first several hundreds tonight.
The New York Doll is available on Amazon and is free for Kindle Unlimited users. Enjoy your reading!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00M9YT3TE
