I leap to the pole from the halo rack that encircles the stage. One client gawks, another says, "Show me your tits." I ignore them both and flirt with myself in the mirror.
I glow with the victory of knowing my 35-year-old body still possesses power, control and stamina. I spin around the pole and admire my prestigious stride. I’m a fucking goddess—albeit, a broke goddess. I’m lucky if I bank $60 in five hours. In fact, I cash-in the old-fashioned way: connection. I converse with older men at the bar, who have no qualms in compensating me for my precious time.
Tonight’s my last night at the Mint Elephant. It reeks of fried chicken strips, stale beer and cheap perfume. I’m retiring to return to an office gig. The regular I’m with begs me not to leave and slips me his phone number on a tiny napkin, over the nicked bar. The ink blotches. "I could fall in love with you," he says.
I pet his wrinkled hand and thank him, before I take the stage for my next set.
I gallop to the music and show off my reclaimed agility, with a full-on split at the song’s end.
A Beavertron bro with gelled hair solicits me for a dance as I hop off stage.
I lead him to the private dance area and part the beaded curtain. The beads tinkle in percussion, as they cascade back to position. Before we even get situated, he picks me up and throws me on the couch. The security guard observes the physical assault, but does nothing—can’t expect much from a dude who would card himself, due to his cherub face covered in zits. He puffs out his chest at me, instead of the rapey creeper who damn near body slammed me in my place of employment. What a send off. I stomp away in anger, at the audacity of the eternal teenager with a badge.
"Security my ass," I say.
The manager abducts me, squeezes her long fingers around my firm bicep and pushes me into the corner.
"Be careful or else word will get out you’re a dirty girl," she says, so close to my face I begrudgingly inhale her petrol-stench breath.
Every pore on my face burns. My fists clench with sheer frustration. I step outside for some fresh air. My favorite dancers smoke and chat outside. We agree we’re all completely enamoured with each other.
We collectively decide that Josie has all the hustle, Kimberly has the best dance moves, Bella is the funniest, Echo is the smartest and Reena has the biggest heart. They vote me in for the most moxy. We all fawn over each other some more and giggle about how we’re a spectrum of diversity in both talent and ethnicity, and happen to be sitting in a lovely visual gradient.
An old-world geezer lights a cigar outside next to us.
"I’ll tell you what I would’ve paid for you during the Vietnam War: $2, $1.50, $1, $0.75, $0.50 and a quarter."
He points at me and says, "The lightest is the more expensive."
Righteous rage fills me. I fight the urge to scream. Instead, I stand up, recognizing my white privilege but also honoring my Romani roots and protest this sad man’s ignorance with a calm ferocity.
"The war is over and so is the age of discrimination. You’re outnumbered now."
He grumbles incoherently and goes back inside.
I enter after him. On the down low, I let the bartender know he’s about to serve a vocal racist and sexist.
"Bartender, another round," the old-world man says and leans on the bar stool.
The bartender returns with a credit card slip to sign.
"What’s this?" he asks.
"It’s time to go," the bartender says.
The geezer signs, groans incoherently and leaves. The stripper brigade of badasses and I cheer.
"I hate this place, but I love all of you," I say.
We group hug, then hijack the stage to do a six-dancer set as a last-call finale. The rack fills with customers downing drinks and showering us in greenbacks.
After our time on stage, I pack my bag in the dressing room. Josie scooches next to me, with her hands behind her back.
"Close your eyes and open your hand," she says.
I oblige. She sets a stack of cash in my paws. I reopen my eyes and tears fall.
"I can’t," I say.
"Too late. We all agreed. It’s from that last set. We want you to remember us more than the assholes who come here," Josie says.
We exchange numbers we’ll never call and make plans we’ll never keep.
I depart with my driver and see the club sign shrink and dim, as we pull away.
Jaime Dunkle mixes the profound and the profane in her prose, with an altruism that stems from her tenure as an award-winning journalist. Her stories range from fiction to personal narrative and often blur between the two. "Stripped" is her forthcoming book that was chosen as a semifinalist on the YesYesBooks Open Reading For Fiction contest in 2019. For more info, go to JaimeDunkle.com. No creepers allowed.
