Fay

One Tuesday afternoon there was a new dancer named Fay. I knew her. The previous May I had wandered off to a party after my waitressing job. The party was thrown by Fay and her partner, both of whom greeted me on the front porch. It was a lesbian Roaring 20's party. Fay was wearing a black halter dress with fringe. When I complimented her ensemble, she lifted her skirt to show me she was wearing boys underwear and had stuffed a lilac blossom into the "door" at the front of her drawers. I love lilacs and the effect made it appear as if she had a delicate purple penis. I wanted to kneel down and suck the honey poised between her legs.

That afternoon in the club, Fay told me she started dancing because she had been unemployed for 9 months. The night of her party, she started demonstrating gymnastics while drunk off her ass. She misjudged the location of a wall, crashed into it head first, and broke her neck landing herself immobile for 6 months, followed by 3 months of physical therapy. Now she was pulling 2 jobs to catch up on her medical bills; here at the club and mornings at a bookstore peep show.

We both wore black vinyl, we had the same color hair which we wore in a similiar style, and we were both from large Midwestern cities. There our physical similarities ended. Fay was tall and lanky and I am short and curvy. Our faces looked nothing alike. Yet some yokel asked us if we were sisters and so was born the Incest Sister Dance.

We would walk around the club offering the special dance at the special price of $10 more than two individual table dances. Not only would we make more money, but we would barely touch the guy -- mostly humping and bumping each other -- and actually our disparate heights seemed designed for such activity.

And evidently, there are A LOT of men who are turned on by the idea of incestuous girl-on-girl action. The title alone sold tons of dances. Then we picked up a regular who was a coke dealer. He would come in around 5pm, get a dance and pay us with a teener which we would promptly take back to the dressing room and inhale. Then we emerged; flirty, loquacious and ready to make money.

And we made some damn money.

Augmentation

Mary Jane HATED it when dancers got implants. "It's not fair. My tits are my thing and they're real dammit!"

She did have giant gorgeous breasts with perfect, powder pink nipples. But they looked like a real hassle to haul around, if you want to know the truth. They looked like the kind that would fall to your knees around age seventy.

Sweetwater had the nicest augmentation I have ever seen. She got saline, instead of silicone. She didn't go ridiculously large, and she had the implants inserted behind her muscle wall, "for accurate mammograms". This also lent them a natural curve. She told me, "I wanted good ones and I paid for it doing porno flicks. A cheap set like most of these bitches settled for would have been one porno film. The ones I got, I paid for with 3 pornos." (This confession came over makeup and latex in the dressing room, after another dancer rented a video with her boyfriend and saw a flat-chested Sweetwater getting a rim job.)

Mine are real C Cups -- not perfect, but fun. I'm against tit jobs.

One night Dominique's horror show of a DD tit job blew up. First they swelled rock hard and fire engine red; but she kept dancing. Then they got HOT! But she kept dancing. Then she got hot all over, running a temperature of 103. She tried to keep dancing but we corralled her in the dressing room and called her husband to take her to the ER. The crazy bitch bit us! She was the meanest dancer I ever worked with, although she worked hard and she wasn't a thief. She also had a freight load of fucked up issues. She had been abused so badly as a child that she couldn't even drink through a straw without setting off her gag reflex.

She took a week off work while the implant was replaced. Then she was back and dancing as hard as ever.

But her tit job still looked like a horror show.

Pole Dancing 101

I like Mary Jane. She's a sweetheart big sister type. She helped me through my first stage. On my second day as a dancer, the club was empty of customers due to an unseasonable desert rainstorm.. The girls were playing tunes, drinking beers, and showing off their favorite pole tricks.

I said, "I want to do that."

She brought me back to the second stage. The DJ would open it when there were not enough ringside seats, usually on Friday evenings.

We practiced for a half hour.

"The trick to the spin is to use the second joint of your fingers as the fulcrum." Mary Jane demonstrated and I sighed and tried again, This time I sort of got it.

"OK. Now you just need to practice in here while it's slow." She swayed through the archway and into the next room.

I kept practicing. At home that morning I had to soak for an extra few minutes in an epsom salt bath. My fingers were too stiff to spoon cereal for a few days but dropping a few pounds didn't kill me.

And damn it, I learned how to spin.

First Stage

I walked out of a sales job because I was having ethical issues.

Now I'm tossing back a double Cuervo in a dark corner of the club. The last verse of She Talks to Angels is on the juke box.

When it's over another song will play. Then I will climb onto the oblong stage running through the center of the club. I will have to dance seductively for the three strangers along the stage and the five dancers drinking at the bar. I will have to take off the little outfit I put together with help from my boyfriend, an old lady at the flea market and a teenager at Frederick's of Hollywood.

I feel extremely awkward.

Also, my perineum itches like a motherfucker. About three hours ago (again, with a little help from my boyfriend) I shaved all of my junk. Bald. I didn't want to worry about any stray pubes hoisting like a flag in a not-so-classy way as I performed a fairly unpracticed spread-eagle reverse somersault in an attempt to generate revenue to pay the rent due 12 hours ago. Now that extra-sensitive skin is feeling raw and delicate and I'm wearing thong panties composed of a polyester blend. That shit is starting to chafe.

I don't feel sexy at all. I feel stupid and chilly and fat and way too sober.

Somebody plays an R Kelly song. So I climb up and try a little Bump n Grind. I move around the stage. There are a lot of mirrors so I do a poor job of pretending I'm dancing alone in my bedroom. A guy comes up with a dollar in his fist. I look over at the dancers leaning along the bar. They all start frantically gesturing me toward the guy. A tall chesty blonde -- actually, she is blessed with the largest god-given tits I've ever seen -- moves a few feet behind the Dollar Bringer, and demonstrates how I should hook my thumb in the hip strap of my thong so the guy can slip the dollar in. He lets the tips of his fingers graze my hip. They aren't supposed to touch us but hell, I have soft skin and anyway. I'm just so fucking grateful I didn't have to go through my first dance unappreciated. The song ends.

I walk over to the bar and Rachel pours me another Cuervo. "Nice job. This will help you. It's good to keep a mid-level buzz going, if you can." She refills the glass on the bar in front of me.
"Now, are you here to make money or to get free drugs while you sort through your daddy-baggage?"

"Money. Fast money."

"Well, then. The guy that gave you the dollar? Go ask him if he wants a table dance. The stage dances are your advertisement for your table dances which is how you make your money."

I swallowed the Cuervo and walked across to his table. I leaned over so my tits were about 3 inches from his nose and he could smell the perfume in my cleavage. "Hey, I'm Mia..." I said in my best husky phone sex voice. That phone sex voice is the shit. I used to be able to get a guy off over the phone in 2.5 minutes using a detailed description of my preferred method of fellatio.

"Would you like a dance?"

"How much?"

"Twenty."

"Can I touch you?"

"No. They'll throw you out."

"They won't see."

"No. Arms at your side. I touch you."

"OK."

I straddled him as the song started. The table dance was somehow less awkward. I knew how to entertain one man in a chair. Shaking my ass directly in the face of a complete stranger was weird, but it turned me on a little. I also didn't love the way he smelled but when the song was over, I plucked a twenty dollar bill from the table and it didn't seem matter anymore.

And I went to the bar and ordered another double cuervo on the guy's tab.