A couple weeks later, I get the urge again. I want to try dancing on a night when the plant paid its workers. I consult a calendar and plan my return. Once again, the boyfriend sits and glowers in the back. I don’t think they like him there, but he doesn’t cause trouble. I had done the math and if I couldn’t pull in $100 this night, it would not be worth it. It was a long round-trip.
I get there just in time. I barely make the cut. No one looks happy to see me. The place is starting to fill up fast. I hang out at the bar and DJ booth until my first stage rotation. All three stages are open and I learn how to rotate (I’m being a real stripper!). I do my two songs on the main stage and earn a lot of ones. I’m glad to finally be appreciated. The next two stages (four songs) feel like a long time, but I earn money. I don’t like being so close to the crowd. They’re rough men, but they tip.
It is near the end of the night and probably my fifth time up (they play spacer songs so we don’t wear ourselves out onstage). I had seen the Queen table dancing, but I guess I wasn’t saying or doing the right things because no one said yes to me. (Years later I finally figured out that selling bullshit isn’t my forte, so I was never a top table dance seller anywhere.) The place is packed. I can’t even see my boyfriend’s dour face. Fine with me. I have a little more panache, but I still don’t even approach the art of dancing. Still, I’m tipped. Wearing bikinis, I make money. All I can think is how much more I would make if they could see my perfect ass framed in a thong.
On my last stage (the low one), I’m on my knees and guys are crowded around, nearly blocking me from view. One guy with large dirty hands holds out a dollar and tries to stuff it into the straining elastic of my frilly bikini panties. He tries to pull my panties down. I grab them back up and glare at him. He lets go, taking the dollar with him. He just wants me to pull it aside and show him a little flash, that’s all. I’m offended. For one dollar? I don’t think so! I tell him, “Not for a dollar!” and grab it out of his hand. I get up and dance on my feet, keeping my back to him.
Keeping my back to him without mirrors is a mistake, but I don’t learn that lesson until much later. Thankfully, he doesn’t try anything else. These guys are only minor league assholes. Country perverts.
I get off the stage and clean up. I put my money in one of the boots I’m wearing. My shift is basically over. My boyfriend and I go home. I rant about the asshole who wanted a peek. I sort of knew the Queen was doing that and my boyfriend confirmed it. I also had gotten the general impression that she turned tricks out of there too. It would explain a lot of things.
I get home and count my take. A little over $70. I want to try again, but in the light of day, reason prevails. If I’m going to have these hours, I need to make more. Dancing in Dallas doesn’t cross my mind, probably because I’m more aware of what the drive-time would really be like.
Not long after, my boyfriend told me about an opening at a restaurant in a nearby larger city. I got a job there. Wasn’t great money, but it was steady and no one tried to put their hands down my panties (and I wore thongs). At least, no one did while on the clock! But that’s a whole other story which won’t be told here.
While waitressing, my sex-work tendencies are repressed until one day they burst out in a fit of determination to find work in the adult industry. (These feelings coincide with me dumping the boyfriend.)