I was bored.
I'm not sure what prompted me to write this. I guess it sort of explains the dancers side of the job. I dunno. Enjoy.
The alarm goes off at 2pm, signaling my slow ascent from sleep. I roll out of bed, blinking my sleepy eyes, and shuffle off to the shower.
Ten minutes later, and I am settled with a cup of coffee in my bathrobe, squinting my eyes against the light filtering through the window. Another moment later, I collect myself and begin my transformation.
First comes the hair-wet and curly, I mousse it and gel it and style it to full, voluminous perfection, the curls tumbling down my back as I leave it loose. Then the makeup-a large part of the façade. Lots of foundation, concealer and powder to cover my facial imperfections. Black, liquid eyeliner to ring my eyes, bright eye shadows in primary colors swooping out like colorful wings from the corners. Deep red lipstick with a hint of violet, and I am done.
I drive in at 3:30pm, dragging my bag of shoes, my bag of clothes, and my makeup bandbox with me. I open the door to the club, and am dropped into inky darkness punctuated only by the intermittent flashing of the club lights. At this moment is a sense of belonging and purpose-I am at the home for my alter ego. I am no longer Robin, now-I am Serra.
Robin is the quiet, shy part of me-afraid of rejection, loves books, and despises the trappings of femininity. Robin is a tomboy, infinitely more comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt than a dress-more comfortable with a deck of Magic cards than a credit card and a mall.
Serra is a beautiful, exotic woman-sensual, teasing, confident, and brave. Serra will look you in the eye as she dances, radiating a sultry vibe that weakens even the bouncers resolves. She will steal your heart and lighten your wallet-and all you will get is a fleeting moment of attention from her fickle mind. Serra is, in a word, amazing.
And as I sit in the armchair by this table, out on the main floor and watching the girls twist and undulate on the stage as the colored lights flash over their bodies, watching the men drool helplessly as they stare, I feel master of my domain.
Through the night, I see a hundred different men-some married, some not; some old, some young; all races and creeds. All united in their desires and lack of fulfillment-all wishing and hoping the impossible hope that these beautiful women will come with them to home, to bed, to life.
The fantasy carries on until 2am-the house lights come up, and the men are escorted from the club. They get a last, fleeting glimpse of the exotic women as they trundle into the dressing room to get back to real life.
The dressing room is the definition of chaos at the end of the evening-girls in various states of undress running to and fro, paying the house fees, grabbing juice to drink, going to and from the shower and bathrooms. Everywhere is the constant chatter and laughter of the girls-discussions about their children, about their customers that evening, about where to go afterwards. The occasional spat about clothing, shoes, or she-said-this-and-how-dare-she is resolved firmly by the house mom. Injuries are assessed-this one has a sprained ankle; this one threw her back out, this one whapped her head. Last minute girls run up, waving their current schedules and begging to change them because so and so has to take her daughter to the doctors and this girl has to visit her in-laws in Pittsburgh for their anniversary and could she change it now?
The house mom takes some Advil and deals with it all.
The owner comes back before we leave, calling our attention to current club events-a pig roast this day, a bike show in town that day, and could we please not all wear the same theme costume at once?
After the requisite moaning and groaning from the girls, we are allowed to leave.
The bouncers walk us to our cars, suspiciously eyeing the nearby areas as they wish us a safe evening. A parade of dancers cars make their way up the strip, weaving around each other, honking at one another as we turn our different directions to home.
I feel Robin coming back as I drive to the diner-confident Serra is tired, and slumbers deep in my psyche as I start my first cup of coffee, quietly greeting my friends and starting a Magic game.
Once home, I shower off my makeup, my hair gunk, the smell of smoke and the club, and fall into bed to sleep.
My dogs curl up beside me, licking my cheek; happy their packs leader is home, and safe.
And I awake, only to do it all again.
The alarm goes off at 2pm, signaling my slow ascent from sleep. I roll out of bed, blinking my sleepy eyes, and shuffle off to the shower.
Ten minutes later, and I am settled with a cup of coffee in my bathrobe, squinting my eyes against the light filtering through the window. Another moment later, I collect myself and begin my transformation.
First comes the hair-wet and curly, I mousse it and gel it and style it to full, voluminous perfection, the curls tumbling down my back as I leave it loose. Then the makeup-a large part of the façade. Lots of foundation, concealer and powder to cover my facial imperfections. Black, liquid eyeliner to ring my eyes, bright eye shadows in primary colors swooping out like colorful wings from the corners. Deep red lipstick with a hint of violet, and I am done.
I drive in at 3:30pm, dragging my bag of shoes, my bag of clothes, and my makeup bandbox with me. I open the door to the club, and am dropped into inky darkness punctuated only by the intermittent flashing of the club lights. At this moment is a sense of belonging and purpose-I am at the home for my alter ego. I am no longer Robin, now-I am Serra.
Robin is the quiet, shy part of me-afraid of rejection, loves books, and despises the trappings of femininity. Robin is a tomboy, infinitely more comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt than a dress-more comfortable with a deck of Magic cards than a credit card and a mall.
Serra is a beautiful, exotic woman-sensual, teasing, confident, and brave. Serra will look you in the eye as she dances, radiating a sultry vibe that weakens even the bouncers resolves. She will steal your heart and lighten your wallet-and all you will get is a fleeting moment of attention from her fickle mind. Serra is, in a word, amazing.
And as I sit in the armchair by this table, out on the main floor and watching the girls twist and undulate on the stage as the colored lights flash over their bodies, watching the men drool helplessly as they stare, I feel master of my domain.
Through the night, I see a hundred different men-some married, some not; some old, some young; all races and creeds. All united in their desires and lack of fulfillment-all wishing and hoping the impossible hope that these beautiful women will come with them to home, to bed, to life.
The fantasy carries on until 2am-the house lights come up, and the men are escorted from the club. They get a last, fleeting glimpse of the exotic women as they trundle into the dressing room to get back to real life.
The dressing room is the definition of chaos at the end of the evening-girls in various states of undress running to and fro, paying the house fees, grabbing juice to drink, going to and from the shower and bathrooms. Everywhere is the constant chatter and laughter of the girls-discussions about their children, about their customers that evening, about where to go afterwards. The occasional spat about clothing, shoes, or she-said-this-and-how-dare-she is resolved firmly by the house mom. Injuries are assessed-this one has a sprained ankle; this one threw her back out, this one whapped her head. Last minute girls run up, waving their current schedules and begging to change them because so and so has to take her daughter to the doctors and this girl has to visit her in-laws in Pittsburgh for their anniversary and could she change it now?
The house mom takes some Advil and deals with it all.
The owner comes back before we leave, calling our attention to current club events-a pig roast this day, a bike show in town that day, and could we please not all wear the same theme costume at once?
After the requisite moaning and groaning from the girls, we are allowed to leave.
The bouncers walk us to our cars, suspiciously eyeing the nearby areas as they wish us a safe evening. A parade of dancers cars make their way up the strip, weaving around each other, honking at one another as we turn our different directions to home.
I feel Robin coming back as I drive to the diner-confident Serra is tired, and slumbers deep in my psyche as I start my first cup of coffee, quietly greeting my friends and starting a Magic game.
Once home, I shower off my makeup, my hair gunk, the smell of smoke and the club, and fall into bed to sleep.
My dogs curl up beside me, licking my cheek; happy their packs leader is home, and safe.
And I awake, only to do it all again.