My almost life as a stripper, Part 2

To say the roar from the crowd was deafening would be like saying the Pacific is damp. A mild understatement at best. We wondered why we were suddenly on stage – it had to be some mistake, the petite woman having led us here accidentally rather than to some back room where we could claim our prizes and then get back to our friends at the bar.

Apparently not.

From somewhere to my right, a large man came out on stage with a microphone in his hand and, with some lame shout – you know, like, one of those “HOW IS EVERYONE DOING THIS EEEEEEEVENING!” type things – brought the deafening noise down to a dull roar.

He went on: “SO! We told you all to come out tonight dressed to party like it was the 60’s and only these six were brave enough to make fools of themselves!” Many drunken cheers rose up and I resisted the impulse to kick him in the shins for the thinly veiled insult. The two drunken girls came up behind the announcer and pawed at him unnecessarily. He didn’t seem to mind.

“We promised them prizes for their costumes, but I think we should make this interesting!” More cheers. “Should we make them DANCE?!” No. NO. NO NO NO NO NO. But all that came from the crowd was a frenzied “YEEEEEESSSSSSS!!! WOOOOOOOO!!!” He came over to my friend, who was at the very left of the stage and said, “Come on our from behind your friend honey…” which she did. Something had changed in her face. I think it was very clear that we were not going to get out of this with any of our dignity intact, so she had just decided to go along with it, which made me realize that since I had buried most of my propriety, one final shove into the grave wasn’t going to hurt anything.

He put his arm around my friend and turned to address the crowd. “SO! What we’re going to do is put on some music…and whomever of our 6 friends here dances the best gets THIS!” The petite woman returned and had in her arms a leather jacket with HOUSE OF BLUES stitched into the back…something like the 8 Ball coat that Puddy wore on that episode of Seinfeld. Seriously. Not that what I was wearing would win any prizes, mind you, but really? They were making us dance for THAT?

Suddenly, Wild Thing came on full blast and the announcer pushed my friend out into the middle of the stage, where she did her best to shake what she’d been given. Somehow, we had been separated, and our two guy friends went next. What they lacked in rhythm, they made up for in dexterity, the both of them flailing their limbs about with much gusto, the one closest to my friend picking her up and swinging her around in such a manner that her underwear color was no longer a mystery to those within eye-shot. Bright pink, if you care to know.

Then it was my turn. For some reason, the announcer had been eyeing me for the past two minutes. He held up his hand and the music stopped. He came over to me, perhaps blinded by my top, I don’t know and said, “Sugar, what’s your name?” And I told him. And he said, “Are you going groove for us?” Sure, I replied, why not? I REAAAAAALLLLLLY want that jacket. He laughed, hearing my sarcasm and said, “I think you’ll do me proud. Shake it.” And with that, the music started.

And I did. Shake it, that is. Underneath it all, I must be an exhibitionist, because I can’t lie and say that wasn’t fun, being up there having a thousand people scream at you while you do your thing. Whee! The announcer even got into it, twirling me around a few times.

The two drunk girls were last. They were neither dressed up or really, I think, even aware of what was going on. I stopped after having executed a slide across the stage on my knees and waved my hands at them to say, “YOUR TURN.” And guess what fun maneuver they decided to go with?

They started making out. YES THEY DID. I saw about 600 male jaws go slack simultaneously.

Guess who won the jacket by a landslide? Whores.

I did win something, which after ten years as been obscured by my fuzzy memory. But as we made our way down from the stage we were assaulted by free drinks and many declarations as to how brave we were. Not really. We were merely Shanghaied with the promise of non-existent swag.

We battled back to the bar to our waiting and highly amused friends. I was enjoying my drink when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face a young guy, probably in his early thirties, who was dressed in requisite LA black. I don’t recall much about him other than he was hot and I was suddenly very aware of my ridiculous outfit in a way I hadn’t been all evening. He had a smirk on his face and said, “Where do you dance?”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“Dance. What club do you dance at?”
“Besides this one? I don’t know where else we're going tonight.”
He sighed, exasperated. “No. I mean where do you dance for work?”
A little light went off in the back of my mind. Surely, he didn’t mean what I thought he might mean. “Oh, you mean, like, DANCE-dance?”
“Yes,” he said, smugly.
“Um, I don’t do that.”
“Well, you should. I just opened up a club in Hollywood, and if you can do there what you did here tonight, we have a place for you.” And with that, he slipped a card into my hand and finished off by saying, “Call me if you’d like to consider it.” I stood there with my mouth agape and my Afro drifting down over my eyes.

“OH MY GOD JEN THAT GUY JUST OFFERED YOU A JOB AS A STRIPPER!” This from one of my guy friends who immediately grabbed the card and examined it. “I KNOW THIS PLACE! It just opened and is supposed to be amazing. Come on Jen, be open-minded. I'll bet they have great chicken wings!”

We left once the band came back on, deciding that we had made fools enough of ourselves for one evening. Because really, I’m not sure you can come back from the sheer awesomeness of getting down to Wild Thing in a bar and then being offered payment for taking your clothes off. Can you recover from that?

We got into the cab to head home and a silence fell over our group. The lights of LA streamed by, reflecting off of the wet pavement, lulling us. We exited the freeway and started weaving through the residential streets towards my friends home when one of the guys suddenly popped up, a thought having roused him from near sleep. "JEN!" he said, "You should have totally asked if that job came with dental!"

Before I could crawl over the backseat and choke him with some sequins, my friend piped up, "No, she wouldn't dance for dental, but a good eye plan? That might sway her." Which made me pause for a moment, because DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD A GOOD EYE PLAN IS TO FIND? Very.

You'll be happy to note, however, that I didn't choose that route. My virtue has remained intact. I do, however, still have the tube top which has been brought out for several Halloweens. However, I can't hear Wild Thing without thinking of that night and considering how my career options suddenly flourished regardless of my mothers insistence that I never take dance lessons. That poor woman. What she doesn't know will let her sleep at night.