My almost life as a stripper, Part 1

Have I ever told you about the time that I got asked if I wanted to become a stripper? No? I hadn’t thought of this story in a long time, but half way through a hip-hop class that cost me most of my dignity and several hard-earned dollars, the memory came flying back to me with chagrin inducing clarity.

When I was little, I spent much of my time up a tree. This is pertinent only because while all of my friends were heading off to ballet or tap or jazz, I was playing war outside with my brother. So while part of me wanted to put on pink tights and twirl around, I was more intent on perfecting my use of as sling shot which, may I say, was/is pretty precise.

I think this delighted my mother who would have given an emphatic NO to my request for dance class. She deduced, from where I’m not sure, that any hyper-awareness of the body would lead to sex, or at the very least, masturbation. I defied this logic through much of college by dancing on speakers and definitely NOT getting laid. Did you know that you can be Puritanical in your morals and still get down at least twice a week to the blaring rap that comes out of most frat houses? Bible truth, you can.

Somewhere in those four years, I got enough compliments on my "unique" dancing style to think that I was something of a good dancer. I thought people were just giving me wide berth because of the danger my elbows and flailing hands posed, but perhaps it's just because I was AWESOME on the dance floor. Let's just go with that.

Post-college and off the speakers of the Sigma Chi house, I went out with girlfriends in San Francisco to decorate whatever dance floors were available. Even better were weekends in LA. I had several friends who lived down there and the options were staggering compared to the dearth of good clubs in SF.

I was headed south one weekend when my friend called and mentioned that we were going to a 60’s themed party at House of Blues. Costumes were required to get in. This was a problem, since my closet screamed BANANA! REPUBLIC! at you in all caps when you opened it, but my friend assured me that we would take care of that upon my arrival. The next day, we headed out to a shop on Melrose where I found the most amazing sequined tube top that I had ever laid eyes on. I’m easily distracted by shiny things and this particular piece was like a prism. A HORRIFYINGLY TACKY prism, which was even better. I bought it without thinking and was ready to dress up like a disco queen for the night.

Which I did! I teased my hair into some approximation of a blond Afro, donned the gold, glittery top, white bell bottoms, and platform shoes and we headed out with our friends, guys who had shown up with fluffed chest hair and a cascade of gold chains. It was fabulous. There are pictures, somewhere, I’m afraid to say.

Anyhoo, we took a cab to House of Blues and got in line. It was a winter night so, but for my insane hair, I was under a heavy overcoat. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else, but did notice a guy down the way in a huge, blue Afro. He gave me a thumbs up, which I returned and then turned back to my friends, huddling together against the offending mist and wind.

We were finally inside, took our coats off and headed into the club. What we didn’t realize is that, apparently, costumes were optional this particular year. While we stood out in our 60’s appropriate attire, everyone else - EVERYONE ELSE – was wearing cute, black, L.A. evening wear, and we, amongst a throng of roughly one thousand people, were dressed like lunatics. I turned to my friend, horrified, and said, “BAR. NOW.” She was dressed in a skirt so short a gynecological exam would not have been impossible and a fringed tank that left little to the imagination. She just looked at me and said, “Indeed.”

My top, which had been merely glittery in the afternoon sunlight was electric inside. I don’t know what black magic that lighting system was playing with the sequins, but I was like a disco ball walking through the place with light bouncing off of me as I made my way to where the drinks were being served. It was not subtle. The huge halo of blond hair bouncing around on my head didn’t help.

But shots did!

I stopped at two, not because numbing the reality of the evening wasn’t an alluring idea, but throwing up all over my platform shoes in the presence of so many people dressed in this manner…well, I needed to maintain some scrap of decorum given my dress. I decided after that last shot to just fuck it and go with the flow. I’d probably never see these people again and certainly, since I’m not in the habit of wearing belly baring shirts and coating my eyes in blue eyeshadow, I would never be recognized even if I did.

Hours passed. We danced. The band stopped for break, and so did we. We had become friends with the blue Afro guy from the line as he and his friend were the only other people besides our group of six who were dressed up. We converged on the bar as music blared from the speakers waiting for the band to come back. Mid way through my drink, a felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a petite woman behind me. She was the event planner and had noticed my top from the DJ booth. “GREAT OUTFIT!” she screamed over the music. “WILL YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS FOLLOW ME? WE WANT TO GIVE YOU SOME PRIZES FOR ACTUALLY DRESSING UP!” Blue Afro guy and his friend went, “Hells-YEAH!” and my friend and I shrugged and decided that we ought to gain something from looking so foolish. The rest of our group opted to stay behind, even though there was the promise of swag involved.

We followed the woman up some stairs and down a back hallway and into a large room with a curtain on one end. We could hear the muffled roar of the crowd out in the venue, but didn’t really think much about it. There was free shit to be had, after all. The small woman rounded us up into a group and merely said, “Wait here,” and then was gone. My friend and I talked to the blue Afro guy for a while. Two other VERY DRUNK girls, though not costumed, had followed us back somehow, and they were giggling in the corner while we all discussed exactly how happy we were to have made asses out of ourselves because we were going to GET TREATS!

And then that curtain that I had mentioned? That was at one side of that large room? Yeah. It went UP. We were ON THE MOTHER FUCKING STAGE AT HOUSE OF BLUES. With about one thousand people screaming at us.

And I was in a gold, sequin tube top. With a blond afro that, at this point, had wilted to one side.

I died a thousand deaths. My friend cowered behind me, worried that with the elevation of the stage, the people down below were getting an eye full of her cervix. My thoughts, as I watched all of these people howl up at us were, “Please, sweet fancy Moses, do not let my mother find out about this,” followed by, “This swag had better be REALLY excellent,” followed by, “I hope these jeans make my ass look good.”

I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. Because I have to dredge up the top and photograph it for you so that you get the full effect. I suggest wearing sunglasses.