I recently caught a few bars of a song I used to strip to when I was 22, after my abandonment of all patience in exchange for fast money and a move to New York. I knew that if I could just get there – physically – the rest could and would be figured out, and would probably pale in comparison to initial logistical aspects. A walking of the line along the precipice of an anticipated exit, I would take advantage of every possible situation, and person, to lean favorably in my direction until I obtained what I wanted; where I wanted.
The inside of a club is designed to conceal: a hilarious contrast to its bottomline business objective. Warm lights pour deliberately over every person in the room, more forgiving than religion. Backstage, its snarling contradictions are outlined and underlined in white, sterilizing fluorescents, hung within low gypsum board: every flaw, mark, bruise, dark circle, fake smile, and dry eye was set seemingly permanently into compact make-up complexions. All perfume inside smelled like old candy and hung around as if it had been soaked into the walls with janitorial sponges, left to slowly trickle down as the night ‘progressed’ and lap at the vinyl heels of the women in the room. I felt everyone’s teeth rotting, knees cracking in their joints; everyone looked eerily perfect and exceptionally artificial. A sign was bolted on the wall that read: HIGH HEELED SHOES ONLY.
Hired also to play music for others’ sets, evenings became an absurd balancing act of counting minutes, vodka, pink and blue neon, and tiny DJ booths cramped with unfortunate compact disc collections from the late-nineties. The tracks I chose to take off my own clothing to varied but were always selected in advance and with consideration. The standbys: “Pale Shelter” by Tears for Fears, “$20” by M.I.A., and Quicksand’s cover of the Smith’s “How Soon is Now?”, and especially MGMT’s “Electric Feel”. Occasionally, “Last Dance with Mary Jane” by Tom Petty was included, and if I was feeling especially inexhaustible, Prodigy’s “Smack My Bitch Up”, since the song is the guts of six minutes. At times, I would slap in disgusting traces of rap, remixed within an inch of its life, and / or songs by bands nobody would either think to request, or desire to hear, inside a strip club: “She’s Calling You” by Bad Brains, “Gimme the Car” by Violent Femmes, “Be My Baby” by Erasure.
Money and bodies flowed steadily throughout the month-long stint. Everything came facilely with no routine. I was a testament to my own indifference, in fuchsia, stepping off a stage and gathering bills against myself.
Few individuals do I remember as anything other than part of a crowd, a mass, the way in which a tool is mass produced for uniformity and stacked neatly into containers, awaiting shipment, or in the way one hammers a board into place within a fence.
One man requested a private dance. At 26, he did nothing but sit, palms pressed against the armrests, looking terrified, and talked about how he did not truly love his fiancee, and that marriage never made sense to him. He paid for his deliverance of feelings and I listened. I almost pitied him but not really. Never did I exhibit, nor fein, sympathy on the clock, and my naturally reliable lack of compassion made that an easy accomplishment.
After hours, one of the bouncers would always ask if I wanted to join him at Six Flags Amusement Park (a peculiar favorite of New England, yet never mine) on my day off. I declined repeatedly, saying I did not really care for roller-coasters, or fried dough, and drove home half asleep around 3 or 4am.
Waking up the following day proved more a difficulty than any actions executed the previous evening. My legs would shake from the physical exertion of slow bends, my hands from the alcohol; muscles were giving up on me, and I spent most mornings after very quietly sitting outside and watching the birds eat in my backyard.
Though physically rough and mentally tiresome, my month-long social experiment in the gateway drug of the sex industry was milder than one might assume. A box checked; a move on. (“One does not go ‘straight’, one moves forward.” – Mike Ford)
And it occurred to me that song I had overheard by chance today was merely a filler I used in place of greater ‘inspiration’ while compiling playlists; it was only when I could not think of a more fitting track that I would allow the song to play through. Drawing a cross through a thoroughly well visited desired experience on one’s list can be golden, and when embraced, the wisdom which can result from that strikethrough is sacred.
good advice 