ziggy, drugs and rolling down hill

He was singing “Why Don't We get Drunk and Screw” and I started dancing with him right up there at the microphone.  He was wild and absolutely hysterical.  He had natural bright red hair, full sleeve tattoos, and he was covered in freckles from head to toe.  I always thought he resembled a certain famous rock star. His name was Ziggy.  I was on call that night.  I got a call to do a show near by so, I intended to come back before last call.  Ziggy asked me for my number, and I wasn't sure, so I said if he was there when I got back, then I would give it to him.  I returned and he was waiting for me.  He became my first rock and roll boyfriend.  We frequented the Fog Bank, Boccis Cellar, the Garage and he also was my bouncer on many occasions.  He was little like a cartoon character, he was great at shows but, I swear sometimes he thought he was the one putting on the performance.  He had been straight edge his whole life until the age of 25.  Which was right before I met him.  He was extremely charismatic at exuded confidence and was sharp as a tack.  He introduced me to Shiloh,  the friend of mine that met Garp and I at the Watering Hole, a year or so later.  Ziggy loved Hot Cinnamon toasts too.  He was a professional BMX rider and lived in Feton, with the owner of the company that sponsored him.  We would go to Monty’s log Cabin, get absolutely hammered, then go to Safeway to get more.  His studio was dark and damp.  It always smelled musty, and like incense.  My first recallable significant black out was in that studio.  He started shooting speed somewhere during the course of our relationship.  I can never get over, how oblivious I was to the effects of that behavior. I still slept with him and didn't think twice about it until he was well into his addiction.  He started asking Shiloh to get him needles, where she worked but she wouldn’t do it.  He never did it in front of me, but I had no idea how dangerous that was at the time.  I think I loved him.  I wrote a song about him. He ended up moving down to San Diego and I never heard from him again.

I met Garp a year later.  And just like Ziggy, I could see that Garp wanted me at an arms length.   One conversation between us, took place in my bed where he told me that typically girls who went out with him and his friends were just ”slumming it” and they would wise up sooner or later.  I tried to tell him that whether I liked it or not I was completely into him.   

He got into some ridiculous fight where he and a friend of his were trying to knock each other of their barstools at the Blue, or so he told me, and he broke his leg.  Three days later one of his friends practically kidnapped him, to bring him to the doctor.  The day they put him in his cast, he invited me to see his band practice at some storage facility on the westside.  I went, and when he could barely stand up from all the vicodin and booze in his system, I took him home to my house. He passed out in my car and when we got home, I had to carry him inside. Looking at him in this state made me uneasy.  I kept checking to make sure he was still breathing.  He woke up in the middle of the night and was shaking pretty badly.  He asked me if we had any alcohol in the house.  Jim had a small stash, that had probably been packed, moved and unpacked 5 times by  now.   I went into the kitchen and brought Garp back a bottle, of god knows what.  When that one was done, I retrieved another and we went back to sleep.  The next morning after he left I found both bottles empty.  I knew that what he had going on, was a little more than a party.

January 26, 2011

Dear Garp,

This is truly the best gift.  I may not ever fully let go of you or what you mean to me whether fantasized or real.  I wish you the very best.  I look back at those times when we were young, and crazy.  I had so much pain around breaking away from you.  With all that has happened I sometimes get over whelmed.  I mean its enough to write a book for god sakes.  Maybe I’m grieving  myself.  Reliving all this stuff is like unraveling a ball of twine, I’m finding it hard to stop.  I need a witness, if I get it down on paper maybe god will see it.  And help the universe see that I’m still here, and I still need help and mercy.  For so long, I tried to do it on my own.  Lonely afraid, rejected by those around me who were never really available anyway.  I realize now, that I too was unavailable.  

love, 

Anahata

I knew that he had a date with some other girl that night and I was on call anyway.  I was feeling lonely and defeated and just wanted to get a drink, maybe,  go out somewhere, I thought maybe I could convince his housemate to go with me.  I went to the house, and his housemate said he wasn't up for it.  I ended up calling Garp, asking him when he would be home, and he seemed a little surprised that I was asking such a question.  I started to get the feeling I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  I was so embarrassed.  I felt like he now saw how lonely and pathetic I really was. I went home. I had already had a bottle of wine when the phone rang.  A  couple somewhere over the hill called for a show.  I couldn’t drive so Jim came with me as my driver and bouncer.  He would have had to pry my glass of wine out of my hand, but I made into the car before he could get to it, and finished it there.  I told him that I was completely incapacitated to make any good decisions and that he was to do all my thinking for me.  We got to the place and it was your run- of- the- mill  couple with a mange aux trois fantasy.  A whole lotta bartering and checking in with each other, to see if it was what the other had expected.  I told Jim to come get me when the time was up.  Eventually I felt it had been way to long, and went out to see if I had already gone over time.  I had, and he was clueless as far as what I told him about having to be my brain, and I was pompous and completely annoyed.  My drinking was starting to bring issues more suited for a therapy session up, and I found it necessary to work these issues out  at 2:00 in the morning, when I exhausted and had smoking a whole pack of cigarettes just to stay awake.  I mentioned to Jim that if he couldn’t start doing a better job of being my bouncer than I threatened to stop drinking.  Which didn’t make whole  lot of sense.  I began to confess that I felt that there was something inherently wrong with me.  I got the sense that my family, my history and my past were these festering demons that were standing in the way of my true happiness.  Shortly after that I expired and went to bed.  

sorting it out

  I would occasionally go to Dakota, a gay bar on Pacific Ave, downtown.  I wanted to meet  people, but I was having a hard time penetrating the outer-walls of the lesbian subculture.  At the time, I thought it was because I looked too straight, or no one really wanted to talk to me.  I think now, that it was more reflective of the fact that, the people I really find interesting weren't hanging out in bars. I was completely incapable of pursing interests of my own, with out alcohol because I really didn't know what my interests  were.  I didn’t know myself at all.  I would think about joining some sort of club, but what would I join?  I was a vacant shell of a person.  And I was very busy trying to fill it up with alcohol.  My lack of self-esteem and diluted sense of self affected every relationship I have ever had.  So I would go to Dakota, sip a few lemon drops, at the bar, telling myself that I was sophisticated and waiting to warm up.  Then a couple hours later, I would go home with the intensity of my loneliness, at least subdued by the vodka. One of the bouncers there was named Felicia.  For many years I couldn't figure out why I named myself after a short, stocky, butch-dyke.  Until now,  I needed an alter ego who could defend me.  

I did meet one girl at Dakota, named Emily.  Oddly enough the first two girls I went out with shared the same names as my two very best friends, in high school.  Kim and Emily. Weird.  Emily was an actual modern dancer, born and raised in Santa Cruz.  She was similar in stature to Kim, but much more innocent.  We went out a couple of times.  We went to the bar and rang in 2002 together.  She was silky and smooth.  Her hair glossy natural, brown hair,  was shoulder length.  She seemed wholesome.  Eventually our relationship ran its course, and petered out, and we lost contact.  Probably because I was really hard to relate to.  I was still trying to pin point where I fell on the Kinsey scale, but when I would get drunk at the bar, I would often go home with a man.  Men were easier, predictable and familiar and a cheap alternative to driving drunk. I followed the same routine, night after night.  Bar..., drink..., back to his house..., sex..., hangover..., walk of shame home.  Day after day, night after night. There were at least 100 nameless faces.  That was an extremely numb period of my life.   I went to a lot of karaoke.  My life was a smattering of margaritas, cosmos and morning after pills. I had a one regular repetitive one night stand, in the neighborhood where I live in now.  I did a lot of bizarre things that I am embarrassed of. I was just starting learning the ropes of my dancing career and was depressed and still mildly suicidal.  I had been prescribed Paxil when I was with Joe, but my drinking was most definitely negating its effectiveness.  I was still working my day job, at a picture framing store and Gallery, on Soquel Avenue.  One day, I was helping a woman who turned out to be a therapist.  It also turned out, that Abby would then be, my therapist on and off for the next seven years.   We worked in circles until she tried to look at my drinking.  She asked me to limit myself to three drinks a night, and see what happened.  I stopped seeing her, thats what happened. I tried to control it, but when I realized that wasn't as fun, I just stopped taking the pills and took a little breather from therapy.  I do have to mention, that the night I met Paul,  my repetitive one one night stand, did change my life.  Paul had just beaten some kind of brain cancer earlier that year, and the night we met, we talked for hours about making it through difficult times.  I think that was the first time, ever in my life, I had had a conversation of that nature.  He made me feel like I wasn't alone in my suffering, and that it would pass.  It could have been my self-medicating or that long night with Paul, but I felt a shift out of my deep, dark depression. Unexpectedly I had the will to live. 

I quit my day job when I started doing the math, and saw that working a nine to five job was clearly a waste of my time.  All of a sudden exotic dancing turned into my career.  I was serious about my music,  make-up, and costumes.  I put a lot of thought into being prepared.  I had underwear that I could string alphabet beads onto, to spell the bachelors name.  This was my passion, not just a way to make a quick buck, to score drugs.  My body really was a commodity at that point.    One time I tripped on a blanket at a show and twisted my ankle.  I remember having concerns about what I would do, if I ever got really injured, what would I do?    I had a personal trainer, and usually ran 4 miles a day and weight trained with weights every other day.  I was on a low carb, whole grain, high protein diet, as well as at least a bottle of wine a day. Felicia was everything that the real me wasn’t.  She didn't’ care what other people thought, she demanded the best, and got it. My life was fancy free.  I would sometimes find $200 cash in a pocket that I had forgotten about.  Jim and I became friends, and eventually we moved in together.  It worked great because I got first dibs on shows, and he could always get a hold of me,  even if I was sleeping.  I always found that routine a little odd. I could get a call at 3:00 in the morning, after having slept for 3 hours, put on make-up, go get naked for an hour, and then come home and go back to bed, like it was all a dream.  The worst part about being on call was being clean shaven at all times.  One of my least favorite parts of the job.  Jim and I usually hung out together at home, watching South Park, or sometimes I would go to the bar alone.

Private shows were a different beast than bachelor parties. There was the guy who wanted me to stay in my street clothes and pretend to kick him in the balls, the guy who wanted me just chat with him, the guy that had me put make-up on him, the guy who had an envelope of 5000 dollars and asked me to keep getting money from it for my tips, as we went along, the husband and wife couple where the wife was disabled so she would treat him to a stripper every so often, the guy who perpetually called to have a girl oil wrestle him for $50, and some that some turned my stomach. There were many men that I thought  I could never possibly forget, but have.   I started to think that I would never see it all. There was always a stranger adventure around the corner just waiting for me.     

grapefruit and fried potatoes

My reflecting upon how I remember my interactions, with my mother, doesn't mean she was a bad person.  The sad fact is she was just re-playing her childhood.  Just as her mother had replayed  hers while raising her children.  Although I think it could be more aptly described as  training. Raising by definition, actually implies caring for, and nurturing, so I think training is more accurate.    In many ways, she did try to change the way she mothered me, from what she grew up with. I was only hit once or twice where as my grandmother resorted to physical violence often. And my grandmother’s mother and father  resorted  daily. Im sure if she could understand how her actions, or lack there of, made me feel, she would tell me that was never her intention.  I know that it wasn’t.  It never ceases to amaze me how the interpretation of someone else's actions, can be so detrimental and sometimes fatal.  When I think about how many situations I have falsely interpreted, I am baffled at how often, it does not reflect the desire of the person sending the original message. I have tried to cover up these misinterpretations with addictions, and repeating painful, instinctive behaviors that don't serve me.  It’s like a very dangerous game of telephone.  Some messages are communicated well and are received the way they were intended.  But so often these generational wounds are conveyed and absorbed sub-consciously, when the message was never really intended for me at all.  Most often it’s just being spewed in my direction, when really in should be entering the ears of  the person at the root of the problem.  Being an especially sensitive being, I internalized  most of the negative happenings in my childhood.  I had no way of separating what was being transferred from my  family’ s deep roots of fear and shame, and what I rightfully brought on myself.  It was all I knew.  As a young child, my mother took me to the library, and sang to me at night to help me fall asleep.  What she was missing, was a genuine interest in me.  Most often, I felt that she saw me more as a refection of herself instead of a separate being with a pure soul of my own.  I think most of what she did was motivated by, and then reinforced by what she thought, other, people would think.  For years I would purpose different ways of trying to get a deeper connection with her.  Mostly by sharing what was happening in my life.  Which was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.  The more I talked about myself the further away she seemed.  I didn't realize this until I had been attempting this method for at least a decade.  

I thought that maybe if I told her about my dancing and she didn't tell anyone (like I had asked) that maybe I could, trust her. Doubting myself as usual, I thought maybe my pervious subject matter just wasn't important enough.  And clearly her daughter being a stripper would surly  evoke some interest. That logic seems so incredibly backwards.  Of course, she ended up telling my brother and my aunt.  Once again I thought to myself, “what is wrong with me?, and “why can’t she be the mother I wanted”.  What’s interesting to me is that I had a great relationship with her mother, my grandmother.  Grandma was actually my safe haven during my early teenage years.  When my parents fighting got to be too much, or my dads temper got out of control, I could walk to her house.  Sometimes I’d go in the middle of the night saying Hail Mary’s the whole way, in hopes that I wouldn’t get attacked as I made my way down the street in the dark. My grandma was second generation, Italian. Sicilian.  When I came over we would paint our nails, play piano, and she would section me grapefruit or make me fried potatoes.  I always found the gap between my aunts and uncles experience of her, and mine to be sad and in some ways uncomfortable.  I know my mom was intimidated by the bond I had with my grandma. She could listen to me.  She did things for me that she knew I liked.  I was so insecure at that time, I could never ever ask for what I wanted but she could always tell when I was hungry.  She was available emotionally to me in a way my mother wasn't.  The greatest thing about her, was her sense of humor.   No matter what we said, we spoke the same language.  She could see the way things just didn't make sense in the world. When someone did something she didn't like she would say “off with their heads!”.  She had the best laugh.  We would talk and laugh.  She may not have ever rid herself of all her demons, but she went through a lot of therapy as a result of two nervous breakdowns, when her kids were little.  She had seven.  My mom was third in the birth order.  Later on my grandma told me that she never wanted that many kids, but birth control was not an option.  She was completely overwhelmed and her family was no help to her either.  The difference between my mother and my grandma is that her defenses could be penetrated. Just like mine.  My mothers defenses were like The Great Wall of China, they could be seen from space.           

mommy dearest

On some level I felt that Garp cared about me, whether he was willing to admit it or not.  And at that time, I thought I could drag his true feelings out of him.  I have this mental picture of me, trying to physically stretch the love right out of him, like silly putty.  I thought if I pulled it slow, the piece would just surrender, give in, to my forcefully drawing it toward me, and wouldn't snap.  That was my hook. I had an uncanny ability to be attracted to men who could love me on the inside, but could never expose that love, in a way that convinced me I was worth it.  I  know now that I was just carrying out the program. I was still sick from the neglect and abuse that infected me as a child.  I wish I could have saved myself a lot of pain and strife by perhaps being an entirely different person to begin with.  

At the age of sixteen, I was so devastatingly lonely in that house.  There was no family anymore.  The two bedroom condo, in a well groomed complex, where I lived with my mother and brother, was simply a place where we kept our stuff and slept.  Like a motel room that we paid for with our emotional welfare.  My mom was often gone until seven or eight at night.  We made dinner for ourselves.  She was gone in more ways than one.  My brother spent all his time in the basement (which was his room),  anesthetizing himself with bags of Dorittos.   When my mom would come home, she’d take him to Wendy's.  He was over 250 pounds at the age of fourteen. I would hang out in my room and listen to music, write, and pretend that I was in a different world from hers. I could find a way of  being content and quiet until there came the knock on the door.  My stomach would knot up and I knew my peaceful disposition was saying goodnight for the evening.  That was her chance to drag me into her disfunction, like a circus animal that was paraded around for her sick entertainment.  If I forgot to flush the toilet she would harass me until I got up and flushed it, shaming me telling me I was a slob, and inconsiderate.  When I had just gotten comfortable again she would find something else for me to do.  Put a dish in the sink.  Move my backpack,  or she would continuously try to interrupt and talk to me about nonsense.    It wasn't about the simplicity of keeping up with my chores. It was a way for her to control and belittle me.  I always felt worth less.  I felt like I was a big waste of space.  Like if only could just disappear into thin air, she wouldn't have anyone to pull around by their heart dragging me,  until I would completely leave my body and go through the motions.  After hours of getting up and down I would cry myself to sleep.  Thinking someday I could leave and be free of her.  During one particular episode,  she was going on about god knows what, and I tried leaving my room, she followed me to the living room. Then she followed me into the basement.  Continuing to yell and cut me into little pieces with her words. When I finally tried to leave the house she said she would call the police and have me arrested.  I knew that they might not really arrest me, but I was sure that that kind of incident would fuel her insane antics for longer than I was willing to endure, so I went back into the house defeated, trapped. I was to young to be out on my own.  I had made pros and cons lists of running away, but I had no where to go, and I figured if I could just hold out until I was 18, I’d have a much better chance of survival.  There were times when she would accuse me of being a slut just because I had a boyfriend, accusing me of having sex on the kitchen table because, she had found a scratch in the varnish. She was a monster.  I tried my best to do the right things, but it was never enough.  No matter what I did I would never get a connection with my mother.  She was either jealous of me for having friends, taking credit for my achievements, or accusing me of being too wild.  I never had the kind of mother I could trust.  I know there where times when she said she loved me, but how could I believe her when she did what she did.  She stayed with my dad for way too long.  She continued to expose us to violence, verbal and physical abuse and never once did she try and protect us.  She could never acknowledge the light, inside of me.  She was obsessed with herself, and her all consuming self-image and ego.  My mother was the kind of person who could look me straight in the eye while I was talking, and never hear a word I was saying.  It didn't matter if I was talking about homework, sports events that I was involved with at school, my friends, youth group, whatever she didn't care.  What she did care about, was herself. 

dancing for my life

I wasn’t always as one client put it, the “Goddess of Erotica”.  It took some time, hard mental gymnastics and hefty dose of  disassociation.  At first I was doing it solely for the money. My first show was at Seascape. In one of those big houses, it was a gated community.  Jim came with me as my driver, and a guy in his mid 50‘s opened the door.   He walked me up the stairs to his bedroom (one of five) and Jim waited down stairs.  At this time my rules had not been established yet.  He laid down on his bed and I started my music.  He said that wasn't necessary.  I was confused. Well if I wasn't going to dance what, was, I going to do? I thought.  He reached for my breasts, and asked me for a hand job.  I refused.  Trying to skirt the issue I said I would prefer to dance, and turned on the music.  In the end he ended up fondling me for the better part of the hour and then I finally gave in and gave him what he wanted.  At least for a little while.  Finally the hour was up and I gathered my things and went back down stairs.  He showed us to the door and said good night .  When we got back to the car I told Jim that that guy didn't even tip me and I even gave him a hand job.  Jim looked shocked, he said “you did what?”.   “I thought thats what I was supposed to do” I said.  He was flabbergasted.  Apparently there was some sort of misunderstanding.  I interpreted the polices incorrectly, and he actually, really didn't want me doing that stuff.  Well phew, that was a relief.  After that experience I could tell I needed a lot more training in the field.  I inquired to Jim about what I was supposed to do, and he was useless.  I had to learn the ropes myself.  The building of Felicia was one of trail and error.  What it took for me to have guy after guy lick whipped cream off my boobs, is absolutely boggling to me now.  But it was only a matter of time, before it became about as personal to me, as shaking hands. Bitter sweet.  These days when I fall in love with a particularly awesome song, I miss that time in my life. Sometimes I just miss using dance to expel my shadow spirits. I miss being idolized.  I realize now that those men became just as captivated by me, as I had once, been captivated by Kim.  It was a very powerful feeling.  Being powerful, was especially healing.  I was in charge, and they looked at me like I was to good to be true, and in their minds I was.  

After a couple of two girl shows and acquiring a little more confidence, I began learning tricks to make more money, become less self-conscious, and make sure I left with a smile on my face. I discovered what kind of props I needed to accomplish this.  I was shlepping a huge duffle bag with a cd player, whipped cream, lotion, baby-wipes, chocolate syrup, a multitude of outfits, extra shoes, prosthetic penis, vibrator, a strobe light, candles (mexican in glass) and a sheet to every show.   I would often frequent the Safeway across the street from my house, 3 times during the weekend to restock my whipped cream.  I’m sure at some point they began to wonder what I was using it for.

Remembering those songs, how I moved.  Feeling like my movement was finally revealing a space for me to breathe, beneath the the pounds of emotions that kept me buried for my whole life.  I loved to dance.  Not the kinda dancing you do with friends, the interruptive kind unobstructed, unadulterated dance.  I loved to let my self hang on the the notes, to emphasize where the next move was going.  I could get lost in the momentum and let go a any self-criticism.  Dancing was saving my soul. Little by little, the child in me was being protected by this new found warrior I possessed, named Felicia.  But as Felicia became stronger the child inside just got more timid, as now she had someone to shelter her. 

I ofter referred to it as interactive movement because most of the time I was straddling or about to straddle a guy sitting on a chair, laying on the floor, or laying in a bed.  I could do backwards summersaults off their laps, and suspend in mid- air with just my feet hooked on their chair.  I would walk around them and they became somewhat of a center piece or a focal point of my dance.  The music I picked was completely representational of my art.  My audience didn't care what kind of music it was, as long as it was genuine.  It was beautiful.  I think thats what the guys liked about me.  I meant it.  I know it sounds like Im just trying to desexualize what most people consider to be equitable to prostitution,  but its true.  Once I got in the zone, the only thing that I cared about was  captivating their attention and being compensated for my efforts. 

One trick was having chocolate syrup races.  I would lay on the floor naked and draw two lines from my toes up to my nipples, then two guys one on each side of me on their knees, would race liking off the syrup until one reached the top.  Whoever won got to race the next guy free, and the new contestant would pay $20 to participate.  That was the trick, to keep the money flowing like some kind of indecent pulley system.  I did it with lap dances too.  I would tell the first guy that some one had anonymously bought him a lap dance, and when it was over suggest he buy one for someone else.  Peer pressure was one of my greatest tools. If problems arose with one of the guys,  all I had to do was make him look like he was cheep, disrespectful or a party-pooper in-front of his friends, and he would always fall back into line. These mind tricks were like some form of brainwashing, where everybody won.  I would leave the show feeling like super-woman. I experienced a sense of fullness and it appealed to my extreme nature.  I would work super hard for hours starting at seven pm and sometimes not get home till 3am of for or, even as the sun was coming up. I could pull in $1000 in one night.  Typical Saturdays were $400 -$800 dollars.  And then a few shows during the week nights for spending money.  I was ALWAYS on call.  But it was feast or famine. Summers were often the busy season, with most people getting married in the summer.  Holidays were often a buzz kill for most people. as they spent them with family. The winter was considered the off season.  

I needed to find the balance between what I was comfortable giving up, and what I kept to myself. For me my neck was the sacred space.  No neck kissing touching or licking ...ever.  That place was saved for me. My feet, legs, butt, thighs, stomach, ribs, boobs, chest, arms, head, shoulders, knees and toes were all fair game, as long as they made a payment.   Thats usually why I brought a driver to the bigger parties.  I needed someone I could trust who could be my banker and keep track of my money.   

I had would state the rules and once every one was clear. My bouncer would turn off the lights.  The strobe light made every motion look dramatic and overstated.  Often the guys would just stare in awe. I would often walk with pride and strength like I was puffing out my feathers to show them my confidence. I  approached the bachelor crossing one leg over the other until I reached his knees.   Just at the right moment I would jump onto the bachelors lap straddling him slowly going up and down. I then would wrap my arms around his neck, lean back and circle right up to his face.  Step off, straddle them backwards and somersault off their lapp.  The first 3 songs were all about the bachelor, he got every thing free.  Although, I would, try to convince his friends to stuff bills in his pants, shirt, socks, whatever. 

There was a couple of times Garp came with me, when I went to dance.  Once he came in and another time he waited outside.  He was pretty concerned about me going alone, so he said he would go with me if I ever needed it.  I had other drivers as well, but there were often times the calls came in late at night and on short notice, so if it was just a single guy or a small number I would usually go on my own.

when do i start

 The company I worked for used to offer many different forms entertainment, but when Jim took over, it ended up funneling into exclusively exotic dancing for bachelor parties and private shows.   I found the number for Entertainment California, in the phone book under adult entertainment. I called and Jim answered. He seemed nice on the phone, so I went to his house for an audition. Jim was completely harmless. He was in his early thirties, dirty blonde hair with a cheap looking hair cut, and stood about 5’9” 200 lbs.  He was very chatty but also straight forward and relatable at the same time.  We walked into his substantially large living room with small couch.  There was no other furniture, and the room was cold.  The walls were painted creme and the lights were dimmed.  We sat down on the couch and he went over some general information about who the company served, how the shows were booked, and what I would make from the booking.  After my first audition at the club, this seemed like it would be a piece of cake.  He was pretty straight forward and to the point.  He made reference to what the law considered “lewd acts” and how anything falling into that category was illegal.  He said, that what I did, in the name of the business, was exotic dancing was not against the law.  So as far as he was concerned stick to the contract and interpret it as I liked.   After we finished chatting he asked me for my music and I got myself prepared for my chance to show him what I could do.  This time I chose a song much more down to earth, Cellophane by Amanda Ghost. It was kind of  a folky rock tune, with a nice back beat.  To my surprise, I was nervous.  I started to feel conscious of my movements, and realized how the words of the song were telling a story.  My story.  The cool air of the room made the beginning a little stiff.  My limbs cut through space somewhat sloppily, because I hadn't yet learned how to punctuate my movements.  I felt hurried and off beat.  The music seemed to go on forever, as I tried to sway a little differently.  I was not yet attuned to use his energy and his body to play off of.  Later on in my career, I learned how to use eye contact, or a slight gentle touch on the shoulder to add intrigue.  Despite the fact that I finished feeling a little was a little disoriented, I was hired on the spot.  

hi, my name is......

My stage name was Felicia Fearless.  Living vicariously through her cheeky and dauntless essence, was therapeutic for me.  Being Felicia, taught me how to have boundaries.  At the  beginning of every show, before the music, I had to set the rules. No taking pictures,  no touching without permission, and no touching with out paying for it. They were clear, simple, and concise.  I discovered my worth. Sure, I had equated myself to a salable good, but a valuable commodity none the less.  I felt that if they wanted what I had, then they had to pay for it.  Twenty dollars per lap dance, per song. $200 extra for my XXX show. And, that was on-top of the one-hundred  dollars I got just for walking through the door. 

Heres a tip, if you want a stripper to like you, pay her. Pay her a lot.  In my mind, the more they paid me, the higher my self-appraisal was. Luckily for me, I almost always had good shows, and very rarely had occasions, where I felt that I was not getting payed what I deserved.  The best clients were blue collar workers.  Those guys worked hard for their money, but were often the most generous. They knew how to have a good time and didn't take themselves too seriously.  The worst, were the wealthy, upper class, country club, types.  Once a monetary transaction occurred, they boasted a sense of of entitlement. They acted like they owned me, and that never faired for good energy during the show.  I was always having to repeat the rules, over and over again, until sometimes I just had to leave.  Drugs were often present, especially at  late night appearances, but I kept my nose clean of that stuff.  The funny thing about guys high on coke, is that they would pay me $300 to watch me tie my shoelaces.  Sometimes I felt a little bad about taking huge sums of money from them, but hey, that was how I made a living. I had to be firm and stay in control.  My safety and the profitableness of the show depended on it.  I think the reason I never had anything bad happen to me, was because I  always assumed authority.  For that single hour, I could have men pay me what I could have made in a 40 hour week, at Starbucks.  I could convince them that they were in for a surprise, and then whip them with their own belt. If I felt the reigns slipping away, and could not pull them back in, I left without hesitation. Although, there were a couple of close calls.

The Hollister show.  It was a three girl show.  We had two bouncers, Jim (the owner and my housemate) and Pete.  Angel and I arrived first.  We went to the bathroom to start getting ready, and wait for the third girl, who was meeting us there.  While we were in the bathroom, the energy in the house seemed to intensify and swell, like a bottle of soda pop falling down the stairs.  It was loud out there. They were becoming impatient.  They started knocking on the door and yelling for us to come out. It was a huge group of about 50 young men between the ages of 20 and 22.  The house was packed. Testosterone was buzzing through that place like yellow neon through a sign.  The third girl showed up and was getting ready.  I started to get a bad feeling about it.  Angel and I agreed that this show was about to end before it even started.  There were too many guys, too out of control already, and putting ourselves out there, would have been like throwing ourselves to the lions.  It was time to go.  Sometimes the flight in me would kick in, and when I felt that, it meant we had to leave fast.  Pete made up some excuse why we had to go back to our car, and we quickly made it out the door.  As we approached the drive way, a sea of guys came running out on to the lawn.  Jim stopped to talk with them (which was dumb), and some of them started chasing us.  Angel and I started sprinting for the car.  Not so easily done in platform heels and a g-string.  We made it into the car unscathed and locked the doors.  Pete went back for Jim.  A minute later Pete came back, knocked on our window and said  “get my bat”. Good grief, it was not going well.  Apparently a mob was outside and wouldn’t let Jim leave, without  getting their money back. So while Pete was trying to get Jim to make a break for it, Jim gave the guy ALL of the money in his pocket  (including the couple hundred dollars I had made from the previous show).  Pete had to come back to the car, drive up to where Jim was, and we opened the door, yelling for him to get in.  He finally got back to the car and we were all pretty shaken up.  We had to call the police, because my car was still parked directly in-front of their house.  We got an escort from a policeman, and made it safely home.  I guess there is some clothing store called Hollister now, and any time I see a shirt with that name on it, I remember that incident.