My Fall and Rise Ch. 04

Chardonnay

During the years that I should have been in college, I received an education of another sort. I learned to differentiate more than a dozen types of pills, and the effects of each, separately and in combination. This knowledge required research that on two occasions resulted in visits to the emergency room. I also learned that men who were sweet and considerate while leading you to their beds were often less so once they had achieved their goals. I learned that it was wise to always have a little extra makeup with you, in case you needed to cover a bruise. I learned that there are always men who will provide you with drugs in exchange for sex, but also, that there is usually a prettier, or at least a newer, girl who will make the same deal. I learned that some of the men who will make you such offers are cops, and that they won't necessarily tell you so until after the blowjob.

There were, of course, gaps in my education. For example, I didn't learn to appreciate my stepfather Ron, who had done so much to give my mother a better life, and had tried in vain to do so for me. Even after he suffered a massive heart attack and died on the kitchen floor, I did not come to understand what a fine man he had been. Perhaps if I had not been high on Percodan at his funeral, I might have.

I did not learn compassion for my mother, despite her unwavering attempts to teach me by example. No matter how low I sank, she never gave up on me. Her door was always open, no matter how stoned and disheveled I was when I knocked. When I came home battered and bruised it was open. When I came home in the back of a police car, it was open. When I came home pregnant it was open.

I did not learn the identity of the man who impregnated me. I never learned the joy of holding my baby boy, who my weak and toxic body could not carry to term.

I had a few entry level jobs during that period, but none lasted long. I was uninterested and unreliable. More often, I was either living off a short term boyfriend, or falling back on my mother's good graces. I had no work ethic and no marketable skills. But I did possess one asset, one that women have fallen back on for centuries. There is always work for young women who are willing to use their bodies to make money.

When your social life revolves around the drug scene, you are certain to know at least a few women who have financed their habits through sex work. I'd done so myself, in a sense, dating and fucking men because they could get me high. I had never gone to the length of actually turning tricks, but I had come close. Still, I drew a moral distinction. I might be a slut for drugs, but I was not a whore for money. It was a distinction without a difference, but it allowed me to hold on to at least a small piece of my pride.

One night, I was partying with a group of friends and two of the women began talking about how much money they were making dancing at a joint called The Cheetah Lounge. I asked them if they thought I might be able to get work there, and they said that I probably could, but first I'd have to meet with the manager, Jordy, and pass an audition. I decided that I would give it a try. It was almost an hour drive each way, but if I could make the kind of money they were describing, it would be worth the trip. It wouldn't take me long before I'd be able to save up enough to finally get a place of my own somewhere closer. I called The Cheetah the next day and was told to come in any afternoon for an audition.

A few days later, I was sitting on a stool The Cheetah's bar, waiting for Jordy to return from lunch. It was a bigger place than I had imagined. The bar ran down the length of the main room. There were a dozen scattered tables, and along the opposite wall, four semi circular stages, each centered around a floor to ceiling pole. There was only one girl dancing, looking bored and not giving the half dozen daytime customers much of a show.

I was nervous, not sure just what was meant by an audition. I brought a good pair of heels and my nicest lingerie to dance in, but I did not know if more than a dance was required. I had heard stories about dancers having to fuck club owners to get jobs. I wasn't sure if I was prepared to go that far or not.

I had imagined Jordy would be like one of the guys who worked at the Bada Bing on The Sopranos, some big mean looking dude in a cheap suit. But Jordy was a woman. She looked to be in her sixties. She was rotund and wore her hair in an old fashioned beehive.

She gave me skeptical look. "Let me see your I.D."

I showed her my drivers license. She called over the bartender and told him to make a copy of it.

"You're a bit on the skinny side, dearie." She said. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. Easier on your knees. And on your back. But if you want to stay in this business, you might want to invest in some boobs."

The bartender brought back my license. She handed it to me, then gestured for me to follow her. She showed me the VIP area, which consisted of a dark rear corner containing a half dozen alcoves, each containing a leatherette love seat behind a heavy black curtain. We entered the dressing room area. Compared to the dimly lit lounge, it was so brightly lit that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. There was a long make up table to one side, and a row of lockers on the other.

"Get changed, and come on out. Just climb up on the first stage and show me what you've got. Don't be nervous. Nobody's expecting Ginger Rogers."

I put on the outfit I had brought, a thong and a powder blue babydoll nightie. I strapped on my heels and went out into the club. I wobbled a bit climbing the stairs to the stage. Jordy sat with a burly bearded man in a denim jacket at the nearest table. Generic dance music was playing over the sound system.

Jordy motioned for me to start and I began, tentatively, to sway my hips back and forth. I felt very self conscious. I glanced up at Jordy and she did not look pleased. But the man with her smiled and gave me a thumbs up gesture. I smiled at him and focused on dancing for him. As I started to get into the music and move more freely, he nodded his head enthusiastically. I did one spin around the pole and nearly tripped on my own feet, but recovered quickly. After a few minutes, Jordy beckoned me. I got down off the stage and sat with them at the table.

"This is Randy, he's in charge of security." Randy smiled, said hello and shook my hand. "OK, let me explain how things work here," Jordy continued. "We don't hire dancers, we engage independent contractors. You pay the club a fee of fifty dollars a night, and you keep all your tips. On a good night, you'll be able to take home two, three hundred dollars. Well, not right off you won't, because, dearie, you are terrible. But you'll get better and you'll do fine. Just a couple of things we need to be clear on. Any TROs, protection orders, anything like that? Do I have to worry some pissed off asshole is going to come in here and start trouble when he sees his woman up on the pole?"

"No, nothing like that."

"You ain't on probation, parole, any of that?"

"No,"

"Do you have a name you want to use?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

She looked at Randy. "Do we have a Chardonnay now?" He shook his head. She looked back at me. "OK, you'll be Chardonnay." I learned later that she had a theory that naming the dancers "Chardonnay" or "Chablis" increased sales at the bar. Some of the girls joked that some poor dumb chick was going to be on stage some day dancing under the stage name "Boilermaker".

"Chardonnay would be fine." I told her.

"Okay then, we're good. But one more thing. I know the girls are here to make money, and sometimes the lines get crossed a little. I can look the other way if things get a little touchy feely now and then. Like I said, a girl's got to pay her bills. But no blowjobs, no setting up tricks for after closing, any of that. I won't risk my liquor license over that shit. Understand?"

I told her I did and she shook my hand. "Friday night, Be here by eight. Oh, and buy something more grown up to wear. You ain't a little girl anymore, dearie."

Jordy was right. I was terrible the first night. The customers gravitated to the girls they knew, and I was virtually ignored. That allowed me to practice, though, and I began to feel more confident as the night went on. I even managed to hang on the pole a few times without falling on my ass. But my tips didn't even cover the fifty bucks I had to borrow from a a friend to pay the club.

The next night I was better, and I did my first private dance. He appeared to be a business man and he was entirely polite. I danced for him as he rubbed the crotch of his pants. I turned my back to him and slid my ass up his thighs. I could feel his cock, hard under the fabric and heard him draw in his breath. I ground down against him and his hips bucked. There was a wide smile on his face as he slipped two fifty dollar bills into my thong. I thought, "Easiest money I ever made," because at the time I hadn't learned that easy money was not a good thing.

The more I danced the better I became. I soon understood that giving the dancers pseudonyms had a definite purpose, besides ensuring their anonymity. Using another name made you less self conscious. Melissa may have been a stumblebum stoner, but Chardonnay turned out to be a hot exotic bitch on the stage.

There is a general perception that women who work in strip clubs, or do any type of sex work, must be damaged in some ways. Many are, and I was among them. More than a few of them have substance abuse issues, and many more have experienced sexual abuse, sometimes on the job. Most of them live stable, well adjusted lives. They are wives and mothers. Often, they are students. Dancing is a job, and those who are good at it, take it seriously as a job.

I learned quite a lot from the other dancers. I learned that if a customer wants to buy you a drink, you always have them take you to the bar, where you tell the bartender, "Make me one of your specials." This is a code. The bartender will give you a glass of club soda, ring it up for eight dollars, and split whatever tip the customer gives for the order with you.

I learned that, when a customer reaches to slip a bill into your thong, you should pull it away from your body just enough to let him get a quick peek inside. If you do, the likelihood of a second bill following it increases dramatically.

I learned that when couples come to the club, and many do, you should focus your attention on the woman. Hubby brought her there to see her get turned on, and will reward you generously if she does.

I learned to pay attention to the songs that were playing when I did private dances. In particular, I paid attention to when a song was nearing it's end. Customers pay for their lap dances by the song, so if your guy blows his load just before the music ends, you've lost the potential income you'd get from another song. The point of the whole business is to keep teasing the money out of him, not to get him off, and some girls never try to make a guy cum. I was opportunistic about it. If I knew I had another guy waiting, I'd try to turn the first one over. If it was slow, I'd tease him for as long as he'd sit there.

Dancing at The Cheetah taught me a lot about men in general. I observed the differences between the way men were when they were in groups and when they were alone. Sometimes, the same men who were rowdiest and most obnoxious in the presence of their friends were the kindest and quietest when they were on their own. I began to understand that the way men treat women is often based on how they wish to be seen by other men.

The men who came alone generally fit into one of two categories. There were the horny ones, who came to get turned on, and to get off, either during a lap dance or later, with their hand. Those men were your bread and butter. They were not usually the best tippers, but they knew the rules, didn't give you any trouble, and were quick turnovers.

The other group were the lonely guys. I had been there for a couple of weeks when an older man asked for a private dance. We slipped into one of the alcoves and I started to dance for him, but he gestured me to stop.

"Just sit down next to me."

I sat down. He took out his wallet and gave me a twenty. He took out a worn photograph as well. He showed it to me and said that it was his wife.

"Two years now, she's been gone." He told me. "She fought hard but..." His voice trailed off.

I held his hand and he cried.

"I miss her so much." He sobbed, "And sometimes, just sitting with a lady and talking helps." I slid the twenty into his shirt pocket, but he took it back out and insisted on giving it to me.

There were a lot of lonely guys. Some wanted you to sit with them at the bar and talk. Others would ask for a private dance, and just want to cuddle. Even though that amount of body contact was against the rules, the girls all did it, and management looked the other way. There were men whose motivation was unfathomable, like the one who brought along a hairbrush and wanted me to kneel in front of him while he brushed my hair. The ones who wanted you to call them Daddy, and the ones who wanted to question you about what it felt like being a girl, were a little easier to understand.

Over time I came to attract a small group of regulars who came specifically to see me. Most of them were standard horny guys who just liked the way I looked or how I danced. But there were two who stood out. One was nicknamed "The Professor" by the girls. He looked the part. He was in his fifties, a slight balding man with a thick pair of glasses. He came in every weekend and sat stage side, tipping generously and chatting shyly when I came off stage, but he never asked for a private dance. The other was a younger guy, pudgy and a bit unkempt. He was overly friendly with all the girls, and was always telling jokes to the dancers, the bartenders and the other customers. Naturally, he was called "The Joker." I would banter with him more than the other girls, and became his favorite.

One night, near closing time, a man sat down in front of the stage and watched me dance. There was nothing special about him, he looked and acted just like dozens of others who had sat there before him. After a few minutes, he leaned forward with a dollar in his hand. I dropped to my knees in front of him and he slipped it into my thong. I smiled and thanked him and he pointed towards the VIP area. I nodded and stepped down off the stage. The Joker was sitting at the bar, and waved at me. I gestured to him to let him know that he could have the next dance. I took the man's hand, led him into an alcove and drew the curtain shut behind us.

He handed me two twenties and I tucked them in my shoe. He sat, and I began to dance. As soon as I turned my back to him, I felt his hand on my ass. I turned around and wagged my finger at him. He grinned and shrugged. I continued to dance and after a few minutes, he ran his hand up the side of my thigh. I pushed it away and stopped dancing.

"You need to keep your hands at your sides, or we are done. Okay?"

"Sure, sorry." He muttered, but when I began to move again, he reached for me with both hands. There was a light switch just inside the booth that turned on a red light above the entrance to alert the bouncers when there was trouble. I reached for it, but he had managed to get an arm around my waist. He pulled me back and I fell into his lap. His other hand went between my legs. I screamed when he shoved his fingers inside me, but the loud music covered my cries. I managed to twist sideways and stretched towards the switch. He grabbed for my arm and caught my wrist, but that allowed me to spin around so that I was on my knees facing him. He was twisting my left arm to the point that I thought it would break, but my right arm was free. I made a fist and punched him in the crotch as hard as I could. He howled and let go of me. I fell backwards out of the booth, calling for help as loudly as I could.

The Joker was the first one there. He helped me up and, as the man stumbled out of the alcove, shielded me with his body. Randy was right behind the Joker, and quickly got the man in a head lock. The bartender, Rich, helped Randy hustle him out the front door.

My heart was pounding and my arm felt dead. I felt disoriented, but exhilarated. One of the girls handed me a drink and I gulped it straight down. I sat at the bar, surrounded by a protective cordon of dancers and customers. It took me a few minutes to realize that the Joker was speaking to me.

"Chardonnay, are you alright?"

"What? No. Melissa. My name is Melissa."

He put his hand gently on my shoulder. "Melissa, are you alright? What happened?"

I nodded and looked at him. "He wouldn't stop grabbing me so I punched him".

"Damn, you must have punched him wicked hard."

"I punched him as hard as I could. I punched him right in the dick."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Hey, did you guys hear that? She dickpunched the son of a bitch!" Several people laughed and two of the girls high fived each other.

Jordy came over and gave me a hug. "Well, you're a real veteran now, dearie. Take the rest of the night off. But come back, okay?"

I did come back, and not just for the money. I liked dancing at the Cheetah. I would look down from the stage and see the rapt faces and the bulging pants, and I felt a rising self confidence and a sense of empowerment. I would imagine those men going home and masturbating, or fucking their wives or girlfriends, while thinking about me. There was a sense of power in that, and for the first time I felt like I was in charge of my own life. The shadow side, of course, was that I had shown little aptitude at making good life choices. More income meant more spending cash, and there was one thing I was more interested in spending money on than anything else. I was dancing on the edge of a cliff.