Three nights a week I make a transformation:
I shave everything bare from the waist down and meticulously blend colors on my face to create shadows and highlights that stand out in near darkness. I slip into some variation of the same outfit (made of lycra and easy to take off). I even tease my hair (which is something, prior to stripping, I thought that women only did for proms, weddings, and 90s grunge parties). I strap on some 6-inch platforms, cough up $60 to my club manager and voilà! I am Summer.
Summer's identity is separate from my own. Summer does not allot any of her time to writing html or java scripts, she is not familiar with the gram-stain procedure and does not come home in the evenings to shower off the smell of preservative. Summer would not have been stoked to discover that her boyfriend had a microscope with an oil-immersion lens when he was growing up, because Summer does not even have a boyfriend. Summer is not shy or self-conscious. Summer's ideal night isn't a game of scrabble and re-runs of 30 Rock. Summer is always energetic; she is always interested in what you have to say. Summer doesn't care if you're married, if your children are older than she is. She doesn't care if you're obese and balding and smell like musk. Summer is always ignorant of your flaws, always complimentary of attributes you may or may not possess, and almost always naked.
Summer has been around for 18 months now, but this summer's end will be the end of Summer.
Clever. I know.
On August 23, 2010 I plan on hanging hanging up those smoke-drenched lycra gowns forever. Not because I hate stripping -- on some nights it still gives me a rush. But those nights are fewer and farther between. Once upon a time, I rocked out to The All-American Reject's comeback "dirty little secret" and dedicated it happily to Summer. I loved going to the supermarket, standing in line, swaying my hips to the beat of the faint music and thinking as I looked at the men who eyeballed me, "If only you knew." That pleasure has faded, resentment has taken it's place, and now I want to drop-kick those same men in the face. The look I give them conveys no self-satisfied encouragement, it reads: Don't you dare. Look away. NOW!
It's become difficult to uphold two identities. I've been called overly-sensitive, fragile and emotional my whole life -- and it's true. Summer used to alleviate those emotions, she gave me a thicker skin and more confidence. But recently Summer and I have become consolidated. I think if I saw a topless "daywalker" woman, sitting down shirtless with a cup of coffee or popping coins into a meter, it'd take me anywhere between 10 to 60 full seconds to acknowledge it was neither ordinary nor conventionally acceptable. When I straddle my boyfriend's lap I feel disdain towards all of the intimate moments similar that have been with men other than him. As for Summer, she can't just brush off the occasional handsy or belligerent customer, the way that she used to. Summer has cried sober tears in the dressing room and had a glazed-gaze at tables with customers more often than not, recently.
Stripping is more than a job. It's not your standard 9-to-5 or "part-time" through college. It's a lifestyle that sucks you in, that you become accustom to. The industry has begun to feel to me like a black hole, an alluring and unique spot in the galaxy that curiosity brought me too close to. I watched a documentary on black holes a few weeks ago, and it depicted the "suction force" relative to a rapid riptide's descent towards a waterfall. The spacemen were two men in canoes paddling futilely away from their fate. I saw it and pictured my blonde head poking out above the space river, a clear stiletto falling first into the abyss as I trailed behind.
So what changed? How did my "dirty little secret" become so burdensome?
The beginning of my stripping career was laced with liquor and numbed by coke. I was immersed in a thrilling scene that I'd known nothing of prior. I lost sight of my goals, lost my ambition, my compassion and my mind. And it was fucking FUN!! I paid for everything in cash, I had a drawer in my kitchen that was full of $1 bills. I knew people who knew people. I didn't go to a club without VIP bottle service, I shopped at Saks and ate expensive dinners every night. Then there was that one time I sucked a Puerto Rican's dick and he gave me a half O of coke. A literal blow job.
Yeah, it was around that time that, shall we say, "shit got real." Two of my favorite live-in party-time girlfriends moved away, and I was sucked into a whirlwind romance with an alcoholic customer who was at his bottom. We picked each other up, dusted each other off, looked at each other and decided, worn and weathered as each of us was, "You're it." Almost a year later he's my confident confidante. My sexy, successful (sober) roommate, lover, and best friend. I decided to go back to school and suddenly I had two priorities above Summer. She was no longer the main character in my story, and my wild crazy side faded into the background. Work became... Well... Work?
As a disclaimer and a tribute, I will say that there are empowered women that I work with that are mothers or professionals or students that are able to keep their secret and their mental health. I am NOT one of these women. In my case, either myself or Summer reigns, there is no balance. I have tried for the past year or so and been unsuccessful in achieving it. I refer to the world outside of my club as the "real world," with accompanying "real people jobs," "real people clothes," "real people talk" -- I'm ready to assimilate myself fully back into that "real world." But first, I'm going to pay my final dues.
I've decided before my designated quit date I will work 50 nights aimed towards a gross of $25,000. To keep myself energized and engaged, I will spend those 50 nights searching for stories to pen. I will start fresh at a new club, and I will finish my reign as a dancer having fun and making money... Because those were the only two reasons I ever started stripping in the first place.
For the next three months I will have no credit hours or responsibilities. I will have a very patient man in the background, and I will be Summer again--for the first time in a long time...
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