Stripping and the state of America

When I used to strip, I would hustle. It was all about the money. No drugs. No alcohol. I wasn’t there for the fun. I was there for the cash. The nights were long. I’d fly out of LA on a 5pm flight get to Vegas at 6pm, start working at 8pm and then stay till 6 or 7am.

I remember the heels.
Those spiky stripper heels.
And the excruciating pain that came with dancing and walking and hustling in heels.

All. Night. Long.

By the end of my shift I’d have blisters on my feet + my whole body felt like a truck had run over it. I was exhausted from contorting my bones into sexy dance pose moves while wearing those damn heels.

Some nights were easy in terms of the flow. I mean, the money would flow. I’d feel like a magical mesmerizing witch shaking my ass and sitting in a pile of green.

Bullseye. That’s what I was there for, to hit my money bullseye.

Some nights would be hell. It felt like pulling teeth. I’d be doing all the right things- smiling, swaying, seducing- and nothing. No takers. No money. No fish, as we dancers liked to call our customers.

“You catch a fish?” someone would ask in the dressing room. “Nope, not yet, but I’m going back out there.”

Out there was the wild west. It was loud music and cigar smoke, competition and drunken assholes. Out there wasn’t safe. Except… except when things were going smoothly, when the customers were friendly, when the cash came flowing in. But when it was tough, out there would hurt in here.

My heart, soul, mind would suffer when it was tough. The insides of my body would suffer.

When it was tough, I felt defeated, turned off, pissed, confused, and hopeless. I cannot explain to you the amount of feeling pounding in my cells when it was tough. But I will try.

It was like a tornado of pain ripping through the flesh. It felt like rage and defeat. I’d want to punch and cry and scream but also to stay connected to my center, the center of hope.

That’s what some days feel like right now.
Like the world out there is fucking hard.
It is.
It is hard.
Scary.

I can feel defeated, turned off, pissed, confused and hopeless. Like a tornado of pain is ripping through my flesh.

In the strip club, whenever I felt the tornado, two things were happening:

1. The rough night.

2. The 11th hour. This was the latest possible time before it was too late. In my case, too late to make the money I needed to make, too late to cover the fee I paid for walking into the club (we had a door fee), too late to get the sleep I needed to come back the next night. Too late to do anything else. Too late to turn the ship around. Too late, too late, too late. Bad. Fucking. Night. Dunzo.

But.

What if…. there was always a what if…

What if I caught a big fish in the 11th hour?
What if I met someone kind in the 11th hour?
What if I could turn the whole night around in the 11th hour?

I would have to dig deep, so deep, to believe the what if even just a teensy bit.

But that was all I needed.
A teensy bit.

A teensy bit would move me. A teensy bit would guide that one next step. A teensy bit could walk me and my blistered feet, all the way back out on the floor. Sometimes slowly. Sometime with gusto. Either way, a teensy bit was the flame that could light the fire.

I can’t tell you how many times that teensy bit was the bridge to thriving.

I can’t tell you how many times that teensy bit brought relief, gratitude, support from the gods (and fish).

I can’t tell you how many times that teensy bit created miracles.

All in the 11th hour.