Concave and Convex: Dying into New Life: Part 6

Hey dear friends and readers...

The story is unfolding and I am enjoying developing as a writer while I share it. This installment marks a change in length and I am posited to make a directive choice: Do I continue this as a blog or find a new home for a more focused audience? As a blog these posts don't convey the core message I am hoping to share with the arc of my personal story when all that seemed well came tumbling down. As a book one would know that, although individual parts of the story, like this post, are part of a greater message, they are not the point by themselves. As a whole unit the necessity for detail in the pieces of the story becomes apparent.

You can help me answer this question by sharing your thoughts. Are you still interested? Have you been reading all along? Is this your first time reading my blog on Evolver? This clarity will help me determine the next step, so any feedback you wish to share is appreciated!

And with that... back to the story. Enjoy!

Part I Dying Into New Life

My goal in looking for a club to strip in was finding the best place to make the most money. I wanted to be a stripper for the attention, but also for the ability to provide a home and a life for myself. Education seemed impossible. Starbucks would pay me enough to barely pay rent for a room somewhere. What about fun, play, creativity, socialization?

Adulthood seemed so arbitrary. I wondered why the adults in my life had so reticently given up. Why had they agreed to playing this game this way with these principles? It seemed perfectly reasonable to me to do something extreme in order to change the game completely. I had no sense of sacredness or humility and hindsight is truly 20/20. I had no prototype by which to model myself an integral empowered One, to be perfectly New Age.

I had dreams of renting a real San Francisco studio apartment, but the dot com industry made the real estate market boom. Most of the young people I knew were stacked four deep to a studio, and each paying $900 a month in rent. Privacy was granted by hanging sheets and one was lucky to have a kitchen in their apartment. Gas prices hiked into the $3 range. Parking was $5 every 20 minutes. Parking tickets cleared the $50 mark. Living space was tight. San Francisco was expensive to inhabit and everywhere I looked I needed a lot of cash to survive it seemed.

In my mind my job as a stripper would be dancing, just dancing. While I was unsure about grinding the laps of random dudes, I was certain that dancing seductively would make up for excesses of that awkwardness. I was not at all interested in being intimate with men, in fact, I loathed them. I was a qualified man hater, and I wanted to make them all pay for being so... emotionally bankrupt, inscencere, insensitive. I felt so pure with the prospect of being a lesbian stripper, a true professional tease, a 'technical' (in the eyes of most) virgin, one that could not be had and simultaneously was not some timid thing; a force in my own right.

If, in the past a boy could over take me with his physical advantage, then in the present I would rearrange the dynamics. Now I would bring Him to tears with unsatisfied want and he would enjoy it so much he would pay me his hard earned cash for it. And if he didn't like this scenario, there would be a big brutish doorman on my payroll waiting to enforce the rules. I was set ablaze with a feeling of power and excitement over the idea.

The day after finishing finals I took myself to San Francisco to pierce my septum, still with my fake I.d. I noticed this time that I got a high off of the moment of pain that overcame me, like a release akin to that of carving in my skin two years before. Piercing seemed more socially acceptable and attractive. Underneath my cocaine buzz I felt afraid of this new world I was jumping into.
Cocaine amplified he high of the release that came from piercing discomfort through sharp quick pain. This new character wasn't going to be pink and bubbles and Britney Spears. She would be beautiful, tough, artsy, and full of genuine sex, the stuff of real creativity. She would be Power with a vagina and tits.

My mind had begun to wrap itself around the dancer and I became anxious to get started. I awaited my 18th birthday and practiced my best stripper impressions. I reviewed my sexiest crawls on the living room floor of my fathers house when everyone else was away. I looked myself in the mirror and thought of the horror Knoxey, my father, stepmother, Edie and others would see should they ever see me like this. The thought made me smile. I reveled in a feeling of sovereignty. Snorted line by snorted line and step by step I plotted my self deprecating revenge on the people closest to me whom I could not forgive. I wanted to hurt them and myself though I didn't know exactly why, and cocaine erased any sense of reflection or remorse I garnered before.

I was a few days out of school, working part time at Starbucks and teaching myself all I could about stripping. With finals out of the way and having finished school a whole semester early, I was free to explore my creative project. Freshman year I had tried to convince my parents to let me apply for the SF School of the Arts. My stepmother, a hispanic tv news journalist, told me I wasn't skilled enough to be accepted to the school and I believed her. Now, though, now I would make my living off of my creativity, and in a way that made all of the hypocrites around me feel ashamed. If they wouldn't support me in learning skills to live off of my creativity, I thought, then I would teach myself with what I had available to me. My rage flared and my sense of Self inflated with every sniff of powder.

I practiced dancing in my first pair of six inch black plastic heals. I can still hear the clanking sound they made when knocked together; an awkward and unnatural resin sort of sound. I bought my first costume: a mesh transparent black string bikini and a matching strappy, very see-through dress at Daljeets on Haight Street. I also learned that the wardrobe of a stripper is no inexpensive thing. The total of my first costume, including shoes, was $150.

I decided on a hair style, warm black and straight, and I decided that I'd play up the exotic piece of my appearance. I wore make up that hid my true eye shape and made my bone structure more pronounced as to disguise myself a bit. I spent time trying on looks and going to local stripper clothing store Felicities on Sutter street in the tenderloin district. I quietly observed the dancers shopping there and their appearances. I made friends with Felicity, the store owner, and was overjoyed the day she told me she really liked my look. I felt ever more confident that my character had an appropriate appearance, because that seemed like the whole selling point of stripping to me at the time. I thought all it took to be a successful stripper was beauty and sensuality.

I initially picked very romantic music to dance to, a rookie mistake. I practiced stripping to artists like Sade and Bjork. I hunted for a stage name, and decided on Milana, meaning 'gracious', or 'favored'. I had read this name in a baby names book once when Knoxey and I pondered having children in a local borders a couple years before. I figured it would be a waste of a good idea for me not to use it. Nothing was sacred, and nothing off limits. I'd take all the shit in my life and spin gold.

In my room on a Thursday morning, my 18th birthday, while I was getting ready for the mid shift at Starbucks, I made love to cocaine aggressively until I realized that time had begun to slip by. Three hours had past and time for work to start had snuck up on me. My cocaine supply was now low, lower than I had planned, so I got in touch with my co-worker Ryan to buy my first eight ball from his friend Cesar. Ryan no longer had enough cocaine to meet my ongoing needs, so I was passed on to his supplier from then on out. Two weeks was all it took for me to become one of the regulars.

At Starbucks I had recently been passed up for a promotion to shift supervisor, prior to my meeting with cocaine, and I was still a bit sore about it. The reason I was told I did not get the position was my age. I was, however, given more responsibility and a .25¢ raise. My boss said it would be retro in my paycheck soon, it had been two months and I had still not seen a penny of the raise. Time flew that night with my stash up my nose, and the good times rolled along the surface. At the seabed mounted a tension of distrust and questioning.

After work I went to Berkeley to get a legit Monroe piercing at Zebra's on Telegraph Ave. I was 18 now and no one could deny me these things anymore for the amount of time I'd spent on the planet. The nipple piercings hurt more, but the Monroe was a close second. Just after it was done, I fainted- again. I found my rescuer to be a rather sweet and caring butch girl, Samantha. She had a kind smile, gentle hands and a soft soothing nature that made me feel safe. She asked if I'd like to go to her house party the next weekend and we exchanged numbers.

Finally legal, I went on my first audition the following Sunday night at my most ambitious attempt: Mitchell Borther's O'Farrel Street Theater. This was the big money club. Patrons paid $50 just to walk in the door, and I heard rumors that lap dances started at $60, rather than the standard $20 . This was the place I thought I wanted to be most, but I also knew it was the most competitive.

When I walked in there was a large group of women standing just inside the front door awaiting initial inspections for the go-ahead for round two of the auditions. The inspection consisted of a look-over by the manager. It was a quick pick of the perkiest, prettiest, and most marketable women. In a group of about 30 women, I was one of the 6 invited to show their i.d. and participate in the stage show portion of the audition. We were moved into a small room adjacent to the main office, away from the dancers and their belongings.

While we dressed and waited I watched the dancers go in and out. I watched the flow of their beautiful shimmering costumes as they sauntered by. I watched the meticulous beauty of their perfect hair. I nearly died with intimidation at the roundness and fullness of their breasts and hips. I noticed how many of these women had gigantic boob jobs, and shrank at the sight of my own small 36 B breasts. I felt tiny when an older seductress would walk past. I shrank with the utter confidence and comfort in sexuality they exuded. Who were these goddesses? Where did they come from? Was I really good enough to do this? I wondered.

"Music sweetheart." I shook out of my day dream to find the manager leaning over me with a dirty old man's sort of grin, demanding my music for my set. I went with 'Cherish the Day' by Sade and was escorted backstage to watch the other competitors perform their auditions. A pit grew deep in my stomach. It was a thing of nervousness and self-questioning. Once I did a real audition was there any going back?

Competition was exactly what we all were to one another. Things were coming up missing left and right while backstage. Women were accusing one another of sabotage by way of tearing outfits, double knotting tie-on g-strings that were supposed to be easy to untie on stage, and all imaginable manner of petty mayhem. One could even be held in contempt for a misunderstood glance.

Necks were swiveling. Tongues were sharp. Claws were flexing. Backstage cold wars were all around me, but I paid no mind. I was glued to the stage where I picked up last minute cues from the seasoned auditioners. They came from other strip clubs and revealed how best to move the body and what sort of facial expressions to make.

I managed to bypass the antics with other women by being kind, humble and removed. I'd wish each one good luck with a genuine smile before she went on stage. No one was threatened by my presence, and I perceived this as a negative. I began to feel insecure about my body, my costume, my ability and my beauty. The reality of men of all walks of life in the living audience was more than I had imagined. So much sex and tension lingered in the air here. Where did it break?

As the second-to-last dancer, I had time to run off to the bathroom for one quick line before it was my turn to audition. With no time to chop the line to a fine powder, I inhaled the mini clumps and felt them drain down my sinuses into my throat and then my esophagus. I had no water to quench my dusty thirst, so I relied on my own saliva to clear the now rampant taste that overcame me. I took a big breath, and let all the insecurity out with the exhale.

Of course, as soon as I made it back to my spot backstage, Milana, my stage name, was called. It was my turn to try to make something of this bizarre other-worldly experience. At first I was nervous and unsure of what to do. A taste of stage fright hit me for the first thirty seconds of the song, and then something changed. My heart was racing from the coke, nerves and physical exertion. Then I just let go and started floating. Something in me hit a vibration of what I can only describe as joy. A smile overcame me.

I found a semi-captive audience when I looked down from the stage offering tips and grins. I knew even in my niavete that this was a good thing. The way it felt to let go and move my body as wide around as it wanted to move, to flow with sensuality, was a flood of expression. To get a positive response was validating, even fulfilling. It felt as expansive as outer space to lose myself in music and flood the room with my take on sexuality.

The high of performing for men and picking up that scent of carnal longing was like orgasm by itself. To others though it was likely an ordinary audition, if that. This was the first time I had undressed and danced nude for an audience, after all. But I was thrilled and beamed with prowess over what I had just done.

After all the auditions were complete, we each had an individual meeting with one of the managers where we were to find out if we were hired and when we could start. When my turn came the manager asked me if I had ever danced anywhere before (having been 18 for just three days). I said no, and he told me to go up the street to New Century and get six months experience, come back and audition again. I shyly accepted his news and headed out of his office to change. I dressed and quietly slipped out the side door, disappointed that I had not been hired. I didn't want to stick around amongst the catty winners of this contest.

All night after that I did lots of drugs and drank hard liquor with a friend to rescue my delicate ego from the rejection I felt. It worked, and by midnight I was fine with the idea of going to New Century. It was on my list anyway, so it wasn't a total loss. The auditions were conveniently the next night. I reminded myself that either way I'd make a lot more money stripping than I was in my current vocation. Deciding I could use the sleep, I put coke away for the night and waited for fatigue to set in.

...................................

Part II Busting at the Seams

The next afternoon I awoke refreshed and excited for my new audition. I spent my afternoon in steady preparation so as not to be late or stressed. I even chopped my stash to a fine powder to avoid any close calls like the night before.

As I prepared a hardness began to grow over me like a scab. It was as though I began to grow an invisible skin that would protect me from the cattiness of my piers and unabashed craving of my audience. The place where my spirit had been sliced into from selling my intimacy was covered in cauterized life force now, and for the first time a non-virginal callous began to form around my young womanhood.

I did my make up meticulously. I put my look together confidently. I wore my character like a comfortable robe, and by six o'clock I was on the road from dreary San Bruno to precocious San Francisco, boom box a blaring. On the drive in I relived the stage experience of the night before and fluffed my ego with that memory until I arrived at the parking garage around the corner from New Century.

When I got to New Century I found my experience to be much different from the one the night before. The entrance was a box office in a lanai, then an entry way, then the main floor and stage where a much smaller crowd sat than the one at Mitchell Brother's. A non descript dancer swiveled her hips and bounced her breasts at each customer who tipped and other dancers sat across the room watching the show. There were only five dancers total who were to audition that night as opposed to the thirty the night before.

The up side of this audition was that there was a $200 cash prize to be claimed by the winner. The winner was to be determined by the audience and the cash to be awarded that night. This was rather convenient and upped the stakes for me because my cocaine habit had become expensive quickly. My savings began to dip as I snorted more, so I planned on using the winnings to buy more coke that night should I be so awarded. It was motivation that enacted my own inner competitor. I wanted to win on merit alone.

I gave my music to the d.j. at the direction of the door man and was then lead to the downstairs dressing room. Here auditioners dressed in the same space as the dancers. There was less to aspire to here, less separation between myself and these women I wanted to be like. I felt slightly more comfortable, and slightly more uncomfortable also. Now I would have to prepare myself, nude and unsure, in front of the professionals. I noticed their intended tan lines, styled pubic hair, surgically enhanced bodies and faces and addictions. The night before the quick swagger of these deities was like a movie. Tonight these women were real under the flourescent bulbs, their intended sexual displays exposed. Still, however, none of the glory had gone, and they remained as intimidating to me as ever.

Women would stand very close to their open lockers and move their hands and heads in suspect ways, as though they were taking swigs from flasks or quick toots from paraphernalia. Others could be heard chopping lines in the bathroom stalls located near the entry stair well amongst the muffled sounds pumping from the stage show above. Eyes were glazed and heads seemed to roll vacantly. This was not at all what I had expected to see in a stripper locker room.

Although it was incredibly evident this basement was teeming with vices, they were all tucked away and swept under the rug to reveal a seemingly neat operation. I paid close attention to the way things were done and hopped in like a double dutch session. I put the finishing touches on my make up- my false lashes and a lip gloss swipe. I brushed my hair and pinned it up to prep it for a dramatic release mid song on stage. I marched into the bathroom stall with my miniature purse- a stripper staple I had picked up on the night before- and I did my lines. I sauntered up the stairs to find a massage therapist in a hall working on the girls between sets. I thought about how easily I could fit into this world and my growing comfort gave way to confidence.

In this competition we watched one another perform from the audience. There was no back stage, only a side stage where every stripper could plainly be seen trudging on and off with her giant resin plastic weapon shoes. My competition was much less threatening tonight. We were all new prospects and I was, of course, the youngest. I also exuded the most confidence. No one had to know it was false. The more inexperience and fear I saw in the eyes of the others auditioning, the more at brave I felt to take liberties on stage.

When it came my turn to perform I was free from the stage fright that had captivated me the night before. I smiled like a veteran, I swayed like a vixen, and I crawled like a kitten. I freed my hair and let it sit over the side of my shoulder draped just to the side of my breast. I rolled my neck slowly and gave the most certain heavy-eyed hungry looks.

I appeared confident but there was evidence of my lack of experience. When a customer put up cash I didn't rush over to give him special attention. I knew no pole tricks, and I danced to that slow sultry romantic song by Sade from the night before. Were it not open auditions the audience would have fallen asleep, but they were awake with the excitement of new blood like mosquitos on the first hot summer night. They were receptive and I was hungry for their attention. It was a good pairing of energies.

After the auditions were over the audience voted. The night before I was a quiet loser, but tonight I was the happy winner of $200 cash and a new job. I headed upstairs to the managers office to sign paperwork, decide on a schedule and claim my prize money.

This was when I first met Rocky, the manager. The non descript dancer from earlier was in his office asking him to help her cut her tag off her lace panties for her. She advised me to remember that if I act like the customers all wanted me, they would, and to always just do that. In this office she was not so unimpressive. Her massive round firm breasts poked through her lace camisole. Her strong legs led up to a tight bubbly bottom. Her chest out, knees slightly bent posture made her appear ever-ready to hop on top of whatever called her to and fro. I studied her stripper self to the last detail and so began my training.

Off to Ceasr's, I drove with At The Drive-In blaring, my cigarettes burning, and my eyes flashing stars and dollar signs.

Thanks for reading and take good care until next time...

SH