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Authors: Maureen Smith
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Baltimore. Paired together on a sociology project, they’d
discovered a mutual affinity for African art, conspiracy theories, and anything
written by Audre Lorde. In no
time at all, they became so close that some of their peers began speculating
that they were lesbians. They’d laughed at the rumors, and every so often when
they were feeling particularly mischievous, they’d strolled across campus with
their hands in each other’s back pockets—much to the amusement of friends
who knew they were anything but lovers.
They’d always been there for each other,
through bad breakups with boyfriends to the tragic passing of Rebecca’s
parents. While Cherelle was studying feverishly for the bar exam, Rebecca had
furnished her with meals and an endless supply of Starbucks coffee, a favor Cherelle
returned as Rebecca worked toward her doctorate. As far as she was concerned, Cherelle
Hagans was the sister she’d never had.
“How are things going at The Sultan’s?” Cherelle
asked, reaching for a box filled with plates. “Are you making any progress on
your research?”
“Some,” Rebecca said, lining a cabinet with
glasses. “Not all of the girls like being the subject of my dissertation.”
Cherelle snorted. “Who can blame them? You’re
doing a study on how society exploits strippers.”
“Well, not exactly. My dissertation explores
gender differences in societal reaction and conventional support among exotic
dancers in a large metropolitan area. In other words, what I’m trying to
establish is that female dancers are less likely than male dancers to receive
community support for dancing as a way to earn a living.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told the girls what
you were working on,” Cherelle said simply. “People get nervous when they’re
asked to speak on record, especially about their private lives. Maybe there’s a
way you could have interviewed them without them knowing they were being
interviewed.”
This time it was Rebecca who snorted. “Do you
really think I could have asked these women a bunch of personal questions
without arousing their suspicions? They would’ve thought I was a reporter or an
undercover cop, and either way they wouldn’t have talked to me. Besides, you
know very well it would have been unethical of me to gather information on those
women without their knowledge or consent.”
Cherelle grinned. “I’m a lawyer. What do I
know about ethics?”
“I see your point,” Rebecca said dryly.
“Anyway, I just need a little more time to gain everyone’s trust. I’ve only
been waitressing at the club for three months, and some of the girls have
already given me plenty of empirical data.”
Cherelle’s light-brown eyes twinkled with
mischief. “So when are you gonna start working at a club with male strippers? That’s when I’ll start dropping by to
meet you for lunch.”
Rebecca laughed, tossing a wad of newspaper
at her friend. “You’re such a freak!”
Cherelle laughed. “Oh, please. You know you’d much rather be watching a group of
buff, gorgeous guys strip down to G-strings than a bunch of chicks with sagging
tits and nasty stretch marks.”
Rebecca chuckled. “First of all, I’m too busy
serving customers to be watching anyone on stage. And just for the record, The Sultan’s has some of the most attractive
dancers in Baltimore. Bruno pays those girls to keep their bodies in shape and
maintain healthy eating habits. He even pays for their membership to Gold’s
Gym, and don’t think he doesn’t periodically check in with the manager to keep
tabs on who’s showing up to work out and who’s not.”
Cherelle frowned. “Sounds like a dictator to
me. Or an obsessive pimp.”
Rebecca shrugged, slicing open a new box.
“He’s a businessman, and a very savvy one at that. He’s built his reputation on
having the best exotic dancers around, and whether or not you agree with his
methods, he delivers on that promise.”
Cherelle paused in the
discovered a mutual affinity for African art, conspiracy theories, and anything
written by Audre Lorde. In no
time at all, they became so close that some of their peers began speculating
that they were lesbians. They’d laughed at the rumors, and every so often when
they were feeling particularly mischievous, they’d strolled across campus with
their hands in each other’s back pockets—much to the amusement of friends
who knew they were anything but lovers.
They’d always been there for each other,
through bad breakups with boyfriends to the tragic passing of Rebecca’s
parents. While Cherelle was studying feverishly for the bar exam, Rebecca had
furnished her with meals and an endless supply of Starbucks coffee, a favor Cherelle
returned as Rebecca worked toward her doctorate. As far as she was concerned, Cherelle
Hagans was the sister she’d never had.
“How are things going at The Sultan’s?” Cherelle
asked, reaching for a box filled with plates. “Are you making any progress on
your research?”
“Some,” Rebecca said, lining a cabinet with
glasses. “Not all of the girls like being the subject of my dissertation.”
Cherelle snorted. “Who can blame them? You’re
doing a study on how society exploits strippers.”
“Well, not exactly. My dissertation explores
gender differences in societal reaction and conventional support among exotic
dancers in a large metropolitan area. In other words, what I’m trying to
establish is that female dancers are less likely than male dancers to receive
community support for dancing as a way to earn a living.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told the girls what
you were working on,” Cherelle said simply. “People get nervous when they’re
asked to speak on record, especially about their private lives. Maybe there’s a
way you could have interviewed them without them knowing they were being
interviewed.”
This time it was Rebecca who snorted. “Do you
really think I could have asked these women a bunch of personal questions
without arousing their suspicions? They would’ve thought I was a reporter or an
undercover cop, and either way they wouldn’t have talked to me. Besides, you
know very well it would have been unethical of me to gather information on those
women without their knowledge or consent.”
Cherelle grinned. “I’m a lawyer. What do I
know about ethics?”
“I see your point,” Rebecca said dryly.
“Anyway, I just need a little more time to gain everyone’s trust. I’ve only
been waitressing at the club for three months, and some of the girls have
already given me plenty of empirical data.”
Cherelle’s light-brown eyes twinkled with
mischief. “So when are you gonna start working at a club with male strippers? That’s when I’ll start dropping by to
meet you for lunch.”
Rebecca laughed, tossing a wad of newspaper
at her friend. “You’re such a freak!”
Cherelle laughed. “Oh, please. You know you’d much rather be watching a group of
buff, gorgeous guys strip down to G-strings than a bunch of chicks with sagging
tits and nasty stretch marks.”
Rebecca chuckled. “First of all, I’m too busy
serving customers to be watching anyone on stage. And just for the record, The Sultan’s has some of the most attractive
dancers in Baltimore. Bruno pays those girls to keep their bodies in shape and
maintain healthy eating habits. He even pays for their membership to Gold’s
Gym, and don’t think he doesn’t periodically check in with the manager to keep
tabs on who’s showing up to work out and who’s not.”
Cherelle frowned. “Sounds like a dictator to
me. Or an obsessive pimp.”
Rebecca shrugged, slicing open a new box.
“He’s a businessman, and a very savvy one at that. He’s built his reputation on
having the best exotic dancers around, and whether or not you agree with his
methods, he delivers on that promise.”
Cherelle paused in the
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