Read Online Strip City: A Stripper's Farewell Journey Across America by Lily Burana - Free Book Online
Authors: Lily Burana
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first place, heaven knows.
Traffic on 25 South is a mess—there are five substantial jams between Aurora and Colorado Springs. By the time I hit Pueblo, two hours behind schedule, I've had enough time idling in the truck to put on my makeup, plus the hairpiece.
Aloha Glorya's is on North Main Street in downtown Pueblo, a discreet facade that blends right in with the other storefronts. My lateness is a blessing because I'm in too much of a hurry to be nervous. I pull open the heavy front door, and with my costume bag over my shoulder, I stride right in.
The club is a cute little party box, a single room with diamond tuck wall covering, carved wood tiki statues adorning the bar, and blue and pink streaks in the carpet that glow under the black light. And dark, of course. They're all so very dark. It's as if light would stall the growth cycle of whatever's seeded in these places and must be banished. Directly across from the entrance, in a carpeted conversation pit, a petite, dusky-skinned girl rolls around on a low, circular vinyl-topped table. She's topless, with diminutive, brown-nippled breasts that pay gravity no mind. She shifts onto all fours, then sits back on her heels so the flesh of her haunches dimples unprettily, as a bearded middle-aged man in a John Deere cap sits watching with his hands pressed between his knees. She looks back at him over her shoulder, her expression pleading in its sexiness and disdainful all at once, and he places a twenty-dollar bill on the table, delighted.
I smile at this tableau, so fleeting and familiar, with her showing more than she means to, him only seeing what he wants anyway, and the grace encircling them both for their respective show of will.
A thin man with a wiry gray mustache materializes out of the darkness. "Can I help you?" The silver steer skull bolo tie fastened loosely under his collar glimmers, catching the light from the horseshoe-shaped bar to the right of us.
Shifting my costume bag on my shoulder, I force a brighter smile. Out of my mouth comes an automatic phrase that I haven't uttered in a long, long time. "Yes, I'd like to audition."
…
I wonder if the good folks at McDonald's have any idea of their significance in the lives of strippers. Whatever the situation— whether someone is picking on you for your choice of job, or you're sick of dancing and need to convince yourself that it's worth coming in to work—the justification of choice is, "Well, it beats working at McDonald's!" I've never worked at McDonald's, or any fast-food restaurant, so I can only assume that this is true. I have, however, had a number of tedious, ass-busting jobs, mostly when I was in high school: cleaning lady, supermarket cashier, department store clerk. So I know a bit about scraping people's crap off of toilets, wearing mildly humiliating smocklike uniforms, and shuffling and refolding product for an indifferent corporation. I also know about trading all that for a job where you can make in one night what you used to earn in a week, or a month. Or two months. When you consider the sacrifices of social stature, privacy, and peace of mind, it is a rather big trade-off to make, but when the choice is limited to a McDonald's-type job or stripping, I can't fault a woman for making the money decision. I sure wouldn't mind making bank tonight.
The manager shows me to the stairway leading up to the dressing room. As I climb the stairs, my anxiety mounts. Although I've not had the displeasure of the experience, I've heard about clubs where the girls run off newcomers, not wanting their money threatened or their turf encroached upon. I hope things will be okay if I enter in low-relief. When I meet the women who work here, I will smile, self-deprecate, and dispense compliments like a salesman hands out business cards.
The dressing room is actually three—a large room with a long table and chairs, a smaller room fitted with a deeply gouged, double-sided mirrored vanity, and a locker
Traffic on 25 South is a mess—there are five substantial jams between Aurora and Colorado Springs. By the time I hit Pueblo, two hours behind schedule, I've had enough time idling in the truck to put on my makeup, plus the hairpiece.
Aloha Glorya's is on North Main Street in downtown Pueblo, a discreet facade that blends right in with the other storefronts. My lateness is a blessing because I'm in too much of a hurry to be nervous. I pull open the heavy front door, and with my costume bag over my shoulder, I stride right in.
The club is a cute little party box, a single room with diamond tuck wall covering, carved wood tiki statues adorning the bar, and blue and pink streaks in the carpet that glow under the black light. And dark, of course. They're all so very dark. It's as if light would stall the growth cycle of whatever's seeded in these places and must be banished. Directly across from the entrance, in a carpeted conversation pit, a petite, dusky-skinned girl rolls around on a low, circular vinyl-topped table. She's topless, with diminutive, brown-nippled breasts that pay gravity no mind. She shifts onto all fours, then sits back on her heels so the flesh of her haunches dimples unprettily, as a bearded middle-aged man in a John Deere cap sits watching with his hands pressed between his knees. She looks back at him over her shoulder, her expression pleading in its sexiness and disdainful all at once, and he places a twenty-dollar bill on the table, delighted.
I smile at this tableau, so fleeting and familiar, with her showing more than she means to, him only seeing what he wants anyway, and the grace encircling them both for their respective show of will.
A thin man with a wiry gray mustache materializes out of the darkness. "Can I help you?" The silver steer skull bolo tie fastened loosely under his collar glimmers, catching the light from the horseshoe-shaped bar to the right of us.
Shifting my costume bag on my shoulder, I force a brighter smile. Out of my mouth comes an automatic phrase that I haven't uttered in a long, long time. "Yes, I'd like to audition."
…
I wonder if the good folks at McDonald's have any idea of their significance in the lives of strippers. Whatever the situation— whether someone is picking on you for your choice of job, or you're sick of dancing and need to convince yourself that it's worth coming in to work—the justification of choice is, "Well, it beats working at McDonald's!" I've never worked at McDonald's, or any fast-food restaurant, so I can only assume that this is true. I have, however, had a number of tedious, ass-busting jobs, mostly when I was in high school: cleaning lady, supermarket cashier, department store clerk. So I know a bit about scraping people's crap off of toilets, wearing mildly humiliating smocklike uniforms, and shuffling and refolding product for an indifferent corporation. I also know about trading all that for a job where you can make in one night what you used to earn in a week, or a month. Or two months. When you consider the sacrifices of social stature, privacy, and peace of mind, it is a rather big trade-off to make, but when the choice is limited to a McDonald's-type job or stripping, I can't fault a woman for making the money decision. I sure wouldn't mind making bank tonight.
The manager shows me to the stairway leading up to the dressing room. As I climb the stairs, my anxiety mounts. Although I've not had the displeasure of the experience, I've heard about clubs where the girls run off newcomers, not wanting their money threatened or their turf encroached upon. I hope things will be okay if I enter in low-relief. When I meet the women who work here, I will smile, self-deprecate, and dispense compliments like a salesman hands out business cards.
The dressing room is actually three—a large room with a long table and chairs, a smaller room fitted with a deeply gouged, double-sided mirrored vanity, and a locker
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