Dirty Dancing With Horny the Clown

I didn't know what to expect from my first amateur night at a strip club, but I certainly didn't anticipate a real-life, honest-to-god clown armed with a microphone: "These girls are vestal virgins! They ain't never, ever, ever stripped befo'!"

It was Tuesday night in a club called Starz, and my Stripper Pimp and so-called Hollywood talent manager had laid out a simple plan: I would do Starz's amateur night, then ask the manager for a job application.

I'd already had a busy day:

• I'd found the perfect Park La Brea apartment that my forthcoming stripper income would pay for.
• I'd spent $100 on two stripper outfits, pretty expensive for almost no fabric.
• I'd worn one of the outfits, a black short-shorts & bra ensemble, to a callback for a tacky Japanese film. (I didn't get the part.)
• And since the audition was down the street from my agent, my skanky outfit and I dropped in to say hi. He promptly asked me out to dinner Friday night, and I said yes.
• I'd even shaved off all my pubic hair.

But nothing prepared me for the night ahead.

The club itself smacked of defeat. Two pretty-but-hard-in-the-face black girls were on the schedule. Backstage, they complained bitterly that they were only pulling in $75 a night.

The stage itself was bizarre. The club served alcohol downstairs, so downstairs was topless only. But the rule was, when it came time to take your top off, you had to do so between these two big, metal bars that resembled a shopping cart corral.

And I myself had no clue. The song I wanted to dance to was Fiona Apple's "Shadow Boxer," a dark, depressing dirge. After the D.J. gently suggested something more upbeat, we settled on Prince. Then there was my stage name. I chose "Clarity" because I thought I finally understood my place in Hollywood: I was a piece of meat.

Stripper Pimp had warned me that amateur nights didn't really attract amateurs: They attracted professional dancers hungry for the prize money. He was right. One of the girls, a skinny, flat-chested brunette was a former go-go dancer. Another was a big-busted Anna Nicole Smith type. She was sadly contemplating a return to stripping at the urging of her manager, who was right there to encourage her and wipe away her sad, little tears. Where the hell was my manager? Chilling in his Westwood apartment while a clown MC referred to me as a "good little kittykat"?

The MC had originally shown up in a light-green, three-piece suit and given us our instructions. Then he transformed himself into an obscene clown, complete with a clown suit, red nose and colored Afro wig, and picked up the microphone.

"Yeah, guys, we got fresh coochie for you tonight!"

When it was my turn to go on, he heckled me.

"Next up is Clarity. I can see clearly now!"

There were only a few men in the club. I wiggled my way across the stage, past a white man with a mustache. I arrived at a pole and attempted to grind against it in a manner I hoped was sexy. I made it to the top of the stage, where a black guy about my age shouted encouragingly: "Damn, girl! Slow down! You're moving too fast!" Then I was between the shopping-cart bars, taking off my bra. And then I was backstage with the other girls.

The finale was a dance-off where each girl did an encore, and the men pulled out their wallets. I wiggled my way to a dollar here and a dollar there. At the top of the stage, a middle aged black woman doled out consolation money for the rejects. She shoved some bills into my nearly empty hand.

Go-Go Girl, now all hot and sweaty, won the contest and a fistful of money. Weepy Blond placed second. I didn't come in third. Or even fourth. In a field of seven girls.

I'd made a whopping $19. Most of it from the reject woman.

My stripping career was over. I drew the line at clowns.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 11 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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