A New Stripper Plan of Attack

The first person I called after my strip-club audition was my Hollywood talent manager, Stripper Pimp. Things hadn't exactly gone as planned. Yeah, I'd taken it all off and exited the stage without tripping, but I'd also left the club without a job offer.

Stripper Pimp was reassuring. Although I thought I detected a note of disappointment in his voice, he placidly assured me that it was normal for there to be a 7-10 day delay.

It sounded comforting, but I knew a so-so audition when I had one. I didn't blame my nonexistent dance skills. I blamed my poor little boobs. Maybe Stripper Pimp was right. Maybe I should consider plastic surgery.

My best friend from Detroit was reading my mind in between praying fervently that I wouldn't go directly to hell: "I just talked to Future Husband. He told me to tell you that if you get a boob job, there's a strong possibility that you might keloid."

I have to admit, the prospect of scarred boobs was almost enough to make me think. Almost.

Because the number-one topic on my mind was money. Just one week before, I'd done something unthinkable. I'd received a $6,400 settlement check from a recent car accident – enough to move out of my aunt's house and start a new life – and I'd secretly given $5,000 of it to a psychic.

My "psychic friend" had been abusing me, terrorizing me, controlling me and coercing me out of money for six long years. It's part of the reason I was so easily led by a guy like Stripper Pimp. I already had a long, strange history of being easily led. (And all these years later, I still can't fully explain why I was so willing to give all my power away. All I know for sure is that despite being intellectually gifted, I was a walking puddle of perpetual victimhood until about age 30.)

It was ok, I told myself. In a week or two, I'd be making $400 a night stripping. It hadn't occurred to me that I might not be good at it.

A couple days after my audition, after much anxious prodding from me, Stripper Pimp came clean: the club's response probably meant that they already had enough black girls. "They'll let a white girl come in there and learn, but they're not going to do that for you."

He had a new plan: "What do you think about dancing at a black club?"

Stripper Pimp never gave orders. He just calmly asked leading questions in a smooth, even-toned voice.

I thought the idea sounded about as appealing as crawling into a dark, dirty crack in a kitchen baseboard to comingle with cockroaches. The Barbary Coast had burned an image in my mind that I just couldn't shake: loud, rowdy n*ggas crumpling up dollar bills and aiming them at my crotch. I'd visited during the day. I couldn't begin to imagine that place at night.

"It's bad enough I'm gonna do it, but I'm not gonna do it in a place where I'll be disrespected," I protested.

But minutes later, I needed his reassurance: "Do you think I'll make more money in a black club than a white club?"

"Absolutely, or I wouldn't have suggested it." He explained that I would need to work a smaller club for a month or two to learn the ropes, then I could try one of the big white clubs again.

The club he suggested, the First King, was right across the street from the Barbary Coast. A former client of his used to dance there, he said. It was a "nice atmosphere" and she made $300-$400 a night.

I decided to drive by the First King after my Monday-night singing gig and just get a feel for the place. I found three police cars outside and a line of police tape stretching all the way around the building.

Uh ... not exactly a nice atmosphere, unless I wanted to get shot.

I immediately called Stripper Pimp, and he had a new suggestion. I should do an amateur night at a mixed club called Starz.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 10 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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