I'd just been heckled by a clown at a strip club. I'd spent $100 on stripper outfits, and I'd brought home $19 – a net loss of $81. I was done with stripping. Done.
And now I was reeling from the death of my latest make-enough-money-to-keep-acting dream. I wouldn't be making $400 a night. I wouldn't be moving out of my aunt's dreary home any time soon. I was back to square one, $5,081 dollars poorer – because the week before, in anticipation of my new fast-money job, I'd given $5,000 to an abusive psychic.
So I wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind when my manager-turned-Stripper-Pimp called at 2 a.m. to find out if I had successfully applied for the stripper job.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Horrible!" I spat. "Out of seven girls, I couldn't even get fourth place. I made a whole $20."
"Well, the idea wasn't for you to win or place. The girls who enter these things are professionals, so I didn't expect you to. The idea was to get the manager to put you on the schedule." He was always calm, logical, unflappable.
I told him how much I hated the club and that the girls who worked there weren't making any money.
"Well, just because they aren't, doesn't mean you won't. In three weeks, you could be the top girl at the club."
And so the conversation went, until he said, soothingly, "I know how you feel."
I exploded.
"NO, YOU DON'T! You're not the one who has to get up on the stage and do that sh*t!"
And then I began sobbing. Big, boo-hooing, loud, gasping, four-year-old, couldn't-catch-my-breath sobbing.
To which he said, after a moment of stunned silence, "Forget it. If you're going to be miserable about it, don't do it. Life is too short. Misery not included. So, forget dancing. In two days, you won't even remember this."
I instantly felt better about Stripper Pimp. Maybe he really was my friend. Maybe dancing really was just a suggestion.
He cared about me. He didn't want me to be miserable. I could start thinking of him as my manager again, not my pimp.
The next day, I called my best friend in Detroit and gave her the blow-by-blow replay. I ended with, "So, I don't know what's going to happen now."
"I do!" she exclaimed. "You're going to start hearing from that mo-fo less and less – because YOU'RE NOT FOLLOWING THE PROGRAM!"
Until she said it, it hadn't even occurred to me that Stripper Pimp might drop me.
(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 12 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)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
5 comments:
Sometimes we get so mad at our trials that we misjudge the people around us.
Kisses.
Well I kindda see myself in your best friend.. I'm always the one with the advices... that thinks things through - maybe a bit too much - and that's exactly what I would tell you...
It amazes me how you bring real life to your pages... thank you***
Sometimes we can't see whats right infront of us. It's happened to me many times over. When your in despair, feeling low and stressed! It's not about what's happened in your past it's about what you choose to do at present.
I truly respect your honesty, courage, insight and resolve in telling your story. It will surely help others and I believe it will help you as well. I only regret that I see moments where a true friend may have been able to help you avoid some potholes and pitfalls, but perhaps you were meant to walk this journey alone, so that many will see the toughness and spirit of a survivor. Keep doing what you do girl!!!
Oh yeah, this is when the reverse psychology comes in...Stripper Pimp knows you need the cash, is banking on your calling him to reconsider and will probably REALLY begin to "show his ass"...he just wanted to see if you had the balls to get on stage and get naked in the first place...
Post a Comment