Rebeckka Black - Dance to Despair - Memoirs of an Exotic Dancer

At approximately 10:00 p.m., the music abruptly stopped and the interior lights of the club went on. Everyone was told to freeze. Paired up FBI and IRS agents whisked all the dancers and employees into separate corners of the room. The employees were interrogated and made to provide sufficient identification. The dancers who had the misfortune of going into the secluded area with one of the undercover agents were arrested.

This investigation led to the indictment and imprisonment of quite a few people who owned and operated some of the Chicagoland area’s most infamous strip clubs. This raid marked the beginning of the end for most of these places. After the raid, practically everyone who was involved was subpoenaed to testify in front of the federal grand jury.

The raided clubs lost their ability to accept credit cards from reputable companies due to the fact that these clubs were under investigation for credit card fraud.

This meant that the clubs were forced to operate solely on a cash basis. Most customers didn’t come monetarily prepared as far as their cash funds were concerned. Sales began to diminish causing the dancers revenue to decline substantially for the next couple of years.

My employment at the Nite Strip Lounge ended rather unexpectedly. It was a Friday night. I was about fifteen minutes late getting to work due to the traffic.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the club, I noticed that it was primarily empty which was highly unusual for a weekend night. I parked my car in a hand-icapped zone, and grabbed my makeup case. As I got close the entranceway of the club, I noticed that there was some kind of a sign posted on the front door. I walked up to the door to read what it said. The sign turned out to be a court order stating that the club was no longer open for business. I ignored the sign and attempted to open the large wooden door, but it was locked. A few seconds later, one of the doormen unlocked the front door and told me to go home because the IRS had permanently closed down the club. I couldn’t believe it. I sat in my car for a good fifteen minutes trying to absorb what I had just heard. I felt like the rug had just been pulled out from underneath my feet. I couldn’t understand how a business could dissolve so quickly and without any notice. Realizing that the situation was out of my control, I put my car in reverse and drove out of the parking lot.

One of the few redeeming qualities about being an exotic dancer was that if you were suddenly to lose your job (and suddenly was usually the case); you could start working at another club the very same day. The fact that we could become instantly employed provided the dancers with some semblance of job security.

It was now the late 1980’s and there were few strip clubs left in the Chicagoland area. Most of these clubs permitted prostitution even though a lot of their competitors had been closed down as a result of Operation Safe Bet. The pickings were slim.

I had two choices. One of them was a club in a western suburb of Chicago. This was too far away. The other club was only thirty-five miles from where I lived, so I decided to work there. The name of this club was the Golden Show Lounge. At the time, it seemed the lesser of two evils. I made a quick phone call to the club before I went down there to make sure that they were hiring. Determined to be re-employed by 9:00 p.m., I began my journey to the Golden Show Lounge. The unexpected loss of employment coupled with the fact that I was about to go to work at a place that I didn’t want to work at overwhelmed me. I experienced a frightening panic attack in route to the club. The attack was so severe that I was unable to drive. Gasping for a breath, I pulled into the parking lot of a retail store. I threw my car in park, and waited for the symptoms to subside. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. I began to panic. The more I panicked the worst the symptoms became. I was convinced I was having a heart attack. Suddenly my head felt like it was spinning, and I lost touch with what was going on around me. Twenty minutes later I regained my composure and continued to drive.

When I arrived at the Golden Show Lounge, I wasn’t surprised to see that its appearance was just as depressing as the other clubs that I had worked at. The building itself was probably very attractive in its day; but time had taken a toll on it. The parking lot was in the back of the club and was devoid of any lighting. I parked my car and sat for a good fifteen minutes. The parking lot was so dark and desolate that I was actually afraid to get out of the car. The longer I sat in the car the more I had second thoughts about working at this club.

I couldn’t understand why I kept subjecting myself to these deplorable places. I constantly felt guilty about the type of work that I did. Although I didn’t consider myself to be a highly religious person, I did believe in God. I thought about Him every time that I walked through the doors of a strip club. I was thoroughly convinced that it was only a matter of time before God would pay me back for all my wrong doings, and that weighed heavily on my mind.

I thought about other options. Gainful employment was one of them, but the types of jobs that I was qualified for were low paying. This was my excuse for remaining in the strip clubs.

With great trepidation, I got out of my car and walked into the Golden Show Lounge, I was greeted by the all too familiar glow of dimly lit red lights. The inside of the club was dark and morbid looking. A huge ornate Victorian style fixture that looked like it belonged in a 1920’s funeral parlor hung from the cracked ceiling in the large foyer. To my left was a doorway covered by black velvet drapes, which were tied back to one side by a tattered looking black tassel cord.

The black velvet drapes delivered a sobering effect that would have made the perfect backdrop for a coffin. Through the black fabric, I was able to see the legs of a man perched on a stool. My guess was that it was the doorman. When I walked through the draped entranceway, my suspicions were confirmed. A bald-headed Telly Savalas type, who had the personality of a broom and a physique of a marine drill sergeant, abruptly halted me. I have to admit that his appearance was intimidating and certainly appropriate for this position. I told the doorman that I had come to inquire about a job. “Hold on,” the man said. His voice was gruff and unpleasant. I watched him dial a number from the black desk phone next to his perch. “There’s a dancer here to see you,” he said to the person on the other end of the phone. The stocky man slammed the receiver down on the base and told me that the manager was on his way. While waiting for the manager, I watched the doorman collect a fifteen-dollar cover charge from a great number of well-dressed men. They appeared to be polished white-collar businessmen. This was a definite improvement over the caliber of men that frequented other clubs.

Fifteen minutes went by, and the manager had still not appeared. Finally, a gentleman in his mid-sixties popped his head around the corner and motioned for me to follow him. I followed the man into a huge showroom that smelled like an antique parlor.

In the middle of the room was a fairly small square shaped stage that was practically devoid of any lighting. A partially nude woman lazily strutted around the stage. Her sapphire, blue-sequined g-string glittered seductively beyond the ghostly veils of cigarette smoke. The older gentleman led me toward the service bar and invited me to sit down on one of the tall creaky bar stools. He sat down next to me. On the bar to my left were a coffee machine, cups, and a black desk phone. The man introduced himself to me as Mr. C. and told me that he was the manager in charge. He asked if I would like a cup of coffee. I nodded my head yes.