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

“You got it,” he said with a smile that looked like more of a sneer. This man reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t figure out whom. Once my eyes had acclimated to the dark, I realized he was a dead ringer for the actor Jack Nicholson. Even his voice was similar, soft-spoken and somewhat sarcastic. Mr. C. slowly poured me a cup of coffee, and then poured one for himself. He pulled his barstool a few inches closer to mine and lit up a cigarette.

“What’s your name,” he inquired as he deliberately eyed me up and down. I told him my stage name. “Tell me where you worked before,” he said while his eyes intensely scanned my body. I gave him a quick summary of the places I had worked. Mr. C. nodded his head as I spoke while he shifted his tie.

“You’ve got a lot of experience behind you,” he remarked, “I like that. When were you thinking of starting?”

I told him that I would like to start immediately.

“Great,” he said, “we’re certainly glad to have you. You’re a beautiful woman. There is no doubt about it.” Mr. C. proceeded to tell me the rules of the club, which were generally the same as all the other clubs. When my interview was over, I told Mr. C. that I had to go out to my car to get my costumes. As I stood up from the barstool, he gently grabbed my arm. “I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you this because you’re an old pro, but just in case, there’s no prostitution allowed here.” I assured him that he didn’t have a thing to worry about.

Every strip club manager that I had ever interviewed with gave me the same old spiel about prostitution. They all claimed, “no acts of prostitution would be tolerated outside of the club.” Ironically, they didn’t seem to mind if certain sexual activities such as oral sex or intercourse took place within the club, as long as the club owners could gain from it.

After working at the Golden Show Lounge for several days, it became apparent that most of the clients were white-collar businessmen. The management strictly enforced a dress code. They referred to the code as the “suit and tie policy.”

Unkempt, skuzzy looking men or blue-collar workers were firmly turned away at the door. Customers had to show the doorman both a valid driver’s license and a major credit card. Those who couldn’t produce the required identification weren’t allowed in. This process was intended to keep out problematic patrons and or under cover police agents.

The Golden Show Lounge didn’t cater to a large number of customers. There were usually about ten men in the audience at one time. Most of them opted to take a dancer into the secluded area. Unlike the other clubs where I’d worked, this club kept quite a few steady customers. Management rolled out the red carpet for men who spent well into the thousands.

Mr. C. made it a point to superficially befriend these customers. When they came into the club, he would sit at the bar with them and strike up a conversation.

Later, the customer would disappear into the darkness with one of the dancers.

Not all the customers were treated like royalty. The ones who didn’t cooperate with the management were physically battered. Mr. C. was the master of ceremonies when it came to negative reinforcements.

Mr. C. for reasons unknown never chose to marry. He lived alone in a small house situated on six acres of land. The pinnacle of his bleak existence was to flirt with the dancers, who basically wanted nothing to do with him. His other hobby was raising ferrets and these animals were sadly enough, the apples of his eye.

Mr. C. was kind of a sadistic individual. When business was slow, he enjoyed entertaining the troops with some of his old “war” stories. Most were detailed descriptions of him physically beating rebellious customers that refused to pay their tabs. His eyes would practically light up when he spoke of this. Although his stories were always of a violent nature, they were quite comical. Mr. C. also told us about the high-profile clientele that had frequented the club over the years. He gave us the entire low down on their sexual practices, the amount of money they spent, and the name of the dancer that they spent it on.

One of the men that he told us about was a highly respected religious figure who often appeared on television. This customer would come into the club seeking perverse sexual activities.

The Golden Show Lounge operated differently than most of the other strip clubs in that they kept detailed files on their customers. These files contained names, addresses, work and home phone numbers, driver’s license numbers, the name of the dancer they spent money on, and the amount of money they spent. They even kept a detailed description of the customer’s sexual appetites. These records were locked up in a large metal file cabinet for management’s eyes only.

Not only was this club unique in the sense that they kept such close tabs on their patrons; they also had a fairly unorthodox way of conducting business. In every strip club I had ever worked at, the waitress collected the money from the customer before they were allowed to go into the secluded area with the dancer. This system was designed to ensure payment; otherwise most of the men probably wouldn’t have paid. Especially the men who were with women, like me, that didn’t engage in any sexual activities with the customers.

The management at the Golden Show Lounge allowed the customers to run tabs.

This meant that the customers weren’t required to pay for the dancers company until the end of the party. Customers were required to spend about $380 every ten minutes in order to retain the companionship of the dancer. At the end of these ten-minute intervals, the waitress would interrupt the dancer and her customer so that she could solicit the man to spend more money. If the man consented, an additional $380 was put on his tab. If the customer refused to spend anymore, he was presented with his original bill of $380 and a hefty service charge.

The spending game went on for as long as we were able to coerce the customer into spending his money. Our job was to keep them “amused and confused.”

Some of the customers would refuse to pay their bills simply because they were trying to get one over on the management. Others played stupid, claiming that they weren’t told that the bill was cumulative. The first time that I had encountered this problem was with Matt, a fat middle-age businessman. He claimed that he had just come from visiting his terminally ill wife in the nearby hospital. He said he was bored with his wife, and sick of having to deal with her illness. Matt felt that his wife’s illness was putting a damper on his sex life. “I need to look at something healthy and new, not some sick old bitch on her last leg,” the chunky man muttered as he sloppily slid a large ice cube from his glass of coke into his small, rubbery-looking mouth. The waitress, a tacky looking transvestite, fluttered over to the table where Matt and I sat, and delivered the secluded-area pitch to the ugly, misshapen man. He was more than happy to comply and frantically reached for his wallet. The waitress refused the man’s money and explained to him that we would be running a tab. “Play now and pay later,” she said to Matt as she patted him on the shoulder. The customer smiled.

I led my eager victim over to one of the long purple velvet couches that were located in the far corner of the room. The minute the man sat down on the couch he began to unzip his pants. I decided I should bring another dancer into the party, because these types of men were easier to control with two women. The double diversion made it easier for us to stall the man until the waitress came back. I ordered him to zip up his pants. At first he refused to cooperate, so I told him that if he didn’t do what I said, he wouldn’t get his special surprise. The gullible man fell for it, and quickly zipped up his pants. His behavior reminded me of a famished dog waiting for a bone. “What’s the surprise?” the desperate man asked me. His voice was quivering. “I have to go get the surprise,” I replied. The man attempted to get off the couch, and I pushed him back down. I told him to wait for me while I fetched his surprise. The chubby man reluctantly sat back down clutching his crotch. I quickly made my way over to the bar where I found my waitress and Mr. C. engrossed in conversation. I told the waitress that I needed another dancer on the party as soon as possible. The waitress excused herself from Mr. C.’s company and headed toward the dancer’s dressing room.