Don’t I know you? (excerpt)

tmg-gift_guide_variable_2xAs the fourth and final song faded and the DJ worked the crowd for applause, I made my way off the center stage. The balls of my feet were throbbing and I couldn’t wait to release my toes. Beads of sweat tickled the small of my back and my cocaine-fueled heart thumping inside my chest served as a reminder I was alive.

As soon as I reached the edge of the stage I kicked off my stilettos and prepared for my final set in the shower, complete with jet-stream runway.

Still naked from performing, I grabbed the bills and garters from each thigh, threw them in a ball on the floor and covered the stash with my dress. After exchanging non-verbal assurances that my loot was safely guarded by my favorite bouncer, Tuli,  I stepped in the shower and turned on the water inside the Plexiglass stall.

Waving a smile to the audience, I began to sponge up with the bottle of Prell shampoo that was provided by management. Prell gave this cool neon green glow under the black lights. We all looked like The Hulk but with better hair, slimmer waists, bigger tits and hairless vaginas.

The shower stage always drew in a big  crowd. A nude chick, sudsing up with wet hair, strutting up and down a jet stream runway – what’s not to love?

Deana followed my set and I loved her taste in music, which meant I’d have a ball performing my wet-n-wild show while she worked the center of the room. I threw her a smile from my corner, nodding in appreciation as Faith No More vibrated through the overhead speakers. We both mouthed the words to the crowd:

“You want it all, but you can’t have it… It’s in your face, but you can’t grab it!”

Teasing customers was a blast – even more so when the music was rad.

Receiving tips in the shower was different from collecting them on the main (dry) stage. Customers loved slapping the bills on our wet bodies. Never one to disappoint, I always bent over standing on the tips of my toes and my ass in the air, allowing spanks with every dollar bill. The guys took such pleasure in sneaking a ‘touch’; I took pleasure in their cash. Some girls hated the spank-tips but I didn’t mind. As long as they stayed on my ass and didn’t get south of the border, I was cool.

As the final song began my ass-slappers started to thin out leaving me alone to survey the audience. My hips swayed to Fire Woman, by The Cult; another ass-kicking Deana choice. I was all smiles in tune with the guitar riffs until my eyes landed on a familiar face from high school walking through the red velvet curtains.

Mutherfucker.

My eyes bolted off the runway to the dressing room and I thought of running; but my body was frozen seeking comfort in the pockets of my breath. The cigarette smoke-filled air served equal parts drama and suspense and he walked straight toward me as soon as he saw who I was. Pretending not to see him, I spun around whipping my water-soaked hair like I was a back up dancer in MTV’s Beach House.

My world was suddenly in slow motion. The butterflies inside my belly were choking on the reality of his presence.

“Hey, hey… !” I knew he was talking to me but kept dancing.

“I know you. Christine, right?” He pushed.

Christine? Nobody called me that name. Nobody even knew me as her. My stage name was Stephanie; Christine was buried in the chaos that was my life.

Realizing he wasn’t going to stop, I replied with the same volume as the thumping in my chest and the base vibrating the walls.

“Nope. My name is Stephanie.” My voice was shaking and my knees struggled to support me.

“No, it’s Christine. I know you.” His smirk was the same as I remembered.

“Wrong girl.” I said without blinking. Suddenly I wished I really was The Hulk.

“No, you went to Kaiser High School!” He actually smiled.

With unabashed purpose I lowered by body leveling to his eyes. I was still trembling but there was no way he was going to win. Not this time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Stephanie. You got the wrong girl.” I looked him square in the face, determined to take back that night seven years ago when I was a 13 year old girl away at camp on the beach.

He shook his head and threw me a smirk. He knew I was full of shit. And I knew that he knew.

As I straightened up and walked away the DJ began to speak and I was saved. I grabbed my towel from the floor, leaving my cash, shoes and dress on the stage. I bolted past him through the crowd to the dressing room.  He tried to block me but I navigated my ass and kept walking.

In the safety of the space with the other girls getting ready for their set, I pulled a breath from the well of my past and began to cry. My body was trembling and I clutched on to my friend Alison, who was lining her lips in front of the mirror. I couldn’t speak.

“What, honey? What is it?” Alison held me close and rubbed my back.

Still, no words.

“Did someone try to touch you?” Her tone was firm, and I could tell she was ready to kick someone’s ass.

Shaking my head no, I opened my locker and pulled out my purse. I couldn’t stop panting.

“Holy shit, Stephanie, what the fuck happened?” She went from pissed to worried.

I dumped some blow on the dressing room counter and snorted.

Alison kept rubbing my back.

“It’s okay sweetie.” Her voice shifted to maternal.

Sitting naked on the stool with my towel draped around my hips, I wiped tears from my face and found the words.

“I saw him.” My breath was heavy.

“Who?” She offered me a cocktail napkin as tissue.

“The motherfucker who raped me.”

 

Christine Macdonald

I used to be a rock star

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I used to be a rock star.

I didn’t tour the world belting my heart out in stadiums, but I worked the pole to the tunes of Guns and Roses and Bon Jovi for the better part of a decade and was treated just as well.

In 1990s Waikiki, strippers were golden. There were no lines to wait in, no cover charges to pay, just champagne kisses and caviar dreams waiting for us to party on the other side of the velvet rope. And party we did.

The glamour drug was cocaine. I always had a bump or two in my purse and would never turn down a trip to the ladies bathroom from a fellow dancer. “Wanna go to the bathroom?” was really code for “Come do a line of coke with me.” When not lounging on the couches, gabbing away in the VIP room of our favorite club, we were always flocking to the stalls.

There were nights spent snorting lines of coke off swank bars afterhours, with famous actors and rock stars in tow. It was common to see girls making out with one another and even more so to see mountains of cocaine in the room.

One night at work, I got to chatting with Teresa, a stunning dirty blonde with sun kissed freckles and green eyes. She was in town on hiatus after touring for Australian Playboy. I was in awe of her beauty.

Always smiling and happy to be at work, Teresa was even more so this time. I sat next to her at the bar as we waited to be called for our set.

“You’re so beautiful.” She swayed to the music, smiling at me.

“Thanks T, you are too!” I was flattered and knew she was high.

“Do that Frank Sinatra thing.” She begged.

One night, long after the clubs were closed, and back in my apartment at six in the morning, Teresa and I were still partying. We played music, and I performed a little one woman show to Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon complete with dance moves. She loved it.

I started to wonder if she was on coke, or something else. She seemed way to mellow; less agitated than if she was high on blow.

“Maybe later.” I smiled and took a sip of my drink.

She leaned in to kiss me and whispered in my ear.

“Do you want some?” she purred, melting with the music.

“Coke?” I pulled back, kissing her on the cheek.

“No, this is H, love. I just snorted some.”

Heroin. Holy shit. I suddenly broke from our magical aurora and took a step back.

“No, hon, that’s okay.” Picking up my drink, sipping and staring in to her eyes, I continued. “I’m up soon.” And I walked away. I was scared shitless.

Heroin was something we learned about in school. It meant dirty needles and strung out homeless people. I had no idea you could snort it, or that people like Teresa – a beautiful model even did it.

Back in the dressing room, I wondered how many other girls were snorting heroin instead of coke. Was this the new, designer drug? Was I considered old school with my coke?

I had one song left before my set. I took my purse, waited my turn for the bathroom stall and placed my coke on the back of the toilet. I chopped each grain methodically but couldn’t stop thinking about Teresa. Rolling up a dollar bill, I placed it under my nose, leaned down and snorted.

How could she do heroin?

I snorted again.

That shit will kill you.

It wasn’t until years later I realized the hypocrisy of it all.

Now, at 42, I wonder about t all those girls I partied with, specifically Teresa. Was she able to get out of the party scene? Was she still as beautiful?

I cleaned up my act long ago in my 30s and chose a new life for myself away from velvet ropes and VIP clubs. But I will never forget the time when I thought I knew it all – high on coke, looking down at people who did heroin. Now, I wrap myself in the comic irony of it all, like a blanket of gratitude and comfort.

Christine Macdonald

It’s a Jungle Down There

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10-stripper-movies.w529.h352Nobody dreams of becoming a stripper. Little girls aren’t playing with Barbies sharing visions of clear heels. They don’t swing on the monkey bars thinking about the pole, and there certainly aren’t any high school career aptitude tests that prepare us for Champagne Rooms and table dances.

With the ink on my high school diploma barely dry, I made my stage debut in 1987. At just 19, I was a mere hopscotch and skip from Easy Bake Ovens and Lee Press On nails.

Angela and I were hanging in our neighborhood stomping grounds on the beach in Waikiki cultivating our cocoa-buttered tans. Walking back to our towels after a quick dip in the ocean, we sauntered back to our spot in front of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel (famously known as the Pink Palace). Just as we were adjusting our each chairs, not realizing we were clearly showing off our g-strings and freckles, we were approached.

“You ladies want to make an easy hundred!?” Smelling of body oil, this dude was textbook Strip-Club-Promo-Guy.  I was so distracted by his curly-haired mullet waving in the breeze and neon green Speedos that were suffocating his wet, hairy skin gleaming in the Waikiki sun.

“A hundred bucks?” Angela chimed in, dissolving my amusement.

“And all we gotta do is enter a dance contest?” She threw one of her looks. She had the exact persona of a gal who intentionally touches the wall marked “Wet Paint” out of sheer excitement that she was breaking the rules.

“Yea, you gotta dance, but in a bikini and white tank-top. Its a wet t-shirt contest. If you win, it’s an easy hundred bucks.”

Sign us up!

A few hours later we made our entrance to the club. Walking through the velvet drapes upon opening the dark-tainted double-doors, I immediately felt like a grown-up.

The room was dark and smelled of stale beer. Traces of sand decorated the floor and Jon Bon Jovi’s ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ serenaded my entrance. Angela arrived before I did and was already working the room for voters. The contest winner was chosen based on audience applause, so the girls were all over it. I was too scared to hobnob with the young military boys so I ordered a Bud Light and found the dressing room past the tiny stage in the back.

“You here for the contest?” A tall black woman with dreadlocks and stoned eyes greeted me.

“Uh huh.” I pushed out the words in-between excited breaths.

“Well okay honey, put your name down. You got a t-shirt?” She handed me a clipboard. Her marathon-long pink nails mesmerized me.

“Yea.” I nodded, pulling out my Hanes men’s tank top to prove my preparedness. She smiled, directing me to an empty locker while greeting another girl who walked in after me.

Before I knew it my stage name was called.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, coming to the stage we have the sensational Stephanieeeeeee.” I chose my middle name because it was easy to remember.

Cloaked in a beer buzz and adrenaline, I worked my shit on stage. My Wife Beater tank was soaked and you could see straight through to my b-cups. No shame, just showmanship.

On stage I was flawless. I worked my Tawny Kitaen hair and pretended to have porcelain skin. I was worlds apart from how I felt off stage; the scar-faced Freddy Kruger girl they bullied in school. On stage I was home.

The audience loved it too and, to my surprise, I won the contest. I left the club that night with a crisp Benjamin and a new job.

Working at the club was a little different than shaking my moneymaker for a contest. Like all the girls I had to double as a waitress. There was a small fry-cook stand next to the back stage where you could feast on greasy fries and chicken wings while you watched the girls strut their stuff.

Because food was involved, wearing pantyhose on the floor was required by law. It took a certain skill to master the assembly of wearing sheer hose underneath a g-string. I rolled each side down, belly to butt crack, then fastened the nylon to the tiny patches of Lycra/Spandex covering my business.

So there I was – loving my new career as a showgirl on stage: Fabulous Stephanie. Perfect everything. Hip popping, Aqua-netted head rolling, kick ass money making Steph. I was having a blast. Bending over, taking a tip, head up, and moving on. The customers seemed like they were flocking to me, staring at my ass and smiling.

Cha ching baby, I’m a rock star.

After Mötley Crüe sang their last note I saw Angela upside down through my legs. She waved my attention and I walked off stage to meet her in the dressing room.

“Honey, come here.” She sounded serious.

“Take a look.” Angela placed my back to the floor length mirror and made me bend over, looking at my ass through my legs. Holy shit. Fuck. I was blown away. I never shaved or groomed my pubic hair. Ever. Add to that fact, the visual of my pantyhose smashed up to my g-string. It was like a scene from Alien – only hairier. A bushel of pubic hair, flattened out like a dead spider under my pantyhose. It looked like my privates were robbing a bank.

“Oh my God.” I couldn’t believe I was on stage bending over with my Bank Robber Business for the world to see. And I was smiling, asking for money! And I thought the customers were smiling because I was hot. I needed more than a razor. I needed a cocktail.

I took the rest of the night off – sneaking out the back exit so no one would see me.

After running home in shame, I turned on the TV and ran a hot bath. I grabbed a pair of scissors and a hand mirror and started lady-scaping immediately. In the background I heard Sigourney Weaver speaking. I stood up, scissors in hand and walked in to the bedroom. There she was. Ellen Ripley in all her bald glory.

I took it as a personal omen that Aliens was airing and decided to pay homage to my little freak show on stage by shaving myself completely.

If it was good enough for Sigourney, it was good enough for me.

Christine Macdonald