Whereas other clubs I’d worked in would hire girls of all sizes and descriptions, the girls who worked as Flashdancers had a certain look. Everyone was tan with long hair, long nails and drag-queen makeup. Most girls were tall, with big tits and small waists. No imperfections—no scars, no stretch marks, no body fat. With a little work, I fit the bill. Without it, I was a normal-looking girl with a normal woman’s body. Good enough, I remember thinking often, but not good enough for Flash.
The girls who worked at Flash were professionals. I was competing with women five inches taller than I was. Ten pounds lighter. Girls with advanced degrees. Girls from places where people only dreamt of making the kind of money a girl could make at Flash. At Flash, a girl could make as much as a thousand dollars a night. After our house fee and the requisite tipping—d.j., floor staff and house moms (the women in the dressing room who watched our stuff and did our makeup)—we kept whatever we made: twenty dollars per lap dance, plus whatever tips we were given while onstage.
When I arrived, the dressing room was packed. It was house policy that dancers not have tattoos, so we girls who had them—nearly all of us—had to cover them with makeup. I had five by then, all butterflies, zigzagging up my left side. I got my tattoos covered, tipped the house mom a twenty, and got in line.
The d.j. called Flashdancers “The United Nations of Strip Clubs.” At the beginning of the shift, we’d do the parade. Nearly one hundred girls from all over the world walked across the stage in a line as the d.j. rattled off our names in alphabetical order: Alex, Alexandria, Alexis, Amanda, Anna, Anita—the list went on and on.
After the parade, we congregated to the right side of the stage. Most nights, I sat down at a table with two Russian girls and a black girl named Snow. I started each shift with a cup of black coffee and a handful of Xenadrine. A month after I’d started taking them, I was up to four pills at a time—double the recommended dose. The effect was something like the revving of an engine or the booting up of a computer. When a group of guys walked in, Snow and I wasted no time.
by Melissa Petro, Narratively | Read more:
Image: Almaz Wilson
