caught up in their own stuff, and have milked half of my money in the process. My ex informs me coldly by phone one night that yes, he was cheating and she’s moved into my place and a one-way ticket really does work only one way. There are other unforeseen challenges. Not speaking German is proving a bit of a hindrance. Not being legally old enough to work, another roadblock. Bringing only enough money to last a couple of weeks? Strike three. I’m stuck. Stucker than I’ve ever been in my life. It’s a tight jam when you’re in London with no money and no way home, but if you live in Portsmouth, it’s just three hours away. Stuck in Munich with no money and no way home is another story. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
It’s late afternoon and I’ve applied for, begged for, cried for any type of employment at all the four million restaurants and bars in Munich. Having attempted to find work at all the major hotel bars and decent-looking restaurants, I’m down to crappy cafés and pay-by-the-hour motels. Rejection from places that look as if they’d be fortunate to get a visit from the health inspector let alone a guest is hard to swallow. I’ve gone full circle around the city on the U-Bahn and have ended up back at the Bahnhof, the main railroad terminal, where the streets are filled with clubs and bars. The streets are thriving during the day, although the glowing Girls, Girls, Girls signs are faded in the winter sunlight. The street seems less seedy, less threatening in the daylight, and as I stare at the Girls sign, a startling revelation hits me. I’m a girl. Although this may not be the most profound epiphany I’ve ever had, the Plan is beginning to formulate in my head, even as I walk toward the sign and into the entrance of the club. I’m moving too quickly to think it all the way through to a sensible conclusion, but the outline goes something like, This is a strip club, girls dance in strip clubs, they pay girls to dance, I’m a girl, I can dance, I need money, they probably need girls, therefore I will dance to make money. Even as this genius hits me, the other side of my brain is protesting loudly, although apparently not loudly enough. It’s only for a couple of weeks, I’ve done nude modeling before, illegally of course given my age, and I’ve been a dancer in regular nightclubs, so combining the two shouldn’t be that hard. It’s not that bad, just a few weeks, go home and forget the whole thing. I work so hard to convince myself that I’m sure my lips are moving. I walk down a long hallway, dark and painted red, and down a flight of stairs into a huge, empty club.
It takes an altered date of birth on my passport and about four minutes to get hired as a “hostess”—starting immediately, cash same day. It’s too good to be true. Get paid to sit at a bar and drink? I already drink like a fish, or more accurately like my mother. This will be an easy job. My tired, hungry teenage mind wants to believe that drinking with the customers is really all there is to it. And with the first customer that’s all I’ll have to do. But by the end of my first shift, I want to scrub my skin off, even though I’ve earned more that night than any of those shitty cafés would’ve paid in two weeks. In a gesture of celebration that I don’t really feel, and because I’m drunk, I use ten marks of my day’s earnings to catch a cab home. Out of the club, in the cold air, the black line feels blurry. I feel like everyone’s looking at me, everyone knows my dark and dirty secret, which I want to stay hidden behind the door of the club. Driving in the cab, I watch women on their way home from work, on their way to a date, and I feel like a voyeur into the normal world. I haven’t crossed “The Line,” but I’ve crossed a bunch that I thought I never would. Still, plenty of men have touched me when I didn’t want them to; none of them has paid for the privilege. I figure I can keep some
It’s late afternoon and I’ve applied for, begged for, cried for any type of employment at all the four million restaurants and bars in Munich. Having attempted to find work at all the major hotel bars and decent-looking restaurants, I’m down to crappy cafés and pay-by-the-hour motels. Rejection from places that look as if they’d be fortunate to get a visit from the health inspector let alone a guest is hard to swallow. I’ve gone full circle around the city on the U-Bahn and have ended up back at the Bahnhof, the main railroad terminal, where the streets are filled with clubs and bars. The streets are thriving during the day, although the glowing Girls, Girls, Girls signs are faded in the winter sunlight. The street seems less seedy, less threatening in the daylight, and as I stare at the Girls sign, a startling revelation hits me. I’m a girl. Although this may not be the most profound epiphany I’ve ever had, the Plan is beginning to formulate in my head, even as I walk toward the sign and into the entrance of the club. I’m moving too quickly to think it all the way through to a sensible conclusion, but the outline goes something like, This is a strip club, girls dance in strip clubs, they pay girls to dance, I’m a girl, I can dance, I need money, they probably need girls, therefore I will dance to make money. Even as this genius hits me, the other side of my brain is protesting loudly, although apparently not loudly enough. It’s only for a couple of weeks, I’ve done nude modeling before, illegally of course given my age, and I’ve been a dancer in regular nightclubs, so combining the two shouldn’t be that hard. It’s not that bad, just a few weeks, go home and forget the whole thing. I work so hard to convince myself that I’m sure my lips are moving. I walk down a long hallway, dark and painted red, and down a flight of stairs into a huge, empty club.
It takes an altered date of birth on my passport and about four minutes to get hired as a “hostess”—starting immediately, cash same day. It’s too good to be true. Get paid to sit at a bar and drink? I already drink like a fish, or more accurately like my mother. This will be an easy job. My tired, hungry teenage mind wants to believe that drinking with the customers is really all there is to it. And with the first customer that’s all I’ll have to do. But by the end of my first shift, I want to scrub my skin off, even though I’ve earned more that night than any of those shitty cafés would’ve paid in two weeks. In a gesture of celebration that I don’t really feel, and because I’m drunk, I use ten marks of my day’s earnings to catch a cab home. Out of the club, in the cold air, the black line feels blurry. I feel like everyone’s looking at me, everyone knows my dark and dirty secret, which I want to stay hidden behind the door of the club. Driving in the cab, I watch women on their way home from work, on their way to a date, and I feel like a voyeur into the normal world. I haven’t crossed “The Line,” but I’ve crossed a bunch that I thought I never would. Still, plenty of men have touched me when I didn’t want them to; none of them has paid for the privilege. I figure I can keep some
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