rounds. Most pub shows were jug strips where you went around and collected money from the punters before the show. It meant the venue didn’t have to pay you, just like table dancing. I hated it, it felt like panhandling, but I gritted my teeth and did it anyway. I wore a knee length black skirt and a low cut top. You had to save something for the show.
The pub was full of tradesmen who’d knocked off when the mercury hit thirty-five degrees, all dressed in blue singlets and anything by King-Gee. Most of them knew the drill and put in at least a two-dollar coin. Some gave me shit and asked why they should put in any money. I had my answers ready: ‘The more you put in the hotter the show. Guys who put in the most money get all the attention.’
A couple of men put in ten-dollar notes and I made a point of remembering their faces.
After five minutes I’d milked them all I could and Dave was on the mike announcing Destiny was about to perform and to give her a big hand. The guys started yelling and the girl from the change room stalked out, all studded leather and eyeliner. Her music was loud industrial metal and with her matchstick legs she moved like a praying mantis. I could hardly watch. It was the wrong sort of show for the Royal. Pub strips called for eighties hits and girls with a bit of meat on their bones.
I sat next to Dave on the far side of the bar, bought a glass of cask wine and added up my money. One hundred and twenty, not bad. Elise swapped it for notes and held it for me while I went and got changed.
I pulled a nurse’s outfit from my bag. It was a nylon number with a zip down the front, hat and plastic stethoscope. I’d bought it from Club X in the city one night when Chloe and me had been rampaging around, off our tits. Thinking about her made my stomach tighten. I wasn’t doing enough to help her.
Destiny came through the door, naked and sweating.
‘Fuck it’s hot out there.’
‘How’s the crowd?’ I asked.
‘Rooted.’ She wiped herself with a towel and began changing into a black velvet skirt.
Dave poked his head in and handed Destiny her stage outfit and tape.
‘Sharon’s just going round with the jug,’ he told me, ‘so you’ll be on in five. Bankrupt, nine letters, last letter T?’
‘Insolvent,’ said Destiny.
‘Right, cheers.’ He closed the door.
I put on white stay-up stockings, white bra and knickers and teased my hair.
‘You don’t know a dancer called Ebony?’ I asked.
‘Black American chick?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone knows Ebony.’ Destiny pulled on big black boots. ‘She’s grouse.’
I zipped up the nurse outfit. ‘Do you know where I could contact her? I know someone who wants a black girl for a show.’
‘Then he’s out of luck. Ebony doesn’t strip anymore.’
‘Retired?’
‘Nah, she’s into B&D now, working at the Marquis and making a shitload. Wouldn’t mind getting into that line of work myself.’
Dave opened the door. ‘Got your tape?’ he asked.
I handed him a cassette, white fluffy rug and bottle of Nivea moisturizer. Destiny stuffed her leather number into an army duffel bag and said goodbye. I stood with the door slightly ajar waiting for Dave’s intro, feeling nervous. After three years I still got butterflies performing before a crowd.
Dave introduced me and I heard the opening guitar riff of Bon Jovi’s ‘Bad Medicine’, the ultimate nurse show song, beloved of strippers from every nation. I strode through the bar in time to the music, swinging my stethoscope around and thinking how someone was probably doing this exact same show, right now, in a yurt on the Mongolian steppes. The tradies sang along, headbanging and playing air guitar while I walked around the crowd, smiling, checking pulses with my finger and heartbeats with the stethoscope. I climbed onto the small stage and danced, unzipping my uniform part of the way, then got down on my knees for a bit, making it up as I went along.
The guys were loud,
The pub was full of tradesmen who’d knocked off when the mercury hit thirty-five degrees, all dressed in blue singlets and anything by King-Gee. Most of them knew the drill and put in at least a two-dollar coin. Some gave me shit and asked why they should put in any money. I had my answers ready: ‘The more you put in the hotter the show. Guys who put in the most money get all the attention.’
A couple of men put in ten-dollar notes and I made a point of remembering their faces.
After five minutes I’d milked them all I could and Dave was on the mike announcing Destiny was about to perform and to give her a big hand. The guys started yelling and the girl from the change room stalked out, all studded leather and eyeliner. Her music was loud industrial metal and with her matchstick legs she moved like a praying mantis. I could hardly watch. It was the wrong sort of show for the Royal. Pub strips called for eighties hits and girls with a bit of meat on their bones.
I sat next to Dave on the far side of the bar, bought a glass of cask wine and added up my money. One hundred and twenty, not bad. Elise swapped it for notes and held it for me while I went and got changed.
I pulled a nurse’s outfit from my bag. It was a nylon number with a zip down the front, hat and plastic stethoscope. I’d bought it from Club X in the city one night when Chloe and me had been rampaging around, off our tits. Thinking about her made my stomach tighten. I wasn’t doing enough to help her.
Destiny came through the door, naked and sweating.
‘Fuck it’s hot out there.’
‘How’s the crowd?’ I asked.
‘Rooted.’ She wiped herself with a towel and began changing into a black velvet skirt.
Dave poked his head in and handed Destiny her stage outfit and tape.
‘Sharon’s just going round with the jug,’ he told me, ‘so you’ll be on in five. Bankrupt, nine letters, last letter T?’
‘Insolvent,’ said Destiny.
‘Right, cheers.’ He closed the door.
I put on white stay-up stockings, white bra and knickers and teased my hair.
‘You don’t know a dancer called Ebony?’ I asked.
‘Black American chick?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone knows Ebony.’ Destiny pulled on big black boots. ‘She’s grouse.’
I zipped up the nurse outfit. ‘Do you know where I could contact her? I know someone who wants a black girl for a show.’
‘Then he’s out of luck. Ebony doesn’t strip anymore.’
‘Retired?’
‘Nah, she’s into B&D now, working at the Marquis and making a shitload. Wouldn’t mind getting into that line of work myself.’
Dave opened the door. ‘Got your tape?’ he asked.
I handed him a cassette, white fluffy rug and bottle of Nivea moisturizer. Destiny stuffed her leather number into an army duffel bag and said goodbye. I stood with the door slightly ajar waiting for Dave’s intro, feeling nervous. After three years I still got butterflies performing before a crowd.
Dave introduced me and I heard the opening guitar riff of Bon Jovi’s ‘Bad Medicine’, the ultimate nurse show song, beloved of strippers from every nation. I strode through the bar in time to the music, swinging my stethoscope around and thinking how someone was probably doing this exact same show, right now, in a yurt on the Mongolian steppes. The tradies sang along, headbanging and playing air guitar while I walked around the crowd, smiling, checking pulses with my finger and heartbeats with the stethoscope. I climbed onto the small stage and danced, unzipping my uniform part of the way, then got down on my knees for a bit, making it up as I went along.
The guys were loud,
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