Strip City: A Stripper's Farewell Journey Across America by Lily Burana

fingers start creeping up my thighs. I brush them away. More dancing. More creeping fingers. Finally, I grab his hands and pin them to the arms of the chair and finish the song that way. Of course he doesn't want another dance, because I'm a priss. Almost all the dances thereafter go like this, but the manager had warned me that some dances could be "handsy." "Handsy" is something of a euphemism. "Grope fiesta" would be more accurate, but you can set your own limits here and still do okay. You just have to settle for a minimum of repeat business. Still, I manage to recoup my travel expenses in a few hours while wriggling just out of the customers' reach.
    Dancing onstage here is totally awesome, but it's a workout because there are eight stages you have to dance on consecutively, which takes about forty-five minutes. The only problem with the stage rotation is that you might get trapped onstage during a song you hate, which is what happens when a little Black girl comes onstage to "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Sure, she looks great in her hot pants and halter top trimmed in flame appliques, but those lyrics, "Chicken in a bread pan. Pickin' out dough" are so anti-erotic and what the fuck.
    I'm not sure if it's the booze or the Texas machismo that makes the men here want to spend money, but they sure do fork it out. They like to tip girls onstage as well as at the tables, which usually isn't the case in a place that does a high volume of table dances. When a guy steps to the edge of the stage—most of which are three feet high, making the girls look positively giant—we do a little smiling dip and shimmy before he tucks in the tip. It's good policy, really, to do something that conveys, "I see you," before taking a guy's money. Nothing is worse than a preoccupied stripper staring off into space, lost in her own private orbit. That disinterest bores its way into a man's heart. To appear interested in the Baby Dolls boys is no chore, though, because they're so enthusiastic. By the time I get to the eighth stage, my garter is full-to-groaning with money. I look down at the singles wreathing my thigh and picture myself at the bank, trying to deposit four hundred dollars in ones and smiling weakly at the teller. "Oh, I'm a waitress."
    I would dance to country music all the time if I could, but not everyone likes it as much as I do. I ask a man for a dance, he says yes. The next song begins, "A Lot More Action" by Toby Keith.
     
    "No, no." He grabs my arm to stop me. "Wait until the song is over. I can't stand country music. I had a terrible one-night stand in Nashville once and ever since then I can't stomach the stuff."
    Fair enough.
    This guy is pretty cool. Turns out he's an orthopedic surgeon with a practice in town. He asks if I've ever seen foot surgery.
    "I've got one tomorrow. Would you like to come?"
    When I work, I get all sorts of offers, some strange, most predictable—every dancer does—but this was the most unusual by far. I have a pretty weak stomach, but when given the chance, I always want to see fetal Siamese twins pickled in a jar, or a TV show with the world's largest tumor, even if I end up queasy and sorry I ever looked. So, naturally, I'd love to see the inside of a human foot. I'm tempted, I really am. But I'm also engaged. And I think, given the context, foot surgery would be cheating. I have to pass.
    A couple sits at a table along the back wall, and when I get offstage the man motions me over by waving a twenty and slurs, "It's for her." When I see the notepad on the table, I realize his speech is a little off because he's deaf, and so is his girlfriend. This isn't so much a charity case as a recruitment opportunity, so I climb down off my prissy horse and pull out all the stops. It takes real nerve for a woman to come to a strip club and it's a form of female misbehavior I think should be richly rewarded. So I work it—belly to belly, breast to breast. I nuzzle her neck, inhaling her scent. It's