Strip City: A Stripper's Farewell Journey Across America by Lily Burana Page A
Authors: Lily Burana
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so rare to get any kind of approval from women not involved in this line of work, I want to draw her excitement deep into my lungs, as if to keep it with me always. If I rubbed up against this woman any harder, I'd end up standing behind her, and she really seems to enjoy it. Here's to claiming new territory, sweetie. Sisterhood is powerful.
I have such a fine time at Baby Dolls that as I drive back to my hotel room at 2 a.m., I am high on the whole business. There's worse ways to earn your keep. You can make your own hours, the money is plentiful, and on a night like tonight, it's a great party and a fat ego-buzz.
But morning is the great equalizer—a good night usually begets a crispy day after. When I wake up, I'm so bone-wrackingly sore I can barely stand upright, and after eight hours of chronic politeness and idle chatter, I am unable to form a coherent thought. My mind feels trashed—like a broken tape, snapped and flapping stupidly on its reel. I stand in front of the mirror, scraping the raccooned mascara from under my eyes, just letting my thoughts settle where they may. The drive to El Paso. Check-out time at noon. Finding a big omelette for breakfast. And money. Last night's money.
After dragging my bags to the car, muttering and cursing at their heft, I go back to the room and sit on the bed, listening to Travis Tritt on the clock radio and methodically sorting last night's haul.
First, I separate piles of twenties, tens, fives. Ones in stacks of twenty each. Each of the bills facing the same direction. It's got to be the same way every time, this stabilizing ritual. Handling this much currency gives me a primitive sense of contentment. There's something so satisfying, so intimate about the riffle of bills and the odd perfumey smell they take on from passing through all those sweaty fingers, fabric softener-scented pockets, leather billfolds, metal tills.
Almost seven hundred dollars.
From the world's hands to my wallet.
It's good to be back.
SEVEN
Mommy's Little Monster
Distance is different west of the Mississippi. If "far" to a New Yorker is Columbus Circle to Wall Street, and to a Midwesterner it's Fargo to Beloit, then to a West Texan, "far" is, I think, El Paso to the moon. I call the motel where I'm booked for the night and ask how long to get there from Dallas. "Oh, the drive isn't too bad," says the gal at the front desk, "by taking I-Twenty to I-Ten, it's about six hundred miles." Rough calculation: nine hours, if I don't lollygag at lunch.
The sights: A discount western-wear outlet luring shoppers with a giant inflatable cowboy boot staked to the ground like a docked blimp. Homemade memorial wreaths and white crosses, descansos, plunged into the grass at roadside, plentiful enough to move a morbid person to keep tally with hash marks on the steering wheel. A blur of dwellings. An abandoned town, now just windborne sand, a gas station, and a name: Sierra Blanca.
With that many miles to log, once that which the eye sees ceases to amuse, what can the mind do but wander? Wander back and back and back, to where it all began.
There is a blinking neon sign that says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS because there has to be. There are mirrors everywhere. The gouged linoleum floor is swept with a moving pattern of swirling silver dots, cast down from the mirror balls that turn round on the ceiling. The walls are red and yellow—happy colors, fast-food restaurant colors. Everywhere the gaze might rest hang photographs of naked girls, smiling gamely as they bend and twist in corny, lurid poses. Flashy disco music is forced through the speakers, pumped in at top volume to give the place rhythm, life. The atmosphere is stubbornly festive, as if repeatedly emphasizing its own cheerfulness would make it somehow believable. The sweat-bloated air smells of grime and Clorox.
While most eighteen-year-olds are starting college or picking up a trade, I am here, amidst the porn theaters, the live sex shows, and the
I have such a fine time at Baby Dolls that as I drive back to my hotel room at 2 a.m., I am high on the whole business. There's worse ways to earn your keep. You can make your own hours, the money is plentiful, and on a night like tonight, it's a great party and a fat ego-buzz.
But morning is the great equalizer—a good night usually begets a crispy day after. When I wake up, I'm so bone-wrackingly sore I can barely stand upright, and after eight hours of chronic politeness and idle chatter, I am unable to form a coherent thought. My mind feels trashed—like a broken tape, snapped and flapping stupidly on its reel. I stand in front of the mirror, scraping the raccooned mascara from under my eyes, just letting my thoughts settle where they may. The drive to El Paso. Check-out time at noon. Finding a big omelette for breakfast. And money. Last night's money.
After dragging my bags to the car, muttering and cursing at their heft, I go back to the room and sit on the bed, listening to Travis Tritt on the clock radio and methodically sorting last night's haul.
First, I separate piles of twenties, tens, fives. Ones in stacks of twenty each. Each of the bills facing the same direction. It's got to be the same way every time, this stabilizing ritual. Handling this much currency gives me a primitive sense of contentment. There's something so satisfying, so intimate about the riffle of bills and the odd perfumey smell they take on from passing through all those sweaty fingers, fabric softener-scented pockets, leather billfolds, metal tills.
Almost seven hundred dollars.
From the world's hands to my wallet.
It's good to be back.
SEVEN
Mommy's Little Monster
Distance is different west of the Mississippi. If "far" to a New Yorker is Columbus Circle to Wall Street, and to a Midwesterner it's Fargo to Beloit, then to a West Texan, "far" is, I think, El Paso to the moon. I call the motel where I'm booked for the night and ask how long to get there from Dallas. "Oh, the drive isn't too bad," says the gal at the front desk, "by taking I-Twenty to I-Ten, it's about six hundred miles." Rough calculation: nine hours, if I don't lollygag at lunch.
The sights: A discount western-wear outlet luring shoppers with a giant inflatable cowboy boot staked to the ground like a docked blimp. Homemade memorial wreaths and white crosses, descansos, plunged into the grass at roadside, plentiful enough to move a morbid person to keep tally with hash marks on the steering wheel. A blur of dwellings. An abandoned town, now just windborne sand, a gas station, and a name: Sierra Blanca.
With that many miles to log, once that which the eye sees ceases to amuse, what can the mind do but wander? Wander back and back and back, to where it all began.
There is a blinking neon sign that says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS because there has to be. There are mirrors everywhere. The gouged linoleum floor is swept with a moving pattern of swirling silver dots, cast down from the mirror balls that turn round on the ceiling. The walls are red and yellow—happy colors, fast-food restaurant colors. Everywhere the gaze might rest hang photographs of naked girls, smiling gamely as they bend and twist in corny, lurid poses. Flashy disco music is forced through the speakers, pumped in at top volume to give the place rhythm, life. The atmosphere is stubbornly festive, as if repeatedly emphasizing its own cheerfulness would make it somehow believable. The sweat-bloated air smells of grime and Clorox.
While most eighteen-year-olds are starting college or picking up a trade, I am here, amidst the porn theaters, the live sex shows, and the
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