October 29, 2010
The Black Bald Lesbian and Some Dark Corners
I was, when I started stripping at FlashDancers, a very, very good girl. I didn’t touch my customers but for the fleetest moment when my fingers pressed their knees as I rose between them, or when my hands rested on their shoulders as I swung my hair around and over their heads, draping them in its blonde waterfall, creating a curtain of intimacy for a second. And then was gone.
I didn’t touch them when I started.
That didn’t last.
I never, ever became a very bad girl. But I learned the delicate tease of the touch, or the tease of the delicate touch; I learned to rest my butt for a swift second on their laps, or on the chair between their legs, so they could imagine unto actually feeling its softfirm swell. I learned to bend backwards and rest my head, to nestle it really, like a lover, onto the curve of their shoulder, so that my lips would be near their ears while they gazed down the plane of my chest, down, down and dropping off the cliff of my belly.
I learned to lean in, my hair swung negligently to one side, to lean in until their nose just barely grazed my throat, my clavicle, my sweet smelling sternum, my solar plexus. I learned to turn sidewise, to rest one knee genteelly on their thigh, to bend over and to let them see my body from the side, the pear-like hang of my breast, the curve of my back, the roundness of my ass, the swell and fade of my thighs.
I learned to tease, and for those customers I knew and I liked and I trusted, I went further.
I had a customer, a woman, a black bald woman, who blessedly often came to visit me late on Saturday nights. Saturday nights, for the strip club uninitiated, are for amateurs. They suck prodigiously with an unabashed mania fueled by alcohol consumption and unrequited hormones. Saturdays are a hurry up and wait kind of night. It’s dead, usually, at a strip club until midnight. And then no one spends money until an hour before closing when he realizes that he is drunk and those twenties look so much more disposable.
My black bald woman would come in a couple of Saturday nights a month and she would save me with flirtatious conversation, a drink or two, and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of table dances. I liked the dusky smell of her naked pate, and when I danced for her, I inhaled it deeply.
She liked to eat my latex. In 1993, we still had to paint our nipples with latex to abide by New York City laws. Without latex we were topless; with latex we were not. It made no sense, no logic, but laws often do not, and there it was. Every night, we strippers would patiently paint our areoles with latex, then either wait for it to dry or blow it dry with a hair dryer. We would finish the job by spraying it with hairspray to keep the latex in place (we also sprayed body make-up with hair spray; hair spray is like an invisible sneeze shield; it keeps everything in place).
My black bald woman liked to eat my latex. And I let her, late on Saturday nights, when the room around us buzzed with hyperactivity and when I knew I wouldn’t need the latex any more. Sometimes I would pick it off my nipples with my long, fake fingernails and put the rolled-up ball in her rose lipped mouth. Other times, I would let her peel it off my nipples, which she did quickly and efficiently and pop the dubious treat in her mouth herself.
After, she would sit there before me as I danced, and she would chew slowly, meditatively, with this sly grin on her lips.
Once, my bald black lesbian took another girl and me to the semi-private Champagne Room. I knew the other girl; I wasn’t a big fan of hers; she had a dumb flower tattoo on her shoulder and just reeked of symbolic Wonder Bread and bologna sandwiches to me. I hoped I didn’t fall into the same category as this other girl, and frankly, I was kind of disappointed in my lesbian’s taste. I had admired her, this black bald woman, her sense of style and her unshakeable bravado.
Maybe because of this other girl’s presence I let the bald black lesbian do something that I’d never let any other person do to me in the subterranean confines of FlashDancers. I let her finger me. And I liked it. We sat in a corner, I danced for her, and she worked her fingers up inside my g-string as I gyrated for her, and when she removed them from me, they were wet with my enjoyment.
She ate that wetness too. And she rubbed it on her lips, where it gleamed like lipgloss, the only make-up I ever saw her wear.
The other girl got freaked out by our behavior. She mumbled something about being “on the rag,” one of my least favorite menstrual euphemisms, and ran out of the champagne room, leaving me and my lesbian to dance, my hips, and her fingers, until our fifty-minute hour was up.
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