The End (?)

I had planned on writing an entry about one of my favorite customers today, but my heart just wasn't in it. I hope you will all forgive me for straying from my normal, stripper stories and indulge me while I air some personal business.

I have mentioned vaguely in this journal my boyfriend M. Well, he is no longer my boyfriend. After four years, and 13 days of a wonderful relationship I broke up with him. Not because I didn't love him, or because I had found someone new, but because after such a long time with him, I no longer knew who I was without him.

I still love him immensely, but I am very, very young and need to experience the world for myself before I go committing myself to someone.

For the first time in four years, I am single. I do not know what to do with myself. I am shattered, but quickly realizing how to pick up my pieces. Despite my loneliness, I feel a certain hesitant optimism. Some joy. Some freedom.

I was planning on auditioning soon, but with my new-found solitude I don't know if I could handle it emotionally. Also, my grades should be my first priority right now.

Now back to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

*Jersey

“Wow Bella! You look good! Have you lost weight?”

“I guess I must have, everybody keeps commenting on it.”

“You look really good. I mean, not that you were fat before, but shit girl, you look good.”

“Aww, thanks.”

“Like, really fucking good!”

“…Thanks. You’ve lost a lot of weight too!”

“Yeah, Mike* told me that I was getting fat so I decided to lose a couple pounds. I look fucking hot right?”

“Yeah, definitely. So how did you lose the weight?”

“Dope.”

I stared, dumbstruck for a moment. “Well, I guess it’s been working for you.”

“Fuck yeah. But I’m not addicted or anything. If I start spending any more than $20 a day I’ll quit.”

“We all have our limits I guess.”

“Yeah, I handle it pretty well. Like, Rose* was talking about doing it and I told her not to. She would just go crazy, you know? Just wile-the-fuck-out, you know? I’m used to this shit so I can deal. Bella, I’ve been making so much fucking money.”

“That’s really great.”

“Yeah. So how did you lose your weight?”

“Um, I guess since I left school I’ve just been more activ-“

“Yeah, that’s cool. Dope’s so easy though. I mean I’ve been making so much fucking money. I think I’ll get my son back from my mom.”

“…you have a son?”


*Just a side note, yes this conversation ACTUALLY occurred. I had danced with this girl for months and had never once heard her mention her son. This dancer in particular was one of the more fucked up people I worked with and I always felt a mixture of pity and disgust for her. Pity, because she had such obviously low self-esteem and disgust because she was one of the people who made my job harder by offering extras in the back room.

Krystal

She sat, artfully concealing the creases under and around her eyes with powder. Drawing on lips, contouring cheekbones and creating lashes where there were none before. She teases and backcombs newly processed hair, the real color of which hasn’t been seen in over 20 years.

She talks about a time when dancing was just that, dancing. When girls didn’t need to be whores to make money. When customers were real gentlemen and paid for her company with cash, champagne, and jewelry. When she could pay all of her expenses for a month off of one night’s work. When the girls knew how to move. When they didn’t just grab themselves and hump the air.

She has a teenager at home. A girl. A good girl, she says. She’s got enough saved up for her to go to college and she doesn’t even like high heels. A good girl, she says, she can’t really even put on makeup.

She pulls on her lycra bikini, scrutinizing. She’s held up well out here in the sun, but her knees ache and her back is tight. She gave up the night shift years ago. Too many young girls, and too much drama, she says. She has her regulars, and she still makes her money. But the money is slowing down and the world is speeding up. Her feet are swollen and she doesn’t know how much longer she can do this.

She could move back home. She could see a real rainstorm for the first time since she left. Get away from all the dry heat and go someplace with real trees and rivers and damp. She could take her daughter someplace nice. She could find another job. One that wasn’t so demanding. But what has she got? No real job skills, no real references. She could find something.

She puts on her shoes and stands. She aches. What has she got? She’s got legs a 19 old would envy, and the ability to walk in heels. She’s been walking in heels for most of her life. She could walk through fucking hell in heels.

On stage she dances and thinks about the rain.

-Bella 9/10/09-

Ambiguous

“Hey! Bella! Come here for a second.”

I buckle my shoe and adjust the bandage on my right pinkie toe before getting up.

“Yes Mike*?” I smile at him the same way I do at some customers. Sweet, obedient, non-threatening.

“Tell me something." He looks up at me from his computer screen, the necklace perpetually stretched tight across his wide neck reflecting his myspace page. "Do your friends know you do this?”

“Well some do, I gue-“

“No I mean, like your family and shit. Do they know that you dance?”

“No, why?”

“Oh, well we’re going to be taking some pictures for our website and I was wondering if you wanted to model for it.”

“Naw. Thanks anyway though.” I smile sweetly.

“No problem doll. I’m asking everybody.”