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Dance to the Music · by Lady Chavez
Sitting at the neon-lit runway, I hand the blond a $5 bill and tell her, “But this time, I want you to dance to the music”. Years, later, I’d be working at a similar strip club bartending and watching the girls do the same moves to every single song nightly, assuredly not even adjusting for change in tempo. Eyes glazed over and truly half-steppin’, the dancers would coast through the same routine they just did 3 and a half minutes ago. I say to a waitress, “Didn’t she just do all that there to Barry Manilow and here we are on 2 Live Crew and it’s all the same shit?” We laugh awkwardly, knowing that this only makes it worse that we work in this dump.
Each girl of course had their own staple signature move which I could always expect for them to come back to at least once each song like tagging home base. Xtacy would pop that pussy like this and Kaos would bounce that booty like that. Jade would hang upside down on the pole causing a hush over the crowd similar to the tight rope at a circus. Applause would break out after she dismounted without completely fracturing her collarbone. I, admittedly, was also impressed by this and the way Lacy would make her tits flex and shake independently of one another as only silicone bags can do. I would go home at night and try this in the mirror but would see only my eyebrows fluttering in the reflection one at a time. It became clear that actual dancing ability was not a prerequisite for the job nor did it have any bearing on how much revenue you will bring in. I was more than disappointed to also conclude that strip club-goers have demanded nothing more than a tight ass and a pulse all these years.
As a young girl, I would listen to Terence Trent D’arby in my mother’s Buick Roadmaster and daydream about taking a very erotic and artistic approach to “Sign Your Name“ as I danced around the gleaming pole for a handsome, rich businessman. I didn’t want to strip when I grew up but I had the vision of this being what it was like in those dark places with the sexy lady silhouette signs along the highway. It was a harsh blow to my inner child when I waltzed into my first go-go bar and immediately see a dimpled ass clapping its cheeks together in a janitor’s face for all of “Free Bird”. Ironically, there was and still is something so comforting about watching a train wreck gyrate and stumble around in front of me and anyone else with a valid ID. Tossing her hair over my head. I almost always hear that stripper whisper, “See Lady, life could be a lot worse”.
Lady Chavez is the blogging alter ego of a used-up mother from VA who stays up drinking cheap, red, jugged wine and posing as the authority on all things, independent, urban and homo thuggish.
More at Lady Chavez and Fluffgirl
Comments for "Dance to the Music"
I completely relate to this story! The crack house I crashed at last Fall had a fractured prism in their Dorchester chandelier. Of course, this completely decimated the symmetry of the fine crystal structure and the light refraction cast on the Italianate frame was ALL OVER THE PLACE! Well, listen. I spoke with the housemaid, the parlor maid, the butler, footman, valet, chambermaid, even the scullery maid… and no change was ever made. Obviously, as soon as I got out of there I instructed my social secretary to send many a strongly worded letter to the head butler and even one to the lady of the hosue herself! But you know, I’m beginning to suspect that there are just some places in this world where you cannot expect to find total class! Believe me, I am as shocked, disappointed and alarmed as you… because it STARTS in our strip clubs, but it’s the shortest of slides before we see the same lax in standards befall our ball rooms and palaces.
— Werner von Wallenrod Dec 3, 01:02 AM
The truth be told, a tit (or two), some ass, and a drink will appease 90% of the male population and (in my estimation) about 23% of the female population.
That’s the only rationale I can find for having a newly stitched up cesarean scarred, mother of 4, on stage, at 12AM (who’s watching your kids), with her dimples, a bullet wound keyloid, and stained lingerie, swinging to the beat of Janet Jackson’s Nasty Boy – - for a couple of sweat moistened George Washington’s to be thrown at you by a smoke stained, liver diseased regular.
The real money comes from giving head in the parking lot!
— (B.A.) Barakas Dec 3, 02:38 PM
In reference to the first comment, I think, pwned? Yes, pwned.
— Anonny Dec 6, 02:29 PM