After a quick call to Steph and knowing my baby girl is okay, I’m back at the club with my paperwork in hand, reminding myself that I’m doing this for Morgan. Each time I take money from a man for a lap dance or he gawks at my tits, it’s because of my daughter. She needs a better life. The big burly bouncer checks everything and directs me to the back. The dressing room is nicer and larger than the one I’m used to. Lockers line the wall, the floor is void of excess clothing and there are multiple stations for you to do your makeup at. The one constant is the dense mist that lingers from the copious amounts of hairspray being used.
I cough and wave my hand in front of my face, moving the aftereffects of the aerosol away from me. The glares I receive are priceless. It’s the usual squinting of the eyes coupled with the classic glares roaming over your body that you normally receive from the clique of mean girls at high school. It’s puberty and the girls’ locker room scene all over again, but this time the tits are bigger, the claws are longer and the looks definitely kill. It’s easy to tell who the regular dancers are because they don’t give a shit. They don’t care if you’re here. They’ll still make the same money because they have regular clients who frequent the club.
It’s the ones like me that you have to watch out for. I’m here to make a quick buck and will do what I have to in order to get it done.
“I’m Johanna, the house mom.” The only woman dressed normally approaches me, shaking my hand.
“House mom?” I question, wondering what that means. Her expression is stoic, hard.
“First time here?”
I nod, hating that I’ve made it evident that I don’t know what I’m doing.
“I make sure you have water, snacks, condoms . . . whatever you need.”
“Oh.” I try to mentally calculate how much her services are going to cost me and make a note to bring my own water and snacks. I’m already in a hole by coming here and can’t incur any more debt or one week isn’t going to cut it.
This time she smiles and sets her hand on my arm. The gesture is sweet and caring. “Your service fee covers my service, but I do accept tips.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve done this for a long time, sweetie. I know what goes through your mind before you do. Find an empty locker and lock it after you’re done. Never leave it open or your stuff will disappear,” she says, shaking her head. I glance around the room and realize quickly how cutthroat it’s going to be here. “A little tip, the money is better offstage. If you’re looking to make a lot, pay the fee and work the floor.”
She walks away before I can thank her, leaving me standing in the room while women hustle around me. None of them laugh or even speak to each other. The only form of communication is the death glares they’re giving everyone, or the shoulder bumps they force upon one another as they move in and out of the room.
Once I’m changed in to my stilettos and thong, Johanna gives me a tour and the rundown of how things work, along with what the club suggests we charge for a lap dance, or time in one of the VIP rooms. I feel a bit self-conscious walking around with my boobs on full display, but it’s part of the business. The looks from customers give me hope that they’re willing to pay for a dance.
“I said the money is better offstage, but you’ll want to dance a few routines a night to give the customers a show. Most of the men like to chat, so be an ear for them to off-load their problems and don’t forget to set your boundaries. The guys”—she points to various security men around the room who are all watching the floor—“are your best friends. You do not leave the club without one walking you out and if you have any problems with a customer, you tell them. They’ll take care of it.”
“Okay, I think I got it.”
She continues to show me around and finally takes me to an office out back, away from everything.
“Tell him your stage name and you’ll be good to go.” She leaves me in the room with a man who is sitting behind a computer.
“You’re Macey Webster?” he asks, lifting up my paperwork.
“Yes.”
“Right, from now on you’re . . . ?” He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, um . . . Catalina.”
“Got it.” He returns to hiding behind the computer and starts pounding on the keyboard as if he’s in a rush.