Strippers and Tippers

"Septemba, do you know why you ain't make any money?" asked Anastasia.

September hadn’t thought much about it. But Anastasia was a high-earner. So she listened.

"'Cause when you up there"—Anastasia pointed at the stage in the center of the dark room—"you dancin' fo' yoself." She handed this like a prescription. September didn’t agree. She danced for the men. The men with dollars in their hands. But maybe Anastasia was right.

"How do I dance for the men?" September asked. Anastasia didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted to the stage where Envy danced. The stage was the only thing lit.

September, Anastasia, Envy—none of these were real names. The men always asked what your real name was. It didn’t matter. If pressed, the girls gave fake real names: Sarah, Brittany. Even off-stage, they called each other by stage names. You wouldn’t say a real name even if you knew it. You used the name picked on the spot when hired.

Anastasia’s acrylic nails glowed neon blue in the blacklight, her tanning-bed skin smooth in the shadows. Her bob haircut was sharp and urban. September knew it was fake. So was the accent. Under locker room lights, Anastasia’s C-section scar peeked through delicate crepe-paper skin, her body quietly betraying time. The locker room always smelled of cigarette smoke, liquor, body sweat, and sweet body spray. They sprayed cheap, sweet perfume on the carpet to help with the smell. Glitter and perfume weren’t allowed on the girls. Management rules.

That’s where Anastasia told September about her past. Married to a white man—a lawyer, a good man. Three kids. Pork roast every Sunday after church. Before crack. Before the divorce. Before she lost custody. Before the boyfriend who floated in and out of prison. Right now he was out, but usually he wasn’t. She steamed open embossed greeting cards and slid in pinches of weed before sealing them with school glue. He got a thick card every week. September didn’t understand; Anastasia once had a good man.

In hindsight, maybe September didn’t dance for the men. She got lost in the music. Maybe she danced to escape. It was a dark place—the place. A hole-in-the-wall club in the rural Midwest. The men didn’t have money. Mostly older, overweight, unhappily married. Disappointed by everything—including the girls. One sat with arms folded across his gut, Marlboro breath and a wedding ring he didn’t twist anymore. Logo of the local factory embroidered on his polo shirt.

Sometimes, a bachelor party. Or an out-of-town visitor. Someone who’d been to other clubs—clubs at least an hour away. Where drinks weren’t watered down. Where girls were more polished. Where poles were standard silver, not brass. The Bungalow Lounge poles were thick and golden, with carousel bulbs on top. Like the ones a child might hold riding a plaster pony. They weren’t stripper poles. Probably salvaged junk. But September liked to think they’d once brought joy. A former life.

At a normal club—a good club—the men from out of town would say that the men sat at the stage, tipped the dancers. At The Bungalow Lounge, they stayed along the walls, cloaked in shadow. After two songs on stage, girls roamed table to table. Pulling at panties, asking—begging—for a dollar.

"Do you want boobs?" That’s what you asked. And they always did. You aimed your tits toward their eyes, forehead. Never the mouth. Men didn’t bite—but the stubble did. Left a red rash for days. Beard burn. Raw and angry for a week. Beard burn. Every new girl learned fast. The second lesson was no body spray, no glitter. So the wives wouldn't know.

Again, September asked, "Anastasia, how do you dance for the men?"

Anastasia didn’t know. Only that September danced for herself.

So they watched Envy dance. Watched her pick up the rag at the edge of the stage. The rag was always there. September doubted management ever cleaned it. It reeked faintly of sour sweat and old beer, but it was part of the act. First song, first move: wipe the pole down. Make a show of it. Pretend the last girl was dirty, and you were the clean dream they’d waited for.

Was Anastasia watching Envy? Or her reflection? Or the corner? The one where the lap dances happened. “Private” was a loose term. No walls. No champagne room. Not like the good clubs. Just a dark corner booth with split upholstery like a roadside diner. Girls danced barefoot to keep the struggling vinyl intact. Big, old, frowning men leaned back while girls rubbed against them, in full view of the bar.

Maybe that’s why the men avoided the stage. They didn’t want to be seen.

September didn’t want to be seen either. But she didn’t have much choice.

After Envy, it was September’s turn. She asked a guy for a jukebox dollar. Picked two random songs. Ones she thought men might like. Songs she could dance for the men to.

Three steps led to the stage. She picked up the rag—tradition. She wiped both brass poles, the ends of the oblong stage—the only bright things in the room. And she danced.

She tried to see the men. Tried to see the eyes, the beards, the money. But it was dark. She saw the disco ball, the colored lights, the mirrors reflecting mirrors—reflections chasing each other, never landing. Not one real face.

So she imagined men.

She imagined fine men. Kind men. Once, there was an Irishman. Out-of-towner. He’d been to better clubs, but came back with friends to see her.

"Look at that girl, lads," he said.

"Give a wee little spin for my mates," he asked. She did a slow 360.

He smiled wide. "Corn-fed American girls. That is a body built by corn and beef. A real woman."

For weeks, she held onto that. She was sturdy. Strong. Desirable overseas.

Now, she imagined a room full of Irishmen. Hundreds. They clapped and grinned like she was worth flying across an ocean for. And she danced for them. She imagined the lights all the way on—no shadows left to hide in. So they could see all of her. Her strong body. Built by corn and beef. And she could see all of them.

Then she saw Anastasia sat at the stage. Held a dollar bill in her teeth. Tipping her at the stage like the men in nicer bars.

Anastasia wanted boobs.

And her face wouldn’t give September beard burn.

“Septemba,” she whispered, “you doin’ it. You dancin’ for them men.”

But September wasn’t. Not really. The clapping Irishmen were gone. She danced now for the only person who ever saw her.

And maybe that was enough.