Sneak Peek #4 "Dancing Into Deliverance: From Slut Bucks to Slaying Demons"
Strange dances, strange propositions, strange life, and the answer to, "What in the world are 'Slut Bucks?'"
It was a curious thing to watch which guys gravitated toward which dancers. Everyone has a type they’re attracted to and I don’t recall it ever bothering me if someone wasn’t attracted to me. We had some pretty unique girls, and it was easy to find someone to match someone’s preference.
All of us were in our 20s except for Ash, who was 40. She was such a sweet lady and the older guys loved her…and her daughter. Ash and Mary would sometimes dance as a Mother/Daughter team and the guys ate it up. I can’t remember if I ever thought, back then, of how sad of a thing that is.
I think that in that world, there is just too much you grow numb to. I think I was more intrigued with how Ash could still be dancing at 40 (which seemed so old back then and so young now) that I didn’t question how a mom could get to a place where she would be okay with her daughter being a stripper.
What happened in their lives to bring them to a point where they were both on a stage selling themselves as meat? They were both so beautiful on the inside and out and I hate that I didn’t dive more into their stories to find out. We all had nasty trauma, though, and if you opened that box there was the chance it might be too hard to shut. Maybe it was best to leave it alone and only show what was on the outside. That was the profitable side, anyway.
Some of the guys found Moonbeam, a flailing hippie of a dancer, to be the most enticing, while others thought she was quite odd. I have to say that I really loved watching her wild, flower-child type dances. While all the other girls were doing their best seductive dances, Moonbeam would twirl around and flail her arms, legs, and hair wildly, as though she believed the stage was actually a meadow filled with exploding wildflowers. It was such a bizarre, yet refreshing thing to see…like a beautiful train wreck you just can’t look away from. The guys either loved it or hated it and she didn’t care either way. She had her following and made plenty of money off of the ones who thought her unique style was beautiful.
Sylvia and Chanel had quite a distinctive style, as well. With conservative, well-put-together looks, and dressed in business suits, they had an act that wasn’t usually found in a strip club. The corporate guys were enchanted by them. I can’t say for sure, but I have an idea Sylvia and Chanel managed to satisfy an unfulfilled and possibly dark, secret obsession with a co-worker, or maybe even female boss. Like I said, I don’t know for sure. It’s just a feeling I got from their regulars. Both girls were super smart and savvy and knew how to work well together to work the crowd.
Angela intrigued me. She was a calm, stoic, platinum blond with a bob cut and perfect porcelain skin. She was absolutely gorgeous and her whole purpose in being there was to exploit capitalism. In fact, we laughed at how ridiculous the job was and she remarked it was the best example of “capitalism at its finest.” This wasn’t said disdainfully. It was said gratefully. Where else could someone make the kind of money we did with no need for a degree?
I did find it odd that Asians seemed to flock to my stage more so than I would have thought. If an Asian guy walked into the club, I could almost guarantee that he’d follow me to each stage throughout the night. They were always so polite and kind and I remember receiving broken English “love letters” along with beautiful, intricate fans from one semi-regular, who would visit me often. Misuro was so sweet, but I had such a hard time understanding him. I mostly just nodded and agreed with whatever he was saying.
This was his last letter:
I have been loving Andi. I take pleasure in meeting and looking of you. And I like to writing a letter to you too.
But it takes five hours to write. I want to more write, and I want to more say that…..I Love you. But, today is the last time I can see you. Maybe…..In fact…..
I had an unexpected report from my company in Japan…..yesterday. The content was about after this in schedule.
I have to go Las Vegas, Mexico, and New York, Atlanta, and Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, and come back Japan.
I must leave but, I was used to life in American.
My house (condo)…..
My car…..and I loving you.
I think, how can I do from now. I ought to live in Denver. I feel lonely so much.
I don’t wanna imagine, don’t you exist in my life.
I’m disappointed. I wish I had more time. If you have time, please give me that time.
I want to keep on loving for you. I think, you’re even more beautiful than first time I saw you. You’ll always be in my heart. Your name will always be first on my list.
Remember what I said by now? I meant every word. (I have no idea what he said.) And I still mean every word.
Thank you very much for your kindness. I hope to see you again. Bye-bye. I love you…
He only knew me from the club. He only saw me at the club. He was treated the same as I would treat any guy there who was paying me to pay attention to him. Yet, he seemed to believe there was more to it than that. There wasn’t. He was a nice guy, but the language barrier would have been a huge problem. Not to mention I had Rule #4 – I would never date anyone from the club.
It was sad when they got so swept up in the fantasy that it took over their reality. What a disappointing way to live life.
I had a few regulars, but probably less than most of the girls. I liked my work life to be my work life and my private life to be my private life. I certainly could have made a lot more money if that had not been the case. I wasn’t like some of the other girls, who would call their regulars from the pay phones (yes, pay phones) on slow nights to ask them to come visit. I kind of admired the girls, who could play that game so well. I could not.
The real money makers had given just enough of themselves to deceive their regulars into believing they meant more than a wallet to the girls. That they were needed, wanted, loved maybe? I don’t know. They might have believed they were respected, but I can tell you, we did not respect the ones who came into the club. In fact, working there made it difficult to respect any man.
That kind of money wasn’t worth the life intrusion for me. I liked my walls and I liked the walls that held up the club. Nothing in the club needed to exit that place and enter into my real life. This was fantasy. Nothing of fantasy would serve me well in reality.
The best regulars were the ones who never asked for table dances, never sat at your stage (yet would just walk past and drop $20-$100 on it,) and would just hand you a $20 every so often just for talking to them. I had one such gentleman, who was like that and was so respectful. He started coming to the club when he was going through a rough divorce and was literally paying me for understanding what hell divorce can be. A therapist probably would have cost him a lot less, but for me he was a welcome reprieve from the lustful neediness that normally surrounded me. Broken neediness was refreshing. I enjoyed the conversation and was always surprised when he’d randomly hand me money with the caveat of, “I know you’re here to make money and I appreciate your time.” He was rare and I hope he finally found a nice girl to listen to him.
Being that it was a strip club, it wasn’t uncommon to get propositioned for some “work” or extracurricular activities outside the club. I was a pro at politely rejecting these offers but two stand out in my memory.
Super 8 Guy had followed me from stage to stage throughout the night. He was a trucker with a missing tooth or two, wearing an old t-shirt, jeans, and a trucker’s cap. He was not our normal Denverite trying to seal a business deal…but he certainly was trying to seal some kind of deal. I think his name might have been Bob.
Bob followed me to Stage 7, which was pretty packed. There were dollar bills and, what the girls called “slut bucks,” placed all around the padding that ran along the edge of the stage. (“Slut Bucks” were fake, Monopoly-type money that the guys could buy with their credit card when they didn't have actual cash on hand. The club called them "Dreamgirl Dollars." The "Dreamgirls" referred to them as slut bucks and we thought we were hilarious.)
In front of Bob, on the padding at the side of the stage, sat a motel room key. “Seriously?” I thought and ignored Bob and his stupid key.
I continued to dance for the guys who were actually paying me with actual money that would cover my actual bills…although I’m sure money was insinuated with the key offer. I was not interested in anything else that would come with that stupid key. At some point, an exasperated Bob, held up the key. Annoyed, I walked over to him and asked what he wanted. With a wink and a toothless smile, Bob pointed at the key and said, “I’m staying at the Super 8. That’s for you.” I have no doubt I laughed harder than I should have and said, “No, thank you.”
Bob was visibly upset that I had not been elated at his generous and kind offer and he exclaimed, “Fine! I was just trying to be nice!”
I had to turn away to keep from laughing in his face. I remember thinking, “Yep, it’s pretty difficult for me to get a date, much less get laid. Thanks for the kind consideration.” I did not say it…thus potentially avoiding another bouncer incident.
The other bizarre request that comes to mind is when Peyton and Tanya came to visit the club. Apparently, I was their favorite and they followed me from stage to stage telling me how exotic I was and how beautifully I danced. (Here is where I must remind you of Rule #2 – “Be fully aware that at least 99% of everything I would hear there was most likely BS.”)
I felt like this was total BS. Quite honestly, sometimes I felt like I looked like Moonbeam flailing up there and didn’t see how anyone could be enamored with me...much less as much as this couple seemed to be.
The next week, I received a dozen roses and some little crystal figurines from Peyton and Tanya, with a card telling me how much they enjoyed my performance and my aura or energy or something?
“Huh?”
Well, I was taught to thank people for gifts and what they sent was really nice. They put a phone number on the card so I called and spoke with Tanya to thank them for the flowers and figurines. She was kind and open and talkative and nothing felt weird. I mean nothing weirder than the situation itself to begin with. But then….
Caller ID had not been out very long at this time and I had hoped Peyton and Tanya were lagging behind on getting this little technological bit of happiness. They were not and now they had my number. Peyton and Tanya called a few days later inviting me to go to Hawaii with them. They would pay for everything for me. Flight, hotel, meals, drinks, everything.
“What? No!” I thought. No. This was weird. This was a Forensic File episode waiting to happen. I declined politely with some sort of very legitimate reason, while refraining from saying, “Y’all are freaky!” They asked me to think about it and I politely said I would. (What I continued to think was, “Nope!”)
Peyton called me on his own a day or two later to explain the real reason they wanted me to go to Hawaii with them. Apparently, their marriage was on the rocks (shocker!) and they thought I could fix that. Once again, the thought that went through my head was, “What? No!”
“So, let me get this straight. You and your wife are having enough problems that you’re considering divorce, and you think taking a stripper on vacation with you is the answer to all your marital issues?” I asked. Peyton tried to come up with some kind of reason where that all made sense. He failed. I continued to decline the offer and they moved on. I have to wonder if they ever found someone to take them up on it…and if that person is still alive. Seriously, something felt pretty murdery about the whole thing…
If you would like to help publish my book, “Dancing into Deliverance; From Slut Bucks to Slaying Demons,” you can do that: