Dolls, Wild Things and White Satin

I had been sidelined from my dance career for three months by a dislocated knee and had to move into a women's shelter because my funds had been taken by a dancer I'd been staying with. It was truly one of the lowest points of my life. I hated depending on other people for anything and that was just humiliating. I was at the shelter for exactly one day before getting a job at a newspaper typing classified ads.

After one week of my new employment, Social Services decided I didn't need them anymore and dumped me after just one session with a physical therapist. I took what the therapist showed me and had to work on learning to move my injured leg again on my own.

As always, I took it to the extreme, and instead of just being able to move it I decided to re-train it completely, pulling it slowly up over my head until it stayed there on its own- or as long as I could balance on my other leg. I practiced arabesques à la hauteur and penchée. Code names for two different leg extensions behind the back- one is a 90-degree angle the other is over one's head. Hey, there is sometimes a silver lining in the worst of events. Before the injury, those were beyond my abilities.

After working at the newspaper every day I'd come home to my room and work on my new dance routines to make sure my injured leg was in working order. I designed and sewed a few new costumes and decided it was time to try working a shift at a club to see how it went.

A dancer friend of mine, named Carol, had purchased, with the help of a “friend”, an old, run-down bar at the edge of downtown Rochester just before I had gone out of town for my last disastrous road trip.

She had renovated the old club, calling it the Bottom’s Up. Fitting for a strip club. I took the bus that dropped me off about a block away from the club on a Thursday evening.

Carol was surprised when I walked in. “Holy shit! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. What the hell happened? Where were you?”

“Oh, I’ve been laying around on a beach in Florida, getting a tan. You know- having parties every night, getting rich.”

“Uh, huh. Right. What were you really doing?”

“Where do you want me to start? Where Gypsy kicked me out of her house and took my money or where Frank beat the shit out of me?”

“I heard he was a real asshole to you.” Carol commiserated. “Marjorie worked here last week. She told me what happened with your money and stuff at Gypsy’s. I can see Gypsy’s point. But, man. Take your money when you were hurting? That ain’t right.”

“Yeah, well, my leg is back to normal, and I think it’s time to start dancing again. Have you got any openings on the schedule for next week?”

“How about I make some openings? Now that you aren’t my competition you could be my favorite dancer.” She joked. “Ha! How many nights do you want?”

“Let’s start out with two, just in case there’s a problem.”

“How ‘bout Tuesday and Friday? That gives you a couple of days to rest up.”

“Great. I love how you fixed this old place up. The stage is perfect. Very nice, Carol.”

The barstools were shiny chrome and brand new. The walls were freshly painted with a coat of egg-shell white, to make the place look bigger. She had found a couple of old church pews, which her boyfriend had re-engineered into a beautiful, shiny wooden bar. Sort of sacrilegious, but better than being tossed out in a dump somewhere. The walls were decorated with framed mirrors of different sizes and styles, which opened up the small club even more. The stage- only a dancer would have designed such a perfect stage. It was ten by ten feet of polished parquet wood up against the back wall of the club, where it could be seen from the bar, as well as from the tables.

She even hung velvet curtains on the end where the dancers would enter the stage. Very classy for a place called the Bottoms Up.

The front door opened up with a blast of soggy wind, and in walked her barmaid, Dianna, shaking the rain out of her long, curly red hair. “Ooomph, I couldn’t wait to get out of the house tonight. The kids were fighting, and Timmy had a diarrhea diaper. Whoops, Danny, got to go- sorry! HA. Hey, you make ‘em, you clean ‘em.”

Dianna was one of a kind. Bold, Irish, and beautiful- she could counsel tattooed bikers across the bar, comfort dancers with crappy home lives, escort hookers out of the place and bounce rowdy patrons while slinging 7&7’s and Screwdrivers all night long. She was funny, sympathetic, and ice-cold all in the same breath. Dianna and I didn’t know it yet, but we would become fast friends, tied at the hip until we weren’t, ten years later.

“Hey, Dianna, this is Tina. She’s back and gonna start here next week. You’re gonna love her.”

“Aren’t you the one who got beat to hell by her boyfriend and went out of town for a while?” Dianna wasted no time in asking.

“My reputation precedes me.”

“Glad you dumped that loser. Are you going to stick around tonight for a while? Carol, can I get her a drink on the house?”

“Sure, if we can talk her into staying maybe she can boost our liquor sales…ha.”

“Don’t count on me- I’m a lightweight.”

Little by little the bar began to fill up with customers as the dancers wandered in. Two girls I hadn’t met before, Marla and Toni came in. Then, to my surprise, Annie, an old friend from my days as a beginning stripper walked through the door. I hadn’t seen her in months.

“Tina!” Annie said with a hug. “It’s so good to see you. I was worried about you when Gypsy told me what happened. Did she give you your money back yet? She said she felt really bad about jumping to conclusions- especially when she found out you had gotten hurt and couldn’t work.”

“No, I haven’t seen her in months. Did she find out what happened at the house?” I asked.

(The reason my old roomie had taken my cash was that someone smashed out the windows in her house one night and she was sure it was my old boyfriend, Frank.)

“Yeah, it was her girlfriend’s ex. Your boyfriend had nothing to do with it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore- thank God. It sure would be nice to have my savings account money back. I’ve been living at a homeless shelter since I came back to town, thanks to Gypsy.”

“Ouch. I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. Are you coming back to work?”

“Yep, next week I’ll start again.”

While I was talking with Annie, I didn’t notice the man who sat down at the bar next to me.

“Hi, aren’t you the girl I took to the house with the yellow crime scene tape?”

I turned around and there was the cabbie who picked me up from the bus station when I had come back to Rochester almost three months ago and discovered the troubles at the place where I'd been living.

“Oh, yeah,” I admitted. “I remember you with the green eyes. That was me all right. The beginning of a nightmare.”

“Who, me? I’ve been called worse.”

“Ha, no- not you- the way things turned out was the nightmare.”

“I don’t want to be pushy, “ He asked, “but can I buy you a drink?”

Cha-ching! Carol was going to put more money in her till.

“Sure, it’s been a while since I’ve had a drink. One 7&7 won’t kill me.”

Dianna winked at me as she set my drink down on the bar and picked up the cash.

“So, are you a working girl or a dancer?”

“Um, right now I’m a working girl.”

“Okay. How much?”

“How much what?” I wasn’t getting the joke.

“Half and half.”

“What’s that? I don’t get it.”

“You know, half this and half that”

“Um, I work at newspaper typing ads. I don’t know what half this and half that means. But I am a working girl. I don’t just sit around on my ass all day.” I declared indignantly.

He started laughing awkwardly.

“Oh, my God. Ha, I thought you were a hooker, and I was asking for you know… never mind.”

“A hooker? Really? Do I look like a hooker?”

I was furious. How could he think that? Even when I was dancing only a few men asked me that and I straightened them right out. Here I was, fully clothed with a winter jacket on and he thought I was a prostitute? I started to get up to leave when he said,

“I’m so sorry- wow. My mistake. When you said you were a working girl, I thought you meant, you know- w-o-r-k-i-n-g girl, as in you know. No- no. You don’t look like a hooker, which is why I was surprised.”

“What exactly do hookers look like?”

“In the Wintertime in Rochester? Jackets, boots, hats, mittens, and blue lips. In the Springtime, same thing.”

“Ha. I suppose I am dressed like a hooker then.”

“Sorry- well, you know what I do for a living. So, you type in a newspaper? Why are you in a strip club? Most chicks avoid these places unless they are wearing jackets, boots, hats, and blue lips.”

“I’m a dancer. I’ve been out of work with a dislocated knee for a while and next week I’ll be starting back up here. I’ve missed dancing. The past three months were awful.”

We chatted for a bit longer. He finished his drink and said, “I have to get back to work, do you have a ride home? I can give you a lift if it’s not too far from my next pick-up.”

“Oh, are you a male hooker? What do you charge for your pick-ups?”

“Nice. For you? Free. Seriously, I’ll even let you ride in the front. Where to, ma’am, not a hooker.”

“Um, the ‘Y’ if that’s not too far away.”

“Nope- right on my route.”

We both got up to leave and Dianna called out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Carol added, “Dianna, there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do. That’s bad advice.”

I found out the cabbie’s name was Gary. He was funny and smart. The thing that stood out in my mind about him was the pile of books on the passenger side floor. A taxi driver who read Steinbeck and Hemingway couldn’t be all bad. He came around and opened up the door then walked me to the entrance and held the door for me after we got to the residence center at the ‘Y’.

“Hey, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Tina- nice to meet you.”

If I could have seen into the future that night, I would have known that meeting Gary was not going to lead to anything nice. That’s the thing about life. It’s the greatest mystery story of all and each day is a page-turner.

The following Tuesday I was back where I belonged- onstage. I started the evening wearing my leopard skin halter top pantsuit, dancing to Nature Boy by Jose Feliciano, The Lion Sleeps Tonight by The Tokens, which everyone loved because the song was just that good. Then I did my chair routine with the splits and gymnastics to Wild Thing by the Troggs, and finished up with my blazing hot floor routine to the sounds of Chakacha’s Jungle Fever It felt a little off and rusty to me. But the audience liked it.

Carol had turned the old kitchen at the club into a dressing room. Marla was changing into her midriff-baring top and mini-short shorts. She was a go-go dancing hold-out, complete with the white boots. Her dance style was anything but go-go. It was more like, a stop-stop. She would pace forward, backward, and turn around. She would repeat this routine until I swear, she’d put on five miles before the night was over. She was stick straight, up and down. The only things she had going for her were long legs and straight, blond hair. Other than that, she was sort of like an intermission for the audience to use the bathroom and get fresh drinks. Even if she had removed her top no one would have paid attention.

Then there was Sally. No one dared to leave their seats when Sally was dancing. They might have missed one of her drunken antics while they were away. She had an artificially enhanced figure that featured one large boobie pointing up and one smaller boobie pointing down. Her surgeon must have been offering the buy one, get one half-off special.

She had short dark hair with a pretty face and looked sweet and charming. When she started drinking, though, look out. You never knew what to expect. I made the mistake of taking her on the road with me a few years later and almost got thrown out of an entire country because she whipped off her G-string and told the audience

“This is an American Pus—y. Deal with it.”.

The club wasn’t even rated for topless, let alone nude.

At the beginning of my first night back, Sally was fine. She danced pretty well, if you considered jumping around like an Easter Bunny hopped up on jellybeans good dancing. As the night progressed and the audience got ruder, Sally would stomp off the stage and confront the offenders, bare boobs flopping in their faces. I’m sure the hecklers didn’t enjoy that.

Since that night, I’ve seen her aim her G-string like a slingshot and hit upstarts in the face. That was at places where nudity was prohibited. Sally didn’t care. She was known to kick patrons and knock their drinks over if they insulted her.

After watching Sally’s antics for most of that evening, Dianna finally had enough. She cut Sally off and when Sally started to complain, all Dianna had to do was give her “the look”. That wild maniac sat back down at her bar stool and never said another word. The miracle stink eye of Saint Dianna never failed. Well, except for that one time, but that was before I was born again, so, it doesn't count.

Between the three of us dancers, four, if you counted Sally’s other personality, we kept the customers entertained all evening. My leg didn’t give out on me once. I was tempted to ask for more hours, but I held off. After all this time waiting to begin dancing again, there was no point in pushing my luck.

The rest of the work week at the paper dragged on endlessly and when Friday rolled around, I couldn’t wait to get back to the Bottoms Up for another shift. My disco costume was finished, including the sheer, silky, seven-yard yellow cape, which I had sewn for my twirling number. I had a white cape just like it that I’d used for almost two years. Capes were perfect for big musical numbers that invited twirling across the stage. The capes would swirl around like tornadoes and the effect under the blacklights was mesmerizing.

On my way home from the newspaper I had stopped off at the Florsheim shoe store in Rochester’s downtown to pick up a new pair of kicks. I decided to wear silver tap shoes for a while until I was surer of myself dancing with my newly recovered leg. The poor salesman argued with me for ten minutes because I didn’t want to leave the shoes to get the taps nailed on.

“But what good are tap shoes without the metal clips?”

“Trust me. They’ll work just fine.”

Can you imagine a stripper tap dancing onto the stage? Tappety, tappety, tap, There goes my top. Tappety, tappety, tap, now here come the bottoms.

After a quick dinner and a shower, I took the bus to the Bottoms Up, ready to kickstart my career again. It felt so good to be back onstage and in control of my destiny again. I hated being dependent on anyone or anything.

My brand new tap shoes worked perfectly during my Jungle Fever show until I was almost finished doing the Wild Thing chair routine, at which time they got caught in the ladder-back of the chair and left me hanging, face down off the seat. The blood was rushing to my head, and I was scared of twisting my newly recovered knee to extricate myself.

Finally, a good Samaritan from the audience came to my rescue and unbuckled the tap shoes so I could pull my feet out and catch my breath. Whoa… tap shoes were 100% leather, and totally enclosed. When you mixed that smell with bare, sweaty, dancer’s feet you got trouble. Poor guy. That was humiliating.

I quickly buckled the offending shoes back up and continued with my Jungle Fever floor routine. That song could make an audience drool even without the added attraction of a stripper writhing on the floor. The smelly foot episode was quickly forgotten by everyone but me and the good Samaritan, who was lying, head down, on his table.

The songs on the disco tape Carol let me use were perfect; You've Got the Love by Chaka Khan, Waterloo by the new group ABBA, Lady Marmalade by Patty LaBelle for my chair routine, with lots of leg extensions and backbends. Then, Dancing Machine by the Jackson 5, and Love’s Theme by the Barry White Orchestra. Fun music to dance to, and the Love’s Theme was a hit with my twirling cape dance. There were still some alterations to be done on the jumpsuit costume I had sewn. It was a little difficult to unhook, so I had to devise something different. Otherwise, it was a success.

If I continued working at the newspaper and dancing at night, it wouldn’t take long for me to gather enough money for a real apartment of my own. The ‘Y’ shelter had served its purpose and I was grateful for the help they’d given me. It was, however, time to move on.

My boss at the paper, Donna, found me an apartment and within two weeks I was the proud renter of a one-bedroom apartment downtown, near the bus line and only a short jaunt from the Metro Plaza.

Things were looking up. This is usually the time when I meet a guy who drags me down into the pits with him. Not going to happen. This was my time, and no man was going to ruin it for me. I was determined to remain single and not depend on anyone other than myself. That was the one thing this past couple of months had taught me; I could only rely on myself.

That evening I packed up my costumes and took the bus back to the Bottom's Up for my evening shift. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were busy nights, so there were four dancers on duty.

I went on first because I liked finishing work early, after working all day on the paper. When I was dressed in my costume, I handed Carol my Nights in White Satin tape and headed to the stage. The show began with The White Room by Cream, White Rabbit, by Jefferson Airplane using my twirling cape, A Lighter Shade of Pale by Procol Harem for my chair routine, and a beautiful finish with a floor routine to the tune of Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues. It was the first time I’d attempted the front rollover Chinese split and the shoulder stand with the scissor split over my head. Nothing broke- nothing popped out of joint. The crowd called out for more - just kidding. Sorry, you have to be a Baby Boomer to get it.

My white satin costume was the first one I'd sewn back when I first began stripping. It was a flowing, floor-length creamy white gown with a V-neck and spaghetti straps. I'd stitched up a little white feather stole out of feather boas, which I'd nabbed off a discount table after Halloween. It went perfectly with that gown. The undergarments were simple white satin and I used my white twirling cape, which was made from seven yards of white chiffon, and glowed under the black lights as I spun.

In my very first attempt at the Nights in White Satin floor routine, I used four shiny yards of real white satin on the floor and almost slid off the stage and onto the lap of a member of the audience. Since then, I stopped using slippery satin in exchange for two white bathroom rugs glued together. However, sometimes slipping off the stage and falling into someone’s lap could have its advantages, as I would soon learn.

Because that show was extra-long, it shortened the dance time for all of us and we each only had to do two shows that night. Fine with me. The cabbie with the green eyes came back during one of his breaks and sent me a drink via Dianna.

He asked Dianna to see if it was OK for him to sit next to me at the bar. She said, loudly, “I ain’t her mama. Ask her yourself, coward.”

Poor guy was getting a taste of the cold as-ice Dianna. He mumbled something as he plopped down on the barstool next to me. I would find out that mumbling was his first language, and it would eventually drive me insane. In the beginning, it was merely cute.

“Man. She’s tough.” He grumbled to me. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Ha, get used to it- she’s usually meaner.”

“No. I mean, your dancing. I thought you were like a go-go girl or something. You’re kind of like a professional dancer.”

“Duh. I wouldn’t do it for free.”

“What I mean is you’re really good. I was surprised to see you here in Rochester at a little club.”

“Not for long. I’m going back on the road as soon as I am sure of myself again. It took three months to get back onstage after my accident.”

“That’s a shame. We just met and you’re already taking off.”

“Ha-ha. I’m single and like it that way.”

“Well, that’s a shame too.” He joked.

“Let’s just say I know how to pick ‘em and it’s time for a break.”

“Ahhh. Gotcha.” He said as if he understood. “When will you be taking off again?”

“As soon as I get some more costumes made, I’m off. I’m thinking Canada this time.”

“Canada. That’s pretty cool.”

“A friend of mine works for an agent in Toronto and I’m calling that agent in a few weeks.”

Uh oh. Sally was doing her thing and it wasn’t even bourbon o’clock yet. G-strings were a-flying and she was screaming, “You mother-f—er. What do you mean my tits are fake? You got a lotta nerve. Give me back my G-string, perve.”

“No. You threw it at me. It’s my souvenir.”

With that, the guy took a big whiff of her sweaty G-string and pretended to gag. “Oh, man! Is this a Strip club or a fish fry? Whoa- take it back.”

If Dianna hadn’t intervened, Sally was going to choke the guy out with her ankles wrapped around his neck. Dianna pulled her off the victim and dragged Sally, kicking and screaming to the dressing room with one hand firmly over her mouth.

“Jesus, Sally, you’re gonna get us shut down some night. If you can’t stop this shit you’re never working here again.” Dianna continued to scold her. “Get dressed. You’re done for the night. Were you drinking before work?”

“This isn’t fair. He was being rude to me and made fun of my tits. He should get thrown out not me.”

“I’m not throwing you out. Call it a time-out. I do it with my kids all the time and when they come back later they behave.”

Sally got dressed and slumped out to the bar. She sat down and asked Dianna if she could have a drink, as she wasn’t working anymore that night. Dianna rolled her eyes and plopped a club soda in front of her.

“There. There’s your f-ing drink. No more booze tonight.”

Then Sally spotted Gary sitting next to me and sidled her way over to the bar stool next to him. “Who have we here, Tina? Is this your boyfriend?”

“No. He is a friend. I don’t have a boyfriend.” I confirmed, this for both her and Gary.

All of a sudden, though, I could feel the claws popping out of my kitty paws. What was she up to? I wasn’t planning on dating the guy, but it was nice being fawned over by a good-looking man instead of being dragged around by the hair and beaten by an ape.

Marla was up onstage next, and people took that time to visit the men’s room or order more drinks. Meanwhile, Sally was getting far too cozy with my new friend, and it was bugging me for reasons that were unfathomable at the time. She “accidentally” pressed her manufactured boobies into his arm.

Looking a bit uncomfortable, Gary said, “Whoa. Uh, excuse me, Ma’am. That’s a little too close.”

“Oh, sorry. They’re just so big sometimes I forget where they start and stop. Tee-hee.”

I wanted to slap the silicone out of her. Then she said, “Here, put your hand on them and tell me if they feel real to you.”

She grabbed one of Gary’s hands and pushed it up against her silicone wads. It was annoying, so I got up and went back to the dressing room to get ready for the next show, which would be the doll show. I had only done the doll show in Rochester a few times because it had to be perfect before I put it out there.

I applied a white grease paint base all over my face, then used bright pink lipstick for the hearts on my cheeks and a tiny bow mouth. My eyes and eyebrows were lined with a black eye pencil, and I applied extra-large fake eyelashes with a tube of spirit gum. For the costume, I had covered a corset and bra with a bright green and black striped satin and layered the satin skirt with green tulle underneath until it stuck out almost straight, like a ballerina tutu. The finishing touches were the black stockings with the lacy thigh garters and the little lace neckpiece. My hair was curly that year and it went perfectly with the doll show.

It took a long time to get ready for the show, which was good because I couldn’t watch Sally swoop in and push herself on someone I barely knew and could care less about. Even so.

I handed Carol the Doll show tape and made it to the stage in time for the Introduction. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Layna Royale!”

The first song was Hello Dolly, one of my favorite musical numbers from when I was a kid pretending to dance on Broadway. Dancing to that music made me feel like I was flying. The next song was by Elvis and had been pretty difficult to find. It was, I Don’t Have a Wooden Heart. I danced to that in robotic-type movements. Then I pulled the chair onstage and did a marionette act to I’m Your Puppet by The Purity Brothers, straddling the chair backward and doing Chinese splits, head isolations and blocky arm movements, as if there were an invisible puppet master over the stage pulling my strings. The last song was the theme song from the Valley of the Dolls. Instead of a floor routine, I decided to use my white seven-yard chiffon cape. Big, majestic songs worked best with cape work. I loved twirling across the stage with the chiffon wafting around me like a poetic tornado.

I couldn’t help but glance over at the bar from time to time to see if Gary was still entertaining miss boobie. He was sitting stiffly at the bar, halfway off the barstool, sliding away from her, trying not to react to her practically laying on him. He looked uncomfortable and that made me very happy. Good, Good, my evil plan was working.

By the time I got all the grease paint and makeup goo off my face and went back to the bar, Gary was gone, and Sally was snoring on the bar, one boobie flopped out of her shirt, pointing skyward. Oh, well. I cautiously tucked Sally’s boob into her shirt and by golly, it did feel totally fake.

Dianna finally called a cab for Sally and scraped her off the bar. Damn, it was only midnight and with Sally drunk and gone we were all going to have to do an extra set. I was pretty tired from working all day at the paper and the evening shift too. I started back to the dressing room to get ready for the last show when to my happy surprise, the door opened, and Baby Jane lumbered in.

Baby Jane was a Rochester Phenom. Three hundred untidy pounds and disgusting as they get. Baby Jane danced in the first amateur competition I had ever entered. After that, I had run into her at several other clubs. Once she got a snoot full of liquor, she would hog the stage being totally repulsive and offensive. The audience loved her, despite her jiggling rolls, thinning, bleach-blond hair, and veiny legs. They would hoot and holler to get her going. I was so tired at that point I was ready to start buying the trashy old hag drinks, hoping she’d take over the stage and never give it up.

“Hey, Dianna, can I buy Baby Jane a very stiff drink?”

“Huh, that’s the only thing Baby Jane can get stiff. She ain’t dancing here. We’ll lose our liquor license.”

Carol begged to differ. Baby Jane was gross and nasty and that usually made more money than sophisticated and clean.

“Baby Jane! Baby Jane! Baby Jane!”

The crowd noticed her and wanted a show. Drinks started flying down to her end of the bar, where her ass overtook two bar stools; one hefty bun balancing on each stool. Pretty soon Carol was making money hand over fist, and the other dancers and I were going to have a nice, long break at about o’ tequila-thirty.

Seeing as how Baby Jane was in the process of inserting beer bottles into unexpected regions of her body, awing the drunk and gullible crowd, the rest of the dancers were summarily dismissed. I called a cab and was sort of hoping Gary would be sent to pick me up. No luck though on that front. Oh, well. The road was calling me, and I was anxious to explore more cities.