The Money Move

For most people, the idea of a young woman becoming a stripper means that she has somehow lost control of her life. For me, becoming a stripper at the ripe old age of 18, meant I could finally gain control over my life.

Don't get me wrong; I was scared as fuck at first. But honestly, I knew the first time I saw the Peppermint Lounge, with its half broke and throbbing neon candy cane sign; that one day our paths would cross. I was twelve when I had that thought, sitting in the back seat of a kind neighbor's car, as my mom and me were driven by it. We were on our way to the welfare office to see if we could qualify for government housing. 

The Peppermint was actually the first night club of any kind; I had ever set foot in. I remember that my shoes half sank into its crunchy and sticky carpet. It smelled like worn underwear and my dad's breath, when he was hung over, after downing one too many Jack and Cokes. It was a Tuesday night, amateur night, specifically, wet t-shirt night. It was packed to the rafters full of G.I.'s, Air Force Academy cadets, grizzled bikers, an occasional sullen stray cowboy, and athletes from the Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center. 

The club had two stages. The main stage was mirrored and upfront, and at the moment was being cleaned by two women in short raincoats and high heels. They were gyrating and Windexing to the song Carwash. The second stage was much smaller, about the width of an apple crate in the middle of the club, not far from the front entrance; it was about three feet high. A girl was on it, and in the midst of bending over. I would later learn that they call that, the money move. Her white g-string glowing from the black lights that hung everywhere in the club. A drunk was teetering next to the stage, stuffing bills into the rear of her "costume." She lifted her head a bit, smiled in bored appreciation, which emboldens him. He slips one of his fingers into her glowing g-string, right up close to her taint. 

I'm almost run over by a bouncer, who snags the guy and drags him to the exit. The girl cackles, stands upright, and our eyes meet. I can't believe it, I know this girl. She was the lead majorette at my high school. She recognizes me, and we both stand frozen. The song ends. She hustles off the stage, suddenly embarrassed. The club manager spots me and guides me towards the DJ's booth, mistaking my frozen state as a bad case of jitters. I'm told to sit with the other "amateurs." We're given free drinks, extra-small wife beaters and a stained and tattered song list. The songs are in alphabetical order. I quickly scan the list, I find AC/DC's Highway to Hell. For the first time since entering the club, I breathe a small sigh of relief. If I'm going to burn in hell for what I was about to do, I was at least going to do it to the right goddamn song.