unveiled my nudity to the punters who were barely visible beyond the beam of light that I stood beneath.
I felt instinctively that I had crossed a Rubicon, selected a fork in the road that there would be no reversing from. Nomatter what I chose to do in the future, there would be no erasing this moment.
I raised my arms overhead, like wings, and began to dance.
3
Dancing with the Ponies
Initially, at the Tender Heart, I was distracted by the rundown grunginess of the club and found it awkward to reconcile my intentions to be graceful as well as sexy. The downbeat atmosphere of the principal auditorium, with its cheap wall hangings barely concealing old torn posters advertising long-gone appearances there by Patti Smith, Richard Hell & the Voidoids, and Television, combined with the tawdry disco tunes my fellow dancers performed to during their sets were a sharp dampener to any attempt to remain above the fray.
On my first night, apart from the fact I felt so terribly self-conscious and ill at ease in my unveiled skin, I made the mistake of shedding my minimal bikini and the assorted thin silk scarves I had thought would combine well with it and provide me with something to work with, leaving me standing at centre stage halfway through my music, totally nude and with nothing to do. Finding myself there, isolated, confronted by the vacant gaze of half a dozen bored customers whose facial features were all indistinct, I felt more like a mannequin than a dancer. I attempted an entrechat and nearly fell to the ground as my feet had no grip on the polished wooden stage. I quickly gave up on the idea of a few ballet moves for fear of appearing even more ridiculous.
I shimmied a bit, did a few turns, smiled as best I could. Then I repeated the feeble movements again and again, hoping for the tune to come to an end. I steered well clear of the rigid metal pole that dominated the stage and which all the other strippers that night had teased with, danced around, and embraced with pseudo-erotic abandon.
The hiss of silence in the loudspeakers came as a profound relief, as did the darkness which I took advantage of to quickly bend over and gather my scarves and shiny bikini and an orphaned five-dollar note that one of the spectators had deposited on the edge of the stage.
Later, some of the other girls, a varied bunch with a rapid turnover, one day here, another day gone, taught me how to dance around the pole, but it was never a discipline I took to.
I wanted to be different.
I also learned to time my effects and the stages through which I revealed my body, my assets. Since Chey and I had returned from the Dominican Republic where my blonde hair had bleached quite significantly in the sun, I had not had it cut and it was the longest I’d ever worn it. He liked it that way. Enjoyed gripping its ends hard when he rode me from behind. Now it was long enough to cover my breasts when I pulled it forward, an extra element of tease which the anonymous men who watched me, and the regulars I began to accumulate, seemed to like, my nipples winking through the curtain of falling hair.
Watching others, I also saw how they withheld the final reveal, only allowing the customers a brief, limited glimpse of their pussy just before the lights went out and the music climaxed, like a final tantalising treat. Surely, I felt, this was cheating; wasn’t it what they had come for?
Now that I had shaven, I delighted in the spectacle of my smoothness and a small fire invariably lit in my belly before every set at the prospect of unveiling what was the most intimate part of me to all these strangers, knowing all they could do was look and not touch, wonder but not taste. It gave me the feeling I could lead them anywhere, make them do my bidding, just for a sight of my cunt.
‘You’re getting better and better, girl,’ Barry remarked after watching my final set one evening, a few weeks after I’d begun working at the club. ‘You were certainly
I felt instinctively that I had crossed a Rubicon, selected a fork in the road that there would be no reversing from. Nomatter what I chose to do in the future, there would be no erasing this moment.
I raised my arms overhead, like wings, and began to dance.
3
Dancing with the Ponies
Initially, at the Tender Heart, I was distracted by the rundown grunginess of the club and found it awkward to reconcile my intentions to be graceful as well as sexy. The downbeat atmosphere of the principal auditorium, with its cheap wall hangings barely concealing old torn posters advertising long-gone appearances there by Patti Smith, Richard Hell & the Voidoids, and Television, combined with the tawdry disco tunes my fellow dancers performed to during their sets were a sharp dampener to any attempt to remain above the fray.
On my first night, apart from the fact I felt so terribly self-conscious and ill at ease in my unveiled skin, I made the mistake of shedding my minimal bikini and the assorted thin silk scarves I had thought would combine well with it and provide me with something to work with, leaving me standing at centre stage halfway through my music, totally nude and with nothing to do. Finding myself there, isolated, confronted by the vacant gaze of half a dozen bored customers whose facial features were all indistinct, I felt more like a mannequin than a dancer. I attempted an entrechat and nearly fell to the ground as my feet had no grip on the polished wooden stage. I quickly gave up on the idea of a few ballet moves for fear of appearing even more ridiculous.
I shimmied a bit, did a few turns, smiled as best I could. Then I repeated the feeble movements again and again, hoping for the tune to come to an end. I steered well clear of the rigid metal pole that dominated the stage and which all the other strippers that night had teased with, danced around, and embraced with pseudo-erotic abandon.
The hiss of silence in the loudspeakers came as a profound relief, as did the darkness which I took advantage of to quickly bend over and gather my scarves and shiny bikini and an orphaned five-dollar note that one of the spectators had deposited on the edge of the stage.
Later, some of the other girls, a varied bunch with a rapid turnover, one day here, another day gone, taught me how to dance around the pole, but it was never a discipline I took to.
I wanted to be different.
I also learned to time my effects and the stages through which I revealed my body, my assets. Since Chey and I had returned from the Dominican Republic where my blonde hair had bleached quite significantly in the sun, I had not had it cut and it was the longest I’d ever worn it. He liked it that way. Enjoyed gripping its ends hard when he rode me from behind. Now it was long enough to cover my breasts when I pulled it forward, an extra element of tease which the anonymous men who watched me, and the regulars I began to accumulate, seemed to like, my nipples winking through the curtain of falling hair.
Watching others, I also saw how they withheld the final reveal, only allowing the customers a brief, limited glimpse of their pussy just before the lights went out and the music climaxed, like a final tantalising treat. Surely, I felt, this was cheating; wasn’t it what they had come for?
Now that I had shaven, I delighted in the spectacle of my smoothness and a small fire invariably lit in my belly before every set at the prospect of unveiling what was the most intimate part of me to all these strangers, knowing all they could do was look and not touch, wonder but not taste. It gave me the feeling I could lead them anywhere, make them do my bidding, just for a sight of my cunt.
‘You’re getting better and better, girl,’ Barry remarked after watching my final set one evening, a few weeks after I’d begun working at the club. ‘You were certainly
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