Lesson #28: Musings from the Fishbowl

The thing about working the private-show booth that I dislike the most is the boredom. If the johnnies are lining up to see you, that's one thing, or if you get a regular who spends 30 minutes of your hour-long shift with you, that's great too. But if it's a slow shift - nothing but a few lookie-loos wandering the dark hallways - and all you've got to keep yourself busy are a couple of pillows and an old copy of Playboy (It's company policy that we only read smut mags while in the booth.), well, that can be the longest hour of your life. I've tried smuggling in books, hidden between the pages of Playboy, but it makes for a very awkward reading experience. What's more, it's somewhat difficult to keep an eye on the hallway for would-be customers when your nose is in a book. So lately, I've been taking my iPhone into the booth and listening to audiobooks to kill the time, and it really is a superior idea. I can keep my brain busy, but with my eyes up, and my body poised provocatively, ready to woo the hall-lurkers. And it keeps me from looking bored outta my gourd, and who wants a private show from a bored-looking babe?

Well, last night was one of those painfully slow booth shifts, yet peppered with amusing and annoying happenings. So I decided to use the Voice Memo app on my iPhone to make notes of those happenings. Here is a summary:

(a) A gaggle of young men (somewhere between frat boys and soldier boys) swaggered down the hall to my booth and proceeded to act like chimpanzees. One of the pack pressed his Mercedes-Benz key up to the glass. I said, "Congratulations. You have a car." I heard another one of the young primates telling me, "He has money, lots of money." Um, yeah, and what? That's supposed to make me wanna go home with you? In the words of Shania Twain, "That don't impress me much."

(b) A somewhat lost and unfortunately-dressed man wandered into my booth. It was clear to me he didn't know how things worked. When I explained to him the cost of a private show, he started to walk out, then paused, turned around and shouted at me through the glass, "How about a free show?" Excuse me? A free show? Oh, yeah, baby, 'cause you so fiiiiiiiine. How is it that so many men come in there asking for shit for free? Do they walk into Starbucks, stroll up to the barista, and ask for a free coffee? Do they saunter on down to their local Apple store and ask for a free MacBookPro? Do they waltz into Comcast and ask for free OnDemand television? I really don't get it. Maybe it's a desperate grasp at some hope that I might actually be into them, and am not there strictly for the money. *ahem* Wake the fuck up, you cheap-ass SOB. Even Daddy paid me for a lap dance when he came to see me at work. If he don't get it for free, shit, ain't none ya'll.

(c) I caught a cute, young, Heath-Ledger look-a-like wandering the halls looking bewildered and lost. After chatting him up a bit, I hoped to get him in my booth, but I think it was too rich for his blood. It was still a pleasure, though, to see his face. (Note: Even with the cute ones, you still don't wanna give it away for free.)

Lesson #27: Of Gratitude and Diffidence

I've been at the peep show a little over 4 months now and, for the most part, I really enjoy it. As I've noted in this blog before, usually the only time I don't want to be there is when I'm feeling tired. Besides that, I enjoy the dancing and the interaction with the other girls. Just this week, I found myself thinking multiple times, "I can't believe I'm getting paid for this." I mean, who else gets paid to look at hot (and in some cases, really hot) naked women preening and prancing? - and I'm on the right side of the glass, baby. It's a beautiful thing. It really, really is.

The flip-side of that is the comparisons I'm always trying not to make between me and the other girls. Let me paint a clearer picture for you: some of the girls I'm dancing with have perfect bodies, and I do mean perfect. You would be hard pressed to find even half an ounce of cellulite or a stretch-mark on these women. Perky titties, flat & toned tummies, round & firm asses, legs so long they touch the heavens, with the flexibility and control of competitive gymnasts - and then there's me. Now, don't get me wrong. I know I'm no dog, but I'm not a Victoria's Secret model either (and I'm telling you, some of my co-workers could be). I'm accustomed to being "less than" from all my years as a competitive ballroom & latin dancer. (Truth be told, I use a lot of my old moves on the peep show stage, and the johnnies eat it up. It's a little scary how similar the two worlds are.) I'm used to being not tall enough, not thin enough, and not having the long legs or high-arched feet of the favored dancers. What I'm not used to is dancing naked while being surrounded by mirrors, forcing me to look at the reality of the situation every moment of every shift.

The Upside to All of This...
While I cannot keep my mind from making its comparisons between my body and their bodies, I am gaining a growing appreciation for my body as well as the various shapes and sizes of others. For years - decades - I hated my body, hated every square inch of it. Now, I make a good part of my living by baring it to the world (or at least the part of the world that frequents a peep show), and people pay to see it. I no longer hate my body. I look in the mirror and, while I see "problem areas" that I'd like to fix, I also see a girl who can create some beautiful lines and shapes and motions, using nothing more than what she came into this world with. And of that, I'm pretty damn proud.