20 Minutes To Salvation
We sat in the back, up against the wall at one of those tall tables on stools. I sucked down a Marlboro Light and drank something non-alcoholic. My friend sat to my left. He was 50-something, I think.
In the far corner to my left was a woman in her mid-30's. Her boobs had been naturally deflated by nursing someone. Her hips were wide and her back side was losing it's battle with gravity. She looked tired, and worn.
On the platform to my right was a twenty-something with fully inflated and paid-for boobs. She was in white, with a long white chiffon cape that clasped around her neck in a band of what appeared to be velvet. At her feet were roughly 15 men gawking at her. She absorbed every predatory look. Somehow, it appeared to give her power.
"Have you seen enough?", my friend asked.
"Yea, I think so.", I replied.
Earlier that day, I had been on the phone with my friend.
"I have to get a job. And I was looking in the paper and I think I'm gonna dance at a strip club."
"Have you ever been in one of those places?"
"No."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothin', why?"
"I'm going to take you to one."
"Okay!"
So, sometime that evening I climbed into my friends car and headed to the club. I walked in the door with the full intent of asking for a job when I left. We paid our admission, had our obligatory drink, and left. And when I walked out I didn't say anything to the man behind the counter.
"So, what did ya think?"
"I don't think I wanna do that."
I was 21 years old. I was a starving college student and dancing with a regional ballet company. My friend stopped me from doing something I would have regretted. Chances are, had I asked for a job there, I never would have gone back after the first time. But he spared me the grief, and I will be forever in debt to him for that.
So why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I had a fabulous body and I was a trained ballet dancer. What more could you want?
Uh huh, so why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I was comfortable with my body and I knew I would make a butt-load of money.
Okay, one more time Cameo, why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I didn't think. That's the truth. I wasn't thinking.
I wasn't thinking about myself. I wasn't thinking I deserved more. I wasn't thinking people found me interesting for substantial reasons, not just a great set of tits.
I wasn't thinking how I would screw things up for all women in the name of shameless easy money -money earned from the all mighty penis; Money stuck in my g-string instead of a kids bank account; Money handed me by men who had women waiting at home for them.
I wasn't thinking.
But Creston got me to think. Actually, he got me to see.
Creston's his name. Creston Funk.
I haven't spoken to him in over 7 years.
I hope he's doing okay.
I am.
In the far corner to my left was a woman in her mid-30's. Her boobs had been naturally deflated by nursing someone. Her hips were wide and her back side was losing it's battle with gravity. She looked tired, and worn.
On the platform to my right was a twenty-something with fully inflated and paid-for boobs. She was in white, with a long white chiffon cape that clasped around her neck in a band of what appeared to be velvet. At her feet were roughly 15 men gawking at her. She absorbed every predatory look. Somehow, it appeared to give her power.
"Have you seen enough?", my friend asked.
"Yea, I think so.", I replied.
Earlier that day, I had been on the phone with my friend.
"I have to get a job. And I was looking in the paper and I think I'm gonna dance at a strip club."
"Have you ever been in one of those places?"
"No."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothin', why?"
"I'm going to take you to one."
"Okay!"
So, sometime that evening I climbed into my friends car and headed to the club. I walked in the door with the full intent of asking for a job when I left. We paid our admission, had our obligatory drink, and left. And when I walked out I didn't say anything to the man behind the counter.
"So, what did ya think?"
"I don't think I wanna do that."
I was 21 years old. I was a starving college student and dancing with a regional ballet company. My friend stopped me from doing something I would have regretted. Chances are, had I asked for a job there, I never would have gone back after the first time. But he spared me the grief, and I will be forever in debt to him for that.
So why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I had a fabulous body and I was a trained ballet dancer. What more could you want?
Uh huh, so why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I was comfortable with my body and I knew I would make a butt-load of money.
Okay, one more time Cameo, why did I think I wanted to be a stripper?
I didn't think. That's the truth. I wasn't thinking.
I wasn't thinking about myself. I wasn't thinking I deserved more. I wasn't thinking people found me interesting for substantial reasons, not just a great set of tits.
I wasn't thinking how I would screw things up for all women in the name of shameless easy money -money earned from the all mighty penis; Money stuck in my g-string instead of a kids bank account; Money handed me by men who had women waiting at home for them.
I wasn't thinking.
But Creston got me to think. Actually, he got me to see.
Creston's his name. Creston Funk.
I haven't spoken to him in over 7 years.
I hope he's doing okay.
I am.
posted by noncommon at 7:29 PM
9 Comments:
Ahhh. Thanks. And I'm glad you went with Creston. Have you tried to find him?
Wow. Excellent writing, excellent friend. Find him again.
Wow. That's one of those turning point moments where you see the fork in the road and you took the one that requires you to think first. Good for you.
What a great essay. Wow again.
great story. good writing.
Whoa. I had a similar moment, but I was only looking to start as a beer girl. My focus was on the almighty $ - my mom had just cut me off finanically and emotionally at age 19.
Thankfully, I went to the club, was turned OFF, and moved back to a smaller town. Where I worked TWO jobs to put myself through school. It was all worth it in the end.
Great story...
And there must be another reason why it made it to your post...
Hope that you can look up Creston...
As he is a friend...and they are gifts... and should be treasured...Look him up...
Wow, Cameo. I almost had the EXACT same experience in college. The only difference is that, unlike you, I WASN'T comfortable with my body, and the club owner could read it all over my face. THANK GOD. He sent me away. Biggest favor anyone's every done for me.
You told this so well, woman. Thanks for sharing.
What a great friend. I'm glad he gave you an idea of what you'd be in for, and I'm especially glad that you decided not to pursue that avenue.
I'm acquainted with a woman who danced at a club. She told me she did it for the money, and she had a pit in her stomach every time she went into work. It gave me a pit in my stomach just to hear her talk about it.
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