With fewer stimuli around, it was easier to focus and converse back and forth in a way that felt less strenuous than at the restaurant hours before. I considered a bar job, but decided to try stripping simply because it meant fewer hours. Are they asking for my real name? The birthday was successfully buried, and I was buzzing from the bliss of escape. From the bar, I saw her sitting alone on one of the upholstered couches that lined the back of the club. One time, I went to a dinner party my sister hosted. There were a few listless customers scattered around, hunching over bar stools, and a dancer circling the pole. I spotted a man at the bar — alone, tall, bald with a kind smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand. That conversation lasted minutes, but the advice made for a successful career.
Hundreds of customers came and went during the hour shift, sitting on plush couches and crowding around the bar. There I massaged their shoulders, let them touch me, expressed vulnerability. That conversation lasted minutes, but the advice made for a successful career. He was also more animated than the others. Why am I only alive at work? The private rooms were where I connected with customers, sometimes in a way that was more intimate than my relationships outside the club. I rambled incessantly, illustrating the nightclubs, the hostels I stayed in, even how I bled through my powder-blue dress because I forgot to change my tampon. The possibilities of the night unrolled in front of me and I intended to savor them. On the floor of the club, I spent hours practicing each weekend, and for the first time in my life, I learned how to cut through layers of language in real time, just like Claire, until it became effortless. From the bar, I saw her sitting alone on one of the upholstered couches that lined the back of the club. I spotted a man at the bar — alone, tall, bald with a kind smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand. Sarah got up to go to the bathroom. There was vast, dormant space to grow into beyond my work persona. I ran through the formula and we connected right away. I was intrigued, but confused — how did they convince customers to spend money off-stage? So, I led him into the corner, which opened up to the club like the bow of a ship, public and safe, for one quick dance. Before going out, I crafted notecards, scribbling how long to talk about acceptable topics and which to stay clear of altogether, like my period, in small talk. She stared at me with a bored expression, so I got right to it. Scrolling through were women like me: I sat at the bar to observe, sipping my free champagne. Most people I met outside of work told me I was a great listener, unaware of how much time I spent in my room practicing the correct reactions. Performing felt strangely comfortable, even though the job was foreign and challenging. I learned to showcase different parts of my persona based on the customer. I allowed myself just one sob before I fixed my face and performed for the last half hour. I gradually pulled the blame away from myself and labeled the things about me that were naturally different, not defective.
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