The girls were encouraged to show up at 7 p.m. If you showed up at 7 p.m. your house fee was only $25. The house fee went up $5 every half hour. But I always showed up around 9:30p.m. and paid a $50 house fee. That’s because the club was dead before 11.
I spent very little time in the dressing room because I prepared my look at home: a cat eye with heavy black liquid liner, perfect faux lashes, a little blush, lip gloss, and my hair curled. Underneath an attention-deflecting outer shell of sweatpants, t-shirt, and black hoodie I wore black lingerie complete with black thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. Once in the dressing room, I’d quickly take off the outer shell, fold and tuck it into my backpack. Then I would fasten the ankle straps of my lucite platforms, spritz Dream Angels Heavenly into my hair, pull my red garter two-thirds up my right thigh, and walk back into the dimly lit 10,000 square feet of carpeted night club.
I would walk over to the DJ booth in the corner and check in. He’d write my name on a list, adding me to the stage lineup. Sometimes I would give him a new cd, “GINGER” written on it with a black marker. I always tipped him out well, and in exchange he always played my music during my set. This ensured I wouldn’t have to dance to that nightmare trend of the early 2000s known as “nu metal.” (Staind, Linkin Park, Godsmack, Korn, Limp Bizkit, Sevendust, Coal Chamber, Taproot, Papa Roach, fucking Drowning Pool, et al.)
Then I’d stop by the bar and get a clear plastic cup of ice water. The bartender would put one of those tiny black straws in it so it looked like a real drink. And then I would go sit at a small, high table against the wall and look around at who I had to work with. I sipped my water and watched whoever was on the stage.
Either I would wait for my turn in the spotlight or a customer would approach me and say “Do you work here?”
Usually I would sit there for thirty or forty minutes until the DJ called for Ginger. 10 o’clock was a good time to take the stage because the people were coming in, getting drinks, taking a seat, and weren’t yet buzzed enough to want a private dance.
Each set was two songs, and the top had to come off during the second song. I’d usually start my night off with Crazy on You by Heart and Hazy Shade of Winter by The Bangles. Older men were at the club this time of night, and these songs were nostalgic and familiar to them. After drinking alone for an hour through nu metal, what middle-aged man wouldn’t welcome six minutes of 70s/80s rock and roll?
I always enjoyed the stage time. I wasn’t anything special on the pole, but I could do some basic spins. I spent most of the time at the edge of the stage, smiling and making eye contact with the customers, letting them slip their ones and fives underneath my garter.