Why Did I Get Married?-Chapter 5 from The Life of a Jewish Stripper, a Memoir
When I was around twenty-one or twenty-two, I was at a new job, a law firm which was really a glorified collection agency, and there I met my ex-husband, the most beautiful asshole of all the assholes in my life. It was love at first sight, or should I say lust. It didn’t matter to me that he was black. My family was already aware that I didn’t have a preference. I went for the cocky, arrogant assholes. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen up to this point, and in my mind, he resembled Denzel Washington, or to describe it best he was a cross of Denzel Washington and Mario Van Peebles. Around six foot four, lean, muscular but not too big. He carried himself with so much confidence, the way he walked, the way he talked. He stared at me like he was looking right into my soul, like he knew everything about me before I even said a word to him. He knew he was gorgeous, and he knew every woman he passed by wanted him.
He had a girlfriend he lived with (Yasim) in an apartment and their apartment complex had a pool and a jacuzzi. When he invited me over to his place on Labor Day weekend and his girlfriend was out of town, it was in that jacuzzi that I let my guard down and let him pull me toward him and kiss me. Yasim was Turkish and perfect with light brown hair, very chiseled features, gorgeous green eyes and beautifully tanned skin and what seemed like a perfect body. I felt like an ugly duckling next to her. But she didn’t seem to care that he was fucking everyone, and she was out of the house a lot, and I knew going after him was wrong. Actually, I guess she did care because they fought all the time and very often he would flirt with women right in front of her, but she wouldn’t leave him even after seven or eight years together no matter what nasty things he did or said to her. He wanted to marry her I know that for certain, but obviously she never accepted his proposals.
I knew even though no one ever told me, that going after another woman’s man was wrong. I became obsessed with him. The way he looked, the way he smelled, the way he dressed, the way he cooked and served me, the way he kissed, the way he fucked, the way he went down on me, everything about him.
What I didn’t realize right away was he treated every woman like she was a queen in the beginning. He made me feel beautiful and special and I ran after him like a dog in heat. There was a restaurant/bar in the same building where we worked, and he often hung out there after work. He would often buy a round for everyone who was hanging out after work, and I didn’t realize right away that he was an alcoholic and needed to keep the attention off of how much he was drinking. I would often go and hang out at the bar, hoping he would show me some attention and I started to try and compete for his attention. We had many attractive females that worked at our firm.
What I would later find out later is he fucked pretty much anything that had two legs. Even though he had this beautiful Turkish girl at home, he fucked anything, fat, thin, white, black, whatever it didn’t matter, he had to fuck everyone to show them how great he is. He flirted with every woman that passed his way. It never dawned on me at first that he may be gay or bisexual and he was fucking all these women to try to prove to himself that he’s not. I say this because he spent a lot of time with some friends who were either gay or seemed bisexual.
I thought it was adorable that he loved to cook for me or shop with me for clothes and dress me like a doll. He had all these rules how a woman should be that no one ever told me. “A woman should always have her nails done” he told me. He taught me about black hair products because I have this “Jewish” very curly, frizzy hair, and he told me I should be straightening my hair because it would make me so much prettier, he also taught me I should be waxing my face.
He would draw a bath for me and wash my hair and while doing it he would call me “still wet behind the ears” which I didn’t get at the time. I was in love or in lust, I would have done anything for him to leave his girlfriend for me. They had been together for seven years and apparently her family hated him. So, when her family forced her to go back to Turkey to get her away from him and marry someone there, it was now my chance. Even though he talked down to me, like a pimp who builds up a girl and then tears her down to fuck with her psyche. Giving back-handed compliments like “You’re so good at this, but you would be so much better if you did this”, or always telling me how I could do something better sexually. “Hold my dick like this” he would say or “Suck my dick this way”, it never ended.
Nothing was ever completely good enough for him. And I couldn’t talk to anyone about him because I wasn’t even supposed to be seeing him. Talking to my mother about relationships was out of the question and talking to her about a relationship with a black man was definitely a no-no. By this time, my mother had a new boyfriend. He was around the same age as her, very educated, and very racist, and my grandmother seemed to like him. They had many things in common, like the love of classical music, ballet and opera. He was some sort of computer programmer named Fred Guzman. My mother met Fred through a dating service. He was divorced. Before the days of dating websites, there were dating services. You would go and look at video tapes of different people and choose who you wanted to go on dates with. It was my suggestion because she seemed lonely.
At Thanksgiving dinner, he kept making N word jokes and I suspected they were all directed at me, and I didn’t understand since we are Jews why my mother didn’t seem to have a problem with this. For example, one joke was “What’s the difference between a nigger and a bucket of shit? The bucket.” These jokes started to remind me of one of my best friend’s fathers. My friend Carrie’s father used to make jokes like that even though he loved to listen to golden oldies by Motown groups, he would make those type of comments about black people and ended up teaching Carrie to be a bigot. But more about Carrie and her bigoted family later.
My grandmother was there but she didn’t understand or speak much English. I couldn’t say anything out of shock. I couldn’t believe he was saying these things and more so I couldn’t believe my mother was tolerating it. But he seemed to make her happy. At this point I was living with my beautiful asshole, and she was spending all her time with Fred.
To make a long story short, they were dating for a while and then supposedly he lost his job and asked to borrow fifteen hundred dollars from my mother, which she gave him like a fool, and he would pay it back when he got a new job. Of course, my mother never got her fifteen hundred back. I think he was the last straw for her with men. She seemed to stop trying to meet anyone after him. I think she was disgusted with men after Fred.
And of course, in the end it was all my fault. If I hadn’t suggested the dating service, she would have never met him, and he would have never fucked her over. So, I fucked up, it was all my fault that she should take a chance and try dating instead of being lonely. Once again in some way I fucked up her life. “Perhaps, had I not been born her life would have been better”, I thought. “Everything I touch turns to shit”, I thought.
By this time, my beautiful asshole and I were working and living together, except I was always madly jealous now. Every woman he saw he had to flirt with. Like I said, fat, thin, ugly, gorgeous, young or old, it didn’t matter. I was constantly watching. I thought about nothing else, except who he wanted to fuck or was fucking and refused to leave his side almost constantly for fear of who his dick was in. I thought I had been in love before, but this was a completely new level of feeling. I thought this must be true love if I can’t be away from him for even a second. I bought him gifts for Christmas and birthdays. I ruined my credit by taking him out to restaurants, lunch, dinner, whatever he wanted. I would do anything to be with him. I was the one wining and dining him. I would jump off a building if he told me to. He was/is into pornography big time, and coupled with my insecurities and sexual history, it was easy for him to show me what he liked, and I was ready to emulate the women in the magazines and porn movies.
In his opinion, he was educating me on life. Telling me what men wanted to see and how women should always be dressing sexy for their men like wearing thigh highs and thongs instead of panty hose and regular underwear and a bra and panties should always match and be sexy, and no one wanted to see “granny panties”. Wanting to please him I let him take me shopping (with my money and credit cards of course). He taught me that “A stiff dick has no conscience” and he told me that all men cheat “because no one wants to eat the same thing for dinner every night”, he said. But he seemed to have a stiff dick for almost anything that was breathing.
He especially wanted to see me with another woman, and I obliged. He was the first man to use a vibrator on me and not just any vibrator but one of those Hitachi vibrators that made me come almost instantly and I must have decided right then and there that a man who knew about all these things was the one for me. And he was the first to take me to a strip club. He was commenting on how sexy and beautiful the “dancers” were and I was extremely uncomfortable at first watching these women take off their clothes and take money for being naked. One of the dancers was the girlfriend of his youngest sister. She was very beautiful with long brown hair and a deep dark tan. She resembled his Turkish girlfriend a little and had a beautiful, lean body.
Anyway, we worked with a cute (at the time so I thought) blonde girl who was obviously intent on fucking him whether I was there or not, and he made it clear he would fuck her with or without me. She had a boyfriend which she lived with but that didn’t matter to her. A master manipulator, he was/is.
So, one evening after work she came over to our place while he was out. We had some wine and for the first time I kissed a woman, she seemed to be waiting for me to make the first move and I thought “it has to be me, this is what he wants”. I took her to the bedroom, I undressed her, I think I even asked her “Don’t you feel this is weird?”. Then I kissed her some more and played and sucked on her breasts, but rather than go down on her I used the vibrator on her. We were friends at first, but a few nights later she showed up at our apartment unannounced and clearly, they had a plan I was unaware of.
She had told me a few months back when we were going to Cancun (on my credit card of course) that she was so jealous.
Lydia, a girl at our work, said to me “You can’t always eat off a pretty plate”. And she was right. We became friends and later on I ended up spending a lot of time with Lydia. She was originally from Germany, very tall and very blonde, and Lydia thought she was black. She loved black men and had married a guy in the US military in Germany so she could come to the US and get her citizenship. She knew and understood men more than I ever did up to that point. She knew how to use men to get what she wanted from them. She tried to get me to get over my obsession with asshole, but no matter how hard she tried, I was intent that I would make him mine by any means necessary. For a while when I hung out with her she tried to get me to hook up with other guys, friends of her friends, but I refused. My obsession with asshole was unstoppable.
I don’t remember who did what to whom, he had us undress each other and it was basically him telling us what he wanted to see but I can tell you she got most of the attention and it was as if he was directing a movie that I wasn’t the star of. I wasn’t turned on by the whole thing at all. He was trying to force me to like women and all I wanted was the attention he had first shown me when it was just the two us.
I didn’t really like the way she felt or tasted. He had her bent over, fucking her from behind while she was pretty much pretending to go down on me. I did not have an orgasm that night as she was the star of the show. From then on, he wanted to repeat the whole thing with any halfway, decent looking girl we met and as much as I was willing to do it he still went out and fucked other women without me even though he had said “If you’re there with me it’s not cheating” and “No matter what I do, I will always come home to you”. That was his justification for cheating. He would come home drunk and high, and he had slapped me around more than once, yet I chose to put up with it because he was always sorry for what he did, and his beauty always blinded me. He pleaded each time he wouldn’t do it again, and I couldn’t imagine that I would ever find another man who was so beautiful who would want me.
When we were in Cancun, we spent the entire time at the swim up bar with him getting drunk and ogling the Canadian girls who were thin, blonde, and perfect. I felt like a second choice no matter how much I tried to follow all his rules of being his girl. But I had a thick body, dark hair, dark eyes and in my mind was never thin enough for him. I had gotten down to a size four and still thought I was fat. We didn’t go to see the pyramids in Mexico or go on any excursions. At night he just wanted to go to the local clubs like Senior Frog’s and watch me get up on the bar and dance while he was checking out all the other women and smiling at me as if I was getting his main attention. Mexico was such a beautiful setting that it was hard not to be horny when we were alone in the room, I felt beautiful and thought he was making love to me. But come daytime it was back to the swim up bar to watch the blondes frolic in the pool with each other, they would even kiss in front of everyone, and I knew then that he wasn’t making love to me, I was just a convenience.
During this time, my grandmother got very sick, and it turned out she had ovarian cancer. Now, because I was living with a black man, my mother and I rarely communicated. I don’t remember how or why but I was fired from my job at the law firm we worked for and not knowing what I would do to pay the rent got a job as hostess at a restaurant close by so I could walk there since we didn’t have a car. I sucked at hosting, I could never get the tables right or the rotation of the waiters and waitresses.
My mother never even stepped foot in our apartment before my grandmother got sick or after. At that time, I felt ashamed to be around my family and I rarely visited my grandmother while she was ill. And I was more concerned with making sure what he was doing when I wasn’t around or more like who he was doing while I was gone.
My grandmother died in October of ’93, I was twenty-three and my mother was taking care of her mostly by herself. My aunt had to come from Israel to help. For me, it was so difficult to watch my grandmother disintegrate, she was always so strong and in charge and to see her so weak was extremely hard for me. I knew I was being selfish and somehow in my mind the abuse I was taking from asshole was my punishment for not being there for my family during this time. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my grandmother, she was gone by the time I got to the hospital. All I wanted to do was to be numb. That’s what I told myself, that I somehow deserved the abuse. I assigned myself a penance for the sin of not being there for my family.
My biggest regret in my life is not that I don’t have children or a mate, it’s not saying goodbye to my grandmother, and I can only pray there’s a better world in which I will see her again.
Sometimes, when he was high or drunk, he wouldn’t even let me come in my own house and I would end up sitting on the stoop of the apartment building and crying until he let me in. He had all kinds of legal problems with DUI’s, and I think getting married for him was a way to show himself as a stable, responsible person. His family were bail bondsmen and he got into drugs in high school and then bailing out drug dealers was a perfect career path; it gave him access to drugs and money.
He apparently had lost his bail bonds license, probably over drugs, but he still carried the badge and liked to flash it and pretend it was real. He also called himself a bounty hunter, even though he had no such license either anymore. Once he even took me on hunt for a guy. He told me to dress in all black and that I wasn’t in any danger and that they would just have me knock on the door since the guy they were after would more likely open the door for a pretty girl then a bunch of guys. And that’s what I did, I knocked on the door and as soon as the door opened, they pushed me out of the way and pinned the guy down. If he was making money doing bounty hunting, I never saw it, only my money and credit cards were used to pay for everything, and I imagine his money was used to buy drugs and booze. Bounty hunting was also a great excuse for him to be out all night, yet he would come home drunk and high.
Just to give an idea of his family, his father abused his mother physically and fathered many illegitimate children during their marriage. He said his father also hit him and didn’t have a high regard of women, telling him “You can get some pussy up against a tree”.
What a lovely family I wanted to be part of rather than my own. I actually loved his mom, she’s one of the nicest people in the world. He introduced me to his whole family at the family reunion they had every year at their ranch. The first time I went there was when I first started seeing him and his Turkish girlfriend was there. I heard her call me a cow. I was about a size twelve then and didn’t think of myself as fat. I think every woman who had a child with his father was there with the child. This family took “Be fruitful and multiply” literally.
The core of the kids were his two sisters and two brothers from his mom and dad’s marriage. And on both sides, he had a huge extended family and I always wanted to be part of a large family and have a large family of my own. In fact, thinking back, all I ever wanted was to have my own big family because I had no siblings and being a child of divorce.
I thought of course that “dancing” was my idea but being the master manipulator, he was and me having no father figure in my life it was easy to convince me that I would be great at it. I already loved going out dancing, so why not get paid for doing what I love was my way of justifying it. I finally became what I thought he wanted, the girl always smiling and dancing. But inside, I was raging, crying, being a masochist. Blaming myself for not helping my mother, telling myself how selfish I am, hating myself for not being there. It was done and there was nothing I could do to take it back. My grandmother’s death was the first time I experienced someone close to me dying as an adult.
It was January of ’94. I would be twenty-four in two months. When we moved in together he told me we would be living as “just friends, you’re not my girlfriend”, and I told him I accepted that, but of course I hoped that he would change his mind once we were living together. I let him treat me like a piece of shit from the very beginning, because I felt like a piece of shit for not being there for my family. I knew exactly what and who he was/is.
That summer before I got fired from the law firm, we had two very attractive and apparently bisexual girls working there. Our apartment had two bedrooms, supposedly for guests like his younger brother. He made friends with these two girls and told them that we slept in separate rooms. One day it must have been a hundred degrees and he didn’t go to work that day. One of the girls had moved to North or South Carolina and she would be coming to visit her friend. The day before he was cleaning the apartment and rearranging some things. It was obvious that he had plans that didn’t include me.
He had spoken about the girl who had moved before we moved in together. She was a beautiful girl who was biracial with gorgeous curly dark blonde hair and caramel skin. He had told me “That she was a horny little thing”, who loved to play with her clit and that the two girls loved playing with each other. The other girl was also beautiful with straight dark brown hair and delicate features, and they were both very thin and in their early twenties.
That hot summer day when she came to visit, I thought I was having my period because I was bleeding like crazy. The other girl didn’t show up to work and it was clear to me that he was having the two over to our apartment for a menage-a- trois. I was feeling like shit, the bleeding was so bad, and I left work early, telling the boss I was sick, and I had every intention to go home and bust him in the middle of his tryst. But I was in so much pain and it didn’t feel like a normal period. I went to the hospital, and it turned out that I was having a miscarriage. By the time I got home, I chose not to tell him. I didn’t think it would matter to him. I suppose I should be thanking God that I never got pregnant by him again.
I was miserable and living with a sadist who loved to point out other beautiful women he wanted to fuck on a daily basis. It sickens me to think I wanted to have children with this man. What would he have done to our children? How much would we have fucked them up?
Truthfully, nothing can prepare you for being naked in a room full of strangers. No one tells you that in a strip club everything is amplified. The men, the women, all of their worst traits, and your own, come to the surface. No one tells you if you start off doing it sober there will come a point you have to be drunk or high or both to get through a night.
The first time I auditioned on stage at a local strip club in Georgetown, to my surprise, the girls were nice and told me I would be fine. I didn’t have any pretty outfits like they did. This was before the platform heels started to be popular with the dancers, so I wore my best black four- inch pumps and I wore a sexy bra and thong outfit. I was petrified. I was down to a size four by this time, I would occasionally do coke with him.
He wasn’t the first I did coke with, there was another guy before him, also a black guy, and he introduced me to it, but he didn’t play a major role in my life so he’s barely worth mentioning, he was a fling and I had asked him what it felt like to do coke and he said that you have to try it to understand. I had worked with him at another glorified law firm/collection agency before I met asshole. I used to go to happy hour across the street from our work and I started doing coke with him sitting in his car before we would go to the bar. One day, I don’t remember why, I had my mother’s car, and when I was leaving the garage I scratched a white column in the garage while backing out because I was so high and drunk. I lied to my mother and told her someone with a white car must have scratched the car while I was at work.
Anyway, getting back to “dancing”. I was so nervous, thinking I wasn’t pretty enough or thin enough and I didn’t know how to do any pole tricks or crawl on the floor the sexy way those girls did, I just loved to dance and that’s probably why it was easy to get me to do it. But I went out there and made about twenty dollars in ten minutes. When you’re new, the men always want to check you out. “Remember to always smile” he had told me before I went on stage. He was always schooling me on how a woman should be, how a dancer should be, how to fuck him right, how to suck his dick right, even how to hold his hand when we were walking together. Eventually he wanted anal sex and I never denied him anything. He claimed we had anal sex the first time we were together and that I was too drunk to remember but I’m certain I would have known the first time someone penetrated me anally. Given my first experiences with sex and being the people pleaser that I am, I was willing to do anything if I thought it would make him love me.
We had moved from our apartment to a new one in the middle of the night because he wasn’t paying the rent. I left everything in his control. I let myself ruin my credit by buying him anything he wanted, new furniture, new clothes, everything. Now all I had was him. And I was beating myself up for wanting another woman’s man. What looks good from the outside isn’t always what’s true. It was February of ’94, we had just gotten married, and we had no car, so I had to take the bus to get to the club, I had to switch buses and it probably took me an hour to get to work since we didn’t have enough money for me to take cabs. I got my exercise going up the escalator steps of the metro before I got my exercise on stage. At this point, he claimed he quit his job, but I suspect he was fired. “How much money did you make today?” was his favorite line which eventually became “Give me some money”. You certainly can’t eat off a pretty plate, but he ate plenty off my plate. Him being sober was a rarity, I don’t think he could get through a day without alcohol and drugs and as long as he had money, he got his alcohol and drugs. “My Niggy” he used to call me.
I don’t even remember exactly how he proposed that we get married, I believe he said something about his grandmother saying that “we were living in sin”. I was in a drug induced, drunken state myself by this point most of the time. I can’t even remember if he told me that he loved me, if he did it was rarely. He took me to a jewelry store, and we picked out some cubic zirconia ring and a real gold wedding band for him and he promised that one day he would get me a real diamond ring. Nothing was real, not our relationship, not our wedding, not our marriage, nothing! One of the girls at the club I got close with took me out the night before my wedding to a dance club. Her boyfriend and one of his friends went with us. I spent the night at my mom’s. Now, you should know that I basically paid for this wedding out of my own pocket.
I did not have a Jewish wedding. We got married at the church that his family owned by his preacher uncle where his father was a deacon, where his father fucked pretty much every woman in the church. They were/are a very religious Christian family, even built their own church, he had told me his grandfather on his dad’s side was a preacher and I suppose that’s why having a cross around his neck excused all his bad behaviors, because he was already saved. Though, I will give him credit, he never tried to convert me. None the less, he read a little of the bible every day, and being able to quote it whenever it was convenient and was quite the skill.
My mother only paid for my veil. My old friend Lana was kind enough to take me to pick out my dress.
February ’94, the day of the wedding, was the coldest day of the year, his friends and brothers were making jokes that hell must have frozen over for they never thought he would get married. I overheard the older of his sisters whisper at the wedding “Wow, she has the audacity to wear white”.
I woke up that morning with red hives on my face. I did not even want to go to the church. When I got there, I was crying, and Lana stormed in while my friend from the club was doing my make-up and yelled “What’s the problem?!” and “Everyone is waiting for you!”. Our wedding reception was at some night club we used to hang out at. I think we served pigs in a blanket at the church made by his mom. There weren’t many people at the wedding, a few of his friends and a few of mine. My side of the family consisted of my mom, her best friend and her husband (who gave me away) which, I consider my aunt and uncle. On his side, his brothers and sisters from his parent’s marriage. He was up all night coked up out of his mind with his brother and I saw some girl we knew jumping on him outside at our reception and practically dry humping him. It was the worst day of my life next to the day my grandmother died.
There was another club across the street from the one I started dancing at and he told me the girls made more money there, so obviously I went to audition there. “Show me your tits” was the first thing the manager said to me, I flashed my tits since by now I wasn’t shy, and I was hired. The girls seemed nice at first, but I wondered why some of them would never smile on stage or at all for that matter. Some were heroin or coke addicts, and it turned out so were their boyfriends. Some were just bitchy from dancing a long time, especially those who were older. By older I mean may be in their thirties or close to forty.
When I started dancing, it was my first in person encounter with fake breasts, which made me question my own even though girls told me mine were perfect. We even had a dancer who was around forty-five when I started. She had a boyfriend at one point who was a plastic surgeon, and she became his muse, and her breasts were gigantic. I mean huge, probably double the size of her head. As I understood, she had many surgeries and started with smaller ones and kept getting bigger. The rest of her body was perfect, she worked out religiously, but mostly now she was doing it to keep her back strong. She was studying to be a court reporter so she could quit dancing. I don’t know if she planned on getting them taken out and I didn’t dare ask but I wondered what that would look like in a court room, and I kept thinking no one in court would be able to focus on anything but her breasts.
We had one girl that always claimed to be studying to be a lawyer at Georgetown, but she seemed to be close to forty if not over and I think she had been dancing a long time. Other girls said they were studying medicine and another studying to be a massage therapist, and I guess the rest of us were just there for the cash.
When I wasn’t on stage, I loved watching some of the girls dance, they were so graceful. I would sit at an empty table with a drink and watch the best dancers do their pole tricks and then try to do the same tricks when it was my turn to dance. My body started to change and gain muscle and I started to believe that what I was doing was truly an art form. But it wasn’t easy to make money.
“Gentlemen” apparently really do prefer blondes with big breasts (real or not) and not many like the dark-haired exotic looking girls. The dark-haired girls always had to work harder, unless they were Asian or were super good at the pole tricks, so I worked on my pole tricks every chance. Also, if the girls looked like little, tiny teenagers it helped or if their bodies were waify and slim in my opinion, they earned more. I didn’t know anything about table dances at the time, or champagne rooms.
In D.C. where you were just doing your thing on stage and bending over or popping your leg up to show your pussy for a dollar. Those dollars added up to two or three hundred a night for 8 hours of work of which you were on stage for only fifteen or twenty minutes and then the rest of the time on a busy night we were upstairs in the dressing room. When I first started dancing, I thought I would kill myself going up those stairs and held on to the wall for dear life. The club would get so packed on Friday and Saturday night that there was no room at the tables for the us to sit with the customers, unless occasionally a celebrity came in. But the smartest girls with their perfect, fake breasts would find a way to be at their table.
The weekend nights we had to do the “cat call” or as we liked to call it “the parade”. We usually had ten or eleven girls per shift, may be less and there would be three or four of us coming to the stage to get the guys riled up. We all hoped there would be a bachelor party or two so we could all get some decent money out of them.
Our club was like a long hallway with wood paneling back then. There were three stages with maybe three seats on each side of each stage and there were seats across from the stages and an aisle between the stages and the seating across. Each stage had two poles on the two front corners and a top pole going across between the two and you could pull yourself up on that cross pole and swing back and forth. I learned to pull myself up on that pole and my arms got nice and muscular from doing that. During the day shift they served lunch and pun intended here, often the customer were eating meat while looking at our meat. The bar was at the very end of the hallway and the kitchen downstairs. A guy could not just walk to the bar and get his own drink, you had to order through a waitress and there were usually three or four. The waitresses would bitch about bad tippers just like the “dancers”. It was a hole in the wall and the best club to see pussy a couple inches from your face if you came to the stage to tip.
We didn’t have a DJ; we had a juke box and our manager played lots of country music because he believed the club sold more beer if the customers were listening to country. Very often some of the girls would play certain music on purpose to put another girl in a bad mood so not as many customers would go to tip her at the stage during her set.
We didn’t get many celebrities as our club was not the “echelon” of the D.C clubs but our club was considered one of the best in the city. We got lots of roadies from famous bands who were looking for girls to party with and by party, I mean fuck for money, and drugs clearly went with that. I wouldn’t name the celebrities that came in for fear of someone saying I slandered their name.
One celebrity, a famous comic and actor, came in on a Saturday during the day shift. His limo was sitting outside, and it was obvious that he was on coke, and he was a terrible tipper, he kept going out to the limo to do some lines.
Some of the girls were sitting with him and he was nice enough to give one of my “friends” back-stage passes to a Rolling Stones concert which somehow my ex-asshole of a husband was able to get from her so the two of us could go. Maybe she had to work that night, I really don’t remember, we lived with her for a short while, we were moving around a lot, staying with some of the girls who I became “friends” with since he couldn’t save enough money for an apartment by this time. They weren’t really my friends, I imagine they felt sorry for me being with this guy that used me like an ATM machine, though I wasn’t the only one that had problems with my man.
The concert was ok, I only knew the Rolling Stones hit songs and they were promoting a new album, so I didn’t know but one hit song that was playing on the radio all the time and we didn’t have seats, we only had the backstage passes, so we were just walking around between the rows. There was a buffet and drinks backstage and there was a row of celebrities just standing in a procession greeting line and they shook everyone’s hand as we passed by them. The only one I remember clearly was Jack Nicholson standing there and my ex was beside himself that he got to touch his hand. Jack was wearing a fishing hat with sunglasses, and he looked like he was thinking to himself “yeah, yeah, you got to shake my hand, move along, next asshole”.
But my moment of awe at the concert was when I went to the bathroom backstage, and I saw the band sitting in a room right before the show across from the bathroom. I wanted so badly to go say hello just to be able to say I met them, but I was so awestruck and thought they won’t give a shit who I am, and they’ve probably met thousands of people who told them how awesome they are.
To really tell the truth, asshole was a crack head by now, or maybe he always was. The girl we were staying with was too. When we would get home from work or other times, they would sit in her walk-in closet and smoke their crack. And again, we had this ridiculous ongoing argument that he would quit crack and coke if I quit smoking. I suspected that if I was working and she was off, they were probably at home smoking crack and fucking, he was always slapping her ass. Her nickname for me was “Jewel of the Nile” because my “dancer” name was Julia, the name my grandmother had wanted to name me or in Russian, Yulia. Julia became my alter ego. Julie as everyone ended up calling me, enabled me to step out on stage naked with confidence and be as good as any of the other girls.
Well, one night after I got home, I was taking a bath, she came in the bathroom and locked the door and somehow got me on the bathroom floor and was trying to go down on me while he was screaming at her to open the door and that she shouldn’t be doing that without him present. She was not the prettiest girl in the world, but she had this great ass that everyone seemed to love. It was like a perfect little peach shape. I wasn’t enjoying whatever she was trying to do and finally got up and unlocked the door and left. He seemed very jealous of the fact that she got me alone and did not include him.
But I was not attracted to her. I really had not had one experience with a woman without him being present and knowing I was only an accessory in the room I was never turned on. I did not enjoy the taste of pussy no matter how pretty it looked to him. And I was never able to orgasm because it all felt so orchestrated. In fact, on one incident, we brought a girl home in Hawaii, and she was about to go down on me when suddenly she ran to the bathroom and puked. I told myself she must have been really drunk because I would have hoped by now if my pussy stunk someone would have told me. No matter how much he tried to make me be with women, I had no interest in eating pussy and maybe that was the problem when I was dancing. A lot of the girls were bisexual, and I just wasn’t into it. That, however, may have been because I was being pushed and it wasn’t something that felt natural to me.
Now, going back to the club, there were many girls who preferred to work on weekdays and day shifts. They liked doing their required set on stage and then sit with “their” customer who came strictly to see them and only give them money. I was so young and stupid; I had no idea until I saw for myself that sometimes these girls let the customers finger their pussy under the table or any idea that they were giving blow jobs in the parking lot or meeting them at hotels.
I don’t want to say that all the girls were being whores. Some girls were just great talkers. They would sit with a guy the entire afternoon after doing their set and milk him for every dollar he came in with. However, you have to ask yourself, if a guy say for instance, bought a girl a Corvette, did he do it out of the goodness of his heart or was the girl fucking him for money?
But if a guy tried to jerk off under the table while a girl was dancing on stage, he was a pervert that had to go. The girls would scream for the bouncers to throw him out. On one occasion, a guy must have said something nasty about one girl and she hit him with a beer bottle over the head and that son of a bitch went and called the cops and had her arrested. What an asshole!
It always irritated me that my asshole would come to the club while I was working. He would either sit there and chat with the bouncers or the DJ’s and of course with some of the girls. Once, after we ended up moving to Hawaii after California, he had a girl sitting on his lap while I was on stage, and he was smiling so sadistically and enjoying it, knowing that he was pissing me off.
I was so green and clueless. I had no idea what was going on at clubs that had table dances or champagne rooms. Though bouncers were always telling customers to keep their hands off the girls, the girls would still let customers get a finger or two in here and there or get their tits in their face. If you paid a bouncer enough you could get away with anything in a champagne room.
A few months after I started dancing, a girl I’d never seen before at work told me about a club in Connecticut where you could make a lot of money. My ex-asshole wanted to move to San Francisco and told me how beautiful it was there and of course being the people pleaser I am, I suggested we go to Connecticut so we could check out this club and make lots of money.
Before we left for Connecticut the girl we had been living with threw us a small going away party. I’m certain the asshole was very high and drunk, I was drunk on pink champagne, and I don’t remember what we got in a fight about, perhaps him paying too much attention to one of my coworkers.
Somehow it got physical, and I actually punched him in the face. Next thing I knew he had twisted my right shoulder and I was in excruciating pain, and I had to go to the hospital. They told me my shoulder was disjointed by not dislocated. I was supposed to keep my arm in a sling, but he forced me to go to work anyway, I may as well had been a whore whose pimp forces her to work no matter what. It wasn’t the first time I was sick or not feeling well that he threatened to leave me if I didn’t go to work. Once, another incident, we had a fight about something, and he reached in his brief case and tore up our wedding license.
In Connecticut I got schooled on the table dances and champagne rooms. I don’t know what other girls were doing in the champagne rooms. At first, I would just do my dance and get the hell out of there before someone even got a chance to ask that I do more. And at this point I feared that if I ever let another man touch me, the asshole would find out and kill me or at the least rough me up as he didn’t need much excuse.
At the club in Connecticut, they had special nights when touring porn starts would come to dance, apparently they had to do this to supplement their movie income and I saw the way their husbands were also their managers and that’s when I realized how much they were like my ex, always orchestrating everything, taking their money, feeding them drugs. That’s when he mentioned that I could do the same, telling me I could make movies with just girls, and “we” could make a lot of money so we could save it and get our own place. He was always watching girl on girl porn and looking at porn magazines and pointing out what he found pleasing about the women in them.
Once in Connecticut, at the end of the night, I was drunk and a porn star named Candy who wore a long, curly blonde wig, accosted me as I was trying to leave the stage. Somehow, she got me to lay down on the stage and started to go down on me. It was closing time and my ex was watching from upstairs in the DJ booth and egging her on. She was biting my clit and it felt awful. The bar tenders and waitresses, and anyone who had not left the club yet was watching. I was sickened by her, I’m not sure why, perhaps as with many others, I just did not find her attractive and she was doing nothing that felt good, and I didn’t enjoy everyone watching. I think before she came to town, he showed me one of her movies where she was popping out a grape with her pussy. “What a wonderful talent to possess”, I thought.
The club was BYOB at the time, you could bring your own beer and keep it behind the bar. The law prevented complete nudity. We didn’t get naked on stage, only for table dances and champagne rooms. Our dressing room was in the lady’s bathroom so most of us had put our make-up on before we got to the club.
Downstairs, where the champagne rooms were, they also had a boxing ring and girls would do bachelor party shows in it like jello or mud wrestling and of course girl on girl sex.
It was actually harder to make money because you had to walk around the club and talk to the guys and ask them to go upstairs for a table dance or spend a hundred bucks on a champagne room. The guys didn’t really come to the stage to tip, there were some seats around the stage but mostly the men sat right at the stage when we had a guest porn actress, otherwise they would sit further away.
I didn’t have the gift of gab like some girls. By now I knew how to do some pole tricks and I expected the men to be impressed with them, I could even do sit ups hanging upside down on the pole. But the men in Connecticut for lack of a better word, mostly wanted whores, eventually dry humping was as far as I’d go.
We ended up living in a motel that was next to a diner for a couple months. The owner of the motel was also a porn addict and I found out eventually that he had cameras in some of the rooms when girls turned tricks. I didn’t realize at first that we were staying not far from a very rich and ritzy part of Connecticut, and I have no idea how he was able to save enough for our plane tickets to California. On our wedding invitations we even asked people (I’m ashamed to say) that we’d appreciate monetary gifts as we were planning on moving to California so we couldn’t travel with the gifts.
He knew how to put lovely dreams in my head, but I must have known somewhere in my heart those dreams would never be a reality. It’s really sick but I remember thinking before the wedding “Well, if it doesn’t work out, we’ll just get divorced”. What normal person thinks like that? Well, maybe a lot of people, considering the divorce rate. I walked around with a fake diamond ring and fake wedding band, and a fake smile to match. He loved saying “my wife” but I knew when he said it, he was saying that I was his property.
He told me he lived in San Francisco for a short time with his Turkish girlfriend and how I would just love San Francisco since we both loved being around water. Wanting to be a good wife and please him of course “whatever he wanted”, I told myself. I would do anything if I thought it would make him love me more or love me at all. He talked about how beautiful California was and how great it would be to raise kids there.
