Stripping Dignity

“Let’s go Monica! Let’s go! This is your music. On the stage! Go!” hustled Tony and clapped his hands to emphasize the urgency of his hurry. The Plexiglas stairs leading on the stage were clear and treacherously slippery even without the disadvantageous Mexican tatter restricting my vision and mobility. As I was gingerly descending, Tony’s voice was escorting me all the way down vehemently advertizing my stripping innocence. “Fresh and new! All the way from Europe. Never danced before!” At one point I temporarily lost my footing and desperately grasped the glossy plastic hand-railing for dear life. My hand slid about ten inches down the useless handrail but I managed to regain my balance with grace of a drunk in a skating ring. That was a close one! Once I reached the stage and unloaded Angel’s blanket, I came to realize that all eyes in the audience were set on me with high expectations. Tony was playing a tune about cocaine suitable more for Woodstock biker crowd than a sexy striptease as my first song but that was the least of my worries. I decided to kick off my shoes and go nuts with outdated disco groove. My lavish display of athletics would’ve made John Travolta proud but seriously clashed with the rock beat blasting from huge speakers. Although I didn’t realize it then, Saturday Night Fever was a thing of the past and a more discriminating crowd would’ve booed me off the stage or worse; aim for me with some rotten fruit. Nevertheless, these guys were cheering as if I was the Mata Hari reincarnation which fortified my newborn courage and gave me wings. “Take it off!” screamed one of the more juvenile looking spectators most likely armed with a generous amount of liquid courage. He was fondling his chest in such an expressive way; there was no chance of misunderstanding about his burning desire to see God’s gift to my femininity. “I wanna see some tits!” shouted another highly intoxicated boob man. This guy’s interpretation of breast fondling would’ve the founder of pantomime turn over in his grave. Even though I was still somewhat semi-clothed in Shoushou’s disobedient hand-me-down, my entertaining efforts were rewarded by applause suited for a lead performer in the Nutcracker. More skin exposure generated more clapping and whistling. More vigor in my dance routine prompted more audience participation and cheers. I gave it my best. Without as much as a pause the cocaine song smoothly mutated into another unfamiliar tune shouting about some Layla. Regardless of what my choice of music might’ve been if I wasn’t rescued by Tony, the crowd seemed to love it and some even hummed along the lyrics. I briefly wondered how my beloved Abba would’ve measured up around here and decided not to put it to test in the future. “Take it off! Take it off!” roared the audience during my second song. I regarded the audience’s wish my command and completely dismantled Shoushou’s useless bra. My nipples were peaking through the sides already but the hint of stripping off a garment set the audience into frenzy. I wasn’t teasing I was just clumsy. The thought of baring my breasts in front of all these men was making me hyperventilate and I moved like a remote controlled robot. It was one of a kind out of body experience and I don’t recall much except struggling with strings and tripping over my pumps. One thing I recall though was the incredible round of applause I harvested after the farce I pulled off on that stage. Than I was back in the change room where Tony thoughtfully tucked a cigarette into my trembling lips as if I was a war amputee. I never told him that smoking was a think of the past for me and gratefully murmured words of gratitude for reigniting my old bad habit. For some reason inhaling the toxin permeated tobacco reinstituted my heart beat back to the medically acceptable zone and stabilized my Pomeranian panting back into a human breathing pattern. As much of a panacea for nerves the cigarette seemed to be, it didn’t work for perspiration. Drenched from head to toe, I sweated like a barn door in a Texas ranch. “Relax, Monica. You did great,” praised Tony on the way back to the DJ booth. I thanked him quickly and clenched my teeth back together to prevent them from chattering. Same technique I used for smoking without biting the cigarette in two. “It’s too hot on the stage,” sympathized one of the French dancers from Shoushou’s gang and handed me a communal blow-dryer. “Don’t dance so fast,” she advised without sounding offensive. “Dance slow, sexy. Jumping around the stage… not sexy,” she lectured wisely. “And never, never take your shoes off,” she stressed with the gravity of a stripping guru. “I danced just like you when I first started,” she glanced back in time, ”but remember you’ll have to last all night! Save your energy, you’ll need it.” I kept blow-drying my body until my sweat glands surrendered and went dormant. Now I was to go ‘on the floor’ to make ‘real money’ as Tony said. “They loved your show and they’ll pay for private dances,” he predicted enthusiastically.” So I gathered my courage and went back downstairs to the bar. After all, the crowd was very encouraging and my taut nerves had sprung back to orthodox sanity altitude. Not in a million years I would’ve surmised such a positive feedback to my burlesque malpractice. Just before I reached Shoushou to seek approval and possibly recollect myself for the next upcoming bottle, I realized that I was being pursued. “Hey! You! Are you the one dancing on the stage just now?” I turned around to come face to face with a corpulent waitress forcefully stuffed into a micro dress. The strange looking woman closely resembled one of my grandfather’s homemade sausages I grew up on. A karakul burka would’ve been a more flattering choice of wardrobe for this poor lady old enough to me my grandmother. “Your name is Monica, right?” she hissed with warmth of an Arctic glacier steeped in a familiar Eastern European accent. I nodded. “Come with me!” the sausage ordered with the expertise of a senior Nazi SS Commander. “My customer wants you to dance for him!” My initial patriotic excitement about a fellow countrywoman was immediately extinguished by the waitress’s crass reply to my enthusiasm to get acquainted. “None of your business where I’m from,” she barked in return with an apparent superiority complex. “I’m here to work. Not to make friends with you!”