So I'm a dancer. Or at least I'm supposed to be! I sure didn't feel like one, but I knew I needed to look and act like one.

I was really sweating it, to say the least. I knew I had some music lined up and costumes to wear, but I was still nervous. I like everything to be completely organized and planned out, especially when I go into an unknown situation. So I like to be in control; who doesn't? My shift started at 8 but I was getting ready more than 2 hours in advance and STILL felt rushed. I knew it wouldn't always be so hectic and nerve-racking, but right then it didn't matter. And talk about an added stress: I got my period at 6pm. Damn. What a sight I was!

There I am sitting in the bathroom yelling, "Eric! Damn! I knew something like this would happen!" His response, "Just be glad it happened now and not 4 hours from now while you're dancing." Good point, but I still didn't feel any better. Now, for those who might find this topic leaves them feeling a bit squeamish, just move on, skip two paragraphs down, and it'll all be okay. I had read on ZBone's website that dancers with their periods should use a tampon and cut the string short, tucking any extra up inside. Having never done such a thing, I had no clue. Although those instructions were pretty self-explanatory I was worried it might actually be an exact science or something, so I broke out the tampons, a tape measure, and my scissors. I figured -- and God only knows why -- that I should measure the string and try to cut it first. Well, since I use the applicator type of tampon that really prevents access to the string until after it's placed, I pretty soon realized just how dumb I could be (almost as dumb as when I high-centered my car on a curb in an office parking lot, but that's another story).

Okay, so I placed the tampon, cut the string somewhere that looked like it was probably mid-length, then grabbed a mirror to better monitor the "tucking" part. Ever try to hold a mirror in one hand while holding your pussy lips open and tucking a string inside yourself with the other? Nope? I didn't figure as much. Well, neither had I and I was doing a poor job of it. I'm panicking because now I'm paranoid about the time this is taking and I haven't showered or anything yet. Oh God, oh God, oh God! "Eric! I know I swore this was one thing I'd never let a guy see me do, but this is a crisis situation," I call excitedly from the bathroom. "How can I help?" he asks as he cautiously peers around the corner of the door jamb. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wearing nothing but my t-shirt, with my knees apart and the mirror in my hand, I ask if he could hold the mirror for me. "Uh, sure." He patiently holds the mirror while I reattempt to tuck. He quietly says, "You know you'll be just fine, don't you?" If it were physically possible, I'm sure steam would have poured from my ears in complete exasperation. "How can you say such a thing?" I demand, as if he's told me my head will likely pop off in the middle of the stage before the end of the night. "It's just I know you'll be fine," he says. Sigh. "Okay, can you see anything there? It would glow under black light if I don't get it totally out of sight." And Eric stares intently at my spread-eagle crotch like he's examining a collector's postage stamp.

Showered, packed, and ready to go, I take off to the club, once again praying I don't run into my roommate as I head out the door looking like a painted hussy.

The club is dark -- really dark. All I can see as they close the door behind me are my glowing white sneakers again. The eyes adjust slowly as I make my way across the floor with as much confidence as I can muster. I'm inside now. No friends. I feel lost. Worse, I feel stupid. What am I doing here? Put that aside, girl, you don't have time to be concerned about that. And off to the dressing room I go.

At Ecstasy, the dressing room is all the way to the back of the club. It's a 90 degree turn to go in and there's a curtain to keep the light from permeating the rest of the club as well as cut down on any looky-loos who might decide to try to wander that direction. I go in and look around for an open spot to put my bag and get ready. There aren't many. The dressing room is long and narrow with 1/3 taken up by a small bunch of lockers, a payphone, and some space to hang items on hangers near the door. The rest of the room on both sides has a wooden shelf nailed to the wall at desk height with several fairly beat up kitchen type chairs that serve as a vanity area in front of the mirrors. One of the shelves is starting to come off the wall at one end. At the far end of the room, running perpendicular to the length of the room, are some steep plywood steps that lead to the stage and DJ area. Figuring I am the new girl and not sure of my status, I set up shop on the floor near the hangar area. "Don't piss anybody off," I remind myself. "Just be nice, smile a lot, and everything will be fine." I pull out my makeup bag to put on my lipstick, then remember I should put that on last so I put that back. I pull out my shoes and then realize I won't need those until after I put on my clothes. -sigh-- I look like an idiot, not knowing what to pick up next. The other girls there know exactly what they are doing and it's all old hat to them. I pull out my body lotion and started putting it on, rubbing it in places most women never have to worry about. How often do you put lotion on your butt? I get into something appropriate for walking around the club in, put on my shoes and grab my little dancer purse. I lock up my bag and head for the DJ booth. Oh, duh! I forgot the danged lipstick. Back into the bag. Okay, let's try this again. Back to the DJ booth, navigating the plywood stairs, I need to pay my stage fee.

Ecstasy is a club that considers dancers independent contractors and requires the dancer to pay a stage fee up front. I pony up the $30 and remind myself I only have to do 2 dances to break even after tip out. I can get 2 dances no problem, I tell myself. But of course breaking even isn't the point for the club; I'm supposed to be making money for them, so I know that 2 dances isn't really my goal. Oh, no pressure here at all. I settle up with the DJ and ask how the rotation works. I find out it's on a first come first serve basis. I guess I should have come see him the moment I walked in the door. Oh well, I know for next time.

"Did they show you the club and explain the rules to you when you auditioned?" he asks. "Yeah, sort of," I reply, "but it would be really good if you could go back over it with me." He takes me to the booth areas nearest the dressing room first. There are two of them and they are occupied so we just pass by them as he makes note that they exist. We go to the main private dance area near the front of the building and through the curtains. As we enter, he informs me never to go into the private dance area with a customer until the previous song ends or it will be counted as a full dance by the floater and I'll be charged for it. We walk into one of the booths. The booths are more like mini rooms than anything else, each with a leather (or more likely vinyl) sofa. He explains the dances are $50 each and I should try to get paid up front since some guys might try to stiff me. "The only thing we can do is throw the guy out. And you'll still owe the club for its cut of the dances whether you get paid or not." I take this all in, quite seriously, realizing I can't afford to cover the club's 40% cut of too many $50 dances. He walks over to a little carpeted step stool in the far end of the booth and says, "You have to step up onto this box before you start your dance. There's one in every booth. We are technically a theater and the law says we can only do full nude dances if they start from a stage. That," he says, pointing to the little box, "is your stage." I nod in understanding, hoping I'll remember. He explains what contact is allowed and what isn't, making particularly clear what parts of the guy are off limits to any body contact, especially by the dancer's hands. I nod again. "Any questions so far?" I shake my head. "Now keep your ears open for the stage rotation because you still need to do your stage set unless you've got a customer back here getting a lot of dances. If you're just doing 2 or 3 dances, I'm not going to skip you. You need to get on stage." My mind boggles and I wonder how the heck I'm going to be able to keep track of the rotation while still giving a really good lap dance in the booth. And worse, how do I explain that to the guy I'm dancing for? "When you finish dancing for a customer, you need to step out of the booth immediately so the other girls can use it if they need it. And you get redressed over here by the curtain," he says, indicating the curtain to the entrance to the private dance area. "You can't come back out onto the floor until you're dressed." Again I nod. "Once you're dressed, you need to come back over to the DJ booth and settle up your dances with the house as soon as you can. Saves time at the end of the night." We head out of the private area and walk back over to the DJ booth. All this information was conveyed in the span of less than 3 1/2 minutes.

I wander around the club incredibly nervous. I decide I should watch the other girls awhile and lay low. I'm paranoid I'll forget or not hear the names of the dancers who are right in front of me in the rotation and that I won't be ready for my stage set. I've never been good with names and faces anyway so I am really concerned now. I end up heading back to the dressing room way early for my stage set and get into my zipper dress that had served me so well in my audition.

One dancer is telling another dancer some story about another club and how it sucks really bad there. She then turns my direction and says, "Hey, don't tell all your dancer friends to come dance here, please, nice new dancer girl. Okay?" I'm floored and honestly don't know what to say. I'm pleased she called me nice. I'm frankly still in awe of her gorgeous long brown curly hair and lean dancer body as she stands there in a red and black dress with criss-crossing tie strings across the back. She would tower over me in height even without her platform dancer heels on, but with them, I'm positively dwarfed. I smile. "Well, I don't really have any friends who dance right now so I guess that's not a problem." I sound stupid. I wish I were more confident. Julianna smiles back and says, "It's just hard enough to make money around here as it is without more girls coming in and making it harder." Oh. My courage sinks even lower. "Well, it's just me so..." I trail off.

Another dancer is getting dressed next to me and asks me where I've danced before. I explain this is my first time dancing. I then tell her about getting my period at the last minute and having been in a panic. "I'm still really paranoid about too," I continued. "I hope it doesn't leak. That would be awful."

"I remember the first time I cut the string on a tampon and then it got all up inside me and I couldn't find the end of it," she recounted. "I was fishing around and couldn't get it. I got so upset that I went to the emergency room to get it out. I didn't know I could have just squeezed on my muscles really hard and it would have been forced out mostly on its own."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like much fun," I said.

"Nope," she concurred as she stood and turned to another dancer. "Jolene, can I use your curling iron? My hair has gone totally flat."

I am waiting for my song to start. The dancer on stage before me comes back through the curtains naked, carrying her clothes and a handful of dollar bills. I step back to get out of her way, but she still brushes into me and I apologize feeling completely awkward. "It's okay," I think. "I know I can do the stage thing. I proved it during audition." The DJ announces my name and I walk out onto the stage with the biggest smile I can muster. Once again, Mustang Sally leads me off and I head from the back stage across the short center section to the front stage.

At this point it might be good to describe the stage at Ecstasy. The entire stage is shaped like an old fashioned barbell, with a thin section in the middle and two lollipop shaped stages at either end with one pole in the center of each. Typically, only one section of the stage - the front stage -- is in use unless the club gets a big crowd. The center skinny portion must be traversed to get to the front stage (like a runway) and it is lower than the rest of the stage, forcing the dancer to step down to it, then back up at the other end. It was while walking down this runway that I reminded myself I'm a dancer. I got to the other end and started to dance. My only pole move came out quickly: grab the pole and swing around it, leaning out as I went. I felt sexy again, and the guys at the rail smiled back as I made eye-contact. I was getting into the throaty sounds of The Commitments and undulating my hips in time to the music. The zipper starts to slide upward a few inches on the one side and that's good. It's time to get a little assistance with my dress, and so I enlist the help of one of the guys at the rail. He's got very wavy sandy blonde hair that looks a bit overdue for a haircut, and a blue plaid short sleeved shirt on. He grips the zipper tab at my sleeve end and pulls it down my arm to my waist. He seems reasonably impressed and continues down my body. And then hits a little snag at my hip. The zipper had started to go up from the bottom, and at that point the two tabs of the zipper met. Now that wouldn't have been a big deal, except he pulled a little too hard before I could straighten out and this promptly sucked a portion of the skin on my hip into the zipper. Groan. Ouch. But you can't show signs of a problem; you're on stage. He continues to pull and comments, "I think it's rusty. Heheh!" I'm about to die now so I relieve him of his duties as zipper puller and attempt to extricate myself from my dress as gracefully as possible. It wasn't pretty. I get the other zipper undone and slide out from the other side. The song ends and I pick up my tips, retreating to the back stage near the DJ booth with my dress. The DJ gets my attention, "Hey, Élan, you can't let the customers touch you at all!" Oh. Shoot. I look at him blankly, "I didn't know that. Okay."

My second song starts and I notice other dancers are watching me. "Great. Just what I need." I do some slow floor work, trying to keep the reddened portion of my zipper-demolished hip out of view as much as possible. I kneel at the rail, showing my very closely cropped crotch to the men there, and taking advantage of the position to pray nothing else goes wrong.

I survive the second song and head back to the dressing room to figure out a way to cover up my hip. It's amazing what you can do with makeup! I tell myself that this is all part of the learning process and it will all just get better. I've got to get back on the floor and see if anyone wants a dance. I smile in the mirror at myself in my little black open mesh knit shirt with little black thong. "See? You look great! Now go get 'em." I troop out to the floor determined to do my best.

I talk with a few guys. None are interested in a dance. Well, that's okay. I figured on that. I sit down to talk with an older guy wearing a T-shirt and shorts sitting away from the stage who asks my name and starts some small talk. We discuss at length various subjects, one of them being my newness to dancing. He tells me I'm doing great and holds my hand. Occasionally he brushes it against his leg. I ask if he might be interested in a dance and he tells me, "in a little bit. I'd like to talk first." We talk about all sorts of things including his recent retirement. He asks about my name and I explain its origin. "So you like cars?" he asks. "You could say that," I answer with a little demure smile on my face. "I'm a big racing fan and have attended 3 performance driving schools." I'm beaming now. He seems interested. I then realize it's getting back around to my turn in the rotation. Explaining that I need to do my next stage set, I withdraw my hand from his, make my apologies and head for the dressing room, but not until after he makes me promise to come right back after.

While in the dressing room I start to talk with one of the other dancers, the only black girl in the club. She has pierced nipples and is very shapely. She has on a floor length mostly see-through dress in a green-brown camouflage motif. I never thought camouflage could be attractive, but she made it look downright yummy. "Girl, don't waste your time on that guy. If he hasn't gotten a dance yet, he never will," she says to me. "Oh, you really think so?" I ask honestly. "Well, maybe. He said he wanted one, but just not yet." I am a bit incredulous since he was being so nice. Why would he lie?

I do my next stage set and return to my new found friend who picks right up where we left off discussing cars. He starts to tell me about his most recent acquisition: a few year old convertible Cadillac of a model I really had never particularly liked even when it was new. As I recalled, the reviewers all said it was plagued with various problems with all of its many gadgets and didn't live up to the handling claims Cadillac had touted of it. Really, it was just a gussied up Buick, but with none of the Buick's good points. He goes on to tell me how young the car makes him feel, how driving a real sports car turns him on, and about some woman he'd managed to whisk away for a weekend in it. He then tells me how good I'd look in the car. My face falls inside, but I smile anyway and say that I'm sure it's a lovely car, but I really prefer my Miata. More time has passed while we've talked and he asks if I'd like to see the car. I can't leave the premises until the end of shift, and explain that to him. "Maybe you could give me your number and I could call you?" "No, I could get fired for that. They have very strict rules here," I respond. "Besides, I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that very much," I add, giggling. We talk a little more and he cajoles a little more. The DJ walks by (who also does the job of floater at Ecstasy) and tells me they need me for the stage, as they have to skip a couple of dancers. I head for the back, change to another outfit, choosing something white and shimmery. The black light makes white glow, remember? Soft and slow music this time with lots of time on the floor. My knees feel a little sore. I finish my set and go back to the Cadillac guy determined to get my dance. He said he was interested and I did talk to him like he asked, right? I sit down and ask, "So are you ready for that dance now?" "Sure, but I really would rather get my dances outside the club. I feel funny about getting them here. I can't relax. Maybe I could take you for a ride in my car sometime and we could have dinner?" I smile, weakly now. "You know I can't. It's a lovely offer, but... So what do you say we go get those dances here instead?" "Oh, really, you're lovely, but I just can't," he counters. "It's much later than I realized and I have to get going. Will you be here next week?" I smile again. "God willing," I reply.

Lesson #1: If they don't get a dance within about 3 songs, they probably never will. If you choose to keep talking, do it knowing that it's only for your own edification. If you enjoy it, that's great, but remember the club might not like it and you could find yourself in the red in a club like Ecstasy.

The next guy I talk to is really cute. He's in his early to mid 20s, dressed well in a dark sport coat with dark twill pants, and he looks at me with a fire in his eyes. We talk only briefly, and he wants to dance. We head to the back, I take off my clothes, stepping briefly on the "mini stage" in the private booth as I undress. I start to dance for him. He's wearing the same cologne Eric wears. He's really exciting to dance for. He doesn't lie down on the couch, but sits in the middle of the chair. I undulate against his body and it feels wonderful. I feel a hand lightly graze my leg and I enjoy the warmth of his touch. I feel his breath in my ear and I hear it quickening. As I continue to dance, I feel his body moving in response to mine. This is so wild. I'm naked, straddling this really cute guy, and he's really enjoying what I'm doing. I feel gorgeous, hot, and really decadent. I step up, off my, knees facing him on the couch and graze my tummy across his nose. I slip upwards letting his imagination run wild and indulging him in the scent of my perfumed body. He wants to lean forward and I can feel him fighting the impulse. I understand the want. I slide my body back down his face, letting my nipple graze his cheek. I feel his hot breath on my skin now and it's getting really exciting. As I settle back down on to his lap, running my hands across his chest, I can feel him responding. As my hand draws across his stomach teasing him at his beltline, I drag my fingernails a little harder and then grip at his shirt. Gathering his shirt in my grasp, I tug at it just enough to get his attention, but not pull it out. This is exciting! His body is lean and tense, and the muscles in his abdomen are trembling under my touch. I slip a knee between his thighs and rub my thigh hard against the bulge in his pants. He moves with me a little and I feel his breathing is quite sporadic now. Time passes quickly and before I know it, the song is over. I ask if he'd like me to continue and he says he wants to do two more. I continue the lapdance sitting straight up. He doesn't want to lie down on the couch. I straddle him again press his hard crotch against mine. He feels really good and I know I must be smiling a Cheshire cat grin this whole time. I feel his hands on the outsides of my thighs caressing my legs and his fingertips barely grazing the bottoms of my cheeks. He never goes any further. At the end of our 3 dances, he pays me, says thank you, and I give him a hug. He leaves the back and heads straight for the door. I put my clothes back on and go to the DJs booth to settle up.

Back in the dressing room, I was still excited and giddy over my first real dances. As I listened to the other girls talking I thought about how cool it was that I was finally really a dancer and doing what I had dreamed about. How totally amazing! I touch up my make-up and head back out on the floor. The club is slow now. There's really no one to talk to. I've approached a few customers, but I'm still shy and not sure what to do or say, so I sit down at the bar to watch the other dancers.

Julianna is on stage. She's so sultry. She uses the pole so smoothly and does floor work I could only do in my dreams. She does the most sensuously slow backward somersault that lands her knees just a few inches shy of the rail and her legs gracefully drape over it right in front of a breathless guy staring intently at her ass. She's so pretty with her long flowing gobs of wavy hair. Long ringlets of brunette tresses slip from her shoulders and caress her milky white skin. I'm amazed. So are the guys. They tip generously and she has no trouble convincing those same customers to spend a little time with her in the back when she comes out from the dressing room after her set.

Kianna is little blonde who looks to be about 16. She's not, of course, but she's got that petite little high school cheerleader look to her that drives the guys wild. Her stage shows are standard but she just has this look to her that I just can't describe. She plays the party girl who knows she's hot very well. Her body is tight, her hair is short, her lips are pouty and her eyes are ice cold burning embers. She laughs and teases the guys as she talks to them, but not in a cute way. Her hands caress their chests, traverse their lapels and slip inside their suit jackets as if she's reaching for a billfold. The irony is lost on them. They love her. She does a lot of dances. In the dressing room however, she speaks of the men as if they were a pestilence. I figure she must be having a rough night or something (every job has bad days, right?). I comment that it's a bummer she got stuck with a few turkeys. Still excited about my 3 dances with Mr. Cute, I comment how he was really good-looking and how it made it so easy for me to dance for him. She looked at me as if I'd grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. I guess it was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly I feel totally awkward and like I'm 11, in grade school, and getting picked last for kickball again. I finish touching up my makeup and go back out on the floor.

A whole group of about 5 guys has come in and are sitting at the rail. I wait for the waitress to bring their drinks and approach them for dances. They are a happy bunch -- a bit too happy maybe. They've been out drinking and say stuff like, "Well hey baby! Well now ain't you just the cutest thing?" as the smell of beer and hard alcohol wafts through the air so thick I'm glad there's no smoking allowed in the room. But they do liven the place up a bit, tossing singles out high in the air so they flutter down onto the stage and making a big production of it all.

The night is almost over now. I'm in the dressing room and one somewhat older dancer is going through her bag a bit hurriedly looking for a dress to put on. Although she's probably about 35, she looks really good. She knows how to move on stage and she's got a natural look to her that is just pretty. Her medium blonde hair is wavy in a loose perm that looks best completely disheveled, like she just rolled out of bed. She has a casual, comfortable air about her and I feel no tenseness in her presence. As she shimmies into a dress she starts to talk to me.

"I don't know if any of the girls have mentioned it to you yet, but the best place around here to get dresses and shoes is a place called Strings by Judith. It's up in Orange and they have some really nice stuff there. You should check it out." She smiles.

"No, I didn't know about the place. In Orange, you say? Strings by Judith," I repeat as I make a mental note. "I'll definitely go there first thing."

"Oh do! They have the best prices, a really nice selection, and a really nice store. But call first and check the hours because she goes to some of the clubs and takes some of her most popular stuff with her when she goes, so try to get there before she leaves."

"Okay! I will!" I say happily as I watch Tanner go up on stage to do the last set of the night. The DJ plays a Garth Brooks tune I know all too well from my time in country dance halls where I practiced my ballroom dance steps with Stetson-wearing California wannabe cowboys. It's a bittersweet ballad called The Dance and I lose myself in it while I watch her sweet feminine body sweep across the stage in front of the last two customers in the club.

Looking back on the memory of
The dance we shared
Beneath the stars above.
For a moment all the world was right
How could I have known
That you'd ever say goodbye?

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.

Holding you I held everything
For a moment wasn't I the king?
But if I'd only known how the king would fall
Hey, who's to say?
You know I might have changed it all

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.

Yes my life, it's better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.

And with that they say goodnight to tanner and walk out of the silent club. As the door closes, the only sound left is that of the girls chattering as they pack up their bags of clothes and makeup cases. The sounds of tired voices -- some cussing, some laughing -- emit from the dressing room as I pull back the curtain to enter. Discussion of other clubs, Vegas, parties, cars, school, boyfriends, husbands, customers, bills, shopping, tired feet, and the events of the night are subjects wafting about the over-crowded dressing room. The evening's dinner delivery boxes are strewn about the place. Discarded paper towels, tissues, and Q-tips that were half-heartedly thrown in the general direction of the trashcan but never quite made it there lay all over the floor. Sitting next to my duffel bag, I rub my sore knees. It wouldn't be until the next morning that I would see the full extent of the damage floor work does to a new dancer's knees. Like big purple softballs, my bruised knees would be hidden under jeans or long skirts for many of the mornings after nights of dancing. I put on my street clothes, put away my dance stuff, and followed the other girls out to the stage area. Then I witnessed the cashing out process. No dancer is allowed to leave the building until everyone is cashed out. Part of that is for safety since you all are escorted out to your cars together as a group, and part of it is to make sure nobody leaves without paying.

Girls counted out their cash and stacks of dollar bills larger than I had ever seen in one place for any reason before were everywhere. Those who hadn't already paid for all their dances had to settle that portion, and all of us still had to tip out. I apologized as I tipped out the appropriate percentages to the DJ and security. Security just said not to worry since it was only my first night and I'd do more dances soon. And some 20 minutes later we were all escorted out the door to the parking lot where Eric stood waiting for me. He had promised to meet me in the parking lot after my shift and follow me home to make sure I got home okay. Unfortunately, his car's starter motor had other ideas while out at a karaoke bar and he had to have it towed back to my apartment, then take a cab to the club, where he stood outside getting the evil eye from the security gorilla until I confirmed it was okay and that I knew him. That's dedication!

Tired and hungry, I told Eric of my evening as we drove home and how it hadn't gone exactly as I'd hoped, but that I was still raring for more. I was a dancer for real now, but I wanted to be a successful dancer. And I wanted to be confident. The getting naked part was such a rush, and the few private dances I did were even more exhilarating, but I needed to get smoother on my stage work and more relaxed with my approaches to the customers. But at least I had already dealt with having my period and got through it successfully. This had just been my first night on the job and I couldn't expect everything to go perfectly and come to me without a few snags. Finally at home, my head hit the pillow and I drifted to sleep resolved that my next night, only 3 days away, would be more successful. The internet groups would be where I'd go to find out how to please my clients!

Next Installment: WWW -- A Trip to High-Tech.

Copyright © 2000, Elan. All rights reserved. For more information: Email elan@elanexposed.com or visit: http://elanexposed.com