It’s amazing how quickly fear and adrenaline can kill a buzz. 

The first time, the trick is to be just drunk enough to take your clothes off in public, but not quite so drunk as to fall off the stage, a complicated balance of blood volume to alcohol that is no simple task for the uninitiated.

My first time, dancing and crawling around half-naked for the amusement of lonely software engineers and salesmen, I came away with eight bucks, all ones. Still dazed and undecided about whether I should be humiliated or proud, I stepped off the stage to congratulating pats and smiles.

Since I can’t take it back, I may as well be proud.

Without my glasses, faces around the stage look blurry. It’s just as well that I can’t see. I’ve become completely paranoid about being spotted by someone from my office. It’s only a matter of time before some clandestine bachelor party comes up, and there I'll be in all my glory.  I can just imagine my boss dragged in by some client or company man to schmooze, looking completely bored and embarrassed until he sees me here.

"Excuse me, Dr. Bartlett, don't I pay you enough?" 

Cheryl Bartlett is the author of Matriphobia: The Fear of Becoming One’s Mother, and Feminist Theories: A Three Hour Tour.

She earned her doctorate in Higher Education Policy from the University of Arizona.

Cheryl is the director of The Art of Science Research Support Services.

She lives in Tucson, Arizona, where she still has not completely unpacked.

Bald Is Beautiful

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
                                                                   – Eleanor Roosevelt

Tips In: $120

Tips Out: $25

“My dreams are all about shaving.” This unsolicited pronouncement is met with glares as the rest of the dancers fix up their hair and get dressed. What? Everyone else is not preoccupied with shaving? Maybe they are all naturally smooth and hairless, but for me, it feels like my whole world is beginning to revolve around shaving. And I’m not kidding; it’s creeping into my dreams. Only slightly worse than reality, it grows as fast as I shave it, and I can’t keep up.

I guess it’s the equivalent of running away from a monster as your legs begin to feel like lead weights. In my waking life, I’m a hairy girl. Hairier than average I think. I have to shave everything before a shift. I squat and bend over in front of my husband and he shaves whatever stray hairs I miss. He thinks it looks fantastic, but I growl if he comments on it. On days I won’t be dancing, it itches as it starts to grow back in. Take my word for it; do not try this at home. It is miserable, and I hate it.

I guess this isn’t a good time to start conversation. I can sense any more comments from me will continue to hit the floor like bricks, so I shut up and get myself dressed. The dressing room is hot and crowded, and Pandora isn’t here so there is no place to put my bag. Both my bag and I are constantly in the way.  Getting herself ready, Delilah makes a plea to the rest of us,

“Does anyone have any really light face powder?” Eager to be the one to help, I hand her my compact. She opens it up and examines it briefly before grimacing and handing it back to me.

“You shouldn’t buy such cheap make up. This stuff is full of preservatives. If you bought a better brand like Lancôme you wouldn’t have those wrinkles around your eyes.” 

Thank you very much, you nineteen-year old bitch.

I stuff my bag under the counter as far as I can and go pay for my own drink until it’s time to get on stage.

I didn’t start out in a bad mood. Usually I am thrilled to get in here. I like having a drink to loosen up, and I love the dancing, but tonight, especially after that thoughtful comment from the queen of sensitivity, I feel like an outsider. I'm closing in on twice the age of most of these girls, and I am feeling every minute of it. I am so tired, my legs are covered with bruises from the hard floor of the stage, and my knees hurt so badly that I can barely walk after working two shifts, two days in a row.  Much more of this and I really will need a cane. I’m drinking more than I'm used to, and perhaps it is only the power of suggestion, but the lines around my eyes do seem especially prominent in the mirror tonight. 

The good thing is that there really isn’t time to ruminate or sulk. It’ll be my turn to dance again soon and with this low lighting they can’t see the lines or the bruises. Marcus puts on Beast of Burden just for me and I pull myself together and have some fun on stage.  I’m taking bills and swinging around the poles and when I catch myself in one of the big wall mirrors, I can hardly believe that dancer is me. I may not be 19, but I’m trim and tight and I look great. I stand up straight and tall for a few seconds. I don’t want anyone to notice me admiring myself in the mirror, but I stall by running my hands down my sides as I view my image from far away. I’m impressed and it takes my mind off feeling ugly and insecure. I move like a real stripper. 

For a few seconds when I catch a glimpse of myself on stage, I feel really, truly great. I am as good as I want to be, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m underfoot or if anybody likes me or how behind I am on laundry and shopping or whether I remembered to sign a permission slip or help with math homework or whether someone at work has it in for me or if its all in my head. There I am, just me, all by myself on stage. I’m tired and sore as hell, but if I can’t be in bed asleep, this stage is not the worst place in the world to be tonight.