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  It was the next day, only a week after her arrival in New York, that Valerie took a cab—it was a ploy, just to make Mrs. Brown-White think she was traveling far. But she didn’t go more than 4 city blocks to Boston Post Road and the building called FOOL’S PARADISE. She tipped the driver, left him dumb-founded, and carried herself casually through the front entrance of the establishment. It was about 4:30 PM. Once inside . . . once her eyes adjusted from the extreme light to instant darkness, she realized the blur of men throughout the room. There was a moment when she measured the intensity in the club, most of it caught up in the stage show where a couple of shapely dancers performed in sensual, eye-catching motion. One was cherubic with tobacco-brown skin and pointed breasts. The other was more like mocha chocolate; a girl with slightly chiseled facial features, glistening under the concentration of colorful spotlights, and selfishly caressing herself with excessive baby oil. Some men by the stage were suspended in amazement, giving each other affirmative high-fives and bouncing with merriment, all of them appreciative enough to swing dollars at the entertainment until the money either stuck to her beautiful curves or floated to her feet like feathers.

  Valerie peeped a customer tapping another on the shoulder. Soon, many pairs of eyes eventually shifted to her location by the club’s entrance. The attention made her feel as if she was on stage herself, only without the spotlights. Maybe thirteen or fourteen men were looking her way, but with the ultra-violet lighting in the room causing all things bright to illuminate in the dark. In a nearby mirror Valerie saw how her teeth glowed and how the whites of her eyes seemed to light up like the girl from X-Men.

  “Can I help you?” A bouncer stepped to Valerie.

  “I was . . . just looking.” Valerie’s expression was still asking for time to take all this in. “But do you guys have jobs open here?” Valerie had spent quality time at Mrs. Brown-White’s vanity to look impressive, and now she only hoped the extra time would pay off—how? She had no idea. In the meantime, she listened for a response knowing that, as was usually the case, her thick Caribbean accent would be respected or rejected. Predictably, Americans usually did one or the other.

  “Well . . .” said the bouncer, not wanting to point out the obvious, “I’m sure there is.” As though he might be a little ashamed, the bouncer’s body was conveniently positioned to block Valerie’s view of the stage. It made her smirk, wondering if there was something about her that made her appear to be a prude. Now another bouncer passed by, taking one long shameless look at Valerie’s body. No shame in his game, Valerie assumed. She wondered also just how much the other guy could see past her long, black fur. Again she smirked.

  “Do you dance?”

  “I don’t . . .” She stretched her eyes to find the stage again . . . “know if I’m as good as some of—”

  The bouncer made a gesture, as though he were brushing away the competition. With a sweeping eye, Valerie gave a closer look, scanning the room while the bouncer—

  “Name’s Jimmy,” the bouncer finally said. And he helped her away from the entrance. At the same time, various men were still peering on with nostrils flaring. Other dancers and lingerie, costumes, sexy gowns, thongs, stilettos, boots and all manner of hosiery, silk and lace were sprinkled throughout the crowd of men. Most of the girls were slender and voluptuous, like what you’d find on a beach. One girl was champagne and elegant, while the next was ghetto, and looked like she might be ready for a street fight. Aside from that strange mix of attitudes, there were many complexions of brown, like chocolate pudding, fudge and creamy caramel all working for the same green.

  There were sensual expressions, as well as the erotic ones, and they addressed customers with the confidence of long-legged ostriches or the determination of stallions, or silky smooth Cheshire cats. Asses bounced throughout the club—an ass-fest!—and dancers cupped their breasts or stroked themselves with satisfied expressions in their eyes, as though this was normal to do this in front of absolute strangers. A couple of special effects devices projected colored rays of light in various directions, swinging wildly and rhythmically, while bartenders stayed busy pouring, popping bottle tops and serving the drinks atop of cocktail napkins across the bar. Handshakes took place here and there along with kisses and hugs. A look to the left, and you’d see dancers onstage, mostly naked, with thongs—nothing but lace to keep a patch of fabric to hide the pubic area. With her back to the audience, there was one dancer leaning up against a walled mirror. By the looks of things, she seemed to be mostly amusing herself, jiggling her tits and ass for tips.

  “Is that what you mean?” Valerie gestured towards the stage. Jimmy agreed with less-then a nod of confirmation. Now, Valerie looked over at the main stage with more at stake. “How much does it pay?”

  “Well, I’ll let Gil tell you. He can get into that with you. But I’ll tell you now, girls make hundreds a day. Some make as much as a thousand. It depends on you and how much you hustle.” Valerie didn’t really understand the meaning of “hustle,” and it really wasn’t Jimmy’s place to discuss these preliminaries with her. But without explanation, Valerie was confident. She always worked hard for the things she wanted.

  When Gil emerged from the back room, Jimmy waited before introducing Valerie. He could see that Gil needed a second or two to tuck his shirt in and adjust his zipper. Eventually, Jimmy flashed a gesture at Gil until the proprietor understood that his zipper was down.

  “Go on and make some money, girl. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” While Gil pulled up his zipper he still managed to swat some knock-kneed dancer from the area; the same girl who came from the back office with him. This sudden activity threw Valerie for a spin, telling her at once exactly who Mr. Gilmore was and how she’d approach him. With extra caution.

  “Later, Gil,” the dancer signified and smiled towards Valerie. She moved in extra slow motion, her eyes on Gil’s zipper, and then she addressed Valerie with that same contemptuous, sarcastic smile. Valerie could read between the lines, how the dancer was letting her know that there was more to the boss than meets the eye. But it was the kind of thing that Valerie was too focued to care about. The girl finally squeezed past Gilmore, but not before she reached between his legs.

  Gil pushed her hand away, sucked his teeth and said, “Alright, now.” Then, to Valerie, he asked, “So . . . what’s your name?” The question didn’t come without a quick examination.

  Valerie answered while she looked directly into his eyes. Eventually, she graduated from a firm gaze to her usual, pleasing smile.

  “Ever dance before?” asked Gil, maybe waiting for her answer. In the meantime, Prince was growling and screaming over his music,

  I looked all over, and all I found

  was a phone number on the stairs.

  It said, “Thank you for a funky time,

  Call me up whenever you wanna grind.”

  And while the “Purple One” was screaming over the club’s sound system, a dancer was gyrating and thrusting and humping to the music, performing every lyric of the song as though she was the one who created it . . . as though she meant every word . . . (and ultimately) as though she was actually fucking some invisible person up there on stage.

  “Well . . . not like . . . that. But . . . I’m willing to give it a try.”

  “Okay.” Gil rushed into specifics, scaling a fish he’d just caught. “Do you have an outfit or anything?”

  “No. But I could try to get some—”

  Gil cut in.

  “What size do you wear?”

  “I’m a seven . . . or six,” she replied with a coy smile.

  “Hold on. Let me get one of the girls over here to help out. Maybe you can audition today.”

  “Now?” Valerie’s eyes opened wide. “But I wasn’t expecting—”

  Gil had already motioned for Jimmy. He spoke to him in a low tone, out of Valerie’s range. She could see that this was activity related to her, and she watched as Jimmy circled around to the rear
of the club, into what could’ve been a dressing room. The deejay was now playing a record, scratching a lyricless rock beat over the end of Prince’s song. Seconds later Phil Collins faded in.

  “I can feel it comin’ in the air tonight, hold on . . .”

  “Oh, that’s my song,” mentioned Valerie. The deejay let the record go and the transition melted in like some musical design. It was in the next few moments that Valerie’s life took a fast-paced spin into the world of topless dancing.

  Cinnamon

  Cinnamon was summoned from the dressing room and in no time at all she was in deep conversation with Valerie. Valerie asked, and Cinnamon answered. They talked about economic possibilities, setbacks, the sleaze, the most effective dance moves, the boss, the busiest nights and other topless clubs too. The two even got in to their own experiences of how each arrived at Gilmore’s and what their future plans were. Cinnamon was paying her way through nursing school with just 3 and 4 days of dancing per week. That’s all Valerie needed to hear!

  While the girls continued to chit chat, customers and club staff alike waited anxiously for the new girl’s audition. Many customers waited for this very special time; when that “fresh meat” got up on stage, all afraid and green. Hence, the word on Valerie spread quickly throughout the club like an airborne virus. Jimmy, suddenly famous for his introducing the new girl, looked towards the two, catching Cinnamon’s eye, casting that all important question on behalf of everyone else in the club.

  When is she gonna be ready???

  Cinnamon got the message, but all good things must wait. And Cinnamon got every indication that Valerie was a very good thing.

  “How does it feel to show your stuff up there in front of all those men?” Valerie went deeper, craving a sincere answer.

  “I don’t even notice it anymore. It comes natural. Ever since that first time on stage—and I was scared out of my skin, girl—but it was all good afterwards. Once you realize that all of these men are in here sweatin’ your ass, your ego starts to take over. You start taking control. You even feel liberated. And it helps with your hustle.”

  “How did you deal with that first time, Cinnamon?”

  “I wore a cat mask.” They both giggled heartily. “But it didn’t last for more than two days. More and more, men began to tell me how fine I was and that I was the most beautiful girl they’d ever seen.” Cinnamon feigned a yawn. “Some wanted to give me things like jewelry or clothes. One guy even offered me a fuckin’ BMW. Girl! Do you know I would have let him fuck my asshole to get the car? Especially then, ’cause times was hard, you know? But I caught myself. I said to myself—when Moet introduced me to the game—that I would never receive gifts. And somehow I was able to stick to it. I don’t wanna ever think I owe anybody anything! And to think I almost fell for that shit.” Cinnamon took a deep, deep relieving breath while her mind wandered back in time.

  “What did you tell the guy?” Valerie was curious.

  “I had to swallow first. Reeeal hard. And you know I was choked up, and giiiirl . . . I imagined doing him one time. Just once—reeeal good, and then disappearing into the sunset.” They both laughed hysterically. “But a second later I had flashes of him stalking my ass. You must have heard the stories and seen the movies. I just didn’t wanna be no movie of the week.”

  “I heard that.” Valerie’s raised eyebrows also agreed.

  “Now the guy’s my best customer. Probably paid my whole tuition by now. I lost count of the C notes.”

  Valerie raised her hand to give Cinnamon a high-five. They both got up from the cocktail table and proceeded back towards the dressing room.

  “Listen, I’ll give you something nice to wear. I’m gonna be up on stage for the next set . . . and if you . . . well, take a few minutes and then come up and join me. Trust me, it’ll be easy.” Cinnamon looked over her shoulder at Jimmy with an assuring wink. Jimmy went back to Gil, most likely to inform him of the inevitable. From then on, the excitement in the club turned electric.

  Valerie followed Cinnamon through a door that was branded with a modest silver star. Meanwhile, she couldn’t resist throwing a playful jab.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a cat mask for me, would you?” Valerie bubbled, suppressing a laugh. Cinnamon wagged a finger at Valerie. Smiling.

  “Okay, girl. That’s one for you.”

  In the dressing room there were two card tables with makeup tubes and jars, Heineken bottles, ashtrays, and a cheap vanity mirror scattered about them. Four dancers were preparing for the evening, sitting in folding chairs at various areas in the small room. The carpeting was a dark, dingy red, very worn and stained as if matted by somebody’s steamroller. The walls were bare and still gray with sheetrock, except for the off-white plaster at the seams and grooves. Big shoulder bags were propped side by side along the base of the wall. A bright fluorescent light above was also substituting as a clothes dryer, so that it helped to dry out a recently and hastily washed G-string. Apparently, one of the girls used ingenuity, wedging a writing pen into the fixture, using it as a hook. Meanwhile, the air in the room was thick and murky, confused with cheap perfumes and a twist of funk from the busy garbage can next to a pair of soiled panties in a corner. The fight for clean air immediately challenged Valerie’s senses, and she intentionally held her breath as she took a seat beside Cinnamon. Eventually, once she realized it was no use, she abandoned the effort, forcing herself to cope with it all.

  Both girls settled down as Cinnamon got into her little preparatory rituals, while the room took on a dead air. Valerie could guess that it was her, “the fresh meat,” that was the cause of this tight apprehension. After all, she was the new girl, and they’d all have no choice but to get along with her. A couple dancers whispered judgments amongst themselves, but Cinnamon rushed things along, ignoring the lack of charm. After securing her bag of outfits, she dabbed her face with a cloth, checked her face in a mirror, and touched and teased up her hair with a comb. She cupped the undersides of her breasts, pulling them higher, subsequently driving her thumbs up under the bra straps to tighten the slack. Cinnamon methodically slipped out of her loafers (shoes she wore in the club when she wasn’t on stage) and into a pair of black stilettos. She lifted one heel, and then the other, to pull the strap over her ankle before heading out of the dressing room for her session on stage.

  “Ya’ll be good. That’s Valerie, she’s auditioning today.” Cinnamon took a second to bend over for a whisper into Jasmine’s ear. Jasmine shook her head and Cinnamon rushed through the door. The muffled voice of Luther Vandross instantly turned from hum and drumbeat, and it quickly filled the dressing room with the clear and melodic lyrics of “Never Too Much.” Cinnamon shut the door behind her, returning the room back to the dead.

  Valerie flashed an uncomfortable grin and ignored the tacky surroundings as she began undressing. The others looked on as Valerie roughed it. She recalled her days in the high school locker room back in Christ Church, an attractive community in her native Barbados.

  “You new?” blurted China, with the stupid question of the day. Valerie didn’t complicate things the way she wanted to; she didn’t turn around to flash a raised eyebrow. That would have been too black and she didn’t want to go there unless she absolutely, positively had to. Instead, Valerie politely answered, “Yesss! My name is Valerie. And you?”

  “I’m China. This is Sadie.” China didn’t bother to introduce the other two dancers in the room. She didn’t even know them herself, alienating them all the more. Sadie just gave a head nod and kept occupied, changing panties, wiping, spraying, observing. China dug into Valerie a little more.

  “Girl, you need a stage name in here. You gotta protect yo’self. Give as little information to customers as possible. Even to other dancers.” Valerie nodded her response while slipping into a two-piece costume that Cinnamon loaned her. Suddenly, remembering that she was supposed to watch Cinnamon on stage, Valerie stood up to adjust the pieces comfortably. She threw a grat
eful glance at China and headed out of the door.

  Leaving the dressing room was like being sucked into a vacuum. Chubb Rock’s “Treat ’Em Right” was sending vibrations through the walls and floors, as if the entire club was the inside of a sound system. Every banging bass beat was pushing through Valerie’s body—out of the floor, up into her spiked heels and into her nervous system. At the same time, the whites of so many pairs of eyes were glued to her as she shut the dressing room door. It felt as if every centimeter of her body was being touched by total strangers. A tremor shook her body. Her feet were getting cold. Freezing. Goose pimples began to show on her smooth, mocha skin. She wanted to quickly turn around to run back into the dressing room. But the eyes around her just beckoned. Her body was uncontrollably obedient as if some powerful, magnetic force was pulling her through this.

  Wobbling slightly on her first step in Cinnamon’s shoes, Valerie was able to steady her posture, trying her best to remember what elegant was; trying to maintain what Cinnamon called “control.” Through a huge opening in the wall, where the oval bar was situated, Valerie could see Cinnamon in the distance. She was at center stage, twisting her body to this fast-paced bass beat—“Rock Creek Park” by the Blackbyrds. Cinnamon encouraged the excitement, her arms waving and swinging on time like an excited traffic cop. The sight of Cinnamon gave Valerie some more confidence. If Cinnamon can do it, so can I. Only Valerie didn’t see herself as quite that physically entertaining. She’d give it a try though. The main stage became her focus, as she did her absolute best to avoid eye contact with bystanders. Valerie found a spot adjacent to the stage and stood with her bare ass pressed up against a wall, folded arms, consciously concealing what she could of her breasts. She also crossed her legs, feeling insecure about the next-to-nothing G-string she wore.

  The hell with it, she thought. I may as well be naked! Although Valerie left Mrs. Brown-White’s home fresh and sure, and despite how the air conditioning in the club was pushing up goose bumps on her skin, she swore that there was a pound of perspiration lingering there under her arms, between her legs and across her brow. With so many eyes on her, challenging her comfort . . . even questioning her existence and whether or not she was worthy of being here, there wasn’t much she could do. Again, she said the hell with it.