The Guest Room(66)
“Maybe? Of course we can! We have to! We have to start this afternoon!”
I wasn’t so sure. Would the girls who already had spots at these clubs let us in? I wouldn’t want to share Saturday men and Saturday tips with some new person who just showed up out of nowhere.
But it turned out the girls didn’t matter. Only the managers did. And when we took our clothes off for them, they wanted us. By two o’clock that afternoon, we were both working and we were both making money. She was at a club on the Tenth Avenue and I was at the one by the Empire State Building. Then we switched. We worked until four in the morning on Sunday, when the clubs closed and there were no men left to pleasure.
…
I think the managers were surprised at how much money we turned over to them at the end of our shifts, and that was even after tipping out the bouncer, the bartender, and the DJ. One club wanted 40 percent of our take and one wanted 50. One had a bouncer who was okay with whatever we did with a man in the champagne room, as long as he got his take. The other club, which I guess had gotten busted by the police, did not want us doing anything to make the men finish except grind hard against them when we were in their laps—when they still had their pants on.
Still.
Still. We were both amazed at how much money we could make—and how fast we could make it.
…
On Sunday, when we were walking in the middle of all the crowds, I asked Sonja how she could have f*cked one of the men at the party for the bachelor in the bedroom that belonged to the little girl. She shrugged her shoulders.
“It was where the guy brought me,” she said.
“Which guy?”
“The one with the suspenders. Spencer. The one who hired us.”
“You know you didn’t just leave condom wrapper and phone number there. You also left the used rubber.”
“Maybe he did. I didn’t. Rubber’s man’s problem when we’re done.”
“Not cool for that girl,” I told her.
“If you were so worried about the girl, did you pick it up?”
“No.”
“Then don’t judge me, okay? Not cool for that girl,” she mumbled, and I did not know if she repeated what I had said to mock me or because my leaving it there wasn’t cool either.
…
I tried not to draw attention to myself when I was not on the stage or in the men’s laps. I did not talk much to the other girls, except for the woman who—like Inga or Catherine—was supposed to teach us the rules of the clubs and what kind of makeup we were supposed to wear. She also had us buy the clothes from her that we were supposed to take off, but that was just a thick G-string, a bra, and a baby doll. (The shoes were the most expensive part, and it angered Sonja that each club made us purchase shoes from them. I told the woman at the second club that I had high heels already, but it didn’t matter. I still had to buy from them.) Neither club had much of a stage or a pole. One had mirrors that showed us off in nice way when we danced. The rooms were dim, but one club had sexy red lighting. (Both had lighting in bathrooms that was crazy bright. Sonja said this was so there would be no funny business in there. Men also could not bring booze into bathroom. Why? Because they might give it to girls who are old enough to dance naked and pleasure the men, but not old enough to drink the booze legally.)
Mostly we were just supposed to go from man to man, pull off our tops, and give them their lap dances. The room was like some of the parties we had in Moscow: a lot of men in suit pants and shirts, and a lot of mostly naked girls. No big deal. I had my come-on line: I’m the one you’ve been looking for tonight, I’d purr. I know because I’ve been looking for you. A lap dance was supposed to last a song or part of a song at both clubs, and I was supposed to get twenty. I was getting forty and fifty. When I would take the men to the champagne room for something extra, that extra was three hundred if I used my hand and five hundred if I used my mouth.
…
Some of the other dancers were moms and some were college students and some had other jobs. Some had boyfriends, but I did not meet any who had a husband. Some danced to pay for their drugs. And some were just there because they were pretty and didn’t know what else to do. Some had been doing this for four or five years, and some were just doing it until something better came along. Only some, I could tell, were totally fine with taking the men to the champagne rooms and finishing them off. Some did not approve of me because I did.
But they could judge me. I didn’t care. One girl would buy extra panties, rub them between her legs, spray a little perfume on them, and sell them to dudes for fifty or even one hundred dollars. Another girl used to let some guy rub her foot with one hand and himself with the other. She thought she was better than me. That was fine.
At one of the clubs I became friendly with a girl named Zooey, but only because she kept reaching out to me to be nice. Most girls were not that friendly. No allegiance. They would say things behind each other’s backs like “She’s such a child.” Or “She’s such a whore.” Or “She’s such a bitch.” I was telling everyone that I was Polish girl named Kasia, and so the manager had me dancing as Kesha—which was also the name of a singer, of course. Zooey was from Cleveland and two years older than me. She was very tiny and had the most beautiful dark eyes and the most perfect dark skin.
She pulled me aside after I came back from one of the champagne rooms.