Shake What Yo Amma Gave You

So here it is; the column about my foray into the not-as-glamorous and definitely never respected profession of an overqualified and underpaid pole-dancer. The mere mention of stripping in my last columns has resulted in a frenzy of both applauding and accusatory comments. The blessings and the sins of the profession are then discussed, argued, analyzed and scrutinized by all the avid chowkies. Needless to say, my delving into the entire background of why I did what I did, would not only deem itself redundant at this point but irrelevant as well. On the other hand, I get at least an email a day from a reader who wonders of the day I will finally pen down my experiences as Rosa the Latina Firecracker on a Pole. Truth is, there is just so much to share that I could go on for pages. But instead of lumping it all together, I will tackle it piece by piece in subsequent columns. You see, the fact that I was once a stripper, was already established many columns ago. That’s not the important part here. But the incidents, the people, the experiences are what matters and what we really want to hear about, right? So all will be detailed in due time. Like the patron who quietly died of a heart attack in his usual back corner unbeknownst to us or the desi stalker whose wish for a private dance progressed within seconds from innocent flattery to dangerous obsession. But for now (and for my inquiring minds and any aspiring pole-dancers): here are some words of wisdom tried and tested from a former desi stripper herself. Shall we?

Why Yes!

But first, a few words to ensure that the milieu is placed perfectly in context. In all actuality, I have only stripped for a very brief period in my life and never intended for it to become a long-term career goal. Not often you meet a stripper who grew up in marble mansions and gated country clubs surrendering only to a pool of female peers no less than imbecilic Debutantes living every day like a new Cotillion. But then again, somewhere between naked housecleaning and Indian massages (Read: Odd Jobs) my privileged past had already bid me farewell and made way for a new life that I struggled obdurately hard to triumph in. As for stripping; I did it no more than a total of eight or nine months at two separate junctions in my life. Once for a couple of months during a semester in New York where my work study didn’t transfer leaving me to desperately fend for a cash job. The other time was when I was a fresh college graduate, frantically job searching in a terrible post 9-11 economy. I would send dozens of resumes during the day and at night I would make a living with co-workers like Stan-O the sumptuously tattooed DJ, Rocky the burly yet loveable bouncer, Ebony the token Nubian Princess, Snowflake the vanilla goddess and Double Debby the whole-lot-of-woman that offered the chub enthusiasts more cushion for the pushin. And each and every one of them, welcomed me – both times - with open arms. We were a family and like all families, we possessed our share of envy, pride, resentment, arguments and tear-jerking fall-outs. For the most part however, we remained as harmonious as any nuclear family behind white-fences of dysfunctional suburbia or marble pillars of F-10 and Defense.

Let me also be the first to assert that my decision to strip was not a result of any monetary misfortune or impoverished desperation. It would be easy to hide behind such a cliché but then in my case it would also be an outright lie. Neither was I drowning in irremediable debt and nor was I knocked up with two wailing babies on the floor because baby-daddy wouldn’t pay child support and single-mama had to put food on the table. Why then, you ask? Well, to state it simply and honestly, besides the obvious (albeit not as pressing) need for money there was also a nagging curiosity. Of course I could have easily made that money at any equally degrading cash job like waiting tables or serving coffee, but more ubiquitous and tempting was the guilty thrill of finally experiencing an illicit fantasy that has piqued the shunned curiosity of women all over the world. Come on girls, we all know we tried to mimic Demi’s moves in our bedroom mirror after watching Striptease. Aint nothing wrong with that! We cant deny that the forbidden entice of such a profession is excruciatingly tempting. The spicy prospect of meeting (more like taming) the world’s most influential, egotistical and intriguing men. So powerful and so handsome, yet weakened and conquered at the sight of the first naked female to sashay seductively by them. Worshipping us with eyes that vulnerably confess of innocent fantasies from a long forgotten adolescence. A past, simpler, youthful and carefree. We then enter as the scintillating soothe that women once fantasized can in fact jump out of thoughts and magazines and allow to be touched. You get the picture, I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything in the world. Well, except for maybe a night alone in a deserted Caribbean chalet with Matthew McConnaughey, smoked oysters, ginseng honey and lemon-scented silk sheets. Everything’s negotiable in this world! Oh and let me also disclose that dancing on a pole is not always glamorous and exhilarating either. The above mentioned ego massages that I have so eloquently articulated are in reality rare and infrequent. Mostly you’re just accepting a position based on your looks (stripping, modeling, pageantry) so don’t go crying home to Dadi Ma because your waist wasn’t up to par or your complexion wasn’t of a client’s liking.

The first time I worked at Club Candy was while spending a semester interning at an advertising agency in Manhattan and simultaneously taking classes at NYU. Money was a dire need because I was now away from the confines of my small college town, in the big apple, taking a juicy bite. But also in this city that never slept, there were restaurants where appetizers were the price of entrees, happy hours with drink specials competing with the cost of a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon and clubs with cover charges as much as a nights stay at a motel. Not to mention subway fare, cab rides, the usual midnight cravings for cheesecake at Junior’s and of course your average basic necessities like food, water and shopping sprees on Fifth Avenue. Every indulgence here came with a price much bigger than my checking and savings combined. The cozy little work-study at my college library was no longer there to tide me over in New York let alone pay for pleasures. But then again, entrance to a club in my small college town would only amount to about a buck. In this smug metropolis however, even vending machines spat dollar bills back out as insufficient funds for a soda. Once again, Padash needed a job. No stranger was I to working menial and déclassé jobs after my summer stint in Philadelphia (Read: Odd Jobs) so I no longer possessed inhibitions of using my ‘horizontal eloquence’ as some would say to make a living. So off to the high-end strip clubs of the City where I went searching for a steady income. In any other city, the clubs would have earnestly opened their doors for me but in New York, competition was tough and as unattainable as challenging a team of Southern belles to a beauty pageant. Each dancer here more flawless than the first with airbrushed faces and picture perfect bodies. Hair blond, boobs perky, waists tiny: in other words a cross between Victoria’s Secret Angels and Playboy bunnies. And although it was initially refreshing but it quickly became daunting to discover that in a city like New York; brazen and risqué girls like myself were as newsworthy as parking tickets in Boston. A city saturated with women (and men), using their looks and their bodies to get where they wanted. I was neither an exception nor a novelty because the streets here took one look at me and then grimaced, ‘get in line sister… and it starts all the way down the block.’ This was no Philadelphia, that’s for sure!

But then, it always happens right when you’re about to give up. For me it was the day I walked into a very unsuspecting club called Candy. Of course its not the actual name! A handsome man (shameful understatement actually… breathtakingly gorgeous would be more apt) appeared from behind the back bar to shake my hand. Dressed in a sleeveless muscle shirt to show – no muscles mind you – but very tastefully tattooed twiggy arms. His denim shorts weighed down by chains and a head entirely shaved, save for a blond crop which fell lusciously over a pair of the most beautiful and piercing blue eyes. What farm do they grow such delicious men at and can I go harvest one for myself? Back to my future, ex-husband: his face was soft, boyish and nowhere near as hardened and cynical as you would expect a manager/DJ of a back-alley strip club in NYC to have. He could easily have passed for a heartthrob member of a boy-band but his tattoos, chains and hairstyle tried relentlessly – though unsuccessfully - to dilute attention from the pretty and boyish face. He also displayed absolutely no signs of interest in me. Jerk! Even when I sheepishly informed him of the purpose of my visit, his expression remained unaltered. Instead he eyed me insipidly from head to toe as if deliberating over an over-ripe Mango at Jumma Bazaar and then told me to return at midnight for an audition.
‘Midnight?’
‘Our busiest time sweetie…if they like you then…you’re hired! If not, touch luck!’ A wink and then he disappeared back behind the DJ booth.
But did you hear that guys? He called me sweetie. Yep, loud and clear my friend, S-W-E-E-T-I-E. Winked at me too! Sigh! Who cared about stripping now, I wanted to know if they had any openings for DJ fluffers! I could SO work overtime at that job! You could pat me on the back and call me a workaholic!

Anyway when I returned to the club at 11:30 I was immediately placed under the supervision of a curvaceous (though she would prefer the word bootylicious) black girl with a very strong Brooklyn accent and a rack bigger than most watermelons. As she led me to the dressing room, I couldn’t stop myself from staring at the enormity of her breasts while wondering if I should offer to let her sit down for a few minutes. It must get tiring to walk around with those. But, Ebony would later introduce me to her ‘girls’ as, ‘This one’s called bread and this one’s butter, they my bread and butter honey they can never tire me out, can I get an Amen!’
Amen!

She never asked me my name or my age, just scribbled mechanically on a piece of paper and then handed it over to a large burly man with instructions to take it back to Stan-O. The burly man gave the note a quick read, lowered his eyes without a smile and remarked ‘Hola Rosa’ with the slightest hint of sarcasm before he exited.
‘Yeah, about that!’ Eboni finally decided to acknowledge my presence ‘Your stage name gonna be Rosa and Stanny gonna play something Spanish or something…you know like Shakira or some crap…our Puerto Rican girl done quit on us and the mens like to get into a little Salsa, Merengue every now and then.’
So I was reduced to an ethnic type? ‘You want me to pretend to be a Latina for the clients?’ I smirked with my habitual sass.
Ebony who now stood buck-naked smearing a bottle of baby oil on her flesh with effortless precision, was not amused. ‘Honey, aint no body said you hired yet? So just do what you need to do and wait for your name…and your name tonight gonna be Rosa, you hear?’

And just as fluid as her ranting, Ebony disappeared off to the stage when DJ Stan-O announced for the Chocolate diva. The only people left in the dressing room were five other girls besides myself. I remember a gorgeous, playmate type who sat scrolling down her cell phone looking bored. The other who also stood out (and made me noticeably uncomfortable) was a large and I mean big-as-a-house specimen who reminded me of a female Michelin tire. Unfortunately, she was the only woman in the room with a genuine smile. She also informed me that I was free to use any of the accessories and outfits lying around but since I had deliberately worn my expensive lace lingerie bought from an Adult store in Europe, I decided to pass on the communal boas, pasties and jewelry. Soon I would learn that hygiene too has to take a backseat in this profession. When Ebony returned with a stack of bills in her hands, she dumped them in front, pulled me aside and generously dabbed powder on my hand.
‘This makes it easier to slide up and down the pole…but you aint gotta do all that…just go over there and look cute for them boys…I know you aint never done this.’

And boy was she right. Luckily, the audience that night was peopled with only two sorts. The first sort: teenage frat boys from NYU and Columbia in jeans, fitted caps and puka shell necklaces downing Heinekens and celebrating the excited bliss of the life that lay ahead after turning 21. The second sort: Over-worked Wall-street types in suffocating suits and loosened skinny ties, trying hard to drown the misery of their present life with a few hours of drunken splurging, despondent upon finally having discovered the ‘life that lay ahead’ after 21. Both great tippers in my book and for the most part, well-behaved. After my 3 sets of songs were over, I retreated back to the dressing room.
‘Wow looks like you got a few 20s in there!’ Ebony peered at my earnings and I wondered if it was approval or envy. ‘I knew they was gonna like your pretty, skinny little self out there.’

Needless to say, I got the job. I could also pick any stage name I wanted but preferably a Spanish one. I stuck to Rosa, as homage to Ebony and I could tell she was appreciative. After that, she immediately took me under her wing and up until my last day at Candy, she remained nothing but a true friend and a great mentor. She was also the one who introduced me to all my future friends.
‘This is Snowflake. You gonna hate her, we all do. Them college boys love her… they only give us dollars and fives but this biotch gets no less than 20s. You know the world loves them some white girls!’ Uncanny how fair skin seems to rule the entire world whether you shake your goods for drunken men or step out to say adaab to a potential mother-in-law.
‘This my friend, is Double Debby. She our resident plus-size stripper cuz you know some men like a little meat on their girls. Just more woman for them to love, I guess.’ I was instantly drawn to Debby and like most fat girls, she was a hoot and a half! No pun intended! You also couldn’t deny her clients loyalty. They would line up every night and dig deep into their pockets when my girl came thumping on stage. For this American Anuman, there were plenty of Sultan Rahis.
“This my boy Rocky. We love him. He breaks up fights, watches our backs and keeps the riff raff out. Aint never seen nobody as big and mean looking but inside, he a real teddy bear I tell you.’ And she was right, you grew to adore Rocky! As enormous as Vin Diesel (unfortunately not as attractive) but treated us all with the utmost respect. He hardly ever looked me in the eye and in the beginning; I naively misconstrued it as shyness.

And that my friends is how I began working at Club Candy. I had the privilege of encountering several interesting characters like the girl whose probation officer would regularly visit her shows or the crazy yet stunning girl who needed anger management. There was a big dent in the wall of our dressing room and it was a visual memento left by the beautiful, svelte and petite brunette from Harlem who was known for three things: her naughty catholic girl routine, her sorority girl looks and her penchant for punching holes in walls if a client didn’t tip her well enough. My favorite friends, whom I would also go to breakfast with after we closed the bar would be Rocky, Eboni, Snowflake and Double Debby. We would head straight to the Tick-Tock Diner for pancakes and waffles while joking and gossiping about the other clients and girls. Rocky, our teddy bear would still never forego his role as our protector. When we would jokingly flirt with gawking customers, they would be greeted by Rocky’s threatening scowls or the tight clenching of his fists. Next thing you knew, they would be scampering away like mice. It was so much fun causing scenes at the diner or misbehaving on the streets just to embarrass poor Rocky who could never bring himself to loosen up.

And now without further a due, here are a few tips I like to share as the scholarly confessions of a former Paki stripper.

Tips:

• Speaking of tips, when leaving the club, stuff the night’s earnings into your panties but always make sure to keep a 20 in your purse. Muggers will ravenously lurk outside the club at the exact hour girls would clock out with nothing but hard earned cash stuffed in their bosoms.
• Try your best to travel in packs when exiting the club. It helps if you protect yourself with the added layer of a bouncer accompanying you to breakfast. God bless Rocky!
• After a while, you also get to know the muggers and the riff raff on a personal level. They in turn acquaint themselves with seasoned gals such as yourself. Many a nights, I have shared a cigarette with a transvestite hooker or a sliced up drug dealer. Realize and accept that they too have to make a living just like they understand your need to shed your clothes. Once this mutual bond is developed, try your best to separate yourself from emotional attachments because you will frequently arrive to work with news of how one of your smoking buddies just got arrested the night before for drug dealing. Transient business I tell you!
• There are always bound to be other street thugs who will smoke your same brand.
• Your income will mostly come in the form of dollar bills and not direct deposit paychecks. Good news: its not taxed. Bad news: takes up a lot of space in your purse (and panties). Either way, do come up with a good story for why you always pay for drinks, dinner, groceries with dollar bills. Personally I have found that a safe bet is to claim that you’re a bartender followed by a blithe smile and a wink. Duh!
• Always remember the cardinal rule of stripping: Doubles are preferred over Triples. Always! In other words, men prefer previews to the entire full-length, uncensored feature. Show just enough skin but leave plenty of room for mystery and fantasy. And Halle Berry should have never agreed to that nude scene in Monster’s Ball.
• That being said, a G-string is a true gift for a stripper. Especially if you plan on perfecting the upside-down pole split.
• There is a reason you find powder in billiard halls. For that same reason, acquaint yourself with it and get to know it well.
• No girls, I’m not talking about the powder you shoot up your nose although you will find plenty of that in the dressing room too. Try not to confuse the two or a petite little brunette catholic schoolgirl will punch you like a wall for wasting her stash on your thighs.
• Oh and don’t forget the higher the heels the larger the tips. Don’t really know the supply and demand economics of it, but it works!
• Stripping moves: easiest to learn is the ‘flirt’, then comes ‘stirring the pot’ and last but not least, the ‘upside down pole split.’ It helps to learn them in that exact order. The third is the hardest but the most fun once you get the hang of it. But at the end of the day, its really not our acrobatic skills the men are there to see. If they wanted all that, they would buy nosebleed tickets to Cirque du Soleil.
• Never and I repeat NEVER sleep with the boss! Sure it rings true for any job but it even holds true for a sleazed up profession like stripping. Doesn’t matter how sexy or gorgeous he may be and if it’s the only chance you will have to get it on in the DJ booth. Bite the hand that feeds you (even if he’s into biting or kink) and you’re setting yourself up for a very awkward situation. Trust me honey, I know firsthand.
• Some co-workers you sleep with, some will fall in love with you. Unfortunately, the ones you sleep with will be the jerks and the ones who cherish the ground you walk on will be nothing but platonic friends or protective teddy bears. Big ups to my Rocky. More on him some other day!
• Of course like any job, expect to deal with some really peculiar and eccentric clients. And I am not just talking about middle-aged, married men surrendering to pathetic priapism.
• You (nor I) will ever be the only Pakistani strippers in the city. Believe me honey, there are more of us than we think! But as long as I look better than them, they can be from Laloo-Khait for all I care.
• Yes you will run into your clients outside of the club. They are not vampires so they do come out during the day and have lives to tend to. Lives that pay for our lives, so we should be grateful to see them suited, booted and off to work.
• And yes dear, even in a city like New York, submerged in an opaque sea of frowning strangers, you will still run into the same people over and over again. This certain statement may seem poetically apt for a background narration in a cheesy Sex and the City episode but unfortunately in the real world (which is the total opposite of that show) it doesn’t help when you’re a stripper on the down-low.
• In case you do find yourself in such a situation whether it be on a subway, a cafe or while you’re re-reading Bronte across from his wife and kids picnicking on red and white plaid in Central Park; always remember the unspoken rule of privacy and confidentiality. A subtle and genteel smile is all the acknowledgment you need. No different than the polite nod for a noticeable stranger. Then inconspicuously resume back to your commute, your food or your Wuthering Heights. Subtlety is always key!
• If and when you bid farewell to this profession and move on to even more immoral careers such as…lets say…advertising, don’t be alarmed if your potential clients, coworkers, or blissfully married husbands of female colleagues were once your clients of a different sort. In such situations, kindly revert back to the above-mentioned tip. Subtlety is still key! Maybe a professional nod followed by a slight smile and then back to business. (Note: this tip is based solely on my personal experience and thus its validity relies heavily on luck and exception. I have heard from Eboni that for some girls, the profession haunts them their entire lives. Luckily I never had to confront such an unfortunate situation for myself. Knock on wood!

That’s about as much as I can think of for now. But you must also be wondering, how I absolutely managed to get away with stripping while dodging away any suspicions from friends and family. Well, when I worked at Candy the first time, I had confided in one person; my roommate Angie. We were housed together in the NYU dorms for the semester and she was an incredibly fascinating girl. Different in some ways but we were alike in many others. A hippie from Bennington, her fondness for thrift store clothes was claimed more for ‘funk’ than ‘affordability’. One will never know, but beneath those tie-died shirts, faded bandanas, macramé necklaces and crocheted ponchos trademarked from women’s folk music festivals lay a heart of gold. An aspiring environmentalist and an ardent lesbian she was adamant about a direct correlation between global-warming and the sexism perpetuated by our misogynistic male oppressors. Don’t ask me how but her theory kind of made sense when she told me. Then again my concurrence may have been clouded by the joint we shared a night I returned home from clubbing and found her reading the SCUM Manifesto on her dream-catcher bed. What’s important is that she was not only supportive of my decisions but also accompanied me during some of my job searches at the countless strip bars of Manhattan. Although she found the profession extremely disparaging with its objectification of the female body, she also encouraged it on another level because it allowed her struggling female sisters to explore and flaunt their otherwise hushed sexualities. Empowerment or disgrace, any way you look at it I needed to get paid!

The second time around when I worked at Candy. I had graduated from college and was living with my youngest and newly married Khala who had moved to Jackson Heights with her new hubby. She was very different from my mother and my Philly Khala (Khala 1), because Khala 2 and I shared the bond of youth and a mutual streak of rebellion. Living with her was a far more emancipating option than moving to Philadelphia with the other more conservative and old-fashioned Khala 1. Besides, I was young and like a million other fresh grads from small-town colleges, I too dreamt of living and working in NYC. So while I lived with my youngish and too-cool-for-school Khala 2, I not only job searched for 3 months but also tried to find a side job to earn some spending cash for myself. So yes, the entire time I worked at Candy, I was living with a clueless Khala and an equally oblivious Khaloo who had just married into our honorable and dignified family a mere six months ago. A great guy who not only enjoyed but also supported my partying ways. He claimed to live vicariously through me and encouraged me to have fun and live my life. He and my Khala also assured me that they would cover for me when my parents would call. Still, even while being as progressive as they were, it would never cross their mind in a million years that when I was dancing the night away it was actually on a pole and half naked. Sometimes I would giggle an ‘if they only knew’ smile to myself when I would take the 7 train from their apartment to Manhattan rushing to work in time to morph into my other persona: Rosa the Latina Firecracker on a pole.

So there you have it. No reservations, no regrets! In other words, my girl Missy Misdemeanor Elliot said it best, ‘Girls, girls get that cash, if its 9 to 5 or shaking that a$$, aint no shame ladies do your thang, just make sure you ahead of the game!’