I'm already sweating. I breathe, and adjust the bows on my side-tie g-string. I’m listening through the door for my music to start, and I can hear the kids grumbling about wanting to play their own music on the stereo I brought. The mom is surprisingly convincing, claiming she just picked it up at the store and wants to try to out herself first. I think I can hear the first few measures of ‘Rock Steady.’
I knock, loudly, three times.
There’s muttering and shuffling and then the birthday boy opens the door. I stand grinning in the doorway, school-girl skirt and white button-down shirt over shiny black boots and red fishnets.
His mouth opens. Success. The kid is surprised.
“Oh my god, is that a stripper?” is just one of the exclamations I catch from the poker table of highschoolers as I saunter inside, trying not to trip on my boots. The guest of honor is dazed, all freckles and too-long hair and over-large shirt. Jesus, he looks like a baby.
He might as well be. It’s his 16th birthday. I’m ushering him towards the empty chair near couch and trying to figure out how I got talked into working a stripper-gram for a 16-year-old kid, bought and paid for by none other than his mom. Likely a combination horror and intense curiosity. Plus it’s work, and in this economy, I try not to turn down a booking.
I plop him into the seat and introduce myself. The mother is in the corner, frenetically snapping away with her digital point and shoot. The rest of the crowd includes 5 or 6 high school sophomores, and I can’t really tell them apart. I vamp and dance a little and spin. I climb into the kid’s lap, press his face into my sternum. Sorry kid, I’m thinking.
I’m pretty sure I’m not doing anything illegal. My bra stays on for the whole twenty-five minutes that I’m dancing. And just to be safe, I’m wearing two pairs of underwear. I’d considered stripping down to my g-string before the show started, tying it around my hips before pulling my slinky red bootyshorts up over it, but one look at the phones immediately glued to the guests’ hands and I decide I don’t need the whole of my ass plastered over their Myspace pages.
The entirety of my brief performance, I’m worried I’m going to do something that crosses the line. He’s a virgin, after all. At least that’s what his mom had said to me on the phone when discussing the details of the surprise. My first reaction was, “Well, that’s what she thinks”, but after I meet him I don’t disagree with her assessment. Except. Watching him watch me and my body, I can’t help but think he’s incredibly self-possessed. Many men in the position he’s in now – the center of attention, a strange, nearly-naked girl in and out of his lap – are at least a little embarrassed. Some are downright uncomfortable. This boy is surprisingly unfazed.
I lay him on the ground and strip off his shirt. I straddle him and pull out a blue marker. “Draw a penis!” one of his friends goads. Um, not with his mom watching. Instead I write a happy birthday message and leave a lip-gloss imprint of my mouth in the small his back. Then I spank him with the belt I’d collected before I laid him down. The crowd goes nuts, of course. Even though it’s mostly light thwacks across his clothed butt, it still makes an impressive sound when I bring the belt down on his young backside. Everyone, including his mom, loves it.
I send him back to the chair and do my dance, back and forth, ass to face, boobs to face, body to floor. Open my legs, slap the inside of my thigh, repeat. I’m trying to keep it light, so every time I straddle him I remember not to grind or lean in too close and breath into his ear, the way that I’ve learned. Instead I’m comical, bouncing up and down on his lap in an exaggerated display of sexuality. I’m trying to make it clear that I don’t really mean it, that I would not actually get it on with this kid at little too close to being half my age.
* * *
I’m finally down to my bra and bootyshorts and I run out of things to do. I’ve gone through my routine once, and I’m pretty sure I’m expected to provide at least 1 or 2 more songs of naughty entertainment.
So I draw a large flower on his bare chest. I lay him on the ground and spank him with my hands. I flip him over so he’s lying face up and ease the length of my body down the length of his. I back up, my knees on either side of his head, my ass now hovering above his face. I shake it gingerly, still trying to not go too far, aware that we are in a classic ‘69’ position. I try like hell to keep my head away from his crotch while I place his hands on my ass and the crowd hoots and hollers. The sophomore sitting directly behind us yodels his appreciation, and I hear the electronic ‘shutter’ of his cameraphone go off 5 or 6 times, my ass--I’m sure--pre-eminent in the frame.
In fact, throughout the show, every time I turn to face the crowd, I’m confronted by a gaggle of greasy teens watching my show through the screens of their cell phones. They take as many pictures as their phones will hold. One or two of them are taking video.
“Crap,” One of them mutters, “The memory’s all full.”
And I overhear a brief discussion comparing the merits of each of their electronic devices as I move from the birthday boy’s lap to a brief floor show.
My lingering impressions are of the cameras, and of the mother talking as I dance for her son. Ever-encouraging, she yells out advice in between the flashes of her camera:
“Put your face in her boobs!”
“She has a great butt, doesn’t she? Spank her again!”
“Grab her more, take advantage of it!”
I think we’re both trying to ignore her.
* * *
The last song on my playlist is halfway over, so it’s time to break out my finale. Unfortunately, I did my last trick 10 minutes early, before repeating my whole routine. No matter. I’ll do it again.
I set him up for what I call the stripper flip (a.k.a lap headstand). I pull his butt to the edge of the chair. I open his legs and position his feet so they make sturdy contact with the ground. I lean in and draw his torso into a stable upright position, campily smooshing his face into my chest as I do so. “Ready?” I grin. He’s ready. After all, we just did this.
I face him. I plant my hands on his knees and bend at the waist to put my head down between his legs. I wiggle. And then I kick up, momentum throwing my legs and core upside down, my pantied crotch landing directly under his chin as my legs move into an open v. Exactly as I had before. This time, however, I next wrap my legs around his head and buck violently. The small crowd explodes into noise. I hold my pose for a moment while the final pictures are taken, then I gracefully tumble back to the ground, tossing my hair as I stand.
They clap, I curtsy. Then it’s hugs all around before the mom walks me back to the upstairs bathroom where she’d originally snuck me in to change.
One thing she says to me as I’m leaving: “I’m glad you were a sweet girl and not a yucky girl.”
And, after I make a comment about it being an experience for this kid to remember, she launches into, “Yeah, especially thanks to his friends and their phones. By Monday, I expect those clips to be all over their high school.”
I can’t hide my startled look. “That was the whole point,” she laughs. I recover with a smile, shake her hand, and am on my way, chuckling the whole car ride home.
* * *
I’m going to leave this story here, the way it is, but I want to say that it’s more complicated than I originally wrote. I made a decision in that split second when I walked into the room and saw what the gig really was (mugging for those kids’ phones, for this mother’s chintzy digital point and shoot); I made the decision that it didn’t matter. That I not only accepted being photographed but endorsed it. It feels dishonest to let you think that it was this was easy thing. I’m not saying I regret it either, because I don’t. It’s just not as clear as all that. But I don’t really have the words to talk about it right now. Maybe soon?