Over twenty years ago, I worked as a stripper. I was in my late twenties, married to my first husband, desperate for money and a sense of who I was outside of him. In the club, under the black lights that made many things glow, I found both. It was a surprising (to some, shocking) career choice. I’m pretty modest by nature. And, I can’t dance. While I eventually learned how to not look like I was picking potatoes, I never became a good dancer. No matter. I had other assets. Great smile. Friendly demeanor. And one skill I never realized: hustle. 

Hustle has a negative connotation. But I’m using it here in its more positive form: active movement. In a strip club, a dancer’s money is made two ways: tips and what we called “drinks” or personal dances. We referred to them as “drinks” because we were literally given a drink (non-alcoholic, as we were a dry club), the size of the glass depending on how many dances a customer bought.

Customers usually tipped a dollar after each dancer’s set, which meant she could make out okay on just tips if the crowd was large and she was on stage often. Say, on a busy Tuesday night when there might only be five dancers. But, on a weekend night, there might be fifteen, which meant a dancer was only on the main stage every hour if she was lucky. At that rate, a dancer could still go home with decent tips. But the real money was in selling drinks. 

I sold a lot of drinks. My managers and fellow dancers thought I had a nose for money. True, I had a system for assessing customers and adjusting my hustle to accommodate who I thought they were and who I thought they wanted me to be. The man with his name threaded in script on his shirt required a different approach than the man in a suit, for instance. But the real key to my success was I wasn’t afraid to ask. Sure, I’d start with the men who I thought I had the best shot with, but if they said no, I just kept asking everyone else. Someone always eventually said yes.

“Must be nice,” one dancer used to say to me whenever we worked together. I’d come in the dressing room right before a personal dance and would have to step over her to get to the big wall mirror in our too-small dressing room. She’d be on the floor reading a book and eating Teddy Grahams out of the box. I’d bend over, pull my t-bars aside, and “check my butt,” looking for stray lint or toilet paper (the black lights, remember, made many things glow). 

“Must be nice,” I’d hear her say again as I stood up. 

“You’ve got to get out there and hustle,” I’d tell her as I gussied up, spritzing myself with Cotton Candy body spray, reapplying lipstick, adjusting my signature ponytail. 

“These assholes don’t want me. They want you.” 

True, she wasn’t a Barbie doll; but neither was I. There were plenty of dancers prettier than me. Plenty with bigger boobs, longer legs. Plenty who could actually dance! This dancer, for instance, could actually dance. And true, she was darker than most of us, and taller, too, over six feet in her six-inch heels. But, God, was she beautiful. Her legs, ass, and breasts all in perfect, powerful proportion. She had no idea how stunning she was and never believed any of the customers could appreciate her. 

“Not all of them are going to want you,” I’d say. “Not all of them want me. Do you know how many nos I got to get this one yes?”

“Easy for you to say.” And she’d go back to eating her Teddy Grahams. 

It is easy for me to say, because it’s true. And not just true as a stripper. It’s been true as a writer. I know I’m not the greatest writer. But I don’t have to be. Someone out there will like reading my words, just as many men liked looking at my body all those years ago. I just have to be willing to hustle. To keep writing and submitting and rewriting and submitting some more. And maybe I don’t get as many yeses as I’d like compared to the number of nos. But there won’t be any yeses at all if I stay holed up in the dressing room.