InsideStorytime HUSTLERS features sex worker literati, some from Soft Skull’s anthology Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, Rent Boys: Professionals Writing on Life, Love, Money and Sex.

Starring: David Henry Sterry, R.J. Martin, Diana Morgaine, Juliet November, Juliana Piccillo

Check out our contributors page for full bios.

So this kid, well this man I suppose, who sounded just like Andy Milonakis came on the line. (I don’t have to check IDs or anything like that. It’s all done through some central boiler room run by the world’s most unfriendliest people, and trust me I’ve worked for some major assholes in my life, but that’s besides the point.) This manchild, he had an ailment that apparently is plaguing the United States. Small dick syndrome. Yes, this country is apparently plagued with men with tiny cocks and love to pay to be reminded as such. See “Extenze.” Most of these little dicked fellows fantasize about their women fucking men with much larger dicks, but some of them want to be berated, and some of them want to be berated and have their little willies hurt. Cock and Ball Torture aka CBT.

Having been a lucky woman, with only one severely small dick run-in her 20 odd years of being a slut, I must say I was caught off guard the first call I had where I had to make fun of the guy’s non-dick.  But as time has gone by, I’ve gotten a pretty good knack at berating these wimp in the pants types. I can’t lie, it can be quite amusing and a challenge to find words and phrases to verbal abuse these guys. “I don’t even think that’s a pimple, sounds like a skin tag…you should really see a dermatologist about that little flap of skin hanging there.” Just tonight I advised a guy to put some ranch on his baby carrot and cherry tomatoes.

Oh, yes, the manchild. Pardon my list, but this shit is so fucked up it’s hard for my ADHD addled mind to parse:

a)He wants me to have my friends and neighbors laugh at his 2 1/2 inch penis. Easy enough. I knock on my wall, change my voice, pretend I’m handing the phone over, lots of laughing and calling his dick a “nugget.”

b)He tells me he has rubber bands around his nuts.  I tell him to snap them. He does. He calls me a whore and has this truly scary manical laugh.

c)As the call goes on, he tells me he’s sticking Q-tips in his dick hole. I don’t have a dick hole, but I had a friend in college who got some STD and had a long Q-tip stuck down his penis and told me how excruiating the pain was, worse than the insufferable burn the VD caused. He also once told me a tale of fucking a dude in the ass and pulling his dick out to find a kernel of corn.

D)I’m sitting there, trying to stay in character while this guy is screaming at me and telling me his nuts are turning purple. I instruct him to the remove the rubber bands, being  a good BDSM Girl Scout. But then the fucker tells me he’s sawing his purple nuts off with a knife “Tell me to go to the Emergency Room” .Now, I am pretty sure he’s fucking with me and has a castration fetish, but I’m so disturbed I tell him he can do whatever he wants with his raisin sac, but not on my clock (oh, yeah, his dime).

E)He goes back at his dick with the Q-tips, screaming and laughing. I instruct him to tape his sad little mess up, so he will be flat like a girl.

F)Motherfucker then decides not to listen to me, and then, once again I am unsure if he’s fucking with me or not and I’m pissed, I go with it. He tells me he’s squeezing his balls with pliers. Fuck it. “Squeeze them harder—harder.” This time he screams. It’s genuine. I laugh. Nervously. He’s paying for this shit. Right? Rent. Electric. Cable…

G)Enough with the fucking pliers. Can’t this guy just jerk off? I’m yearning to just feign rubbing my pussy, but a girl’s got to make a living. I deduce he’s in the bathroom. He probes himself with the Q-tips some more. “Two! I tell him.” He pauses. “Two?” Well maybe that’s not safe, so I switch…

“Got any toothpaste for that little tooth? Your dick looks like a tooth!”

Maniacl laughing. I just slay him.

‘Well do you, little tooth dick?”

“Yep”

“I want you to cover all your little man clit, that sad little mess with toothpaste! Do you hear me!”

“Yes” I hear him rattle around.

Motherfucker tries to go off track with the Q-tips. I tell him to lay off the fucking Q-tips and he then calls me a whore and this whole psychodrama ensues with me berating him about his dick and he asks for my neighbors to laugh again.

I just want him to come and hang up.

Back on track. I ask him again to cover his dick with the toothpaste. This time he obliges.

“What kind is it?”

“Crest”

“The regular, blue kind?”

“Yes.”

“Smear that shit all over your shit!…Ok, now do you have a toothbrush sissy?”

“Yes you WHORE!” maniacal laughing.

“I want you to brush your little nugget! Do you hear me! Brush it!”

And then, I hear screams. These my dear readers are real screams. I didn’t really think about the minty aspect, but I guess after he beat his miniscule mess up with rubber bands and whatnot, there must have been all sorts of tears and abrasions..

I’m glad I didn’t suggest Ben-Gay and a backrub.

Rachel Aimee: I think there’s this myth among dancers that the industry is “going downhill” and that dancers across the board are expected to do more than they used to do. I know women who have been working since the 90s and refer to that decade as the “golden age of stripping,” when dancers got paid tons of money just to dance on stage and didn’t even have to touch the customers, but it seems, from what I’ve read on both your blogs, that dancers have been doing more than just dancing for a long time.

Lauri Shaw: Yes, and in the 90s there were girls who said the same thing about the 80s. Jodi, in “Lele” (your story from Soft Skull anthology Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, & Rent Boys), a customer is going down on a dancer while she sits on the stage, collects his money, and otherwise ignores him. Was it common for dancers to allow so much contact?

Jodi Sh Doff: In the late 70’s there was a lot less regulation. It was years before AIDS reared its ugly head. Tourists, particularly Japanese men, could come off the plane at Kennedy airport, hand a cabbie a slip of paper with just the word “Cookie” on it. Places like the Cookie Jar and Winks were standing room only, bottomless, with stages no higher than, well, than your dinner table. Girls were there for your dining and dancing pleasure, hot lunches they used to be called. The money was insane and there was no hustle. You couldn’t sit and drink with a customer — there was no room. Unfortunately for me, I got my first close up look at a vagina that was not attached to me and took off on the first day. Had I known, I’d have gotten real comfortable, real fast. By the early 80’s the Alcoholic Beverage Control (ABC) code called the shots and if a club served booze, the girls had to be a minimum of six feet away from the customers and they had to have g-strings. No pulling aside the g-string (although girls did), no touching yourself or them (of course we did that too).  That’s when a lot of stages moved behind the actual bar. Diamond Lils was a renegade bar, hence the lack of register tape or financial records of any kind.

RA: Yes, you couldn’t get away with anything like that at clubs I’ve worked at, but I think it’s the norm for lapdances to be pretty heavy contact and sometimes include “extras” (hand jobs, etc.), especially in private rooms. Then of course there are plenty of dancers who just dance and don’t do anything illegal.

LS: All of that’s true, in fact last year Scores lost its liquor license after getting busted for prostitution in 2007. But in the 90’s, blatant tricks didn’t happen out in the open like that, out on stage for everyone to see. The rule was generally “no touching the girls onstage.”

RA: I’ve also heard cops arresting dancers just for allegedly agreeing to perform an illegal act. In cases where dancers get busted, of course the clubs never take any responsibility, even if they knew perfectly well what was going on and may have been making money off it.

LS: I do remember one place where a scenario like at Diamond Lils might have flown — the Harmony Theatre. I was only there once. They kept it really dark and made no pretense of being “entertainers.” I don’t think they even bothered serving drinks. I do not remember there being a bar at all. Men sat in those theatre seats and haggled with the girls over the price of a lapdance, which was often a euphemism for a hand job or more.

JshD:The original Harmony was uptown, on 48th Street, right by the Gaiety Burlesque. The Gaiety was an all male dance house with live sex shows and a lot of action going on back stage between sets. Working girls used to hang out in the back rows just to get off their feet for a while. It was a blast, I had a few guy friends who worked the Gaiety. But the Harmony used to be specialty acts, old school star strippers and girls that could pick a dollar up off the table with their cooch. Very impressive if you ask me. I believe the name was changed to the Melody Burlesque and then the Harmony re-opened downtown and it was that free-for-all you’re talking about. All lap dancing, no pretense of being  “entertainment” at all.

LS: Exactly, it was a free-for-all. Men could buy anything they wanted at the Harmony, and working girls could buy the freedom to give the men whatever they wanted. There wasn’t a bouncer in sight. The shift manager sat in the coat room, away from all the action.

RA: I’ve never worked at a place that was that free and easy, but I’ve definitely preferred working at clubs where management was more hands-off. At some of the big corporate “gentlemen’s clubs” that have taken over modern day Manhattan, management are constantly micromanaging everything the dancers do, policing lapdances and pressuring dancers to take customers to private rooms (because they make a huge cut). I think most dancers prefer the freedom to decide for themselves what they’re comfortable with. But in general I find it’s very difficult to have open conversations about who does what in strip clubs because it’s so easy to offend people. There’s so much stigma attached to sex work that it’s easy to unintentionally make someone feel bad if you’re not willing to do something that they are willing to do. Everyone has different boundaries, so I think that tension is always going to exist in the industry.

When I was at an interview for appointment setter for the match maker service job, and they asked me about my past phone experience; I took a deep breath and said “Well, I worked at a phone sex line.”

Every since my 6 month of work at the phone sex line, I have been wanting to mention it at a job interview. I always get “You have such a good phone manner and voice.” I want to reply, “Well, that from giving verbal blow jobs at 7 AM with a giggle and a laugh.” But of course I don’t say that.

I have many a wacky job listed on my resume. Many of the names of companies and events I have worked on get me a raised eyebrow or called in for interviews for jobs I’m not qualified for, just so they can see what I look like (and I have people actually told me that). I even for a while had the phone sex somewhat listed on my resume, as ‘storyteller’ for Selective Media, the company name for the phone sex line.

Multitasking is a popular job interview question, and I have handled two calls at once; since employees of the place where I worked were often asked to work the party line while taking regular calls. Making each man truly believe me moans, and promises of nibbles, sucks, and fucks were solely for him.

Dealing with difficult people. Well, I have cracked that imaginary whip and been the Dominatrix that makes people go “Yes, mama to” after a few minutes of suggestive phrases. I have gotten men with pedophile, incense fantasias talk about something else, cause we at the phone sex line in worked at didn’t talk about that.

I learn to read people, get them to open, accommodate them, and have them leaving happy in 5 – 7 minutes. Customer service- I’m all about that.

Fuck traditional jobs and all the business school training, to learn to be a receptionist or customer service rep, just try a few months working at the phone sex line to learn what you will need to know. But of course, graduate of a business can make it’s way on to the resume.

BY BERTA AVILA

It was freezing, all I could think about was getting out of the cold. Decembers in Texas were very cold indeed. Looking down at my feet to step on my cigarette, I realized my feet were hurting, on top of everything. Who cares, the stilettos were worth every ache. My mind started to recall certain childhood memories that I would much rather forget, as I nervously paced at the corner waiting for my cab. Ah yes, my ride to my predicated destiny. Mama was a self-proclaimed preacher woman, and she sure did predicate my future, “you little whore, I knew the moment you were born you were no good!” Yeah, guess mama was right, and tonight I was gonna show her, boy was I gonna show her.

How did I get to this point in my life? Well, it was a matter of being at the right place, at the right time. Actually, it was more like being at the wrong place, at the wrong time, al the time. Anyway, I had already been dancing for a year. At sixteen, I was a drop out with a child. My daughter’s father went back to his mom’s, he always was a momma’s boy and there was no way in hell ma would take me back. So, my options were limited. It went something like this; work as a maid, now that was demeaning, or dance, be glamorous, have fun, and make lots of money – needless to say, I made my choice. An older, by older I meant she was 24, friend advised me, with much enthusiasm and praise that my beauty was going to waste on that stage. There was a new business in town, an escort service and this would really pay me the bucks. So I met with the “manager”, who explained all I had to do was escort these gentlemen wherever they needed to go. This much, the service was paid for, anything else was…..well, entirely up to me. I already knew I’d probably be accompanying them as far as the closest bed. But hey, this was my destiny, right?

The yellow cab honked loudly snapping me back into harsh reality. Little did I know my downward descent into hell started when I pulled my second foot into that cab. “So where to muñeca?” the driver asked, oh – by the way muñeca means doll in Spanish, which truly offended me.” How dare he, I’m a woman, doesn’t he see me, all dressed up and definitely with somewhere to go?” So I gave him the motel’s address in my most adult voice. I realized my voice quivered a little bit and felt embarrassed. Here I was, a big girl now, on my first escort out-call. I had really arrived. As the car slowly entered the motel’s driveway, my anxiety grew, my chest hurt. “What am I feeling, no this can’t be, I’m not scared of anything”, started talking to myself. All of a sudden, there it was, a thunderous sobbing that took both me and the driver by surprise. “Shit”, I remember saying it out loud, “I can’t let my mascara run”. I wanted to stop crying, I really, really did, but couldn’t, the tears kept gushing out. Just about then the peppy, happy-go-lucky driver turned around and with a somber look said, “dis your first tym muñeca?” I nodded between sobs. He offered me some tissue, “is gonna be okay preciosa”, he said. Ironic, “preciosa” means precious and I felt far, far from precious at that moment. For a split second I thought of telling the cabby to take me home. Then, I thought about my child and my younger sister waiting for me at home. I couldn’t return without money, they, we depended on me. Mom had kicked my sister out after an over dose, way to go ma! So, now she was my babysitter and I the sole-provider. So, in a twisted yet very real way, I felt responsible for our livelihood.

Mr. Cabby, double parked at the motel’s entrance and said “lisen if u wan I wait for u”, his accent was thick, reminded me of my father’s. But, that’s a whole different story. So, there he was this fatherly, friendly soon to be stand-by driver, offering some kind of moral support. I nodded again, pulled the flask out of my purse and took a fast swig of scotch. My faithful liquid courage. I wiped my tears and my snotty nose and exited the cab slowly. Up the stairs I went, my heels echoing loudly off the cement steps. Still felt a knot in my gut as I knocked on the door which opened much too soon for my liking. He smiled, I smiled back. Small talk, “it’s a cold night, huh? You gonna keep me warm?” “Of course”, I answered, “I aim to please”. Where the f…ck did I learned these terms, oh well, they worked made me feel like a pro. The anguish and embarrassment I felt while undressing made my movements awkward. My lack of experience was showing. I feared rejection and humiliation not realizing that it was exactly that lack of experience, awkwardness and fear that fed the stranger’s hunger. Something like busting a cherry, initiation of a ho. His hands scorched my skin while I cringed and tried not to show it. I cried out in my mind, “God if you exist, please help me!” Didn’t realize it then, but my prayer was answered. I closed my eyes and suddenly found myself in another place. There it was a peaceful meadow that reeked of jasmine and fresh cut grass where I walked barefooted. I glanced back as if looking at a movie screen behind me. There she was, suffocating under the weight of the stranger. I looked away, couldn’t bear to see anymore less I might feel her pain. Thus the prayer was answered, though I didn’t know it at the time. Many years down the road I found out the exact definition of it. Its called d-i-s-s-o-c-i-a-t-i-o-n: “to separate from association or union with another”. As in insanity, as in “dissociative disorders”. Wow! I actually did some research and one descriptive phrase stands out; “an individual presenting with this disorder is often a demoralized and suspicious person who believes the world is unjust or that he/she is an evil person”. HELLO.

I conveniently snapped back into reality as he was handing me the crisp bills, lots of them, and a tip to boot! It was over, done. My initiation into whoredom, commemorated with blood, sweat, snot and tears. The cold night’s air struck me sober as I walked downstairs. Much to my relief, Mr. Cabby was there, patiently waiting. Alas, a perfect relationship, a dashing duo. Something along the lines of “Driving Miss Daisy”, or maybe more like driving miss daisy all night long, as she bangs all around town. Whatever, I just needed to go home, take a shower and count my money. I took many a shower those early years.

As time went by, it became easier, in a mechanical sort of way. One minute there, the next I’m gone. Never get personal, and never, absolutely never, kiss on the lips. That was much too personal.

Decembers are still dark and cold in Texas. It’s been a long, long time since the days of “wine and roses”. I don’t live in Texas anymore.

BERTA AVILA is a Chicana from El Segundo Barrio of El Paso, Texas. Some of her work can still be found splashed in loud colors on many an abandoned building in the barrio she grew up in. Graffiti, true, but there are some truths that must be said, especially when oppression, compression, and depression is the daily bread. Her present occupation as a translator pales in comparison to her past occupations, which include exotic dancer, escoert service worker, brothel worker, waitress, medical-legal assistant, and instructional assistant for elementary school children. She considers herself a spiritual warrior, a survivor, who long ago found salvation by passionately expressing her rage, her despair, her resilience, and her hope through her poetry and her artwork.

Read more in Road Warrior: Confessions of a Male Stripper

The world of the male stripper – glitz, glamour, fame, wealth, celebrity. It is often assumed that all the above terms apply to male strippers but in reality none of them actually do. More adept descriptions would be toilets (common changing areas), heckling, abuse, long drives, eye openers and sex.

Being a male stripper is sometimes a bit like being a celebrity with none of the protective mechanisms. Male strippers drive themselves and carry their own bags. They get heckled and adored in equal measure. My phone number is widely available (how else would prospective people book me), but this means I get an array of weirdoes phoning me up at strange hours. Some I have met on my travels, others I have never even heard of. Unlike genuine celebrities, the male stripper is accessible. You can book him, talk to him, touch him and harass him at anytime.

If the male stripper should spurn the advances of a catalogue of wishful suitors he must be prepared to pay the consequences. In the case of agents/drag queens, this may mean you don’t receive future calls about potential work. In the case of Joe/Joanne Public this may mean that they will launch into a tirade against you. The male stripper is unlike any other variety act because other acts sell purely on their entertainment value. The male stripper by contrast also sells sex (appeal). This unfortunately leads to disappointment and bruised egos when he doesn’t go home with everybody. The DJ/hypnotist/singer/ventriloquist isn’t expected to go home with the audience. The male stripper on the other hand is expected to do just that from a surprisingly high proportion of his fan base. If he does engage in carnal acts with any member of the audience then he can expect mass hostility from those that remain. After all, she is bound to brag about what she just did with the stripper. Trust me, I know.

During my time as a male stripper I have seen things that most people probably never will. If they did they would probably classify them as bizarre, mad, or downright depraved. For example, after performing in a gay club once there was a man in a sling in the corner of the room having a traffic cone inserted into a part of his anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine. His eyes weren’t even watering ! Another time, in a gay club I emerged from my changing area to find four women queuing politely all waiting to do the wild thing with my alter ego. Being British they were terribly civil about the whole thing, each waiting their turn. Another time at a private house party, I was led by my dangly bits from the room by the birthday girl. On the encouragement of her husband I was led upstairs so that I might use the said dangly bits on the birthday girl! Yet another time I ended dispensing advice to three blow job virgins in their living room. The male stripper was a good person to practice on.

The life of the male stripper is poorly remunerated but it is never dull.

“Oh, mami, mami, come bring me punani,” another one chants. I give him what I hope is a withering look, but he just chortles, sipping his O’Doul’s with gusto. I’ll bet the dumbass really thinks he’s getting drunk.

I don’t even try to move to this techno beat that Richard has on. I’m cold, pissed off, and way too sober. It’s less than halfway into the shift.

I’m strapped tonight, of course, and I somehow owe the club a fifty dollar late fee. I suspect that this fine is retaliatory on behalf of Alannah, who wasted no time telling everyone we work with that I tossed her ass out onto the street, leaving her with no place to go. How I ever managed to succumb to that bitch’s convoluted little mind games and come up empty-handed is beyond me, but that’s exactly what has happened. The dog eyes I’m getting in the dressing room from most of the girls who work here say it all.

“Shake it, meatflaps,” I hear one of the would-be O.G.’s saying behind me. I set my jaw hard. I don’t deserve this.

Ignoring the roughnecks, I climb up the pole and flip backwards, letting all the blood rush to my head until my ears start to pop. I do various pole gymnastics for a minute or two while I’m completely naked. I’m trying to kill time until this horrific set ends so that I can get offstage and suck down some vodka.

Meanwhile, the vulgar little bastards are growing more and more rowdy. The catcalls continue, and so do the insults.

“Choacha!”

“Yo, baby, come on over here and meet Oscar!”

“Show us some coochie! Gotta dolla fo’ to make you holla!”

There is more loud laughter. One charming lad stands up and claps his homeboy on the back. “Good one, B,” he says.

“No doubt, no doubt,” says his friend, who also rises and leans over the periphery of the stage. “Hey,” he addresses me.

“What?” I’m abrupt, already defensive.

“Baby, what you got to be all the way over there for? I’m sayin’ – give me and my peeps some love. We got money.”

My gaze is suspicious. “You can’t just do whatever you want to me for a damned dollar, you know,” I assert.

“How much would that be?” one wiseass pipes up, but he falls silent when B glares at him.

“Nah, girl, come on, it’s cool, we was just messin’ wit you,” says B. “We came to have a good time. Come on over here and dance for us.”

“I’ll dance for you over here,” I say.

B pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and waves it in the air.

Normally I wouldn’t fall for such a tactic. But tonight I’m flustered. There’s too much going on in my head for me to give this situation the amount of caution it deserves. I cross the stage and lean down for the hundred. “Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says B, his eyes alive with merriment. “Turn around for me.”

“No.”

“Well, where I’m supposed to put it then?”

His friends punch each other, mumbling approvingly and egging him on. I tap my garter. “You can put it here,” I announce.
“You saw this was a C-note, right, mami?”

“Yeah, and? So what?”

“So ain’t you gonna let me put a whole C-note no place better than on your leg? That ain’t special.”

I sigh. Nobody’s ever tipped me a hundred dollars onstage. It’d be nice to be able to say that someone has. Maybe it’d make the other girls respect me more.

“You can put it between my tits,” I say reluctantly.

B’s friends start to hoot again, and I’m immediately sorry for what I’ve volunteered. But it’s too late to back down. I cover my breasts with my palms, and I push them together to create cleavage.

B holds up the hundred.  I lean towards him. He puts his fist in between my hands as they lay over my chest. I try to grab the bill from him, but he won’t let it go.

“Now come on,” I tell him, my expression stern.

“Aw, honey dip, I’m just gettin’ my money’s worth,” says B. “Spread your legs, baby. Let’s see some poontang.”

“That’s not part of the bargain,” I announce indignantly, and I pull away.

I’m not fast enough. B grabs the back of my head with his other hand and starts trying to shove it down into his crotch. His buddies cheer. As my palms come off my chest to push on the stage floor for leverage, one of his friends grabs a handful of tit, while another one of them slaps my ass. They surround me like brush wolves on a kill. I don’t even try to defend myself against so many men. Instead, I scream.

“TIM! MAKE THEM QUIT TOUCHING ME OVER HERE!”

Tim looks over at the stage with little interest, and Ronnie takes his sweet time strolling up to the scene. By the time he is standing in front of us, the hooligans have had their fill.

“Fellas, no touching the girls onstage. Okay? If you do it again, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Ronnie tells them, far too mildly for my liking. He and B nod at each other in understanding, and then he starts to walk back to the bar.

By now, I’m shivering next to the pole on the opposite side of the stage, climbing back into my handkerchief of a dress, and I’m absolutely livid. Last week, someone touched Brittany while she was on stage, and she didn’t even have to raise her voice. Ronnie pulled the offender up out of his chair and had him out the door before the poor wretch was even aware that he was being moved. I’ve made these people a lot of money some nights. At the very least, I warrant the same courtesy from the club as Brittany does.

“That’s it?” I carp at Ronnie. “That’s all you’re gonna say to him?”

Ronnie shrugs from across the club. “I gave him a warning. If he does it again, he knows he has to leave.”

“That’s bullshit!” I exclaim. “You’re letting these pricks think they can get away with anything they want to in here!”

“Sweetheart, spare us the ‘woe-is-me’ act. You’re not fooling nobody,” Tim pipes up.

Richard has turned the music all the way down, and the house lights almost all the way up, making an even bigger spectacle of me than is necessary. He’s standing outside the DJ booth, beaming.

The other girls, forced to pause mid-lap-dance, shoot me hostile looks that match the ones their customers are giving me.
The homeboys that started it all are now sitting back against the mirrored wall, all holding the same identically cocky pose. Each one is slouched all the way down in his chair with his arms folded over a sweaty chest and a dirty wife-beater.
I decide to stand up for myself.

“Tim, what the hell are you talking about?”

Tim raises his glass to his lips. He’s drinking seltzer water – I think.

He takes a sip, and then replies, “So a customer touches your precious booby. Innocent little you. He does it onstage, he’s a bastid. He does it in the VIP, you make money. It’s not no big deal. And why do you have your dress on? Your set’s not over.”

“Oh, fuck yes, it is,” I tell him, and I climb over the rail and off the stage.

“What do you think you’re doing, missy? A girl has to be on that stage at all times!” Tim yawps.

“Oh, so some rules are set in stone? While you bend the other ones any way you feel like?” I say. “I don’t fucking think so. I’m done. Get someone else down on her knees for you.”

“I am going to fine you an extra fifty dollars for every minute you are off that stage if you don’t get back up there right now!” Tim decrees. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

“That seems to be a common theme, so I guess I must,” I say.

“GET BACK UP ON STAGE OR YOU’RE FIRED!”

“How on earth do you fire someone who pays you to work?” I wonder as I head towards the dressing room. “I don’t think you can fire me. I think this is me quitting.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarissa whispers when I pass by her on the way to the basement door. “You know he’s not gonna let you come back if you leave!”

This is the first time she’s spoken to me in a couple of months. “Piss off, whore!” I tell her.

I storm downstairs, grab my bag, turn right around and head back up the stairs. I don’t even want to be in this place long enough to change out of my skimpy costume.

On the floor, the music is up once more droning some colorless techno, and Alannah has taken my place on stage.
I muscle my way past the bar, ignoring everyone. I don’t look back once. It’s not until I get out the front door that I remember my car is in the shop. I’m not holding enough cash to pay for a cab.

I open up the bag to find that my jeans and my coat are missing. Some bitch went and fucked with my things – probably Alannah or one of her friends – on this night, of all nights. Fabulous. That’s just beautiful. There’s no way I’m going back inside to further humiliate myself by asking anyone where my clothes are.

It’s nearly winter time, it’s windy and crisp out here, and now I’m going to have to take the subway home in what amounts to lingerie and stilettos. At midnight.

*                    *                    *

I try not to think about how cold I am, walking cross-town for several blocks dressed like a regular streetwalker. Shit, even those chicks wear jean jackets and legwarmers sometimes.

It’s warmer when I get down to the subway station, but not by much. If I was dressed for the weather, of course, I know damned well it would be sweltering down here. Just not tonight.

The station is deserted. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. There’s no one around to see me dressed like this, thank God. No cops – they’d probably arrest me for soliciting if they showed up right now. But I keep looking behind me anyway, paranoid that someone will materialize. Knowing that if anyone does, I’ll be alone with him and my screams as they bounce off the walls underground.

Finally, after an eternity, I see two tiny dotted headlights beginning to shine their way around the corner of the subway’s passage.

A middle-aged man, tall and robust in a suit and a trench, walks purposefully down the stairs in my direction, looking dead at me. I shrink against the bench, praying that the train moves faster. He strides closer. I can see the first car in the distance. I can’t hear it yet. He advances. I look away.

The train roars to a stop in front of us. The stranger takes off his coat, throws it across my lap, and strides through the doors as they open.

By the time I recover from the shock that I’m the recipient of this random kindness, I have to throw my body between those same doors to keep them from closing in my face. I huddle in the coat, which covers me and then some. My face is in my hands. I’m too ashamed to even look up and thank the man. When I finally work up the nerve to do it, he is already getting off at the following stop. He doesn’t turn around to look at me again.

Lauri Shaw was born in Forest Hills, N.Y. , and raised in West Egg, Long Island. Lauri remembers West Egg as an idyllic pastiche of bulimia, Prozac, nose jobs and nose candy. Lauri was an insufferable problem child. She left home at fifteen, disappeared into the New York night life shortly thereafter, and emerged in her twenties with a terrible hangover. Lauri has written articles and web copy for lifestyle magazines, fitness publications, and various clients, including Warner Bros. Television. She serializes Servicing the Pole, an online novel about stripping, at www.laurishaw.com. Lauri’s hobbies include torturing well-meaning, innocent men.

BY JILL MORLEY

“Bend your knees! Get your racket back earlier! Follow through!”

These are common suggestions I make as a tennis whore on the Upper East Side. People pay me to help them improve their games, their bodies, their psyches. Some people pay $100 just to play me. I get a very small percentage of that, since court time is so expensive and my manager/pimp does screen my tennis tricks. Many are men who love to show me how hard they can hit the ball. Some think they are Roger Fucking Federer. Others are angry. They don’t want instruction.

The harder they hit, the harder I return the ball. That’s just the way I am. Some men want me to whup their asses. I guess those are the fetishists. Once, when I apologized to a client I passed at the net by whipping a backhand by him, he told me that he liked it. He said, “I enjoy being abused. That’s what I pay you for.” Before that, I never realized that I doubled as a dominatrix.

Other men, usually the older guys, just want my company and will spend a lot of the hour talking about their wives, their jobs, their kids and why they are so out of shape. They’re curious about what I do when I’m not playing/teaching tennis. I try to keep my private life separate. That is none of their business. I’m just trying to make a buck.

The women are more businesslike and strictly want to become better players. They appreciate the instruction, and usually try their hardest to do what I tell them. When their games improve, they start being nicer to me, trusting me more and talking to me like maybe I’m not just a tennis whore. Sometimes they will tell me about how tired they are from redesigning their country homes in the Hamptons. Ask my opinion on what kind of decks they should put on their houses. They’ll tell me about how hard it is to raise a child with attention deficit disorder. They’ll tell me how their husbands criticize the way their bodies look after having children, and how lucky I am to be single. I keep it confidential. That’s my job.

This one client, Shirl, wanted to break me free of tennis whoredom. Newly divorced with two kids, she wanted me to go on a double date with her. “He’s a doctor,” she said, “Bald…but he’s built and he’s loaded.” I guess she saw that as my only way out of The Life.

On Tuesdays I teach the kids;  the kids of very wealthy Upper East Siders. Many have some kind of lesson after school every single day of the week. Mondays acting class, Wednesdays ice-skating, Thursdays swimming, Fridays ballroom dancing, Tuesdays tennis with the tennis whore. They’re all cute. Some are spoiled and don’t behave. Many don’t want to be there, but their parents want them to have all the trappings of an upwardly-mobile-Ivy-League-country-clubbing-golf-playing life.

One eight-year-old named Tommy told me that he didn’t really like playing tennis, but he liked spending his time with me. “You are much nicer than my mom,” he told me. Knowing he was probably right, but horrified at that prospect, I said, “Come on, Tommy, your mom is pretty nice.” He turned to me and said, “No, Jill, she’s not.” Poor kid. But in that hour that he’s with me, I make sure to keep him happy and make him feel good about himself. That’s my job.

Only once did I make the mistake of taking my work home with me. Or actually to a client’s home. Mixing business with so-called pleasure. A big no-no for a tennis whore.

I was teaching a handsome, wealthy man named Mark, whom I played every week. He owned several restaurants in Manhattan. He was always my last lesson/trick of the night. Afterward, he would usually ask me to have a drink with him. He was a wine collector and had a full wine cellar. “Come on,” he’d say, “you’re not going to let me drink a bottle by myself, are you?” I would always decline. I was attracted to him, but knew he would never take a tennis whore as his girlfriend. I was way too common.

But one night I was so tired of resisting Mark’s offers, and lusted for a tasty sip of rich red wine. I went with him to his four-story brownstone on the Upper East Side, blocks away from the tennis club. It was magnificent. The only time I had ever been in a townhouse that size was when I used to cater private parties, wearing a tux. I’d never gone in as a guest before. Especially a sweaty, salty guest who had sticky tennis clothes clinging to her body.

Then I thought about it. This was my big chance. I saw Pretty Woman. I knew what could happen if things went my way. I imagined us going shopping at Paragon and trying on all sorts of tennis skirts, matching tops, Fila, Reebok, Nike, Adidas, warmup suits and sneakers; sitting in box seats at the U.S. Open and Wimbledon, going to the most elegant gyms, clinking Gatorade bottles, visiting the most elite spas in the world. This could be my way out of tennis whoredom.  We entered a small hallway that went into his kitchen. A child’s Big Wheel obstructed the way. There were pictures of his wife and children all over the walls and his wedding ring was on the kitchen counter. I guess I should have immediately fled the scene, but I really wanted to see the rest of his apartment. We climbed the stairs to the library on the third floor. He opened some merlot, offered me some pot and poured my red velvety liquid into his daughter’s pink plastic Barbie cup. Very kinky. I declined the pot because everyone thinks that tennis whores do drugs. I wanted to break the stereotype, and besides, you can’t get too relaxed when you are around clients. You must always have an edge. Always be one step ahead of them.

After he confided in me about an affair he had with a Brazilian stripper, I decided it was time for me to leave. Taking my last sip of the best wine I ever had in my life, I pushed myself away from the table, tennis racket in hand, and excused myself. I carried the racket in a professional way, but also in a way that could be seen as semi-threatening. I didn’t want Mark to feel too safe or like I would be too easy. He followed me downstairs to the doorway. I thanked him for the wine, turned my head so he would get cheek when he kissed me, and bolted out the door. That’s another thing.  Never kiss a client on the lips.  Since that evening, I have kept my tennis life very separate from my private life. I stopped teaching Mark, replacing myself with another tennis whore for his lessons. That is what we do when these things happen. Replace ourselves, move on to other clients and try not to mix business with pleasure ever again.

The worst part of being a tennis whore is that tennis isn’t as much fun to play, because it becomes associated with work. Your game weakens; tennis becomes more about servicing others than improving your own playing. Often, a tennis whore must come up with other activities that he/she can enjoy to replace the activity of tennis.

I don’t mean to sound like I am complaining. I love my job.  I am a free agent, virtually my own boss, don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder when I’m on the court, make decent money and get to do something that is physical and keeps me in shape.  As far as servicing others and making them feel more confident about themselves, their prowess, their bodies, giving them a place to release their tension and anxieties, I enjoy providing those things. That’s my job.

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A contributing writer to The Village Voice, Freshyarn.com, The New York Press, Penthouse, Inside Kung Fu, Martial Arts and Combat Sports and Gear Magazine, Jill also co-produced/co-wrote two radio documentaries for “The World” and “This American Life,” which aired on NPR.

Morley wrote and performed the critically acclaimed play, “True Confessions of a Go-Go Girl.” It was produced in Manhattan for five years, San Francisco’s “Solo Mio Festival,” The “Texas Fringe Festival”, LA’s HBO Workspace, and opened Women’s History Month at NYU. “True Confessions” is published in The Best Women’s Plays of 1998. and is being made into a Lifetime Movie of the Week that will air in August.

Jill is honored to have her monologues published in several monologue collections by Gerald Lee Ratliff along with Arthur Miller, Steve Martin, David Hare,and Wendy Wasserstein. Her short story, “Teaching Rose” was published in the collection by Russ Kick, Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.

Jill also worked with Academy Award nominee Brazilian director, Bruno Barreto, revising dialogue on his film, Bus 174, based on the award winning documentary.