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Rachel Guthall

You are wiping out a scotch glass with a dirty rag, the bass
of Lil’ Jon’s “Get Low” reverbing in the back of your ears for
what seems like the hundredth time. Shonda and Cleo are
doing their routine. At first, the 10:30 twerk-fest had been one
of your favorite parts of the night, but by now, it was like
clockwork. It was an odd night if you even looked up to see
the girls running their thumbs along their hipbones in the
straps of the camo thongs stuffed with ones—their ass cheeks
making tiny circles like they were trying wash the windows of
a big invisible van. Wax on, wax off, you can’t help thinking
to yourself, as you slide the last of the glasses onto the
mirrored shelf behind you. You spot behind your reflection a
new customer—some guy in his mid-30s, disheveled comb-
over, wrinkled button-down. His eyes are meeting yours even
in the thin, obstructed mirror—way too eager for a guy who
just wants a drink. God, not another one.

No matter how conservatively you are dressed compared
to the other girls in The Landing Strip, somehow there’s
always at least one patron that hits on you instead of the girls
shaking it on stage. At least you get tipped more, you think,
trying to pull your black cropped tank top down over the sides
of your stomach. You didn’t start working here to show any
skin—that was the manager’s choice—but even the tightness
of the dark-washed jeans gripping your thighs started to make
you feel naked with the creeps that came out to this place. It
was ironic that the worst ones would be the ones who
approached you at the bar—especially on weeknights like
tonight. All the sick fantasies of a man who drags himself to a
strip club, alone, on a Tuesday—and not even the social skills
or self-confidence to talk to an actual stripper. Didn’t stop
them from talking to you.

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