Cross another entry off my bucket list: I got to be the guy who hires strippers.
So how did this dream job come about?
Not long ago, I was at my favorite Manhattan topless club, Rick’s Cabaret — 10,000 square feet of posh decadence just off Herald Square in the heart of the Big Apple. I was getting a lap dance from a leggy Russian, Tania. Propping herself up on the chair opposite me, she put those legs to great use, twisting them around me like a pretzel.
“Where do you find these girls?” I asked Lonnie Hanover, the club’s amiable publicist. Tania shot me a dirty look, as if to say, “Hey, pay attention.” Of course, that’s one of the essential joys of going to a strip club: You can lose yourself in a pair of sleek limbs while still conducting business or hanging with friends.
“They find us,” he said.
Of course, not every girl can be a Rick’s Girl.
As Tania’s tight butt brushed my crotch, I told Lonnie, half-jokingly, “You should let me be your casting director for a day.”
“Casting director?” he asked.
“You know what I mean. Talent scout. Or chief recruiter. Or whatever the hell you call it in this business.”
“Not a bad idea,” he nodded. Damn straight. After all, any service industry can benefit from a customer’s perspective. And I’d spent enough money on lap dances to qualify as an expert on what men are looking for in a stripper.
I reported for duty early the next Friday evening. I was greeted by Alondra, a flame-haired lovely from the Dominican Republic. Always a favorite with customers, Alondra’s popularity had lately soared to new heights as a result of her participation in a PETA ad campaign, “We’d Rather Go Topless Than Wear Fur,” featuring Rick’s Girls.
She had good reason to be perky and brimming with confidence, but I wanted to know what it felt like when she’d auditioned to work at Rick’s two years earlier.
“I was a little nervous,” she said. “But the management was so great with me. They made me feel very comfortable.”
Alondra agreed that one of the hardest parts of the job for a new dancer, or even experienced ones, is dealing with rejection.
“There’s a lot of beautiful woman here,” she said. “But I think every man has his own choice. So I know how to deal with that. You just say ‘enjoy yourself’ and walk away.”
I was enjoying myself immensely, thinking about the hot (and maybe not-so-hot) stripper wannabes I’d be meeting tonight. Of course, such awesome power in the hands of one man can be a dangerous thing. Accordingly, I’d be working with a seasoned talent picker, Tito, the club’s soft-spoken entertainment manager. Tito’s been at Rick’s for three years. Prior to working with exotic dancers, he managed local dance clubs.
Women can email the club asking for an audition, or they can just show up in person. But, as Tito pointed out, “there is a screening process even before the audition… if they don’t look the part, a lot of them have to be eliminated right there and then.”
Some girls get their foot in the door and decide to eliminate themselves. Like Lisa, an Asian from San Francisco who was the first hopeful that night.
Tito and I caught up with her in the club’s enormous basement dressing room, where she was among dozens of pretty girls putting on their game faces and hair extensions in front of Broadway-style lighted mirrors. Guys hate it when a girl takes forever to get ready. But in this business, it can definitely work in your favor. “When they get ready, we expect them to look their best,” Tito told me.
She greeted us enthusiastically and said she was looking forward to auditioning. So far so good.
She had come equipped with everything a prospective dancer was expected to bring: a long gown, a G-string, and four-inch heels.
“We do want them to look glamorous,” said Tito. “We don’t want them to look like any girl you see in the street. We have turned down girls after they’ve gotten dressed because they looked okay with street clothes on but when we expect you to look glamorous, we really expect you to look glamorous.”
Lisa, Tito and I got on the elevator and headed upstairs. Her anxiety rose with the elevator. First, Lisa asked if she could observe some other girls before she auditioned. Not an unreasonable request and certainly not a deal-breaker. But then she began grabbing for any excuse to get out of the audition altogether. “There’s no pole? I can’t dance without a pole.” “Do I really have to take my dress off for the second song?” (What part of topless didn’t you understand? What made it stranger was that she claimed to have danced in a famous topless bar in San Francisco.) Finally, she bailed, saying that she’d rather come back and audition on another night. NEXT!!!
The second girl, Marla, never made it out of the basement. This time, though, it wasn’t her decision. She was a sultry brunette who looked fine in street clothes. But she was a bodybuilder — a very well-honed bodybuilder, in fact — and while taking care of one’s physique is definitely not looked down upon in exotic dancers, there’s a line between an awe-inspiring anatomy and a fear-inducing one. In an upscale setting like Rick’s, the only thing chiseled out of marble should be the bar.
Tito and I agreed that Marla didn’t fit the image of smoldering-but-soft femininity that Rick’s has built its reputation on.
This wasn’t the first time that Tito had to crush the aspirations of muscle-bound babes. He recalled a pair of dancers with “phenomenal bodies, but a little bit too ripped.” Asked by the girls why they hadn’t made the cut, he answered them honestly: “That ripped look is just awesome, but it’s not something that’s going to work here.” It wasn’t just based on Tito’s opinion, either. Other super-toned gals had worked at Rick’s in the past, but hadn’t made much money.
That’s not to say that every girl at Rick’s looks like a stereotypical stripper.
As Tito noted: “This is a business that’s based on fantasy, and everyone’s fantasy is different. Your fantasy woman might be a tall blonde with big breasts, a blue-eyed Anna Nicole Smith type. My type might be a short, flat-chested, no-ass-type of girl. Rick’s strives to have that balance so there’s something that appeals to everyone.” The girls are as diverse as New York itself. Among the dancers are Latinas, Eastern Europeans, Asians, and West Indians.
That, of course, was part of the reason I wanted this job. Maybe I’d be the one to discover the next Anna Nicole.
Maybe twenty-two-year-old Donna, the next girl up that night, would be her. I might be a bit of a blonde fetishist, but Donna, who’d just moved up from Miami, was a luscious reminder that angelic-looking redheads can also be smoking hot. She had full lips, a smattering of freckles on her cheeks, pert natural C-cups, and a glowing bronze tan. Sort of a cross between Jenna Fischer (“Pam” on The Office) and Jeri Ryan of Star Trek: Voyager.
While she was putting on her make-up, I took the opportunity to ask her some in-depth questions.
“So what brought you to New York?”
“Well, I was seeing this guy…”
She paused.
“Bad breakup?” I asked.
“It’s complicated.” Facebook shorthand for “I’d rather not talk about it.”
I switched subjects to something more job-related: “This work can be tough on the ego. If a guy blows you off here, how would you handle it?”
“Guys don’t blow me off.”
Yes, arrogance can be off-putting. Maybe it was the way she looked me right in the eye when she said it, but I was completely turned on.
After a few seconds, she broke into a huge smile, betraying just a hint of insecurity.
“I’m only kidding,” she said. “But I am cute. Right?”
“You’re crazy cute,” I said.
This girl’s a keeper, I thought, as I looked over at Tito. Apparently he felt the same, giving me a quick thumbs-up.
Of course, Donna still had to prove herself on stage. Her first song was I Kissed A Girl. Although the DJ chose it without any input from Donna, I’d later learn that it was eerily appropriate.
Donna didn’t need a f*cking pole (or person) on which to demonstrate her skills. She rocked the balcony. With the strobe light bouncing off her, her metallic red gown looked like it was on fire. She ass-pounded the railing so ferociously, I was afraid it was going to snap off and crush the gawking onlookers below. Not that they wouldn’t have loved it!
At one point, Donna turned to me and licked her lips. And I thought I was the one with all the power. I watched in a trance as she drew her fingernails across her chest.
I couldn’t wait to see her topless. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to. Midway through the first song, she had a wardrobe malfunction and one of her nipples popped out. Donna caught me admiring her boobage, admonishing me with a “shame-shame” gesture. To top it off, she gave her nipple a playful twist before tucking it back in.
As her second number kicked in, she slithered out of her dress like a snake shedding its skin.
Another dancer, Elena, a Barbie-doll blonde with huge implants, wandered over to check her out more closely. When the song ended, she complimented Donna.
“I hope you get the job,” she said. “We should hang out.”
“You’re soooo sweet,” Donna replied, kissing her on the cheek then whispering in her ear. Elena gave a lusty smile, biting her lower lip.
“What did you say?” I asked Donna after Elena left.
“That I’d hang with her anytime.”
“What’s THAT all about?” I asked.
“I love blondes with big tits,” Donna said.
“Think she loves you back?”
“Trust me. I’ll be tapping that by the end of the weekend.”
“That’s if you get the job,” I said.
“Well, that would certainly make it easier.”
It would have been cruel of me to deny Donna that chance. Naturally, I made sure that she got the job. So, did the two of them hook up? I plan to find out tonight when I return to Rick’s.
And what about me? Maybe Donna’s just dying to show me her appreciation. Of course, it’s against the rules — as well it should be — for Rick’s girls to express any special gratitude to management. But my stint at Rick’s is done, so those rules don’t apply to me anymore. Or at least I hope.
