“Exotic Dancers.” What an odd euphemism. Had someone misspelled the word, inadvertently swapping an “r” with an “x”? Didn’t matter. The pink-and-turquoise neon sign hypnotically flashing outside the red velvet curtain beckoned me. I was barely twenty-one when I anxiously stepped foot into this surreal environment. I clumsily made my way to a red leatherette booth that was as far from the stage as I could possibly find. The music was thumping and there were scantily clad girls chatting and laughing and milling about everywhere. It was absolutely terrifying — and terribly exciting. I gazed forward, praying to be seen and yet not seen. Trying to appear as cool and calm as a secret agent in a foreign land. Within moments, I felt a warm body sit beside me. I could barely summon the courage to see who it was.
She was an older woman. You know, like twenty-six or something. And very pretty. Okay, now what was I supposed to do? “So…what’s your name?” I awkwardly asked, not having any clue where to look or not look. “Vixen,” she replied with a wink and a smile. “Oh. Umm…is that your real name?” I stupidly inquired. (James Bond I clearly was not.) “Of course not, silly! It’s Karen.”
I was instantly intrigued. And no, not only for the obvious reasons. I found everything about her fascinating. “What was it like, the first time you went on stage?” She tilted her head. “Well, that was years ago. But I remember feeling nervous and embarrassed. I really wanted everyone’s approval, but I was afraid of being rejected — Ya know, not being good enough. And lots of shame and guilt…I kept thinking about what if my family could see me.” “And then what?” I quickly queried. (Remember, when I’m anxious, I ask lots of questions.) “Well,” she began, “the moment I heard all of that cheering and clapping, and saw the dollar bills raining down on me, I felt great!” “And what about since then?” I wanted to know. “Well, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I guess by now I’m pretty much used to it. It’s my job. Yeah, it can get weird — what I do for a living, the long hours I spend in this place, all the alcohol and drugs in the dressing room, the parade of faceless strangers, staring at me from the darkness. This is my life.”
I was now completely immersed in her story. I needed to know how she copes with all of it: “What about now? How do you survive?” She shrugged, paused a moment, and replied simply: “Three minutes at a time.” And, as if on cue, her song began. Karen gave me a pat on the leg, and Vixen made her way to the stage.
So that was how she did it. I got it. It’s just too overwhelming, trying to take on everything all at once. Break it into smaller chunks and try to live more in the present. “Three minutes at a time.” Kinda like the X-rated version of Alcoholics Anonymous. (But with happier customers and better tips.)