Excerpt from the Red BoA

Preface:

The Golden Banana

“Mother taught me to strip. Well, not exactly. She taught me to

tease. I naturally knew how to strip.”

— Self

On a Saturday night in 1979, The Golden Banana Strip Club was

teeming with energy. A vast, dark space enclosed by black walls,

ceilings, and no windows, the room was purposefully dim, except

for the stage, ablaze with lights, a spotlight on a naked woman.

Cigarette smoke caressed everything with its noxious touch, music

blared, and the audience was alive with expectations, fed by booze.

Jessica, dressed as Michelle, the Vixen, the stripper, tight white

shorts with a sheer white top covering a bright red lacy bra, entered

the club and strutted along the front of the bar, her red feather boa

floating loosely in her arms. Five feet five and a quarter inch tall—

three inches taller with her platform heels— she had an hourglass

figure of thirty-six, twenty-six, thirty-six. Her long, dirty-blonde

hair framed her attractive face.

Michelle nodded at Tony, the bartender, and included the two

barmaids standing at the service counter as well, but they turned

their backs on her. Most barmaids hated the strippers for the courage

to do what they didn’t dare.

Spring, a night stripper, was already at the bar, her arm slung

around the neck of a man. Michelle gave her a wink as she passed

by Ray, one of the Italian brothers who owned the club, was the

manager for the night. With swept-back black hair, he wore a black

blazer, dark blue shirt, no tie, and spotless blue jeans, tailored to his

lean body. Black leather cowboy boots with heels gave him an extra

height advantage. Ray treated everyone fairly, but the other brothers

were wild cards. Best to turn away from anything you shouldn’t see,

like drugs being sold. Jessica knew that much went on in the clubs

that she didn’t know about—shady areas, sharp edges, and tangled

purposes. But this underlying tension was part of the scene. Michelle

kept her distance and played her part amid the commotion, floating

around in her own private bubble—dancing around the edges.

She acknowledged Ray as she slowed her steps and nodded as

she passed. Glancing at the stage, the next-to-last of the daytime

dancers had just started. What a lousy dancer, and a terrible

costume.

Michelle opened the door to the dressing room, where the order

of the six-night dancers was posted on the wall next to the pay

phone. She was listed as the fourth dancer, which gave her ample

time to prepare for her dance. No one wanted to be the first to follow

the daytime girls; their status was lower. The nighttime strippers

ruled.

Music from the stage invaded the dressing room—muted sound

bouncing off the walls with endless repetition of disco rhythm. The

walls of the dressing room were a gaudy shade of pink, as grey puffs

of dust collected in the corners. There were numerous stains and

cigarette burns on the floor. Six connected dressing spaces in a line

with bright pink lights surrounding the entire circumference of each

mirror above the spaces, and lit the room like a cheap carnival. The

spaces were covered with an assortment of makeup, cigarettes,

overflowing ashtrays, and G-strings. Against the opposite wall,

costumes and boas in a variety of colors and sequined, feathered,

and rhinestone fabrics hung from a steel bar that ran the length of

the room, Jackie, a tall, red-haired beauty, sat naked in the first seat,

scrambling to find something in her pile of make-up on the table.

“I’m the fucking first dancer, and you know how long it takes me to

get ready,” Jackie whined to Michelle as soon as she saw her.

“Hey, cool it; you’ve got almost forty minutes,” Michelle said,

“There’s one more dancer, and one just started.”

Jackie’s words spilled out in a raspy voice that showed she’d

been crying, “I had a huge fight with my boyfriend.”

“Would it help if I went on first?”

“Gee, Michelle, that’s sweet,” Jackie said, shrugging her

shoulders, “but dancing will get my mind off him.” She turned back

to the mirror, seemingly embarrassed.

“Okay, Jackie.” I lightly touched her bare shoulder, careful not

to let my hand linger.

A new nighttime dancer sat naked in the middle of the row with

one foot propped up on the table.

“Hi, I’m Michelle. You must be the new dancer.”

“Yeah,” she briefly glanced over her shoulder while painting her

toenails a bright shade of blue. Her large breasts rested on her thighs

as she leaned forward.

“The name’s Misty, and just to let you know,” she glanced over

her shoulder again, her voice slightly aggressive, “I don’t like

anyone touching my things.”

“I completely agree with you,” Michelle quickly answered,

giving her a flashy smile in the mirror over her space. “I don’t like

my stuff being messed with either. None of us do— right, girls?”

Michelle said, raising her voice so all could hear.

“Damn right,” shouted another dancer. Michelle moved away,

but she would be friendly to her later. Have as few enemies as

possible. Here, there are no friends.

Settling into the last seat, she laid down a towel and arranged

make-up, a water bottle, and a bottle of vitamin C. She then hung

costumes and the red boa behind her chair on the steel bar. Soon, the

dancer, who had just finished on stage, sat beside her, dropping her

costume on the floor, her naked body spotty with sweat.

Well, Michelle, she might not have a great costume or be a great

dancer, but you have to admit she has a nice body.

“Hot out there?” Michelle asked in a small voice.

Nodding, the girl said, “Yeah, a bit.” She quickly began to pack

her stuff. “Have to get going to pick up my kids. Why is everything

a damn rush?” She threw her a quick smile, which Michelle

returned, feeling even more sheepish. A mother, too.

It was time to get to the bar, where strippers needed to mingle

with customers and, most importantly, drink with them; part of the

job, part of the show.

Michelle slipped a red slinky dress over her head with nothing

underneath—the dress clinging to her curves. A pair of red platform

shoes, and she was ready. As she headed to the door, Jackie flipped

her long, red hair over her head, fashioning it into a French twist.

On her second song in each set, she undid her hair on stage with a

dramatic shake. Roslyn and Pearl, the final two nighttime dancers,

entered. “About time, girls.” Michelle made a slight bow.

Before descending the stairs to the bar, Michelle paused,

looking over the room. The crowd had grown. It took a number of

players to make this place come alive, to give it a beating heart.

Action on and off the stage combined to make the show.

As Spring approached, her short dress showcased her long legs,

and her blonde hair, tied up in a ponytail, gave her a youthful

appearance.

“Getting a jump on the evening?” Michelle teased with a smile.

“Someone special you’ve met?”

“Michelle, in all my years of stripping, I don’t need all the

fingers on one hand to count the times I met someone special here,”

she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s possible, but it rarely happens.”

They never expected to find someone they liked here. This world

was separate from their everyday lives.

Michelle sized up the guys at the bar, which ran the distance of

the wall, with a large mirror hanging behind it. There was a full

complement to choose from, but she preferred a seat in the middle

of the bar, with an empty seat on each side. She wanted to see what

kind of company she could attract.

A guy about thirty or so, in a good-looking suit, white starched

shirt open at the collar, and no tie, sat down next to her. His wavy

brown hair was carefully cut and styled. Not overly attractive, but a

pleasant face. Corporate looking. Probably did a lot of coke.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked as he leaned into Michelle's

personal space, a fraction short of what she would call invasive.

“Yes. Thanks. How about a gin and tonic? With a lime, please,

Tony.” She liked to get a little buzz on before the first strip.

Tony, the bartender, understood her order would be the real

thing this time. When she didn’t want alcohol, she would order

vodka instead of gin. Either way, the customer paid the same price,

a stiff eight dollars. Guys didn’t realize or didn’t complain if they

did. That was the price for sitting with a stripper.

Perhaps because she saw so many people out of control, Jessica

feared she too could become lost. There had been times when

Michelle had come close to going over the edge, drinking too much,

or taking drugs. Michelle walked the tightrope each time she came

to strip. But sometimes, that cop in her head—Jessica —went to

sleep or was out to lunch, and danger was always close.

“The name’s Bill.” He held up his glass to toast hers. “To the hot

and humid summertime!”

They clinked glasses.

“What do you think of the operation here?” Michelle asked,

giving him a serious look with a tilt of her head.

“It’s a far better place than downtown Boston. Those clubs are

dives.”

“Never dance there because I’m not street-wise,” Michelle said.

He laughed, “I thought all strippers were street-wise.” “Not this

one. Grew up in a little village,” she said. “So small town girl, how

did you end up here?”

“Oh, just a hop, skip, and a jump, and ended up right here. Yes,

right here was where I landed.” Michelle pounded the top of the bar

with her hand, “Right here on my ass. I got up and started dancing.

Thought it was a revival meeting,” She laughed and twirled off the

barstool. “Please excuse me while I go to the ladies’ room.”

Making a slight detour, she approached the lighting man

standing two feet in the air on a platform. “Just making sure

everything is fine, Henry.” She poked him in the leg, noticing a

cigarette burn on his pants.

“Okay, Michelle. How you?” He answered without taking his

hands off the spotlight or glancing down. He was serious about his

job.

“Feeling a little silly at the moment. Hoping to have fun

tonight.” Michelle tugged at the bottom of his pant leg and turned

towards the ladies’ room. “Keep cool.”

Pearl came out of a stall when she came into the ladies’ room.

Pearl was a tall and beautiful black woman, not to be messed with.

Her body grabbed your attention when she strutted on stage, and her

costumes were gorgeous. Michelle told her she was a big fan, not

intending anything sexual, yet sometimes Pearl teased her, “Oh

baby, I don’t do no honkie.” Pearl called her baby because she

thought Michelle lacked the basic bumps and grinds to qualify as a

stripper.

“So, what’s up, Pearl?”

Her speech was sharp and fast. “Same old, same old, baby. Don’t

suppose you’re interested in a few Black Beauties for some extra

speed? Got extra for seven dollars each.” She opened her handbag

and dug out three big black ones.

Michelle stepped beside her, smiling, and slipped her arm

around Pearl. “Why, Pearl, are you offering me illegal street drugs?”

“Baby, you amaze me, girl! Here you take em. Later in the

dressing room, give me cash. Discreetly, of course.”

Michelle returned to Bill at the bar. “So, what’s your story?”

“Not much of a story. I’m a lawyer in a downtown firm. Live in

Gloucester, so I pass by on my way home.”

She stared into her gin and tonic, imagining she was somewhere

else.

Michelle picked up her drink, put one Black Beauty in her

mouth, and finished the drink with a long swallow. She slid off the

barstool. Turning away, she tossed her head back.

“Time to costume up. Thanks for the drink.”

*

Sitting at the dressing table in the dressing room, Sam, the

evening's DJ, strolled in and stood behind Michelle’s chair, placing

his hand on her bare shoulder.

"Got your music, Michelle? You're next. Tina's doing her last

song now."

His fingers pressed into Michelle’s skin. She passed him a tape,

drawing her shoulder away. "Let's try this, Mr. Sam.” She stood and

ran her hands up the backs of her legs to straighten the seams in her

stockings.

"I like them black stockings, Michelle,” he said as he bent to

check his himself in the mirror, running his hand through his

polished black hair.

*

Michelle emerged from the dressing room, carrying the boa —

a large bundle of brilliant red feathers —loosely cradled in her arms.

The color of the floating feathers matched her red satin costume. She

had drawn bold red lipstick across her lips in the shape of an

elongated heart, ready to flash a smile.

Tina came off stage, her nakedness in contrast to Michelle’s

costume.

“What’s the audience like?” Michelle asked.

“Wild animals lacking a cage,” Tina replied with a sigh.

*

The opening beat from “Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor began

strong and ferocious as Michelle threw the curtain back and entered

the stage decisively. The hot lights flooded the stage, and darkness

filled the rest of the room. The music was an intimate friend who

never left her alone on the stage, filling her with energy. Michelle

was never sure where her movements would go; nothing was

planned, all improvised—led by the music. Her legs balanced on

three-inch gold platform stripper shoes with rounded soles, making

turning easy. Like ballerinas, strippers needed the right shoes to do

their job.

The attitude of a stripper was the most essential part of her

performance. If her presentation was hesitant, the audience sensed

it and became uneasy. Simmering ambivalence from the men

blocked her shame from descending the stage; the men turned to

look elsewhere, order another drink, or laugh among themselves.

They came to see sexual boldness. They had enough shame in their

lives. They wanted the lie—the ultimate lie of the stripper: I dance

only for you. I care nothing for the others.

When she went to the front of the stage, the men held up dollar

bills in their hot, sometimes wet fingers. Sometimes fives, or tens,

and occasionally a twenty. She accepted all as she listened to their

requests, as if contemplating them. The bills folded in half, two

times, a stiff width of three quarter inches, six and one-eighth inches

long. The only weapon they were allowed. Poor excuse for a sword.

Wound around their middle finger, extending up from their hand.

The stripper pulled it from between their fingers with a slight

resistance by the men to stretch the moment out.

Sometimes she turned her back to them and bent from the waist

to the floor, looking through her straight, separated legs with her butt

in the air, stretching her hand through to collect the tip. She didn’t

jump or twitch as they sometimes touched her leg. As long as it

didn’t linger, it wasn’t a problem. Then she slid the bill up gliding

along her thigh. The dancer and her audience were separated by

much more than the hot, bright lights. A complex, unspoken

arrangement made demands and expectations on both the dancer and

the men. Billy Shakespeare was right when he said, “All the world’s

a stage and all the men and women merely players.”

Fear, anxiety, and desire grew into antagonism within the

confines of their roles. They became adversaries because it was

necessary for the drama. They might be surprised to learn of each

other’s fears. Fear made them more human, but the admittance

showed frailty, and fragility welcomed danger.

*

Michelle stepped back on stage for her final song, rubbing her

nipples fast and hard as she stood with perfect posture, the boa

covering her body. Now, the music was slow and mellow: I’ve Got

Love on My Mind, sung by Natalie Cole. In time, with the music,

one arm opened the boa out to the side and then the other until it was

held out in a straight line from the tops of her shoulders. She turned

slowly as the pose was held. Expressing female vulnerability, her

eyes softened, and she asked for mercy; she played the part of the

lost little lamb.

Then, she turned across the stage, creating a vision with the

feathers floating around her. The rose-colored lights gave her body

a soft pink hue, while the intense color of the feathers provided a

bold contrast as the boa whirled and twisted around her body,

concealing for a moment but never wholly. She added an element of

shyness to the show, using the boa to hide. The only remaining

garment was her G-string, which clung to her blonde bush. A few

curly wisps of hair escaped on each side of the small satin triangle.

Facing front, Michelle reached down and unhooked the G-string,

letting it fall to the stage. Her hand lingered there, fluffing up her

bush. The stripping turned her on. Michelle’s finger, covered with

bright red nail polish, reached inside in one quick flash, touching the

moisture. She had to be careful, as penetration was off-limits on

stage. But her body heat was up, and she wanted some satisfaction,

too. This was a dance for her as much as for the audience. If it

weren’t, it wouldn't be much of a show.

The men liked watching; the slower and more deliberate, the

better. They were unable to hide their desire to possess that G-string,

which they imagined using to perform on her with either a

gentleness that would surprise them or an almost uncontrollable

wish to inflict pain and discharge a part of their suffering. Michelle

would become for them the receptacle of a million other

disappointments that crowded in on them, leaving no tangible object

to strike at.

If the stripper exhibited emotion on stage, it proved the voyeurs

were essential because their covetous eyes provided her with

excitement. It gave them self-importance they didn’t realize they

had.

Michelle dropped the boa and dragged it behind her as she

moved slowly across the front of the stage. Red feathers floated on

the floor. Men sitting around the stage grabbed those within reach.

While Michelle stripped on stage, throwing off her costume to

the shouts of the men, she yelled to Jessica, "I've taken everything

off; I'm completely naked. That's all there is; we only have so much

nakedness to show. If they don't love us now, they never will.”

The show over, Michelle slid behind the curtain. Frankie, the

next stripper waiting to go on, confronted her, shouting in her face:

“How come you don’t strip like a stripper? Bump and grind it off.

Strutting on the stage not good enough for you, Michelle?”

Beads of sweat covered Michelle’s breasts as they stood face to

face.

“There’s plenty of room for all of us,” Michelle told her, smiling,

winking, and turning away unfazed by the question.

*

When Michelle was back in the bar between dances, Ray, the

manager, asked her to join a friend of his father’s at a table.

She walked to the table, where two men were sitting. One began

small talk and complimented her, while the other, a tall, grey-haired

man dressed in a three-piece suit, leaned forward. "Do you know I'm

the District Attorney of Peabody?"

“Good for you,” she said, returning her gaze to the other man.

"Do you know what a district attorney is?"

“Gee, yes, I think so," Michelle answered in a sweet, naive

voice, stopping herself from batting her eyelashes. “You’re a

lawyer, aren't you?”

He sat back in his chair with a prickly look on his face. Now he

spoke in firm, hard syllables, "You know what I'd like to do?" And

before she could stop him, he told her. She leaned back as a drink

was placed in front of her. She glanced at the man beside her, gazing

into his drink. She was steaming, but she wanted to remain calm.

Standing, she placed her hands on her hips and said,” I may be a

stripper, Mr. District Attorney, but I’m also a lady and find your

words obnoxious and without merit.”

She left her drink untouched and returned to the bar. Ray asked

what Michelle thought of his father's friend.

Michelle stepped back, crossed her arms, and shook her head.

“I’d like to tell your father myself. Does he ever come to the club?”

*

There are two main female characters in this story, Jessica and

Michelle, played by the same woman, who cohabit within the

confines of one body. One woman. One body. One life. Two

characters in that body, living that life. They both existed from birth,

but Michelle only got her name when the stripping began; before

that, she was called the Vixen. The sexual identity of Michelle that

I grabbed onto became the paramount dual definer of myself, pushed

to ever more extreme boundaries, creating a sexual persona. She

was the exotic dancer, the stripper, the fearless and eager

child/woman. A woman born of longing for something wild and

passionate, always ready for something risqué. Her behavior on the

cutting edge of improper.

Jessica tells the story because she understands it best.

Perhaps we were a subtle case of split personality, or Michelle

served as an alter ego. A contradiction of the other, an apparent

dichotomy of personalities. Two women full of opposite questions,

answers, and values, each holding portions of the truth. We were

dissimilar, but sometimes we complemented each other. It was not

a comfortable sharing of either body or mind; it was more one of

suspicion and aversion toward the other. We held negative

judgments about each other, yet at times, we had an uncanny

affection for this different version of ourselves.

A significant disruptor between us was who was in control; it

shifted from one to the other, causing frustration for one and instant

satisfaction for the other. Each of us fought to gain control of the

whole woman and throw the other under the bus —a desire for total

dominion.

Jessica was the rational yet timid character who clung to the

memory of her mother and the father she had never known. A

beautiful but distressed woman who was trying hard to find her place

in the world. She’s smart, but also naive—a complicated creature

who has great difficulty fitting in with the conventions of the world.

Michelle, the Vixen, showed herself by stiffening her back,

throwing back her shoulders, and jutting her breasts out. Her face lit

up, her eyes widened, and her pupils dilated. Sometimes, she smiled

broadly, her hands brushing through her hair. Her voice lowered and

got softer. It was an emergence rising up and out. Sometimes, she

was about to explode.

Michelle was sometimes visible under the surface, coming close

to breaking through, showing herself in bumps, swells, lights, and

colors. But Jessica’s control of Michelle—at least in the early

years—was tenuous. Her control grew stronger, but was never

complete. The coming out depended on the stimuli that Michelle

felt. Orgasms or sexual teasing were stimuli: music, alcohol, drugs,

or sometimes a good-looking man called for her to come out.

Michelle shouted in Jessica’s ear, “You’re a lost little waif who

can’t take care of herself. All your pleading and whining; I’m so

tired of that. Stand up for yourself and accept who you are. You

know who you are, don’t you?”

Jessica yelled back at Michelle. “You’re pushing your limits!

You’re a bitch who plays with my head. You crowd in on me, taking

up more and more space where you’re not supposed to be, exerting

an influence that cannot be ignored.”

Michelle had no love or affection for Jessica’s mother. She felt

her mother had been so devastated by the death of her husband that

it left her emotionally damaged.

Michelle wanted to cut the connection between Jessica and her

mother’s message of longing, and kill the mother’s influence on

Jessica once and for all. Michelle separated me radically from my

mother. The unconscious anger I felt for Mother made Michelle’s

disconnection all the more rational. It was that rage that took Jessica

on stage as Michelle, an uninhibited free spirit.