The Virgin
A short story by Genevieve Mazer
The strangest thing about being a topless dancer was how quickly the stereotypes crumbled down around me in a haze of Bath and Body Works Autumn Rain body spray and ultra fine late 90’s glitter. The media portrays dancers - strippers to you - as drug abusing, desperate women who will suck your dick for five bucks in the dim corner of the club.
This was true for about ten percent of the dancers I knew.
I remember walking through the doors of Club Cabaret on an unassuming summer afternoon in a city I barely knew accompanied by someone I barely tolerated. We had a plan, see. We were going to work in the topless club for a couple of months to earn enough money to travel across the country on a Greyhound bus back to our home state.
Admittedly this was not the first time I’d stepped foot in a strip club but every detail of this one felt ominous under the umbrella of my intentions. The floor was a rich burgundy carpet - low cut in a way can only be interpreted as ease of maintenance. To the left was a dark wood reception podium behind which sat an unexpectedly plain girl with mousy brown hair wearing regular street clothes. I fought the waver in my voice as I explained that my companion and I had come to see about employment.
She offered a friendly smile and said “Go on in. Barbie is working the floor. You can’t miss her.”
I stammered a thank you and glanced back to make sure I wasn’t alone as I passed through the red beaded curtain that led to the main room of the club.
It was sparsely populated - a couple of single men sprinkled about, one rail thin brunette flaunting her double AA’s on stage, a stocky DJ working behind the booth, a curvy girl with frosted tips working behind the bar, and a peroxide blonde in bright pink spandex moving with purpose between stations. My companion and I locked eyes briefly before approaching the blonde and stating our purpose.
“How old are you?” she asked, all business.
“Twenty.” I replied after my sidekick had spoken.
She looked us both up and down with a critical eye. She pointed at me. “I’ll take you. You start tonight. Be here at seven.” And that was it. No explanation as to why I was the only one chosen. No paperwork. No identity confirmed. We went back out into the sunlight, made even harsher by contrast to the building’s interior, each of us silent as we processed what had just happened. I was certainly not prepared to do this by myself. I asked her if she wanted to try another place and she said no, her ego having taken a pretty big hit. We went back to our hotel and I looked at the clock. Less than two hours until I had to be back.
I spent that time digging through my suitcases to find what little makeup I owned. Lingerie wasn’t an issue though I wasn’t sure what the dress code might be. I packed everything I thought could be useful into a small messenger bag before taking a lukewarm low-pressure hotel shower. I tried to reign my hair into something presentable but let’s be honest - my hair has never, ever been presentable. Full lion mode would have to suffice. I hooked my fingers through the straps of my Emily the Strange platform heels and left the room, walking the three blocks back to the club.
What a difference a couple of hours made. The parking lot was packed and the music could be heard thumping before the door was even pulled open. Groups of people, mostly men, lingered in the parking lot leaning against cars with cigarettes between their fingers and lewd comments on their lips.
I pulled the heavy door open and was immediately greeted by the same girl behind the podium. Now she was dressed in a sequin top, short skirt, and low heels. Her face was made up and she had a walkie talkie which she spoke into, announcing to Barbie that I had arrived.
In a moment the blonde breezed through the curtain with a smile that had been missing just hours earlier. Later I surmised that she was used to people claiming to want to work but never showing up. She led me into a small office and finally asked for my identification and had me fill out some paperwork. I was relieved to see that things were above board. When everything was signed and carefully filed she gave me a tour of the club. The complementary tanning bed exclusively for performers, the bar where I met Missy, the bartender from earlier, and the music booth where I met Charlie, the stocky DJ. Charlie asked me for my top ten favorite songs and for my stage name. No one in a strip club uses their real name for safety reasons.
Afterward Barbie took me to the VIP room. She explained the protocol for lap dances in plain view of several men being ground upon by women of various ethnicities.
I tried to play it cool but damn. This was a lot to process.
She took me backstage next and I blinked against the bright fluorescents. Several open lockers stood back to back in the center of the room. The walls were lined with mirrored stations with tons of makeup and skimpy costumes littering the tabletops. I was assigned a locker and told to get changed as she’d be adding my name to the bottom of the stage rotation.
I stood near my locker after she left to update the list and just tried to recalibrate. I had no idea what I was doing.
“You’re new,” a voice announced as the door closed behind me.
I turned to see a gorgeous woman approaching me wearing nothing but a micro g-string and a garter packed with bills of various sizes with sky high clear high heels. She carried a rumpled scrap of fabric in one hand and held out the other toward me. “Branica,” she said.
“Cassie,” I replied. “Brand new.”
“A virgin?” she questioned.
I knew she meant to exotic dancing. I nodded, feeling my cheeks redden.
“You’ll do great,” she said. “Good crowd tonight. Just make sure not to flash your pussy, you’ll get fined.”
Her blunt speech startled me but I tried not to show it. She led me to a side door at the end of the row of vanities. “This is the stage door. Come on I’ll show you.” We crept through the pitch black wing of the stage to a narrow staircase. “When Charlie announces you just climb these steps and go through the curtains. Hold the rail, they’re a bitch in heels.” She tiptoed up the steps and gestured for me to do the same. The curtains weren’t fully sealed and I was able to see the main stage with a very enthusiastic dancer between them. We watched for only a moment before quietly retreating backstage. “I’ve got to get dressed, one of my regulars is out there.” She carefully stacked the bills from her garter into a neat pile and folded them over the fabric, securing them with a rubber band. “Add a few bucks to your belt,” she advised, pulling on a skimpy lavender neglige. “Let them think the other guy wants you.”
When the door closed behind her with a loud, echoing clang I finally opened my bag and examined the contents. I opted for a plain black thong, a red satin nightie, and my Emily the Strange platforms. I eyed my reflection critically and pulled out my makeup, doubling down on the products after having seen the heavily made up faces of my new co-workers. I pulled a few dollars from my wallet and added them to my plain black garter belt as I’d seen Branica do and took a deep breath. It was time to head out to the club.
I tried to hide my nervousness as I re-entered the club. Branica smiled from a table full of men and a few dancers. She waved me over and I swear, I’ve never been more grateful for a virtual stranger’s kindness. She introduced me as a virgin to the group and it was met with good natured laughs and introductions. A forgettable guy patted the seat next to him, inviting me to join the group. He bought me a drink - a welcome distraction - and made sure I knew that he would be in the front row for my stage debut. So much for that moment of relaxation I’d experienced from being included so quickly.
My amaretto sour was about halfway finished when another dancer, Dallas, leaned close to me. “Cassie right?” I nodded. “You’re after me. I’m up next.”
Fuck.
Dallas waved as she made her way backstage and I pulled my drink down to 1/4. The song faded as the current dancer left the stage to a round of applause and catcalls. A heavy, throbbing beat began to play and the curtains parted again, revealing Dallas in a black body hugging number. I watched the first half of her performance, taking note of how she moved, how she interacted with the crowd. A little late in the game to be taking notes but up to this point the reality of what I was about to do hadn’t set in.
“You’d better go,” Branica advised. “Good luck!”
I offered her a shaky smile and accepted the high fives from the various men around the table. Backstage my knees were shaking as I checked my lipstick for the eighth time. I never realized how fucking fast a song was. In what felt like seconds I heard Charlie speaking through the club, his baritone voice practically rattling the speakers as I bolted to the dark staircase at the back of the stage.
“We’ve got a virgin here tonight, gentlemen! Treat her right and she’ll treat you better! Come on out Cassie!”
The soft strains of Twiggy Ramirez broke through and the slow, sexy beat of Minute of Decay began bumping the steps. No way in hell was I breaking it down to a fast number as I broke my virginity on stage. I adjusted my nightie and slowly opened the curtains. The lights weren’t as blinding as they would be on stages I’d perform on in the future - fully clothed and with various instruments - but they seemed even more so against the blackness of the atmosphere.
A golden pole stood at the end of the runway and beckoned me closer. I reached out eagerly, grateful for something to do with my hands. I moved slowly, my eyes closed as I tried to concentrate on the music, feeling each note warm my chest as the brass chilled my back. I leaned against the pole, my feet inching out as I bent into the look, my hands now busy exploring my body.
As Marilyn Manson purred through the speakers I slowly pulled the satin straps off of my shoulders and let the garment fall to the floor to a chorus of catcalls. I dared to open my eyes and saw the forgettable guy sitting right where he said he would be, a crisp bill folded between his fingers resting on the edge of the stage. I gave him a slow, shy smile and sank slowly to my knees. I crawled the few feet between us and sat back on my heels, my hips grinding slowly as I reached behind my back to unhook my tiny bra, pulling it off and wrapping it around my wrists as I leaned closer, my upper arms pushing my chest out toward him.
He raised his hand and ran the twenty dollar bill down my cleavage before tucking it into the small strap of my garter. He leaned closer and gestured for me to do the same. “I want your first lap dance,” he insisted. I ducked my head and nodded before turning to the man on his left, also holding up a few bills.
The rest of the song passed quickly. I couldn’t tell you who else I saw from the stage. Just the fact that I didn’t come out to a crowd who booed or ignored me was enough to send me off the stage at the end of the song with a smile of satisfaction and a slightly inflated ego.
I met Branica backstage and she congratulated me. “You kicked ass! That dude was drooling the whole fucking time. Here wear this.” She tossed me a sheer plum colored mini dress that hugged in all the right places. “Remember, don’t smash his dick with your heels.” she called as she headed to the staircase.
© 2025 Genevieve Mazer | Stories, Creativity, and a Touch of Chaos.
