Cheetah’s, Kelowna (I hate it)

The room is toxic with negative energy as I reluctantly shuffle through Cheetah's in my little skirt and bikini top. I’d like to sell a few dances but I can’t. Scattered co-ed groups giggle to themselves, ignoring the stage, as my friend dances. They don’t even clap. I pause to watch young girls grind each other in the corner and wonder why they don’t put more clothes on. This is a party bar. The kids come here to drink and be amused. It feels like a frat house as they judge, watch, and compete with the strippers.

I pretend to not know how much the manager hates dancers as I ignore the catty comments that fly behind our backs between the staff. They think I’m a bitch. They’re right. My patience is nil.

One of the bouncers is pushing private dances for another girl. He picks his favourite—I’m not it. I’m glad for her but my purse is empty and I’m stressed. My lack of income combined with the negative atmosphere is crushing my confidence. I just want to cry.

Ignoring the drunken brats I return to the dressing room. I hate this bar but I have one more show to survive before I can crawl into bed and hide. I need to dance for me. I need to just enjoy myself and purge this critical bullshit. Maybe Top Gun will help.

I create a shallow fake smile as my music fills the bar and for a moment I feel okay. I close my eyes and spin myself around the comforting brass pole. My hair flips around as my back arches and I slide to the ground. I wish I could do my entire set with my eyes closed. I dance, trying to force the judgment to slide off me. A drunken teenage girl is making out with her boyfriend in front row. Another group is chattering about the weekend, their backs to the stage.

I close my eyes again and shake my ass to encourage my shimmering white pants to fall to the floor. Pulling the legs over my stilettos I toss the garment into the corner and strut across the stage again, staring at the ceiling.

Another drunk is leaning on the edge of the stage taking pictures of me with his cell phone. I don’t have patience for this. Seductively I crawl over to him and snatch the phone out of his hands, tossing it into my stage bag. I don’t have time for this shit.

Instead I ignore his insults and yells and climb the pole. From fifteen feet in the air I can take a quiet breath before I toss my bra to the floor. I wish I could just stay up here but somehow I find the strength to slide down the brass and finish my show. I didn’t make a cent in tips this show. They’re just too drunk, too spoiled, and too cheap. I grab my cozy blanket from the stage floor and wrap it tight around my body. I love this blanket. It comes with me everywhere, keeps me warm, and keeps me hidden when I need it.

The bouncer has disappeared again as I make my way down the stairs and through the crowd. Before I get ten steps the guy whose cell phone I’ve confiscated corners me with his buddy. He grabs my wrist and yanks it back, almost knocking me off balance as his buddy reaches for my bag, attempting to find the phone. Instinctively I shove them both back but my arm already hurts and I’m feeling very angry and mistreated. The bouncers reappear and violently throw both assholes out but the damage is already done.

Tears well in my eyes by the time I close the dressing room door. I feel sick. I hate this bar. I just want to go home. At least the night is finally over and I can go cry in peace in my car.