CHAPTER SIX

Dyre Avenue, Bronx, New York

Dyre Avenue is a busy commercial strip which connects the Bronx, one of New York City’s five boroughs, to Mt. Vernon, a suburb of Westchester County. Because Dyre is also the last stop on the northern tip of New York’s mammoth subway system, commuters who are headed to homes in the North Bronx or into Mt. Vernon are forced to transfer to or wait for a bus or taxi. With so many itineraries concentrated in one area, congestion cannot be avoided. High traffic, grocery stores, newsstands, tailors and most every other kind of impulse service imaginable was a part of the flurry on Dyre Avenue. From an aerial view, the activity on a bright, humid day might engross the most uninterested eyes. All the loud noise, bustle, the twoway stream of cabbies and thicket of pedestrians was suddenly interrupted by a different person. A different attitude, not aggravated or tense, but friendly. Different clothing, loose with an unrestricting flow. No straps or elastic hugging or trapping body parts for definition. Different skin color, glowing with the color of a healthy redwood tree, not blemished or sulking with stress like some ol’ worn oak. Valerie was like this alien walking up Dyre Avenue who was fulfilling a simple task, a quart of milk for Mrs. White. Twice Valerie’s age and a homeowner who was a friend of a friend of Valerie’s mother. Mrs. White, who insisted that she be addressed with her maiden name in place. Okay . . . Mrs. Brown-White then. So be it, Valerie submitted. Since $60 was certainly below market rates for room rentals, Valerie would grin and bear the extra drama. Going to the store for these sudden needs? Well, all right. She could tolerate that. Valerie thought about these various extras as taxes, while she headed for the grocery store purposefully.

Nearly every person who caught a peek at Valerie strolling down the sidewalk, whether they were alone or with another, gazed at her for extended periods of time. Even inside the window of the local laundromat a few women nearly pressed their faces to the window. Then came a loud, obnoxious parakeet whistle that cried out into the air. Valerie looked over and thought this guy was just acting silly, how he was standing up with his upper body extended through the passenger’s window of a moving Chevy Caprice. It appeared to be a taxi moving about 10 miles per hour—that is until those next few seconds. Nothing but confusion. The car in front, also a Chevy Caprice, either put on his brakes or merely decelerated. Either way, there was this loud CRASH! Headlights, backlights and directional signals from both vehicles were strewn about the Dyre Avenue blacktop. The back and front bumpers of the vehicles were lip-locked under and over one another. Instead of whistling, the rude boy was now moaning and still hanging from the window. And, although he looked like a damaged, human jackknife, wiggling from his circumstances as best he could, he still mustered the audacity to pursue Valerie with his eyes. Killing himself over a piece of ass.

While the drivers argued, Valerie hardly noticed. She turned her head away from the loud noise and returned down Dyre Avenue with the slim brown bag cuddled between her arm and breast. Before long Valerie whipped back around the corner to Mrs. Brown-White’s house, not having any idea of the commotion she’d just caused. But then, there’s no telling how many men have stumbled, tripped or stuttered upon approaching or passing Valerie. Even her ex-boyfriend used to have those nightmares about her stifling the economy of Canada when she sneezed.

Mrs. Brown-White may have also come to envy Valerie, realizing how much attention her new visitor was attracting during her first months in the Bronx. She first thought that spring fever had something to do with it. But now in Valerie’s third month as a live-in, men began surfacing with even more consistency. Mrs. Brown-White’s home had never been a site for tourists, nor was it near a traffic light. Nevertheless, car horns, the doorbell, telephone and even the extra nice “hellos” that Mrs. White was herself receiving was becoming a bit much. The activities pushed the woman to be more of an overseer than a landlady. Valerie, on the other hand, was overwhelmed, and she welcomed the kindness, the flowers and the attention. And she wasn’t cheesy about it, but she wasn’t interested in anything serious at the moment. Basically, the flurry of interest merely helped her to forget Canada and the obsessed boyfriend she’d escaped from. Besides, she wouldn’t be here for long. The house was too close to her job; she was making good money, and she was an independent woman, not the type to overstay her welcome. Not to mention she’d already begun searching for more appropriate living conditions.

The New Job

Valerie figured that finding a bedroom couldn’t be any harder than it was to find a job. But of course, this was Valerie. And things just kind of happened for her—like a flower receiving its timely shower of sun and rain, no more, no less. She didn’t think this way; that’s just the way it was. She was in a perfect rhythm with the universe around her. It was the type of assurance that made anything possible, where she could cope in just about any circumstance. For instance, when Valerie had initially sought out a job, you’d think she won the World Series or something, with how employment applications showered her ticker tape parade-style. Coincidentally, Valerie sort of stumbled into her new occupation compliments of her landlady. She joined Mrs. Brown-White for a weekly food buy. And on the way home they stopped by the local Dunkin’ Donuts. It was then that Valerie recognized a large building, painted all black. On the exterior there were bigger-than-life artist renditions of bold, voluptuous women. A 10-foot sign hung from an extended beam, where passing traffic couldn’t miss its big black, beveled letters.

GILMORE’S

FOOL’S PARADISE
The Leader in Adult Entertainment.

Valerie avoided the obvious and gave her chaperon no indications. But in time she’d learn more.

It was the next day, only a week after her arrival in New York, that Valerie took a cab—it was a ploy, just to make Mrs. Brown-White think she was traveling far. But she didn’t go more than 4 city blocks to Boston Post Road and the building called FOOL’S PARADISE. She tipped the driver, left him dumb-founded, and carried herself casually through the front entrance of the establishment. It was about 4:30 PM. Once inside . . . once her eyes adjusted from the extreme light to instant darkness, she realized the blur of men throughout the room. There was a moment when she measured the intensity in the club, most of it caught up in the stage show where a couple of shapely dancers performed in sensual, eye-catching motion. One was cherubic with tobacco-brown skin and pointed breasts. The other was more like mocha chocolate; a girl with slightly chiseled facial features, glistening under the concentration of colorful spotlights, and selfishly caressing herself with excessive baby oil. Some men by the stage were suspended in amazement, giving each other affirmative high-fives and bouncing with merriment, all of them appreciative enough to swing dollars at the entertainment until the money either stuck to her beautiful curves or floated to her feet like feathers.

Valerie peeped a customer tapping another on the shoulder. Soon, many pairs of eyes eventually shifted to her location by the club’s entrance. The attention made her feel as if she was on stage herself, only without the spotlights. Maybe thirteen or fourteen men were looking her way, but with the ultra-violet lighting in the room causing all things bright to illuminate in the dark. In a nearby mirror Valerie saw how her teeth glowed and how the whites of her eyes seemed to light up like the girl from X-Men.

“Can I help you?” A bouncer stepped to Valerie.

“I was . . . just looking.” Valerie’s expression was still asking for time to take all this in. “But do you guys have jobs open here?” Valerie had spent quality time at Mrs. Brown-White’s vanity to look impressive, and now she only hoped the extra time would pay off—how? She had no idea. In the meantime, she listened for a response knowing that, as was usually the case, her thick Caribbean accent would be respected or rejected. Predictably, Americans usually did one or the other.

“Well . . .” said the bouncer, not wanting to point out the obvious, “I’m sure there is.” As though he might be a little ashamed, the bouncer’s body was conveniently positioned to block Valerie’s view of the stage. It made her smirk, wondering if there was something about her that made her appear to be a prude. Now another bouncer passed by, taking one long shameless look at Valerie’s body. No shame in his game, Valerie assumed. She wondered also just how much the other guy could see past her long, black fur. Again she smirked.

“Do you dance?”

“I don’t . . .” She stretched her eyes to find the stage again . . . “know if I’m as good as some of—”

The bouncer made a gesture, as though he were brushing away the competition. With a sweeping eye, Valerie gave a closer look, scanning the room while the bouncer—

“Name’s Jimmy,” the bouncer finally said. And he helped her away from the entrance. At the same time, various men were still peering on with nostrils flaring. Other dancers and lingerie, costumes, sexy gowns, thongs, stilettos, boots and all manner of hosiery, silk and lace were sprinkled throughout the crowd of men. Most of the girls were slender and voluptuous, like what you’d find on a beach. One girl was champagne and elegant, while the next was ghetto, and looked like she might be ready for a street fight. Aside from that strange mix of attitudes, there were many complexions of brown, like chocolate pudding, fudge and creamy caramel all working for the same green.

There were sensual expressions, as well as the erotic ones, and they addressed customers with the confidence of long-legged ostriches or the determination of stallions, or silky smooth Cheshire cats. Asses bounced throughout the club—an ass-fest!—and dancers cupped their breasts or stroked themselves with satisfied expressions in their eyes, as though this was normal to do this in front of absolute strangers. A couple of special effects devices projected colored rays of light in various directions, swinging wildly and rhythmically, while bartenders stayed busy pouring, popping bottle tops and serving the drinks atop of cocktail napkins across the bar. Handshakes took place here and there along with kisses and hugs. A look to the left, and you’d see dancers onstage, mostly naked, with thongs—nothing but lace to keep a patch of fabric to hide the pubic area. With her back to the audience, there was one dancer leaning up against a walled mirror. By the looks of things, she seemed to be mostly amusing herself, jiggling her tits and ass for tips.

“Is that what you mean?” Valerie gestured towards the stage. Jimmy agreed with less-then a nod of confirmation. Now, Valerie looked over at the main stage with more at stake. “How much does it pay?”

“Well, I’ll let Gil tell you. He can get into that with you. But I’ll tell you now, girls make hundreds a day. Some make as much as a thousand. It depends on you and how much you hustle.” Valerie didn’t really understand the meaning of “hustle,” and it really wasn’t Jimmy’s place to discuss these preliminaries with her. But without explanation, Valerie was confident. She always worked hard for the things she wanted.

When Gil emerged from the back room, Jimmy waited before introducing Valerie. He could see that Gil needed a second or two to tuck his shirt in and adjust his zipper. Eventually, Jimmy flashed a gesture at Gil until the proprietor understood that his zipper was down.

“Go on and make some money, girl. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” While Gil pulled up his zipper he still managed to swat some knock-kneed dancer from the area; the same girl who came from the back office with him. This sudden activity threw Valerie for a spin, telling her at once exactly who Mr. Gilmore was and how she’d approach him. With extra caution.

“Later, Gil,” the dancer signified and smiled towards Valerie. She moved in extra slow motion, her eyes on Gil’s zipper, and then she addressed Valerie with that same contemptuous, sarcastic smile. Valerie could read between the lines, how the dancer was letting her know that there was more to the boss than meets the eye. But it was the kind of thing that Valerie was too focued to care about. The girl finally squeezed past Gilmore, but not before she reached between his legs.

Gil pushed her hand away, sucked his teeth and said, “Alright, now.” Then, to Valerie, he asked, “So . . . what’s your name?” The question didn’t come without a quick examination.

Valerie answered while she looked directly into his eyes. Eventually, she graduated from a firm gaze to her usual, pleasing smile.

“Ever dance before?” asked Gil, maybe waiting for her answer. In the meantime, Prince was growling and screaming over his music,

I looked all over, and all I found
was a phone number on the stairs.
It said, “Thank you for a funky time,
Call me up whenever you wanna grind.”

And while the “Purple One” was screaming over the club’s sound system, a dancer was gyrating and thrusting and humping to the music, performing every lyric of the song as though she was the one who created it . . . as though she meant every word . . . (and ultimately) as though she was actually fucking some invisible person up there on stage.

“Well . . . not like . . . that. But . . . I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Okay.” Gil rushed into specifics, scaling a fish he’d just caught. “Do you have an outfit or anything?”

“No. But I could try to get some—”

Gil cut in.

“What size do you wear?”

“I’m a seven . . . or six,” she replied with a coy smile.

“Hold on. Let me get one of the girls over here to help out. Maybe you can audition today.”

“Now?” Valerie’s eyes opened wide. “But I wasn’t expecting—”

Gil had already motioned for Jimmy. He spoke to him in a low tone, out of Valerie’s range. She could see that this was activity related to her, and she watched as Jimmy circled around to the rear of the club, into what could’ve been a dressing room. The deejay was now playing a record, scratching a lyricless rock beat over the end of Prince’s song. Seconds later Phil Collins faded in.

“I can feel it comin’ in the air tonight, hold on . . .”

“Oh, that’s my song,” mentioned Valerie. The deejay let the record go and the transition melted in like some musical design. It was in the next few moments that Valerie’s life took a fast-paced spin into the world of topless dancing.

Cinnamon

Cinnamon was summoned from the dressing room and in no time at all she was in deep conversation with Valerie. Valerie asked, and Cinnamon answered. They talked about economic possibilities, setbacks, the sleaze, the most effective dance moves, the boss, the busiest nights and other topless clubs too. The two even got in to their own experiences of how each arrived at Gilmore’s and what their future plans were. Cinnamon was paying her way through nursing school with just 3 and 4 days of dancing per week. That’s all Valerie needed to hear!

While the girls continued to chit chat, customers and club staff alike waited anxiously for the new girl’s audition. Many customers waited for this very special time; when that “fresh meat” got up on stage, all afraid and green. Hence, the word on Valerie spread quickly throughout the club like an airborne virus. Jimmy, suddenly famous for his introducing the new girl, looked towards the two, catching Cinnamon’s eye, casting that all important question on behalf of everyone else in the club.

When is she gonna be ready???

Cinnamon got the message, but all good things must wait. And Cinnamon got every indication that Valerie was a very good thing.

“How does it feel to show your stuff up there in front of all those men?” Valerie went deeper, craving a sincere answer.

“I don’t even notice it anymore. It comes natural. Ever since that first time on stage—and I was scared out of my skin, girl—but it was all good afterwards. Once you realize that all of these men are in here sweatin’ your ass, your ego starts to take over. You start taking control. You even feel liberated. And it helps with your hustle.”

“How did you deal with that first time, Cinnamon?”

“I wore a cat mask.” They both giggled heartily. “But it didn’t last for more than two days. More and more, men began to tell me how fine I was and that I was the most beautiful girl they’d ever seen.” Cinnamon feigned a yawn. “Some wanted to give me things like jewelry or clothes. One guy even offered me a fuckin’ BMW. Girl! Do you know I would have let him fuck my asshole to get the car? Especially then, ’cause times was hard, you know? But I caught myself. I said to myself—when Moet introduced me to the game—that I would never receive gifts. And somehow I was able to stick to it. I don’t wanna ever think I owe anybody anything! And to think I almost fell for that shit.” Cinnamon took a deep, deep relieving breath while her mind wandered back in time.

“What did you tell the guy?” Valerie was curious.

“I had to swallow first. Reeeal hard. And you know I was choked up, and giiiirl . . . I imagined doing him one time. Just once—reeeal good, and then disappearing into the sunset.” They both laughed hysterically. “But a second later I had flashes of him stalking my ass. You must have heard the stories and seen the movies. I just didn’t wanna be no movie of the week.”

“I heard that.” Valerie’s raised eyebrows also agreed.

“Now the guy’s my best customer. Probably paid my whole tuition by now. I lost count of the C notes.”

Valerie raised her hand to give Cinnamon a high-five. They both got up from the cocktail table and proceeded back towards the dressing room.

“Listen, I’ll give you something nice to wear. I’m gonna be up on stage for the next set . . . and if you . . . well, take a few minutes and then come up and join me. Trust me, it’ll be easy.” Cinnamon looked over her shoulder at Jimmy with an assuring wink. Jimmy went back to Gil, most likely to inform him of the inevitable. From then on, the excitement in the club turned electric.

Valerie followed Cinnamon through a door that was branded with a modest silver star. Meanwhile, she couldn’t resist throwing a playful jab.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cat mask for me, would you?” Valerie bubbled, suppressing a laugh. Cinnamon wagged a finger at Valerie. Smiling.

“Okay, girl. That’s one for you.”

In the dressing room there were two card tables with makeup tubes and jars, Heineken bottles, ashtrays, and a cheap vanity mirror scattered about them. Four dancers were preparing for the evening, sitting in folding chairs at various areas in the small room. The carpeting was a dark, dingy red, very worn and stained as if matted by somebody’s steamroller. The walls were bare and still gray with sheetrock, except for the off-white plaster at the seams and grooves. Big shoulder bags were propped side by side along the base of the wall. A bright fluorescent light above was also substituting as a clothes dryer, so that it helped to dry out a recently and hastily washed G-string. Apparently, one of the girls used ingenuity, wedging a writing pen into the fixture, using it as a hook. Meanwhile, the air in the room was thick and murky, confused with cheap perfumes and a twist of funk from the busy garbage can next to a pair of soiled panties in a corner. The fight for clean air immediately challenged Valerie’s senses, and she intentionally held her breath as she took a seat beside Cinnamon. Eventually, once she realized it was no use, she abandoned the effort, forcing herself to cope with it all.

Both girls settled down as Cinnamon got into her little preparatory rituals, while the room took on a dead air. Valerie could guess that it was her, “the fresh meat,” that was the cause of this tight apprehension. After all, she was the new girl, and they’d all have no choice but to get along with her. A couple dancers whispered judgments amongst themselves, but Cinnamon rushed things along, ignoring the lack of charm. After securing her bag of outfits, she dabbed her face with a cloth, checked her face in a mirror, and touched and teased up her hair with a comb. She cupped the undersides of her breasts, pulling them higher, subsequently driving her thumbs up under the bra straps to tighten the slack. Cinnamon methodically slipped out of her loafers (shoes she wore in the club when she wasn’t on stage) and into a pair of black stilettos. She lifted one heel, and then the other, to pull the strap over her ankle before heading out of the dressing room for her session on stage.

“Ya’ll be good. That’s Valerie, she’s auditioning today.” Cinnamon took a second to bend over for a whisper into Jasmine’s ear. Jasmine shook her head and Cinnamon rushed through the door. The muffled voice of Luther Vandross instantly turned from hum and drumbeat, and it quickly filled the dressing room with the clear and melodic lyrics of “Never Too Much.” Cinnamon shut the door behind her, returning the room back to the dead.

Valerie flashed an uncomfortable grin and ignored the tacky surroundings as she began undressing. The others looked on as Valerie roughed it. She recalled her days in the high school locker room back in Christ Church, an attractive community in her native Barbados.

“You new?” blurted China, with the stupid question of the day. Valerie didn’t complicate things the way she wanted to; she didn’t turn around to flash a raised eyebrow. That would have been too black and she didn’t want to go there unless she absolutely, positively had to. Instead, Valerie politely answered, “Yesss! My name is Valerie. And you?”

“I’m China. This is Sadie.” China didn’t bother to introduce the other two dancers in the room. She didn’t even know them herself, alienating them all the more. Sadie just gave a head nod and kept occupied, changing panties, wiping, spraying, observing. China dug into Valerie a little more.

“Girl, you need a stage name in here. You gotta protect yo’self. Give as little information to customers as possible. Even to other dancers.” Valerie nodded her response while slipping into a two-piece costume that Cinnamon loaned her. Suddenly, remembering that she was supposed to watch Cinnamon on stage, Valerie stood up to adjust the pieces comfortably. She threw a grateful glance at China and headed out of the door.

Leaving the dressing room was like being sucked into a vacuum. Chubb Rock’s “Treat ’Em Right” was sending vibrations through the walls and floors, as if the entire club was the inside of a sound system. Every banging bass beat was pushing through Valerie’s body—out of the floor, up into her spiked heels and into her nervous system. At the same time, the whites of so many pairs of eyes were glued to her as she shut the dressing room door. It felt as if every centimeter of her body was being touched by total strangers. A tremor shook her body. Her feet were getting cold. Freezing. Goose pimples began to show on her smooth, mocha skin. She wanted to quickly turn around to run back into the dressing room. But the eyes around her just beckoned. Her body was uncontrollably obedient as if some powerful, magnetic force was pulling her through this.

Wobbling slightly on her first step in Cinnamon’s shoes, Valerie was able to steady her posture, trying her best to remember what elegant was; trying to maintain what Cinnamon called “control.” Through a huge opening in the wall, where the oval bar was situated, Valerie could see Cinnamon in the distance. She was at center stage, twisting her body to this fast-paced bass beat—“Rock Creek Park” by the Blackbyrds. Cinnamon encouraged the excitement, her arms waving and swinging on time like an excited traffic cop. The sight of Cinnamon gave Valerie some more confidence. If Cinnamon can do it, so can I. Only Valerie didn’t see herself as quite that physically entertaining. She’d give it a try though. The main stage became her focus, as she did her absolute best to avoid eye contact with bystanders. Valerie found a spot adjacent to the stage and stood with her bare ass pressed up against a wall, folded arms, consciously concealing what she could of her breasts. She also crossed her legs, feeling insecure about the next-to-nothing G-string she wore.

The hell with it, she thought. I may as well be naked! Although Valerie left Mrs. Brown-White’s home fresh and sure, and despite how the air conditioning in the club was pushing up goose bumps on her skin, she swore that there was a pound of perspiration lingering there under her arms, between her legs and across her brow. With so many eyes on her, challenging her comfort . . . even questioning her existence and whether or not she was worthy of being here, there wasn’t much she could do. Again, she said the hell with it.

For the second time Valerie got a good evaluation of Cinnamon. Cinnamon was brilliant on stage with so much confidence. She didn’t speak a word, but her bedroom eyes spoke volumes of fantasies fulfilled to the audience of onlookers. Cinnamon kept such a flawless appearance. No scars, tattoos or blemishes. Her skin was brown like the soft leather of a suitcase. Her breasts curved up as if inclined, with erasershaped nipples as peaks. Her curves were accentuated by the stagelights and lasers swinging to and fro. The definitions, her navel, her cleavage, collar bone, waist and spine were all sculptured chocolate delights. Targets for soft, dark and sensual shadows.

Cinnamon toyed with her G-string, hinting that it was removable at will and that there was more to see. She was creative, never removing it totally, but revealing shades of her most erogenous zone. The fire-red outfit that she wore, including the top lying on the stage floor, was small enough to fit into a 6-oz. glass. Wow, Valerie thought to herself. She observed her new friend, and now appreciated her even more. There was a second where Valerie looked closer, concluding that Cinnamon had to be clean-shaven and hairless between her legs because the G-string was no bigger than a Star Trek insignia and there was not a hair to be seen. Again, she said wow to herself.

A customer raced up from his front row seat to tip Cinnamon. But she kept her pride and made him wait a few seconds. Soon after, she belly-danced her way over to him, leaning over and down to drape her arms as she shook her marvelous breasts inches from his nose. Cinnamon turned around with her legs spread apart and the customer’s eyes strained with his arm and a $10 bill extended. She bent over to touch her toes, giving him an exclusive view, while looking at him through her legs. She jiggled her butt cheeks at him, requiring his appreciation. Then, backing up her ass to be inches from his nose, Cinnamon reached between her legs and grabbed the man’s wrist so that it was snugly wedged in her crack. Slowly, Cinnamon guided the man’s hand, sliding it southward until releasing him precisely as he cupped her mound. Leaving the tip with her, the customer returned to his seat half crouched as if he had to pee.

Unsympathetically, Cinnamon resumed her dancing, spreading herself to other areas of the stage as if that little intimate moment with the ten-dollar tipper never occurred. Valerie smiled to herself, feeling more encouraged and remembering Cinnamon’s words.

“. . . All these men are sweatin’ yo’ ass . . .” I can do this, Valerie thought, loosening the grip of her folded arms.

“You ready to give it a try?” Jimmy’s voice caught Valerie off guard. She dropped her arms to her sides before shrugging in agreement.

“Could you ask the DJ to put on something slower, like an Isley’s tune or something?” Jimmy chuckled a bit, knowing that that was a far-out request. The DJ was 40 minutes into a jam session that boosted the crowd into moments of spasms. It was a busy after-work crowd that craved release and excitement. And the DJ was feeding the frenzy with the sensational mixes. Now, he was fading from “Rock Creek Park” to “I Get Lifted,” the classic by K.C. & the Sunshine Band. As they say, the DJ had the house rockin’.

“Sure. I’ll ask him. But he usually does his own thing. That’s the boss’s son, you know.” Valerie turned her eyes up to the DJ booth, hoping to make eye contact with whoever. As she was helped up the steps to the main stage, other dancers, the bartenders, bouncers and Gil watched with intense anticipation.

“Please welcome Valerie to the stage . . . Valerie!”

The heavy, hollow announcement startled her. She looked over towards Gil, recalling his voice. He was laying down the mic and lifting a half cup of Guinness Stout to his lips as the club full of men applauded and Cinnamon stepped down.

The Audition

The crowd inside of Fool’s Paradise was usual for a Friday evening. Maybe 70 or 80 blue collar, white collar and greasy collar workers were concentrated close to the bar and main stage. The club or the dancers could not want for a more appreciative audience. Hungry, full of desire and pockets full of money. The mirrors in the club, along the walls and behind the dancers on stage reflected the incredible illusion that everything was more than it was. The capacity, the activities, the impact of it all . . . everything was MORE.

Valerie felt every bit of the illusion, because to her there seemed to be thousands of faces in the audience. All men. Her imagination was exaggerating the worst. With the heels, Valerie stood almost 5 feet, 10 inches, and on the 4-foot stage she towered over the crowd of captivated and bemused patrons with every dimension, color and age of working men. Valerie took a deep breath, doing her best to wait for a change of music. No waiting was tolerated, however, as men continued applauding to build her confidence. She stepped and swaggered smoothly, in contradiction to the boom-boom-bap of the deejay’s latest musical selection. He was on a roll now, blending in the instrumental version of “California Love.” Valerie addressed Dr. Dre’s hardcore drums with her own trademark elegance, swaying, swerving and swishing her hips. Projecting a sense of maturity with her smooth moves, high cheeks and sweet almond eyes. She captivated all without any of the usual hip-hop dance moves or clever neck and shoulder shifts. She simply followed and drifted into her own complete rhythm. Eventually, the DJ got soft and changed the music to fit Valerie’s mood. He allowed the pitch of the record’s speed to slow to a stop. Simultaneously, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” changed the vibe of the club into a desirable melancholy. Soothing the excitement to a slow groove. The changeover suited Valerie just fine and fit her sensual movements. For half of the song Valerie began to play the crowd. She toyed with men at the edge of the stage, picking a cap from the head of one balding patron in his 50’s and then adjusting it on her own head. She pulled her hair through the adjustable strap in the rear, instantly creating a ponytail with her long hair. The elderly man was thrown for a spin of his emotions, suppressing his embarrassment with a gulp from his bottle of Budweiser.

By the time Valerie canvassed the front row of tables with her provocative approach, the DJ was mixing in Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo.” Determined that these would be her last moments of the audition, Valerie wrapped her arms to reach behind, hugging herself and pulling at the string that supported the top which she wore. It quickly came loose and she continued hugging her breasts along with the furry, white bikini top. She was playful, and slowly let her arms drop with the clothing. Her breasts stood out despite the lack of support. She eventually let her hands down casually, comfortable now with erotic, sexual expressions in her eyes.

With most of Valerie’s body exposed, customers turned to each other, while staff and dancers shared comments. Most everyone was amazed by Valerie’s perky breasts. She was thick and thin in all the right places as every man’s fantasy, and it was all right there on stage at Fool’s Paradise. If you weren’t present then you missed out.

She was a heavenly sight, passing her hands slowly through her hair and winding and wiggling her curves as if the music was carrying her. The hat which she snatched from the customer was glowing and stood out against Valerie’s jet black hair and dark coffee tone. There were subtle indications of Valerie’s innocence, thrown off by her being half naked in otherwise raunchy circumstances. Even more innocence was cast by this being her very first topless audition. But that too was contrary to her sexual expressions and the innate confidence that eventually surfaced on stage.

The music made another transition. Valerie bent over to pick up and tie on her top. She already noticed Cinnamon waiting by the bar, and she approached her. At the same time, there was applause from a number of patrons as Valerie left the stage. She hardly noticed as Jimmy the bouncer came over to help her down. Cinnamon rolled her eyes at Jimmy’s “extra shit,” but reached out to embrace Valerie.

“You were great, girl! They love you. See how they’re all looking at you?” Valerie took the small stack of cocktail napkins from Cinnamon and began dabbing at her brow and neck and underarms.

“Really? I was so—nervous! I couldn’t even dance at first. But I started getting into it after a few minutes.” Valerie was a little gleeful, trying to contain herself.

“Girl, you did all the dancin’ you needed to do. Just keep doin’ what you were doin’. They love that shit.”

Valerie’s spontaneous audition quickly earned her a slot on the busiest nights at Gilmore’s. She filled a significant void at the club, even more so than she knew, considering her genuine elegance and that Caribbean flavor that the club needed. Sure, Moet was the top girl. And Sadie was an easy second place pick. But perhaps, Valerie would be number three one day.

Within a week of Valerie’s employment, she moved into a room; a room that was in the home of a club patron. With that, she broke rules number one and two.

“Never mix your personal business with a customer, and never accept any gifts like cars, apartments, or huge diamond rings,” Cinnamon told her. “Not unless you plan on fucking the guy. And if you do that, they got a whole ’nother profession for that type a shit.”

Even as a teenager, Valerie’s uncle told her, “Nobody gives you something for nothing.” However, Valerie ignored those early warnings and went with her own gut feeling. The room she rented was about as close to the job as Mrs. Brown-White’s home, which was convenient. But, of course, Valerie had already recognized this arrangement as too good to be true. And she had her guard up just in case the fat slob that she moved in with was not as altruistic as he appeared to be. All the while, Valerie had to wonder: Do books live up to their covers? Only time would tell.

The room that Valerie rented from the guy was lightly furnished with a mattress on the floor, a dresser and a chair. Simple enough to build upon and for Valerie to get a good night’s sleep after the evening hustle at Gilmore’s. She was making three and four hundred dollars from an evening’s work. But already things had to change up. Her new (so-called) landlord became a nuisance, always picking her up from work instead of the usual, how he used to stop by every now and again. Furthermore, he was taking her out to eat more, as though they were a couple. Eventually, he propositioned her for sex. Before she busted out laughing in his face, she caught herself and simply uttered an uncompromising “NO.” Even the way she said it to him was like a warning to back off, which was exactly when the shit started to hit the fan. She declined his favors and even lost a sense of security that she felt behind a locked door. After all, this was his house. But especially, breaking rule number three (don’t sleep with the customers) wasn’t even a distant idea. So while the man remained in heat, his soft hearted, wimpish nature nowhere to be found, Valerie again faced inevitable changes. Not only that, so consumed was she with her living situation and keeping her impact at work, that she had no idea that all the while (even at Mrs. Brown-White’s home) she was being followed.