I have gotten a lot more response to my original challenge that you all come up with career choices for me to relate to my sordid past job history. It might take a while, but I'll get to all of them. In light of that bold statement, let's begin:
Anna commented: "And I'm not afraid. Do lingerie sales. "
(later notes: Anton also requested this. Frilly things are obviously crowd pleasers.)
Okay... but I warn you, the visuals aren't pretty.
About ten years ago, I worked for a bigass corporation as a secretary. (That actually was its name: "BigAss Corp- We Sit More Before Lunch Than Most Companies Do All Day"). It was steady work. It paid relatively well. It wasn't very stressful.
It was boring as hell.
During this same time period, the GM1 discovered a nice strip bar. I know the words "nice" and "strip bar" don't often collide, but let me assure you, it really was nice. The GM1, like most men, likes going to strip bars. The GM1, unlike most men, likes going to strip bars because he likes to talk. In addition, the GM1 likes for me to go to strip bars with him, because he wants me to meet his new friends.
His new friends all have names like Desiree and Taffy and Bubbles. His new friends all have stupendous, awe-inspiring breasts and contortion abilities. His new friends are actually pleasant and easy to talk to. So his new friends became my new friends.
One of the girls discovered I have sewing skills when she asked me to help her reattach a bit of glitter to a stage-bra (which is like a regular bra, but garishly embellished and removeable at one rip via velcro). Easily done, and word spread. I spent a lot of my time at the bar sitting in the dressing room, surrounded by clouds of baby powder and nipples, stitching up this rip or that tear. Eventually some sketching on cocktail napkins led to my first attempt at creating an entire costume for one of the girls who wanted a Strawberry Shortcake theme.
I never asked her for the $75 she gave me for it. I didn't turn it down either.
Business is business, and business soon became pretty good.
I made a costume or two a week and I was spending every other evening at the strip bar, measuring and making sure things fit properly. I believe I've handled more nipples than any mammogram tech.
I was the envy of all my male friends, and some of the women as well.
Then Bubbles made the offer: since I was there all the time, and wasn't too bad looking, why didn't I just take the plunge and become one of the girls?
Me... a stripper. I had to laugh.
I laughed until Bubbles explained how much she made for how much effort.
I stopped laughing and started stripping.
The GM1, surprisingly, had no problem with the idea. He was, in fact, very encouraging. He knew it wasn't the first step on the road to hooking or drugs, it was a new adventure for me. We went costume shopping that weekend, finding me a tiny fishnet skirt, a black vinyl bra top, and some lucite platform heels that put me at almost 5'6". I paraded around the apartment, trying poses and moves, scaring the hell out of the cat. The GM1 said I wasn't too shabby.
The cat hissed and licked her butt.
The next evening, I went down to the club. The ground rules were explained: until I was licensed, I couldn't go topless, and I couldn't go round to the tables after my dance looking for tips as was the usual way. This was my apprenticeship, so to speak. I got together with the d.j. and selected a song (ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long"). Then I sat at the bar to wait my turn, vinyl bra pushing my breasts up so high I could rest my chin on them. The bartender took pity on me and gave me a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.
And another.
And one more for the road.
Three is not my lucky number.
The d.j. announced my stage name (Annabelle) and for a minute I had no idea why all the girls were gesturing at me, having forgotten my new name already. Then I leaped off the barstool with that long leatherette-peeling-off-bare-legs sound that closely resembles a professional fart, and tottered up the stairs to the stage.
I had no idea the lights up there were hot enough to cook a turkey. I began to tan. I immediately broke into a riverous sweat. My nicely-poofed hair fell like a shaken souffle. My palms left huge prints on the slippery pole that I clung to like a life raft.
Mr. Tequila encouraged me to take a few steps out and make vague, shimmy moves. My ankles disagreed and tried to escape in different directions. I overruled all of them and managed to fake a few dance moves, and the weak applause and hoots reassured me.
So I tried to do a swing around the pole, which was a standard move.
The pole would have none of me, became a perfect frictionless surface, and gravity stepped in.
As I sat on my ass in the center of the stage, looking at my traitorous feet and wondering if crawling down the stairs would be a good move at this point, something hit my hair and bounced off. I blinked at it. On the stage between my akimbo'd knees was a ten dollar bill. A steady rain of wadded-up currency began pelting all around me, and when I looked up, I got a wave of applause that swelled as I stuggled to my feet. I waved out into the darkness past the lights, and as the song ended, I carefully made my way around the stage picking up the thrown money. Then I staggered back to the dressing room.
I was a hit. In a little over three minutes, I had made over $100. And all I'd done was fall on my ass.
Imagine the potential for remaining upright.
I changed clothes, thanked the bartender, the d.j., and all the girls and cash-flinging customers.
And I never went back.
It wasn't cowardice, or cold feet, or sudden change of heart.
All they could offer me was daytime hours, which paid minutely compared to nights, and I had to keep my day job at Bigass Corp; it was that simple financial bond that kept me from the beckoning, cash-filled glamour of stage life.
Oh, and I probably have shy nipples... but we'll never know now, will we?
(previously posted on Blogspot)