|
The peep show at Sex World, otherwise known as "the Dollhouse," was notorious for the fact that the girls in its employ were on public display. They lounged behind a pane of glass like Barbies with giantism, fully visible to the flesh-starved crowds that milled
in and out of the store at literally all hours. When a customer wanted a show, he'd point dumbly to the girl he liked the best, and she'd join him in one of the private booths along the east wall of the enclosure. I'd shopped at Sex World before, but I'd never approached the windows; it seemed like a disturbingly concrete point of demarcation between "us" and "them," and I didn't want to spook the fish. Plus, the peep-show girls looked so hip hanging out and smoking in their little Amsterdam, and I was afraid if I walked up and perused their environment they might poke fun at me.
After the hard hustle of working the clubs downtown, the prospect of working at the Dollhouse was tempting indeed. I viewed it as a sex-work sabbatical, a chance to relax in a glass box for a while and let the customers solicit me before returning to the hectic
stripping scene. I'd heard that Sex World issues weekly paychecks and offered health benefits, which had serious appeal compared to the independent-contractor status most strip clubs offered (along with an extremely broad interpretation of the "independent"
part). I decided to apply and see if I'd be asked to join the ranks of the dolls.
After filling out a standard application (under "Military Rankings" I wrote "Major Babe"), I posed for a fully clothed Polaroid taken by a sullen clerk with wooden plugs corking his stretched earlobes. Within a couple of days, I received a call from the peep-show manager, a self-aggrandizing Don King of a woman who looked like she'd both weathered and administered beatings. She always referred to her employees as "the
dolls," matter-of-factly and without affection.
"One of the dolls just quit, so I have a shift open from six to midnight," she told me. "Five days a week. Take it or leave it." I took it.
"Okay. Bring a blanket, some lube, and whatever sex toys you want to use," she added. "These are masturbation shows, and you'll make the most money if you use toys."
After a week or so, I'd met or worked with just about everyone employed at the Dollhouse. There were around ten girls working at the peep show, usually two or
three on each shift. They were physically diverse -- some fat, some lanky, some glamorous stripper-type in expensive costumes, some welfare queens in bare feet
and Baby Phat sweatpants. One of them, Ava, was seven months pregnant and could squeeze colostrum from her nipples, much to the delight of our mommy-fetishist
customers. One of the "girls" was a former journalist of forty-two, though she could handily pass for thirty-something. Donna, our resident head case, was fond of slashing at her own flesh, and her pretty white arms were latticed with scabs. When she was
stoned, she'd cackle maniacally like Tom Hulce in Amadeus. Another girl, Ariel, was undeniably gorgeous, but she was convinced she was fat and disgusting. She'd sit and compulsively smooth her thighs, talking in quiet, even tones about how every time she was passed over by a customer, she mentally added ten minutes to her daily workout regime.
Ariel, for all her insecurities, had the loudest, most powerful vibrator in existence. I'm serious; this instrument of "pleasure" must have been of dubious legality. When she went into her booth for shows, it sounded like she was operating a leaf blower in there. I half expected the scent of scorched flesh to waft from her booth; that’s how much friction this thing generated. But, she boasted, she couldn't come any other way.
-- Diablo Cody, Candy Girl
|
