I’ve arrived. Robbie’s is the largest topless bar in New York City, maybe in the world. There are fifteen cash registers making a horseshoe around three stages. Bottles & bottles of glittering gem toned liquids, sequins, feathers, balloons, mirrors, streamers. Broadway, jammed with cars, taxis, police sirens, sidewalks overflowing, the world screams outside our door and Levittown is a million lifetimes away. Times Square is neon, flash and glitter, crowds and then more neon. As long as I don’t mind working in a skimpy leotard (I don’t), smile big (I do) and charge high prices for short drinks, I have a job where I make more cash money in one day than I did in a week at an office job. No taxes. No paperwork. No bullshit.
Okay, a little bullshit.
The other girls are mostly friendly, mostly glamorous. There’s one, older, maybe even thirty, with dyed jet black hair. She’s covered in tattoos and calls herself Raven. Everybody’s got at least two names. One for here and another for real life. Raven takes me under her wing and teaches me to mix drinks. Rye & Ginger. 7 & 7. Scotch & Soda. White men’s drinks, she says. The brothers, the pimps, they go for fancy drinks involving cocktail shakers and milk, like Grasshoppers. Milk drinks are a pain. You have to clean the shaker & change the rinse sink water each time. But pimps tip better. Raven tells me to start thinking what name I’m gonna use, that I can’t use my own. You use your own name, she says, anyone can find you.
Lisa used to be a Rockette. Her tits are famous. One was on the cover of High Times, covered in chocolate syrup, her nipple the cherry on top. She brought in a copy for everyone to see. Lisa does tricks, like dancing while standing on her head. She’s teaching me how to suck a long neck Budweiser off and make it come. Guys love that trick.
The guys are okay, mostly my father’s age. Mostly white. The brothers sit with me or Raven, the other girls don’t want them around. I don’t mind, they tip, they’re friendly. There’s one in particular.
His name is Jasus. J. Huntsberry.
JJ was there from day one with his sleepy gray eyes hiding behind gold wire rimmed glasses and that velvet voice you need to lean in to hear. He is the color of dusty pecans. Dark blue suits, tailored. Leather shoes, handmade. He’s a subtle suggestion, a gentle mood. JJ’s silence screams next to the flashy moves and garish peacock colors of other pimps. When he’s here, I feel cared for, looked after. Safe from the reaches of other pimps and street daddies looking to turn out the new fish.
I need a name, I take his. And so, here, I’m “little JJ”. Together we’re black JJ & white JJ. Big JJ & Little JJ. JJ the pimp & JJ the girl.
For now, everyone steers clear and leaves us alone.
dirtygirl wants to know: What makes you feel safe in the world, okay in your own skin? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
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Posted July 9, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, JJ Huntsberry, Levittown, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
