Chapter One In spite of the fact that I was back in New Jersey, I had two things going for me: it was summer and I was down at the shore. If you absolutely have to be in Jersey for any reason whatsoever, it's always a good idea to avoid those brutal winter months. You definitely don't want to be cooped up with a bunch of people who haven't seen the sun for five straight months and who are all suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Of course they're all in a state of denial about their condition and won't admit to it. I should know. I grew up there and I used to be one of them.
I had just flown in from LA the night before (or "La-La Land," as they like to call it here) for my biannual visit to the old home front. It's a ritual I endure in order to keep them from flying out to visit me. The way I see it, my life is my own and nobody from my "growing up years" needs to know that I make my living as a stripper.
In contrast to my sixteen peers who work alongside me at the Pink Pussycat in LA, I'm the only one who doesn't try to sugarcoat the facts by calling herself an "exotic dancer" or a "performer." Whom do they think they're kidding? Taking off your clothes, even if you dance around while doing it, is still stripping in my book. Unlike the rest of them, I'm not the least bit ashamed of what I do. If I don't strip, I don't eat. For that matter, if I didn't strip, I wouldn't be driving my coveted BMW or living in Brentwood either. It's as simple as that. Besides, I don't see anybody else paying the mortgage on my condo or making my car payments, so whatever I do to survive is my business, right?
Of course, if you saw me when I had my clothes on, you would have quite a different opinion of me. The way I see it, I don't get to wear clothes often enough, so when I do, I wear only the best. I know good things, and I don't hesitate to buy them for myself.
I must admit, I'm the only one of the bunch who looks like she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth instead of in her nose. Drugs, that's one thing I never got into, and that's what separates me from all those losers who work and hang out at the Pink Pussycat. I work too hard for this perfect body to ever consider handing it over to the demon of drugs. No, sir. Instead, I prefer to spend my money adorning it with Chanel suits, eighteen-karat-gold jewelry, and Ferragamo shoes.
Speaking of Ferragamo shoes, I looked down at the one I was dangling a bit seductively from my perfectly pedicured foot as I waited at the bar for my ever-tardy friends. I suppose you can take the girl out of the strip joint, but you can't necessarily take the strip joint out of the girl. I slipped the shoe back on my foot in spite of the admiring glances I was getting from three guys at a nearby table. I had to clean up my act and remember that I was back in my hometown now. Temporarily, thank God.
It was a little past midnight here on the East Coast, but my body clock said it was only nine, so I wasn't even close to peaking yet. Three of my girlfriends were supposed to meet me here in this beachfront dive for a little "welcome home" get together, but as usual, they were extremely late. That left me only one choice: to sit alone at the bar, sipping my white wine and thinking about my life and how it measured up against the lives of my cronies.
To begin with, we are an unlikely group of friends. We have very distinct personalities and interests, and we all grew up in different towns. About the only thing we have in common is that we all spent glorious childhood summers at the Jersey shore with our families, and that is the glue that holds us together.
Maria and Barbara are "Bennies," which of course means they live north of exit 117 on the Garden State Parkway. Crystal is a "Shoe-bee" from Philadelphia. I think they call them that because, for some unknown reason, people from Philadelphia never seem to take their shoes off, even when they're on the beach. You always see them walking through the sand with their milk-white legs and old beat-up shoes. I am the only "Clamdigger" in the group, so called because I live several exits south of 117 on the parkway near Asbury Park, which makes me the only one who lived at the shore year-round when we were all growing up.
Now, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly the most politically correct person you'll ever meet, but at least I say what's on my mind. I've been accused of a lot of things in my life, but mincing words isn't one of them.
So there I was, hanging out in this somewhat "hip" little dive, waiting for my friends to show up so we could all tell each other how good we look and make up stories about how successful our careers are and how we all have boyfriends or fiancés who adore us. I'd heard that both Maria and Crystal had just become engaged to their boyfriends. I knew because my mother sent me the clippings from the newspaper announcing the joyous news. Why do mothers always send their hopelessly single daughters newspaper clippings of other people's engagements? Do they really think we want to read that stuff? Not that I couldn't be married if I wanted to be. That's hardly the case. It's just that, from what I've seen, who needs the headache?
The worst part, of course, was that I would now have to run out and buy some very expensive bridal shower and wedding gifts. After all, I had a classy image to maintain, and buying the costliest gifts and presenting them with a gracious smile would only enhance my already enviable social status in these parts.
Nonetheless, bridal showers are one ritual I never thought made much sense. I mean, why is it that when your girlfriend finally finds someone to support her or at least to help her pay the bills, all her single girlfriends who are struggling to survive on their own have to run out and buy her presents? I can't tell you how many irons and blenders I've grudgingly bought for people who could finally afford their own. The world's a very cruel place for us single people. At least these days I could afford it, but is it any wonder that I took off for the West Coast years ago to make a better life for myself?
Well, at least my life sounded a whole lot more exciting than Maria's and Crystal's mundane existence of beer-drinking construction-worker boyfriends who would turn into beer-drinking construction-worker husbands. For years now I've had them all convinced that I work as a makeup artist on the movie sets of Hollywood. I always enjoy the envy in their eyes as I embellish my LA lifestyle and make it all sound exciting and glamorous. I have a real flair for storytelling, and I knew I could paint a fabulous and enticing picture of life in Tinsel Town. The best part is that I never have to prove my story, since I live three thousand miles away, so they simply have to take my word for how glorious a life I live. Besides, the truth might only disappoint them.
Fortunately, I really look the part of the "oh-so-cool" California hard body. I'm tall, five feet ten, to be exact, and the California lifestyle of healthy eating and constant exercise has made me much thinner and more muscular than I used to be. This "buffed" look apparently creates an optical illusion of increased height, and you won't hear me complaining about that. Tall women seem to intimidate men, and I often find great pleasure in that, especially when I'm onstage at the club.
Speaking of clubs, where the heck were my girlfriends? They were at least half an hour late, not that this was unusual for them. I took a sip of my white wine and looked up at the still empty stage, searching for signs of this Jim MaGuire character, the musician who was featured here tonight. Wherever he was, he'd better be good because I had just paid a ten dollar cover charge to hear him and I expected him to earn his keep. I was feeling surp