Free The New York Doll by Ellie Midwood Page A

and I would do more shots while Margarita was massaging Bill’s back. After this little routine we were ready for our private room. Deena, always a perfect hostess with years of experience, knew perfectly when to come up and escort us to the Champagne room. And after we got inside and got our drinks, I would start asking Bill about his day, his work, discuss upcoming movies, the book I just read… I was talking about everything that his wife would talk about at their family dinner. Too bad she kicked him out and he had no more family dinners, but was still craving that “family-ness”, and I was more than willing to be his wife substitute for several hours. I actually felt sorry for the guy. After all, he was a little bit like me, an immigrant, alone in the country, just out of a serious relationship, still heartbroken… So I was trying to provide the most comfort and warmth I could. Bill knew that, appreciated it and was showing his gratitude with lots of hundred bills. As I’ve said, a perfect regular customer.
     
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    If you think that a dancer’s job is to dance, you are terribly mistaken. A dancer’s job is to sell a sublimation of a personal life a customer doesn’t have. Or it just plain sucks. And so he comes to the club to escape his 24/7 life that he hates, his jobs that pays the bills and his wife who he hasn’t spoken to in days.
    We are always here to listen, to support, to understand, to help to make the right decision…as long as you pay us. We are the best therapists that you can possibly talk to, we never judge or laugh at you, we love you here and now, as long as you keep putting twenties in our bras. But don’t count on us as soon as you run out of money; we’ll thank you for a drink, we’ll wish you a good night and tell you to come again. Right after your pay day.
    I’ve always felt sorry for those poor Wall Street guys, whose personal life was only existent within the gentlemen’s club walls. They will take you to the private room and pay cash for 3 or 4 hours just to tell you how his job sucks, what an asshole his boss is and how he would just give it all up to go to Himalayas and live there with Buddhist monks and be happy. But too bad that he has three kids with his ex-wife and a child support to pay; and too bad that his new wife loves Chanel and cocaine so much that he has to pay for it with half of his salary. I can understand it too, if I were a wife of one of those Wall Street guys, I would probably do the same thing. I wouldn’t have a choice: if my husband isn’t at work, he’s at the business meeting. If he’s not at the business meeting, he’s away on a business trip. Or a business lunch with his partners. Or a business dinner with the same partners, at the strip club. So much money and nobody’s happy. Good thing I understood it by 26 when it wasn’t too late for me as it is late now for those poor Wall Street wives. And I recall the times, when I was nothing but a poor Russian girl, and all I wanted was money. Cash. Louis Vuitton bags. Christian Louboutin shoes. I mean like every normal girl I still like those things and I still buy them now, but occasionally, not on a daily basis as a therapy for my fucked-up married life. I know that all I want is just to be comfortable with what I have, I want to have just enough to do my laser hair removal monthly; to do my gel manicure weekly; to get a full body massage when I need it. But I would never want to kill myself physically and morally by 40 and realize that now I have money but my life isn’t worth shit. Like in that saying that you probably heard: some people are very poor, all they have is money. And thank God, I’m a blessed girl, I’m very happy with what I have now, I have my boyfriend who spoils me rotten not only with presents, but what is more important with his love and care and I wouldn’t trade it for any Louis Vuittons in the world.
    Some girls aren’t all like me though. Megan just