Cid V Brunet - This Is My Real Name: A Strippers Memoir

A STRIPPERS MEMOIR

CID V BRUNET

ARSENAL PULP PRESS
VANCOUVER

THIS IS MY REAL NAME

Copyright 2021 by Cid V Brunet

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any meansgraphic, electronic, or mechanicalwithout the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

ARSENAL PULP PRESS

Suite 202 211 East Georgia St.

Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

Canada

arsenalpulp.com

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.

Arsenal Pulp Press acknowledges the xmkym (Musqueam), Swxw7mesh (Squamish), and slilwta (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, custodians of the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories where our office is located. We pay respect to their histories, traditions, and continuous living cultures and commit to accountability, respectful relations, and friendship.

Cover and text design by Jazmin Welch

Cover art by Jazmin Welch

Edited by Shirarose Wilensky

Proofread by Alison Strobel

Printed and bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

Title: This is my real name : a strippers memoir / Cid V Brunet.

Names: Brunet, Cid V, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210196661 | Canadiana (ebook) 2021019667X | ISBN 9781551528588 (softcover) | ISBN 9781551528595 (HTML)

Subjects: LCSH: Brunet, Cid V. | LCSH: StripteasersCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Sex workersCanadaBiography. | LCSH: ProstitutionCanada. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC HQ148 .B78 2021 | DDC 306.74/2092dc23

For every sex worker, in love and rage

T he VIP room is a dark maze of couches and loveseats closed off from the rest of the club. Pop music drowns out loud bass from the mainstage. Red, blue, green polka dots swirl from a disco ball, illuminating strippers performing moves I hope to copy. I lead my guy to a black leather couch in the back corner.

We sit side by side, thighs touching, while we wait for a new song.

Is this really your first day? he asks.

First day, first dance.

The initial two guys Id approached out on the floor were not interested. So when this third one pulled out a chair and ordered me a drink, I ended up sitting with him for too long. I listened to him talk about his three kids, his job as a millwright, and his love of ice fishing, but I shied away from the big question. Like playground double Dutch, I was waiting for the right moment to jump in.

Finally, I said it: Do-you-wanna-dance?

Thought youd never ask.

The song switches to one by Rihanna, a favourite at queer dance parties. I stand and square my body in front of the guy, roll my hips around my spine, run my hands over my bra, knock the strap off one shoulder. In the other corner I see a dancer, like a bird of paradise. Effortlessly, she makes her round butt quiver and shake, a movement that seems cleft from the rest of her body. I try to copy her but dont understand what muscles to use. Instead, I take a handful of my ass and shake.

Tired of being teased, the guy grabs my hips and pulls me off balance and onto his lap. He wants friction. While he struggles with the clasp of my bra, I feel a flicker of fear. It closes my throat, flushes my cheeks. I want to stay in this before-moment and wildly hope that he never gets it open.

He drops my bra onto the carpet and begins fondling my breasts, his callused fingers roughly massaging my soft nipples. And its too much. Too much sensation. I collapse slightly, trying to pull my chest inside my rib cage, out of reach. I hate the vague arousal stemming from my dumb body, the skin-to-skin contact that assumes I have a new lover. I suppress revulsion. Push it into the pit of my stomach and hold it there. This can be fine.

I grind my hips on the clients lap. Denim chafes the tender skin of my thighs, but I want this: sandpaper instead of silk. I squirm to avoid his zipper, button, and belt buckle as his erection stiffens. His hands travel freely over my skin, his breath quick and hungry. Passion weakens him and I am not afraid. I am a collection of helium balloons attached by ribbons to my spine. I float up, bobbing safely against the ceiling.

THE ROYAL SOUTHERN ONTARIO

T he Royal is a heritage mansion set against highways and overpasses. Boarded-up windows, black metal doors, a sign reading Gentlemans Club. My friend Izzy and I hold hands for courage, before walking past two statues of lions guarding the front door.

Inside, a neon pin-up swings her foot in time to the chorus of a song by the Weeknd, the one about trading bodies for fame. Metal chairs, round tables, abandoned beer bottles, and a stage with a single dancer, moving slowly. Under the black lights her pale outfit is a jellyfish pulsing through an aquarium. Lampposts topped by red globes bounce bloodshot light off mirrors covering every wall. The few patrons split their attention between the stage and the hockey game on TV.

The only other strip club Ive ever been to was Caf Cloptre in Montreal. The stripper who danced at my table had a blue diamond tattooed across her generously enhanced chest. Her perfection is burned into my memory. As I adjust to the dim interior of the Royal, every girl seems equally magnificent.

You the girls who called? A heavy-set, bald man juts his chin at us from behind the bar.

Yes, weve heard good things about this place, I say.

Im Bruce, the manager. He doesnt shake our hands. You danced before? He has the body of an aged football player and tiny, closely spaced eyes.

We took a pole fitness class, Izzy lies.

You can give it a try, but listen, to make money you have to spend. Get your nails done andhe glares at usfix your hair.

Women arrive wearing sweatpants and fuzzy boots, carrying bulging duffle bags. Some get a nod or a wave from the boss, others, the same cold gaze as us.

Go see the DJ. Hell tell ya the rules.

Girls jostle around the DJS booth, shouting their names to him. The set list reads like poetry: Aryanna, Gucci, Diamond, Katalina, Trixie, Caramel, Destiny. We try to introduce ourselves, but an amazon cuts in, folds cash into the DJS palm, and hugs him, boobs pressed up under his chin. Same songs as always, she says.

Sign these, he says, finally noticing us. And Ill need to see some ID. The rules he hands us are printed askew on the page from so much photocopying: no outside food or drink, no gang colours, stage fees paid before you begin your shift.

No drinking? Izzy asks about an all-caps rule. We just saw three girls buying each other tequila at the bar.

Does it say that? He looks amused. What are your stage names?

Courtney, Izzy says. It reminds me of both Love and Kardashian, a perfect blend of punk rock and rich girl. I cast around franticallywhy didnt I give this more thought? Who do I want to be?