Mattson - Ivy League Stripper: a Memoir

To Mom and Erich,
and with great fondness, my dear Tom

Copyright 1995, 2011 by Heidi Mattson

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or .

Arcade Publishing is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc., a Delaware corporation.

Some of the names in this book have been changed for reasons of privacy.
All photos are from the authors collection unless otherwise noted.

Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61145-488-8

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Many thanks to Reid, Laura, Dr. Paul Fadale, Cathy, Professor David Hirsch, Professor Stephen Foley, Vera, Alan W. Bean, Bobbie the Bruiser, my Knockout and Foxy Lady friends, the night nursery crew at EMMC, the Lanyi family, Prehab, and my sisters and parents. You always believed in me.

And not only for helping bring my story to the world but also for befriending me, I would like to thank Alex Corman, Diane Cleaver, Shawn Coyne, Matt Bialer, Alan Fairbanks, and my editor, Dick Seaver.

She looks like a whore and thinks like a pimp the very best sort of modern girl.

Julie Birchill on Madonna,
Newsweek, 11 October 1993

Yes, this is really me; every mans fantasy.

I check the look: breasts up, butt out, eyes sparkling, smile.

Of course, it isnt that simple.

A group hurrahs as I boldly but resignedly walk toward them. This has become a familiar scenario, played over and over. The money, however, never loses its freshness, its appeal. The more you play, the more they pay, and the more you take home. Placing myself in their midst, mens knees, hands, and heads in every direction, I appraise their open faces.

No one looks like trouble here, although you can never tell.

Bills are dug out of various breast pockets. A few large ones are offered to me. The rest, stacks of ones, are distributed among the excited businessmen. I toss my skirt on a seated suit, who eagerly, greedily, buries his hands, wedding band and all, into the layers of sheer black lace. One high step and I am perched on the table. As I grip the bar above my head, my body stretches taut in front of the men, and instinctively with the beat I spin on one spiked heel.

This will keep them occupied for a minute and settle them down, too. Men in groups are so easily overs timulated. Ami a sort of witch, capable of entrancing them this way? Yes, but there is no real challenge here. The fact that I am female, in shape, and taking my clothes off is enough.

I spin, they stare, my mind wanders.

My eyes, long since adjusted to the muddy lighting, survey the action, scoping the next opportunities. I delight in the cool air as I move. The generously placed vents keep the dancers sweat-free on all but the most hectic nights. The air is so thoroughly soaked with the stench of cigarettes, however, that the familiar smell has become unnoticeable to me. I know the odor is there, it comes home with me, permeating my regular clothes. Every night I drop it in a small heap outside my door. I dont like taking my work life home.

Scanning the portions of the club visible from atop my pedestal, I see hunched shoulders. Dollars are offered, held meekly by clumsy masculine fingers, and a dancer stares into space. Another girl yawns while two middle-aged salesmen stuff money into her sparkling underwear.

Yes, the same old, same old, but do the girls have to act so blase? Is it too much for them to have a personality? Are they more comfortable just being a body? True, the men come here for a body to look at, but does that mean we should stifle our personalities?

Meanwhile the curve of my butt clears one mans forehead by an inch or two, then, as my body circles, my raised knee brushes his nose. This reminds him to keep a safe distance, just in time for the other, more friendly side of me to come around again. Now, the salesman I am watching focus on the breasts of their sleepy stripper. She holds them up and together, with her standard Saturday night smile. As I spin I catch a glimpse, like a frozen movie frame the pudgy hand approaching the swelling flesh, the strippers chest high and full with youthful breath, then the next spin, and shes gone. Hes still there, the salesman is, the girl and the money gone. I remember then, mid-twirl, that I, too, am the entertainment. Slowly allowing myself to wind down, I glance demurely at my seated customers, then, sinking into a deep knee bend, offer my backside for perusal.

How would my fellow students feel about this? Should I go to the campus meeting entitled, Do images of women in the media anger you? I had planned to go interesting topic but how would they react to my work? Am I the enemy?

I occupy myself with the removal of my halter top. With one hand I lift layers of wavy blond tresses, with the other I carefully find the end of one of the ties holding up my halter. I pull the tie in slow motion, extending the fabric the length of my arm. Then with a slight flourish I let it go. The gauzy material hangs for a moment then floats downward. It comes to rest on my bare hip as I do the same with the other side. Then, catching both ends, I rotate enticingly on the platform with streamers of black gauze following me; in my imagination, a flimsy barrier between myself and the gaze of strangers.

With my back to my paying clients, I notice various onlookers in the crowd watching me as I unclasp the halter at my waist. With a practiced flip it glides off me, up into the air. It arcs over my head and into the chosen businessmans lap, joining the rest of my outfit. I am happy with my precise aim, but they dont notice. Turning slowly with my eyes downcast I give them a little coquettishness, to vary the attitude.

After all, variety is the spice of their lives right?

Again I spin, my pert torso offering itself to the men, then glide away.

They, after all, are paying to be teased.

The songs ends, I move on.

Smiling, affectionate, and warm: Im the perfect girl.

Put the twenties in here, you can tip me with the ones, I direct the customer, holding the edge of my G-string open. I am squatting on a two-by-three-foot pedestal about a foot and a half off the dark linoleum floor. Twenty of these pedestal tables line the perimeter of the main room. Smaller, portable stands are whisked by a bouncer to any dancer with a customer seated in one of the thirty easy chairs between the table-dance section and the three stages. These I dislike; their eight-inch lift lines up your knees with the customers crotch, which makes me feel silly.