Don’t I Know You
By: Christine Macdonald
Tags: Pain, Drugs, Sex, Life, Abuse

As the fourth and final song faded, the DJ in our club at the north end of Waikiki kept the crowd pumped for another set of nude women on stage under the flashing black lights. These men were mostly military dudes who were barely legal (21) to drink alcohol on the island, on their way to or coming from Desert Storm.

I collected my money and made my way off the center stage. The balls of my feet were throbbing and I couldn’t wait to release my toes. Beads of sweat tickled the small of my back and my cocaine-fueled heart was thumping inside my chest. The applause, cheers, and whistles from the floor were palpable.

I never felt more beautiful.

I reached the edge of the stage and kicked off my six-inch stilettos preparing for my final set which was located in-between the center stage and the dressing room near the back of the club. This area was a much smaller space because it was an actual shower stage, complete with a jet-stream runway. In a running shower, our work area had dozens of miniature water fountains arching toward our feet — stretching down each side of the narrow path inside a ten-inch Plexiglass shield. Our very own Stripping Sneeze Guard for the foot-fetishists of the world.

Still naked from my previous show, I grabbed the bills I had collected in each garter on my thighs, tossed them in a ball on the floor, covering the stash with my hot pink Spandex mini dress. After exchanging non-verbal assurances that my loot was safely guarded by my favorite bouncer, Tuli, I stepped into the shower stall (surrounded by three walls of Plexiglass) and turned on the water.

Waving a smile to the audience, I began to sponge up with the bottle of Prell shampoo which was generously provided by one of the other dancers — she knew the optics were a huge money-maker. Prell gave a bright, lime green neon glow under the black lights. We all looked like The Hulk but with less muscle and bigger tits.

The shower stage always drew in a big crowd, even without the Prell. A nude chick, sudsing up with wet hair, strutting up and down a jet stream runway — what’s not to love?

Deana followed my set and I loved her taste in music, which meant I’d have a blast performing my wet-n-wild show while she worked the center of the room. I threw her a smile from my corner, nodding in appreciation as Epic by Faith No More vibrated through the speakers. We both mouthed the words to the crowd:

“You want it all, but you can’t have it. It’s in your face, but you can’t grab it!”

Teasing customers was fun— even more so when the music was rad.

Receiving tips in the shower was different from collecting the dollar bills in our garters while dancing on the main (dry) stage. Customers loved slapping the money on our wet bodies. Never one to disappoint, I always bent over, legs together — standing on the tips of my toes with my ass proudly in the air. This pose allowed the guys to spank us — if they did so with paper money. After a couple of songs, most of us would write things with wet bills. We would place them on the see-through shower walls, like “Thank you” or “Tip Me.” The guys took such pleasure in sneaking a touch; I just loved the cash. Some girls hated the spank-tips but I didn’t mind. As long as they tapped quickly, never going south of the border, I was cool.

As Deanna’s last song of her set began my ass-slappers started to thin out, leaving me alone to survey the audience. My hips swayed to Fire Woman, by The Cult; another kick-ass song choice.

I was all smiles in tune with the guitar riffs until my eyes landed on a familiar face from high school walking through the red velvet curtain in the front of the club.

Mutherfucker.

My eyes bolted off the runway to the dressing room and I thought of running, but my body was frozen seeking comfort in the pockets of my breath. The cigarette smoke-filled air served equal parts drama and suspense and he walked straight toward me as soon as he recognized who I was. Pretending not to see him, I spun around whipping my Prell-soaked hair like I was a backup dancer in MTV’s Beach House.

My world was suddenly in slow motion. The butterflies inside my belly choked on the reality of his presence.

“Hey, hey… !” I knew he was talking to me but ignored him and kept dancing. I focused on the DJ waiting impatiently for the song to end.

“I know you. Christine, right?” He pushed.

What the actual fuck.

Christine? Nobody called me by that name. Nobody even knew me as her since I started stripping four years ago in 1987. My stage name was Stephanie; Christine was buried in the chaos of my past.

Realizing he wasn’t going to stop trying to talk to me, I replied. “Nope. I’m Stephanie.” My voice was shaking and my knees struggled to support my trembling, wet body. Now, instead of feeling beautiful, I was suddenly aware that I was unarmed, completely naked, and not at all prepared for our reunion.

“No, you’re Christine. I know you.” His smirk was exactly the same.

“Wrong girl,” I said without blinking. Suddenly I wished I really was The Hulk.

“No, you went to Kaiser High School!” His smirk morphed into an actual smile.

How can you..?

With unabashed purpose, I lowered my body to my knees on the shower runway tile so I could be level with his eyes. I was still trembling but there was no way he was going to win. Not this time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Stephanie. You got the wrong girl.” I looked him square in the face, determined to erase that night years ago when I was a 13-year-old away at canoe paddling camp on the north shore beach in Haleiwa.

He took a sip of his beer, shook his head, and rolled his eyes. He knew I was full of shit; and I knew that he knew.

The DJ began to speak and I was saved. I bolted for the corner edge outside the shower and grabbed a towel from Tuli. I left behind my cash, shoes, and the dress still rolled-up in a corner next to the mirrored wall, which covered the stage-side of the club. Tuli was concerned but couldn’t leave his post. I bolted past my old high school pal — through the crowd to the dressing room. He tried to block me but I kept walking.

In the safety of the space with the other girls getting ready for their sets, I pulled a breath from the well of my past and felt started to cry. My body was still trembling and I clutched onto my friend Alison feeling like I was going to pass out. She stopped lining her lips in front of the mirror and focused on me. I couldn’t speak.

“What, honey? What happened?” Alison held me close and rubbed my back, still damp as my wet hair dripped down my skin.

Still, no words.

“Did someone asshole touch you?” Alison was pissed off, and I could tell she was ready to kick some customer’s ass.

Shaking my head no, I opened my locker and pulled out my purse. I couldn’t stop panting.

“Holy shit, Stephanie, what the fuck!?” She went from angry to worried.

I dumped some blow on the dressing room counter and snorted it up my nose as fast as I could. Alison kept rubbing my back.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Her tone shifted again — this time she was maternal and calming, like the mom I always dreamed of having.

Sitting naked on the stool with my towel draped around my hips, I wiped my tear-soaked cheeks and found the words.

“I saw him,” I whispered. My breath was heavy but I felt lighter after speaking.

“Who?” She offered me a cocktail napkin as a tissue.

“The motherfucker who raped me.”