something similar. After the band finished their set, a new DJ
appeared and took over, spinning hip-hop. Desiree and Ginger drank
apple martinis and danced until the club closed at 5
a.m.
They repeated the ritual several times
that week at other venues. They attended a private party to
celebrate the opening of the Bar Room on Thursday; checked out
Amnesia on Friday after they'd had drinks at the Marlin, and went
party hopping and strip cruising on Saturday.
Rather than work the strip clubs,
Desiree and Ginger entertained at a few private parties. Some were
held by businessmen, but a couple of them had been for professional
athletes. They were always paid one thousand dollars up front for
dancing. They made a few hundred more in tips. Then if there were
men who wanted special attention, they would provide it with one
stipulation: only one man a night. That always started a bidding
war for their services, the men's natural competitive instincts
kicking in. Men always wanted something that they thought they
couldn't have. Desiree wanted to screw all night and collect as
much cash as possible, but Ginger explained to her that they
weren't some cheap hos to get run up and done up. They didn't,
however, mind the exchange of ass for cash, if – and only if – the
price was right. They earned a couple thousand a night for a couple
hours of work, and a few humps and pumps from a man with money to
blow and an ego to feed. They managed to arrange their work and
play schedules so that they transitioned seamlessly; the week felt
like one giant party. The pinnacle of the week was when they
attended the Super Bowl with some fat cat lawyers they'd
"entertained." Desiree felt as if she were dreaming, because in one
short week her entire life had changed.
Desiree was becoming addicted to the
rush she got when a stack of money exchanged hands. It was almost
like an aphrodisiac to hear the rustle of bills being counted.
Ginger told Desiree what men wanted and what they liked sexually
and otherwise, and how to get them to come up off the dough. She
taught her where the rich men were, and what to say to them. Ginger
seemed to have a different approach for every type of baIler:
white, black, Latin, young, old, street, corporate, old-money,
new-money. Desiree absorbed every bit of information that Ginger
gave her like a giant sponge, because Ginger had the goods to back
up all her talk. In Desiree's eyes Ginger had made it, and she was
going to make it too. Desiree realized that Ginger had been very
right about her potential when at the end of the week she realized
she'd made over ten thousand dollars.
Chapter
4
February 1999
P ack your bags, pickney. We gwan to St. Thomas , mon!" Ginger bubbled in a Miss Cleo-fake, Caribbean accent as
she bounded into the house, her arms full of bags. Desiree sat on
the couch scribbling furiously in a notebook and eating chips while
she bobbed her head to music blaring from a set of headphones.
Ginger sat next to her and pulled the headset away from her
ear.
"Did you hear me?"
"No."
"What are you doing?" Ginger craned
her neck to get a peek at Desiree's notebook.
"Nothing, just doodling," Desiree
said, snapping the notebook shut. She turned the headphones off.
"What did you say?"
"I said pack your bags because we're
going to St. Thomas!"
"We are? When? Why?" Desiree bombarded
her with questions, jumping up from her position on the couch,
chips spilling everywhere. She'd been to the Dominican Republic,
but only once, and that was when she was a little girl. Aside from
that, her travels had been limited. Now she was going to the Virgin
Islands! She was so glad she'd met Ginger. She'd been living with
her for only about a month, but the woman was truly broadening her
horizons.
"We can leave tomorrow. The club is
paying for our ticket over and our first night's hotel," Ginger
explained.
"You mean that there are strip clubs
in the Virgin Islands? We're going to work?"
"Of course! Remember I got the
appeared and took over, spinning hip-hop. Desiree and Ginger drank
apple martinis and danced until the club closed at 5
a.m.
They repeated the ritual several times
that week at other venues. They attended a private party to
celebrate the opening of the Bar Room on Thursday; checked out
Amnesia on Friday after they'd had drinks at the Marlin, and went
party hopping and strip cruising on Saturday.
Rather than work the strip clubs,
Desiree and Ginger entertained at a few private parties. Some were
held by businessmen, but a couple of them had been for professional
athletes. They were always paid one thousand dollars up front for
dancing. They made a few hundred more in tips. Then if there were
men who wanted special attention, they would provide it with one
stipulation: only one man a night. That always started a bidding
war for their services, the men's natural competitive instincts
kicking in. Men always wanted something that they thought they
couldn't have. Desiree wanted to screw all night and collect as
much cash as possible, but Ginger explained to her that they
weren't some cheap hos to get run up and done up. They didn't,
however, mind the exchange of ass for cash, if – and only if – the
price was right. They earned a couple thousand a night for a couple
hours of work, and a few humps and pumps from a man with money to
blow and an ego to feed. They managed to arrange their work and
play schedules so that they transitioned seamlessly; the week felt
like one giant party. The pinnacle of the week was when they
attended the Super Bowl with some fat cat lawyers they'd
"entertained." Desiree felt as if she were dreaming, because in one
short week her entire life had changed.
Desiree was becoming addicted to the
rush she got when a stack of money exchanged hands. It was almost
like an aphrodisiac to hear the rustle of bills being counted.
Ginger told Desiree what men wanted and what they liked sexually
and otherwise, and how to get them to come up off the dough. She
taught her where the rich men were, and what to say to them. Ginger
seemed to have a different approach for every type of baIler:
white, black, Latin, young, old, street, corporate, old-money,
new-money. Desiree absorbed every bit of information that Ginger
gave her like a giant sponge, because Ginger had the goods to back
up all her talk. In Desiree's eyes Ginger had made it, and she was
going to make it too. Desiree realized that Ginger had been very
right about her potential when at the end of the week she realized
she'd made over ten thousand dollars.
Chapter
4
February 1999
P ack your bags, pickney. We gwan to St. Thomas , mon!" Ginger bubbled in a Miss Cleo-fake, Caribbean accent as
she bounded into the house, her arms full of bags. Desiree sat on
the couch scribbling furiously in a notebook and eating chips while
she bobbed her head to music blaring from a set of headphones.
Ginger sat next to her and pulled the headset away from her
ear.
"Did you hear me?"
"No."
"What are you doing?" Ginger craned
her neck to get a peek at Desiree's notebook.
"Nothing, just doodling," Desiree
said, snapping the notebook shut. She turned the headphones off.
"What did you say?"
"I said pack your bags because we're
going to St. Thomas!"
"We are? When? Why?" Desiree bombarded
her with questions, jumping up from her position on the couch,
chips spilling everywhere. She'd been to the Dominican Republic,
but only once, and that was when she was a little girl. Aside from
that, her travels had been limited. Now she was going to the Virgin
Islands! She was so glad she'd met Ginger. She'd been living with
her for only about a month, but the woman was truly broadening her
horizons.
"We can leave tomorrow. The club is
paying for our ticket over and our first night's hotel," Ginger
explained.
"You mean that there are strip clubs
in the Virgin Islands? We're going to work?"
"Of course! Remember I got the
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