Growing up for Maggie

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Double Penetration

What A Girl Must Do

On my own for the first time, twenty-three and nursing a broken heart, I needed first to keep my mind off my amorous woes. Totally away from my usual nature, I chose to be pragmatic. I brainstormed for a way to stay in South Florida, and exist comfortably in my apartment. I loved it here, so different from my hometown of Anderson, Indiana. West Palm Beach was not too far from Ft. Lauderdale and Miami on the Treasure Coast of Southern Florida. It was located along the Intercoastal Waterway, exciting and growing known for its massive fishing trade. It was 1981 most of Southern Florida. Going through a real estate boom that brought in millions for massive and stylish land developments.

My modestly-paid job at the art supply department at Halsey & Griffith Office Supply in the center of the growing and ultra-clean downtown on Datura Ave. fell short in providing any unforeseen expenses after the rent and utilities were met. A week before payday I was existing on applesauce and popcorn. Great for the figure, but after my small dinner digested all I could think about was a sizzling grouper fillet basking in melted butter and dill.

My quiet existence in my small compact one-bedroom apartment on South Olive Dr. rang with a welcome sound of one of my co-workers, Patsy called. “Hey, Maggie, what’s going on?”

“Not much just getting ready to take a walk along Flagler Dr., the sound of the moving water keeps me from thinking about how empty my stomach is.” I said, sighing loud enough for her to realize my Saturday night activity to be major dull.

“No worries, Isabel, Tim, and I are going to take you out for dinner. Isabel’s latest squeeze is going to compt our drinks and food. Get ready, we’ll be there in fifteen.”

Music to my ears, I grabbed my purple body suit, and slipped into my tight designer black Chics. My long red hair slightly dirty, I rolled into a compact bun using a few bobby pins to place it securely. I had plenty of color on my face and neck since Marie and I spent most of the afternoon planted on Riviera Beach. Just a smidge of mascara, I looked surprisingly presentable.

A smiling tall slender dark-haired Tim Canby vocalized as I opened my front door. “Wow, you look amazingly good for getting ready in fifteen minutes! I hope you don’t mind cramming into my purple Vega?”

“Oh, no, I’m delighted you guys thought of me. I can’t wait to taste something that doesn’t resemble applesauce.” I chuckled as I squeezed into the back seat between Patsy and Isabel. The front seat seemed to be occupied with an array of books and stacks of notebooks. Tim in his spare time was working on a novel depicting the drug culture surrounding our affluent bustling community in sunny Florida.

We drove to Renee’s Seafood Bar, an ultra-modern criss-cross reddish wooden structure serving succulent delicacies from the nearby waters. We were seated along the spacious patio overlooking the West Palm Beach Causeway. Four of us dined on raw oysters, entrees of thick white swordfish steaks, and long neck bottles of ice cold Heinekens.

Isabel, a shapely medium-height olive-skinned beauty of Italian, Portuguese and Hindi mixture stood up for a toast. “To this great happening city, and to good friends, may we always be as young as we are tonight!”

Patsy, a freckled-faced dark-haired native of Chicago, twenty-two, she gave us her version. Outspoken, still seated, she spoke lifting up her long-neck bottle of Heineken. “To all of us, especially to Maggie, who is single once again, to survive that rat-bastard Gary!”

Tim after we ended our mutual laughter offered an after-dinner suggestion, “Ladies, let’s take all of this enthusiasm to the Marrakesh!”

The Marrakesh was a popular nightspot, a “Disco Club”. Found off the beach close to Boynton Beach, those who loved to dance and party frequented the club on Friday and Saturday nights. The overall layout of the club held a strong Middle Easter flavor: dark burgundy plush carpeted steps led the tired dancer to a luxurious seating portico of body pillows stacked against a purple and black silk curtained wall.

The dance floor centered in the middle of the spacious club rang with frenzied teeming activity of stylish dance moves from fashion-conscious dancers gliding over a floor made of high-polished tile of varied mosaic patterns. There was no polite gesture of asking, ‘Do you want to dance?’ We all joined in amongst the pulsating beat of the music, Prince’s sensual sound from his Purple Rain huge-selling album.

I lost myself in the raucous sexy beat, my arms and hips synchronized in precise timing. To onlookers, I gave the illusion I was a professional dancer. The music of Prince was changed to the latest sound from the series, Miami Vice. I motioned to my friends I was going to the circular bar for a drink.

Bringing along my last ten-dollar bill tucked into my jeans, I ordered a Seven and Seven. I turned to my right, a slim gentleman with blonde hair slicked back from his kurtköy escort sculptured tanned face dressed in a shiny gray suit attempted to strike up a conversation. “Hey, Luv, you know how to move on that floor. You stick out from all the other wanna-bees.”

Apprehensive to respond, I slowly moved away from the bar. He pulled out a business card, and pointed it out for me to take. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. I own a gentleman’s club in Riviera Beach. Come and audition, take my word, you have the ability to make some serious money.”

Maybe it was his smooth British accent or my insistent curiosity, I took his card. I politely thanked him, and moved back to my group lounging. As I sat down, Isabel had caught sight of the business card still visible in my left hand. Persistent she forced me to give her what was clutched in my hand.

“Whoa, this is the UK Circus! My brothers go there, they say the dancers are real classy. Why do you have this?” She asked her large brown eyes dancing with excitement.

Tim leaned in close to me. Possessing aspirations of one day being a successful writer, he constantly watched people. “I observed him while he talked to you. He looks like money, then I followed him as he left the club with a hefty black chick dressed like she had money.”

I leaned back into the plush heavy body pillow. “He wants me to audition at this club. I don’t know if I have the courage to strip, no matter how good I dance.” I confessed while finishing my drink.

“Don’t know if I could do it either. Those of us who come from the Midwest are raised with an ingrained Puritanical moral code, hard to shake.” Patsy added.

“Oh, come on, this is the 1980s, not the seventeenth century. Maggie, it could solve your money problems. I will take you after work, nobody in the store has to know!” Isabel coaxed until we all re-entered the dance floor.


For the next three days, I went back and forth about this looming audition. The man’s words kept me reeling, ‘you could make some serious money.’ Dancing on a stage, strutting about naked in front of gapping strangers, my thoughts brought me to the point of weighing pertinent factors. ‘What if my parents found out, my mother’s insistence I come back to Indiana in shame. On the other hand, I could make some significant money. I can keep my job and save enough for a better and bigger apartment, maybe the high-rise place along Flagler Dr.’

After Fran Blakely handed over five hundred dollar bills for oil paints and brushes, I walked up to Isabel. “Can you take me to the UK Circus tomorrow after work?”

She grabbed my shoulder, whispered, “good girl, I would be happy to.”

Thursday afternoon came so soon, I had a thousand fluttering butterflies in my stomach. We pulled up to a large unlit neon sign reading, “UK Circus”. Most of the buildings on West 22nd Street in Riviera Beach housed pawn shops, video stores, warehouses, and auto supply stores. The gentleman’s club stuck out like a field of sunflowers amongst so many dried up weeds.

Inside the club resembled a giant beautifully wrapped package, silver and red-striped wallpaper covered all around the open spacious main room. My butterflies turned into a terrified condition where my heart rate rose. My heart beat almost out of my chest when I stared at the raised T-shaped platform. Knowing in my puritanical Hoosier mind, that was where I would bare it all.

Isabel hung onto me, practically carrying me to a large-framed black woman. The woman knew of my terrified apprehension. With her inviting brown eyes and warm smile, she took my hand. “Come on, young one, I am Bernice. I take it, you are here to audition.”

Isabel nudged me away from my clutching hands around her left arm. Bernice turned to my protector. “Go to the bar, honey. I will take your friend to the boss. Darby will get you whatever you fancy. It’s on the house.”

The gentleman that gave me his business card was Cecil Duncan, originally from West Sussex, England being a U.S. citizen for the last five years. His cozy office was not what I expected. He sat behind a large heavy oak desk similar to my father’s back home. I was taken by the paintings hung around the walls; inland water scenes depicting the Florida Everglades, white egrets and blue herons flying in the early evening sky.

“Who painted these unusual landscapes?” I asked, losing my previous terror.

Cecil raised his thin brow, enthused by my ability to recognize quality art. “They were done by Florida’s own, Beanie Backus.”

He suddenly recollected my face. “Blimy, the girl that could move at Marrakesh. You took me up on my offer!”

He got up, then leaned close to where I was seated. “Young lady, this is not a sleazy strip joint. Not the type of venue where you have to strip down to your bush. When you audition out there concentrate on the music, like you did at the club. Don’t try to be sexy.”

Bernice stood close to aydıntepe escort the door, I looked back at her. She nodded and winked, this gave me some courage. I stood up and shook his hand. “I am Maggie Butterfield. Let’s do this.”

Bernice placed herself behind the raised turntable to the right of the platform. “Maggie, what’s your preference?”

“Roadhouse Blues by the Doors, I’m a rock n’ roll kind of gal.” I said, standing between two brass poles on the stage. Cecil sat down quietly waiting in the main seating area.

As he instructed me, I concentrated on the sound. As I pulled off my clothes, I got lost in the familiar beat and sensual voice of Jim Morrison. Before I knew it, I was bare-breasted and down to my pink panties. I moved my opened legs onto the neighboring poles. I was in my mind recreating the last time I made love to Gary. Making my way to the front of the stage, the overhead lights showed off my round breasts with nipples at attention. I enjoyed every turn of my legs, every jerk of my boyish hips.

I noticed Cecil staring at my breasts. To my surprise, I enjoyed his ogling. The music, and my immediate feelings of loving the moves I exhibited caused any previous nervousness to vanish.

The music ended. Cecil got up and clapped. “You listened, way to move, Luv! Get dressed and come into my office.”

In the women’s bathroom, Isabel helped me get dressed. “I guess, you’ve got the job. You are a natural, but think, you might have to come up with a stage name.”

In Cecil’s office he explained about working hours, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from nine thirty p.m. to three a.m. He stressed a stage name, something catchy and easy for the customers to remember.

Immediately, it came to me. “How about Roxy?”

“Roxy it is. Take this handbook home and study it, you have to go by the rules if you want to stay at the circus.” Cecil said as he gave me a twenty-five page document bound with a night photo of the club with the neon lights brightly burning on the cover.


Friday night I walked into the UK Circus with the butterflies internally fluttering again. Bernice led me to the back of the club where I would prepare for my performances. I was assigned to my own vanity station. The vanity station was a cubicle large enough for storage of make-up, costumes, and small accessories for the body when the costumes are taken off.

Getting acquainted with my station, I felt uneasy. Staring eyes behind me branded me as the ‘New Girl’. To my right sat a lady, sugary blonde with the most perfect legs I had ever seen. I sheepishly looked her way. She smiled showing her complexion drawn and tired, her blonde-streaked hair hung limp onto her smooth tanned back.

Only dressed in a silver-studded G-string, she approached me. “Honey, are you the new one? You look like a scared rabbit. I’m Madeline, let me introduce you around.”

Esmeralda, an Italian dark-haired beauty gave me a polite greeting. She possessed a classic voluptuous figure, large round breasts, small waist, and wide hips. She looked me up and down while fondling her nipples in order for them to stay upright. I was soon realizing I had to drop my Midwestern-sheltered modesty code.

“All of the girls play with them. Hard nipples warm up the crowd for better tipping.” Madeline explained. Bold language and crude terms of the female anatomy was standard backstage dialogue.

Next the twins, Lula and Lani, tall statuesque acrobatic dancers with rich dark skin. They shook my hand welcomed me in their obvious New York City accent, both hailing from the Bronx. A short petite Cuban-American, Rosie offered me a surprising embrace. Her enormous bulbous breasts squeezed into me like giant pillows. She wore a garish colorful costume to accentuate her ample assets, tonight she was Carmen Miranda.

The last dancer to meet was a slender athletic Asian import, China. She lacked what the other girls had plenty of on top, but her well-toned hips and legs made her famous as a large prowling cat. During our introduction, she kept her eyes foreword busy coloring her black spiked hair a royal blue.

“Oh, you have all the trappings of a rookie. Don’t come to me for any pointers. We are all in competition for the race of who gets the most cash. Let’s hope those perky tits of yours will bring in the bucks.” Her icy persona stopped me cold.

“Don’t pay her no mind. She hates rosy-cheeked heteros like you. She only tolerates me because I date Esmeralda’s brother, Paulo. They were sometimes gal pals, her and Esmie.” Madeline said as she walked me back to our stations.

While Madeline went on stage transformed into an elegant facsimile of a supermodel, Rosie came over to help me dress for my debut. “Chi, Chi, you have a healthy mess of red hair, but we need to bring it up. Now, use a small bit of eye shadow, then a thin black line on those young lids to make your green eyes pop!”

For my outfit, I wore a black leather tuzla içmeler escort jacket over a black lace bustier, black fish-net pantyhose underneath a pair of knee-high shiny black boots. I looked like someone else, a hard rock queen with a new attitude.

“Chi, Chi, you are dangerous! Dance that way, the customers will go wild.” Rosie said as she clapped her hands.

Madeline and Rosie pushed me onto the stage as though I was being propelled out of an airplane to skydive. As soon as I heard ‘L. A. Woman’, another Doors hit, I got real dangerous. I started by whipping my jacket onto the stage. Ripping off my bustier, I fondled my breasts pricking my nipples til the crowd began to yell. Down to my fish-net black pantyhose, I pounded my body into the brass poles. I executed a well-formed split, then tore open the hose along my inner thighs.

I heard roaring above everyone else in the front row standing up, a pot-bellied stocky light brown-haired middle-aged man. “Come on, Baby, give us a tour on your muff island!” I looked down on the stage floor, not knowing what to do or how to react. I spied a mound of green bills, tens, twenties, and fives, this welcome sight averted my mortification from that vulgar customer. I piled all of them around my breasts resembling a 52-card pick-up on my chest and ran towards the backstage curtain.

With my mound of green money, I brushed past Esmeralda sizzling in flaming red waiting for her number. “Bold moves for a beginner, I bet your red little vaggie is as nice as your tits.” She said, hissing through her bright red thick lips.

Madeline pulled out my chair, her heavy made-up eyes glistening under my vanity station lights. “Miss corn-fed Indiana, you surprised the hell out of me! Where the fuck did all that attitude come from?”

“I guess, all my repressed sexuality came out when Rosie dressed me up as the ‘hard rock queen’. Madeline, I heard some man let out such obscenity at me as I ripped open my fish-net hose.” I said, sitting down looking over my loot, came to be two hundred eighty dollars. I held back telling her what Esmeralda whispered to me. It was too lewd for me to repeat.

“I heard a man yelling over everybody else, then I saw Sonny’s curly black head manhandling some guys out the club!” She said, her eyes wide and wild. Just then Bernice came rushing towards us, “Child, I told Sonny to get that group of vulgar-ass menz out of here! Don’t worry, Roxy, you did good, honey, in spite of their nastiness!”

Sonny was a three-hundred fifty muscle-bound Pacific Islander, a Samoan, who Cecil hired to bar-back for Darby and show some muscle when needed. His real name was almost a sentence long, so he wanted for everyone to call him, Sonny from the Don Johnson character, Sonny Crockett/Sonny Burnett on Miami Vice. Of course, he looked nothing like Johnson’s smooth golden small-framed looks, but he loved the show and thought the name suited him.

In between our respected numbers til three a.m., Madeline and I swapped heartbreak stories. We also shared a similarity from both coming from the Midwest. Madeline hailed from Peoria, Illinois; her birth name was Edith Feltzer. When she began stripping at the tender age of eighteen, her first boyfriend she met in Ft. Lauderdale was called Emile, who had a sister back in Paris named Madeline. She took her name as a stage presence moving on to West Palm Beach after a tearful heart-wrenching break up from Emile.

Just before the club closed its doors, I noticed a tall handsome guy with curly black hair kissing Madeline all over her bare back. She nudged him away so she could finish dressing in her street clothes. He caught my stare, embarrassed I resumed my conversation with Rosie.

“Who’s the cute redhead with Rosie?” He questioned Madeline.

Both Rosie and I realized we better make our exit, I got back to my station. This tall, dark and handsome stranger shoved a glass vial into my face. I noticed the vial contained white powder knowing in a second what to do. I threw it back at him as if it would burn my fingers.

“Forgive him, sweetie, Paulo thinks everyone does cocaine.” Madeline apologized for Paulo’s impulsive behavior.

As the weeks went on despite my new friend’s dangerous liaison with Paulo and cocaine, we became closer. She began training sessions on the effective lap dance. “Roxy, you get the client to the point where he is about to explode down under, then back off slowly. It’s up to you if you do women, they give the best tips. China comes out of the silver-studded private lounge most of the time with bills in the thousands.”

There were some early mornings, Madeline and I would get some tangy breakfast food from Luis’s Diner, Rosie’s husband. Using a carry-out option, we consumed our orders on South Olive Dr., talking on my couch til dawn.

At forty-six, Madeline wanted to leave stripping behind. Her plan was to go back to school, study Interior Design. She possessed only one snag to her plan, her nest egg slowly being wiped out because of four procedures: a tummy tuck, a thigh smoothing, a complete face-lift, and a breast augmentation. Since Paulo came into her life, she almost wiped out the face-lift results by over-indulging in what she called ‘sweet nose candy’.

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