Toronto Free Press journalist at large Edward Zawadzki, who wanted a closer look at the burlesque dance industry, went to work as a doorman in some of the city's more prominent west end clubs. Noting an increase of teenagers cum strippers, he profiles the dance hall career of a 17-year-old runaway from home.
The nervous teen named April looked more 14 than the 17 years she claimed to be. She walked into the nightclub to answer an ad in the newspaper looking for strippers (no experience necessary) seeking work at the West End club. On ridiculously high stiletto heels, with her upswept hairdo and makeup, she looked as though she'd raided her mother's closet for an illicit night on the town. When I told the entertainment director that the girl who had been chatting with me outside admitted that she was only 17, he laughed and told me: "The younger, the better to teach." By teaching, he didn't mean just the fine art of taking it all off. He meant schooling teeny boppers like April how to discreetly prostitute themselves at the club's V.I.P. rooms and, over time to hopefully also hook them on the drugs of which he would be sole supplier.
That first evening, they gave her a run through of the club rules, how much she was to be paid for her shift (usually $50-$70). They never told her, of course that in most cases the girls don't collect the full amount due to the club taking away disc jockey fees and other incidentals that chip away shift pay in sizeable amounts. After a quick lesson in the back by an experienced stripper, she's put on stage for the first time, surrounded by coloured lights and the blare of R&B and rap music. It's the bump and grind of an ingenue who wandered away from prom night. For all of her bravado, April hasn't got the hang of it and she moves slowly and awkwardly to the music, disrobing ever so gradually as she was taught, until by the third song she is standing there naked on the stage. I look her up and down and feel a profound sadness as I realize that this girl is not yet fully matured and is likely far younger than she says she is. Her body is that of a young girl without barely a hint of the soon to come womanly curves of feminity. And that's just the state of April's physical maturity.
During my stint as club doorman, I couldn't help but ponder how they continue to lure the Lorelies.
Scores of local newspapers continue to run ads for "exotic dancers". The ads show nothing of the darker side of life and make the work sound as innocent as a revival of the Ziegfield Follies. Pony-tailed teens, not getting along at home, rip the ads out and hide them in diaries and backpacks.
Later, when I asked April what she was doing there, she told me what I have found to be a typical story for many of these Lolitas--a bad relationship with her parents, often over a boyfriend, who in this case left her responsible to local hoods for collecting money to cover the shining knight's debts. Babysitting and flipping hamburgers not offering the same dough, stripping and or prostitution were the only means whereby April thought she could possibly earn enough "fast money" to pay back her boyfriend's debt.
I told her that this industry wasn't the answer to any of her problems, that it would only use and abuse her before spitting her out when nothing else remained. She gave me the kind of look she would throw at a kind, but over the hill uncle who didn't know the score.
At this point, I told her I would give her a ride home and the telephone number of a couple of professionals (cops) who might be able to help her. She turned me down flat and tried to convince me that she knew exactly what she was doing. That was the last time I saw or heard of her until one late night when she called me, to offer a ginger, "Hi!"
April, who was now going by a suggestive stage name told me that she was still dancing in clubs other than the one where I had initially met her. Not only was she dancing for a living, she was doing so without courtesy of a license. (In Toronto, a girl has to be 18 and be able to pay a $185 fee in order to receive a legal licence allowing her to be a burlesque dancer.) In nearby Mississauga and Brampton, no such license is required and all that is needed is a couple of pieces of I.D. and the club takes a Polaroid shot of you for their records. Now try to figure this one out, it's legal for these girls to strip naked on the stage in front of a crowd--but she cannot drink a beer or any alcohol in the same establishment until her 19th birthday.
In confidence, April tells me that she doesn't need a license because in many cases for the first couple of nights the club may not ask for her papers and by the time they demand them, she's already made money and can easily move on. On closer questioning, she admits that some clubs are stricter than others and that’s she's been shown the door at the outset at some. She talks of sleazebag agents, who either want to sleep with her or who try to drug her. It happens so often, she's over the original shock and has become used to it.
When I asked her if we could get together for a coffee and talk about all this, she refuses because she's fearful that someone (me) may notify the authorities and that she's making good money.
Incredibly, many of these girls align themselves to a pimp. Surprised, you thought only hookers are under the thumb of these piranhas, but they have now turned their attention to strippers and a healthy cut of their salaries. Girls like April can easily make $200-$300 a night (much more if they work the V.I.P. rooms).
When I ask her about that aspect, she assures me that she's not involved with "that trash". I wonder about the homefront and she tells me that her parents now know about her work as a stripper. Her father's disowned her outright, and her mom just pretends that nothing's happened.
April tells me that she's almost been caught by the licensing commission officers, who from time to time show up at a club to make sure the girls are all licenced, and fine those who aren't $185 for a first offence. But this time the entertainment director of the club hid her out of sight in the large kitchen's walk-in refrigerator.
She tries to justify everything negative about the business by saying that sex and drugs are a huge industry and should be looked upon as a business like any other. You can tell by her tone at the end of the statement that she probably doesn't believe what she is saying but is only parroting the opinion of someone else. It's at about this juncture that she begins telling me that she has to go, and I tell her again that anytime she needs help all she has to do is pick up the telephone and call, and I will be there, no strings attached.
But before we hang up, I ask her a question that I've been dying to ask since the beginning of this conversation. I want to know with all that has happened in these last few months, does she still feel like she's 17 year's old. She answered sadly, "No, everything about me has changed."
To lose being 17 is a tragedy!