"If you work hard at this industry," Sarah says, "you'll get what you deserve. I'm worried the employee thing is going to become an industry standard."
Sarah also acknowledges that her viewpoint be skewed by her experience at higher-end clubs, where making well above minimum wage is the norm. "A lot of the girls I talk to at work don't care because we're the top earners," she says. "This could potentially hurt our group. It's only good for the low earners."
Naomi Vaughan
By day, Rebecca Avalon teaches strippers how to make the most of their shifts.
Naomi Vaughan
By night, she practices what she preaches at the Lodge.
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Kennedy, the lawyer for the Abilene strippers, disagrees that an employee system has to spell bad news for any dancer. "All [club owners] need to do is pay them $2.13 per hour," he says. "That's legal. And let them keep all of their tips — period." Requiring employees to share tips, he says, is illegal in every industry.
There's also the matter of all that pesky paperwork. Not having a paper trail of income is helpful if dancers plan on being less than truthful on their taxes, or if they don't file at all. And in clubs where women are covertly selling "extras" — something dancers say is common — "the contractor system takes the club off the hook," Rebecca Avalon says. In 2007, the Penthouse Key Club, a now-shuttered club on Stemmons, was shut down for five months after a prostitution sting netted 21 arrests of dancers. There's no record of managers or owners being arrested.
Overall, though, Avalon says it's pretty basic why the clubs prefer the contractor system. "The clubs like it because they don't pay anything," she says, chuckling. "We pay them. It's not just cheap labor, it's profitable labor."
On a recent Friday, Avalon looks out on the main floor of the Lodge with a professional eye. She's wearing the most risqué possible version of a black evening gown, a heavy silver chain with a jade charm around her neck and a slim silver wristwatch. She has very long blonde hair and subtle blue eye-shadow, and she smells like perfume and strawberry lip gloss. She has a 20-dollar bill wound absentmindedly around two fingers as she points a French-tipped nail at a table about 20 feet away. "That guy," she says, "He's a blue."
Part of Avalon's business model involves "personality profiling," as she puts it, complete with a color code: Customers are generally either reds, blues, greens or yellows. "Red are the businessmen," she explains, pushing her hair onto one shoulder. "They're more formally dressed. The VIP type. And they want attention." Blues, meanwhile, are "the fun guy," spiky-haired, often wearing Ed Hardy if they're young or Tommy Bahama if they're older. "They're here to party," she says. "They're the guy who's buying everyone else a drink."
Avalon likes to focus in on reds and blues first, "because they make decisions quickly," she says. Quick sales from them help balance out the greens, who are bargain hunters ("You know them as soon as you sit down at the table") and yellows, the regulars: faithful, quiet guys who want to talk at length before buying a dance or time in the VIP section. (At the Lodge, the VIP area is only for people who have bought club memberships or who buy a $500 bottle of Champagne.)
Avalon points out a corpulent guy who looks to be in his late 40s. He's wearing a red polo shirt and balancing a very small Asian dancer in his lap. He looks delighted. He's a "fun guy" blue, Avalon says. "When I was on the side stage earlier tonight," she says, "he came in and already had a dollar ready, he was dancing around, all that."
She got to work at around 9 tonight. Her early arrival meant that she paid no house fees, but it had a downside: There were three customers in the whole place, and dozens of dancers competing for their attention. Her first interaction with a customer that night was tough going, bargaining-wise, she says. "He knew he had the upper hand." Her business, she says, "is all negotiation."
Not entirely though. Some of it, Avalon says after a moment, also involves working smartly. Although the Lodge tries for a slightly more dignified atmosphere, all over Dallas you can see women doing wild acrobatics on stripper poles: climbing to the very top, for example, then sliding down head first, using only their leg muscles for support. It's an impressive feat, and probably a killer workout. And Avalon's worked in the "day-glo outfits and fishnets" clubs where such things are common. But she quickly concluded that they're not worth her time.
"I have danced for 12 years and I don't climb a pole ever," she says. "The job is not about dancing. It's about talking to someone, making connections. It's kind of like being a topless therapist. You get paid for your time to stop, listen to people and entertain them."
Plus, as an independent contractor, Avalon knows that if she falls on her head on the way down, she's not getting money for her injury or time off from the club. (In 2007, an Indiana dancer who injured her cervical spine while pole dancing managed to successfully sue for worker's comp, but that's not common.)