First published in 12th Street Journal
Spring 2008

My dart embedded itself about half an inch left of the dartboard, and João, my grandmother’s lodger and my best friend, started clapping.

“Bravo, bravo,” he said, taking my place behind the floor line, “let me show you.” His skinny arm jerked forward, flinging the arrow straight into the bullseye. “Portugal two, England zero. I thought you fucking Brits were supposed to be good at darts, man. You owe me drink.”

This meant drink number four, at one in the morning on the 25th of December, in a normally lively bar on 2nd Avenue. Tonight there was little to be heard other than the hushed music videos playing from televisions that cluttered the walls. The two of us drank, played, and missed our families together alongside Paul Simon, Vanilla Ice, and MC Hammer’s enormous trousers. I felt like I was sinking.

I hadn’t enjoyed Christmas Eve. Following European traditions, my grandmother, aunt, uncle and I had already gone through the ceremony, swapping presents with friendly enough smiles. My smile, however, was uncomfortable. Why wasn’t I at home with my parents and brother in London? Where were the sarcasm, the cutting witticisms, and the arguments? And why was I wearing a tie? These questions had plagued the day: my first Christmas away from home. Still, I could only imagine how João felt, a struggling clarinetist, a passionate and caring man, several thousand miles from his sister and mother, not to mention Portugal’s heavenly espressos and gently rolling hillsides. So, when my relatives went to bed, we made our way to the local bar to play darts for drinks.

“To our mums,” I announced, holding up my glass. We drank with our heads back, looking each other in the eye. After an hour or so João pointed over my shoulder toward the small room in the back.

“There’s two girls in there,” he said, lifting an eyebrow and smacking his lips, “you should talk to them. Show them some Brit charm.” I laughed and followed his finger to the small doorway behind me. Through it I saw a swish of blonde hair with a big smile, and on the couch sat a cute, large-eyed, tanned, and well-endowed brunette, who looked either bored or unhappy. “Come on then,” I said, intentionally nudging his arm to spill a little beer, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” We’ll be back in a minute, I thought as we walked towards the door.

As we entered I took in the situation; two girls and one boy, which meant good odds; a pool table, which would be great for flirting if needed; the lively one was already playing darts with the Asian guy; and her gloomy friend on the black leather couch looked like she’d been crying, and that was perfect. I might be terrible at talking to bubbly blondes, but put a troubled, morose brunette near me and I stand a chance, especially if I’ve been drinking. João and I said hello to the trio, wished them a merry Christmas, and then I walked over to the couch while he tried to join their dart game. I immediately showed her some concern.

“Are you ok?”
“I’m sorry, don’t look at me. I look terrible.”
“No, you don’t. Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been crying for ten hours,” she laughed. Her voice was slow and sounded a long way south of the border. She folded a stray wing of hair behind her ear.
“Really?”
“Isn’t my make-up smudged?”
“No,” I lied, holding out my hand. “I’m Nick.”
“Maria.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you were crying?”
“I had trouble with my family,” she said, smiling uncomfortably. I gave her my most sympathetic look.
“Do you want a drink?” I asked. The ice cubes in her glass had almost melted entirely. “What are you having?”
“Oh, no, that’s ok. Vodka and cranberry.”

I tried to be charming, I made her laugh a few times, and assured her João and I weren’t lovers. I even stayed after he left, drinking slowly, and listened to why she’d been crying. It was fascinating. Maria had an argument that I hadn’t quite understood with her younger brother, which ended with his calling her a whore and throwing her onto her bed. Her mother, who was visiting from Brazil for the first time in three years, didn’t do anything, so she threw them both out of the house and cried for the rest of the day. Claudia, her blonde friend, had forced her to come out tonight. She hadn’t meant to stay very long and was thinking of leaving, but then she’d met me, and I’d seemed so nice…

That night ended, unusually, with my getting a phone number, and I was excited. My loneliness wasn’t just a Christmas thing; it had been building for almost a year. I was in my second year of college, and was enjoying nights bartending in a local pool hall, and yet for some reason, despite my British awkwardness and my ability to play pool one-handed, I couldn’t find a girl to hug when I woke up in the morning, a girl to care for (and one who cared about me, too). My grandmother, with whom João and I shared a tall, empty brownstone, was the only woman in my life.

By the end of the week Maria was officially my girlfriend. We spent every night together, talking for hours, and although she seemed a little negative, I put that down to recent events, the holiday season, and ignored it. She seemed a fed-up, very cynical and moderately depressed, and yet her laugh was that of a happy child. I convinced myself all she needed was a nice guy, and she’d cheer up. João didn’t like her as he thought she was boring, but I decided she was beautiful, innocent, and warmhearted.

I was surprised to find out that her breasts were enhanced. Then I was surprised that spending $10,000 wouldn’t get you a chest that felt less like the hard lumps on the back of a stitched leather couch. They seemed so badly designed! On our first night together I had the second most embarrassing moment of my life: she asked me not put all my weight on her because her implants might pop, resulting in silicone poisoning. I’d never been told that my weight might get me arrested for manslaughter before, and I was mortified. However, my embarrassment was lessened somewhat by hers, that night, when she admitted she was a stripper in a club, Flashdancers, where she worked during the day shifts. She joked, “Hey, I can be proud; I’m a Broadway dancer!” But her eyes betrayed the lighter tone of her voice. Her family didn’t know about this, nor her friends, but she was so positive about me that she wanted to tell me the truth. The next morning it was with no small amount of pride that I emailed my brother; I’m going out with an illegal immigrant Brazilian stripper! Take that for still living at home in London with Mum and Dad.

—

After all, I felt I was falling in love, and fast. I’d heard vulgar tales about strip-clubs, but this was a back-stage pass, away from the sticky seats. This was my chance to be special. “I’ve never met a guy like you,” she’d say from underneath little kisses and well-stroked hair. And I’d never met a girl like her, either.

We talked of love. We talked of holidays and birthdays, of meeting each other’s parents, and of finding her a job where she wouldn’t be constantly violated. For her birthday I made a chain-reaction machine—a contraption that was set off by her opening my bedroom door, passing movement through, among others, a toy fire truck, an electric fan and sails, a rollerblade, golf balls, and beer bottles filled with different amounts of water to play “happy birthday” as a metal ball ran down a chute—that ended with a catch releasing a bucket of bricks, thus raising a sheet that revealed my present to her: a new bicycle. It had taken days to set up, but just her expression as it all came together was worth it.

We posted videos of us riding our bikes on the internet so that she could show her friends how wonderful I was. Soon I was even learning her native tongue, to João’s disgust, igniting his strong feelings about the Brazilian bastardization of the otherwise beautifully spoken Portuguese language. As a Brit in America I understood him well—my own hatred of the use of “aluminum” instead of “aluminium,” not to mention the drop of the romantic “u” from colour and honour still burning within me—but to say “I love you” in a way she’d enjoy seemed fairly important, despite his concern.

During all of this she was still stripping. I tried a few times to get her to make me understand how she could let those guys touch her, but she just got angry at me for asking. Back then I had no idea that she helped things along with cocaine and alcohol. Back then I just thought that Brazilians were weird.

When her mother came to visit New York, Maria invited me out, and I felt like I shouldn’t refuse. However, as her mother was the only councilor in a highly dangerous and corrupt town in Brazil, and one who didn’t speak English, I was afraid; she was going to be a tough, suspicious lady. A second concern was that Maria and her brother still weren’t talking, so I was uncertain whether now was the right time for him to meet the guy gingerly climbing on top of his sister every night. Thankfully, her aunt would also be there, who Maria promised would be fun, if a little eccentric.

The food was wonderful, as was the price, and I was beginning to relax. Afterwards, the four of us strolled towards Christopher St, where Maria’s aunt decided now was the right time to replace her fatigued vibrator. Although I’m no prude, this would mark only my second venture into a sex shop, six years after my last visit at the age of seventeen. Still, despite my concerns, I followed the others inside, not knowing that this would become the most embarrassing moment of my life.

I let my eyes wander over the colorful racks for a little while, before Maria’s aunt waved a wobbly, red monolith in my face, saying “I don’t like these, they hurt when they’re this big.” I implored Maria with my eyes, and she agreed to leave, but before we could get outside a cute little store assistant cornered us with one of her favorite “toys for couples,” a translucent rubber ring in which, on one side, a small vibrating silver bead was embedded. The Dolphin Diver, she told us, would improve sex, for it stimulates both the man and the woman, gently increasing the sensation because—using her fingers to eagerly demonstrate this part, sliding them in and out of the ring with a disconcerting roughness—it vibrates as you fuck each other. Of course, by now Maria’s mother had found us, and was staring at me with a highly inquisitive eyebrow and an all-too knowing smile. Maria might have found this funny, but I didn’t; my exit was quick, silent, and shaky.

—

This experience taught me that Brazilian sexuality was quite unlike that of the British. It helped me see how a girl with a wide smile and even larger eyes might be able to come to terms with stripping. However, I was still eager to help her stop, to give her a better view of men, friendships, even of New York itself, and decided after an intense month together to go and watch her perform. She thought I’d see her as some kind of whore and leave her, but I doubted that. I thought I’d only be jealous, sitting there watching the eyes of other men imagining much more than just what was on show. However, Flashdancers was not a place for expectations; there was no more excitement under its fluorescent lights than on the subway, and an even more pervading melancholy.

I’d never been to a gentlemen’s club before. There was a guy at the door wearing white gloves. He looked about seventy, and had a calm smile, like any doorman. I passed him, taking off my jacket, as it was early January and the snow was still piled along the sidewalk. On my way down the stairs I was careful not to use the banister. It was bronze and shiny, and looked clean, but I didn’t know whose hands had touched it.

At the bottom, a pretty but weathered girl dressed all in black sat at a wooden desk, like a steward on an Atlantic cruise. She smiled at me, probably sensing my nerves, and tilted her head towards the door. “Come aboard,” she seemed to be saying. I walked in without saying anything.

The room was dark blue, large, and split into three sections. On my left was a bright, fully stocked wooden bar, like some kind of festive ark, its bottles gleaming in front of fairy lights, the bright mix of colors inviting me to drown my sorrows. The bar made a complete rectangle, manned by two pretty but unshapely bartenders donned in conservative black uniforms, one blonde and absent minded, the other stern, with strong Native-American features. Also on board, fore and aft, two girls, both Hispanic, slowly made love to invisible spirits, gratuitously aiming their glittering thongs and transparent eight-inch heels at the few guys around the bar.

The center section of the room held the stage: a raised platform with two runways jutting out into a sea of empty chairs. There was only one guy in the audience, and yet the two topless dancers on stage still undulated dramatically—less sexy than mechanical—wearily practicing moves, feeding, perhaps, off the desire of the lone man in front.

On the right side of the room was the most exciting part; a wide, dimly lit clutter of couches and tables perfect to take a girl for a secluded dance or two. I looked for Maria, worried she might be back there—I wasn’t quite ready to see that yet—but my straining eyes only found two sequined strippers having a drink together. I decided a seat at the bar would be best, as all the prowling, slack-eyed, and scantily dressed girls were making me nervous. I felt like a nerd in a new school. However, I was determined to get a sense of the place, and thought I could talk to the bartenders.

I counted at least twenty girls ambling around, then ordered a White Russian. $17 plus tip. Almost as soon as I got my drink I felt a hand rub across my shoulders, gently against my neck, and then down, quite precisely, to the small of my back. I turned around, smiling, but it wasn’t Maria. “You want a dance?” the lanky redhead in a tiny red dress asked, forcing a smile. I mumbled something about just needing a drink, and she walked away, swinging her hips at me.

This was not a good place for my sweetheart, my beloved, my soul mate. After a few minutes she appeared out of an unmarked door on the side, wrapped in a blue gown that looked quite elegant compared with the leopard skin and black sheer babydolls hanging off some of the others. She couldn’t be seen with a boyfriend, so after a brief chat (I love you, I love you too, Are you ok, Sure, don’t worry) she left me to work the room.

I didn’t get jealous. I loved watching her move, and, if anything, I was impressed with her technique. She’d sit on a customer’s knee, one arm around his shoulder, every now and again throwing her head back to laugh, giving them a full view of the goods. And these men bought every bit of it. They really thought Maria cared about them; they laughed, they were grateful, they allowed themselves to be fooled. In some ways, I’m sure she did care, for in her view this was a place where men who had nothing in their lives could go to connect with a girl, to get away from their troubles, to feel wanted, desirable, and attractive. She wasn’t deluded, however; she still thought all men were perverts and liars. Apart from me, of course.

One guy, nicknamed “the Buddha” on account of his size and generosity, fed her a hundred dollars for just half an hour of her time. He watched her walk across the room to another customer, still smiling, and then winked at me when he noticed me staring, as if to say, “boy, she’s worth every penny.” As I smiled back I realized something; if I was really in love with her, if she was everything I wanted, then I should be feeling something, surely. But I didn’t. Not a thing.

After about an hour I said goodbye and went to school, surprised at what I was actually trying to forget: not the girls, not the atmosphere, and not the perverts and narcissists—but that I might not actually love Maria.

—

A few weeks later, again in Central Park, I finally got her to tell me everything, in full detail. She started with what it was like at the beginning. “The hardest thing was taking my clothes off. Then it was the guys’ hands. Then you manage to deal with that and then it’s guys sucking your breasts, then spanking your butt. Then you start crying, but some guy’s trying to finger you. They’d say feel my dick, or I want to cum in your mouth. I mean that’s ok if you hear that from somebody you like, but I’d hear that about a hundred times a day!”

She talked of seeing girls do things in the Champagne room that made her cry, about the first time a guy came on her, and the lack of any protection once you’re in there. I had imagined the champagne room was a private place, but despite the cost—$400 an hour—you could share it with up to three other couples. However, if you could afford real privacy, $1,400 would get you an hour in the Blue Room, a place with no security cameras. And don’t think the girl gets all of that money, as $1,000 was going straight to the club. I looked on the website to find out what the customer was getting. Two black leather couches, a red curtain around them, a small round table to one side: a padded space ten feet long and ten feet wide. I just couldn’t see why anyone would pay that much to spend an hour in a room with a girl unless they were sure of more than just a dance.

Of course, many of them were. The girls—as Maria called them, although some had already had children, and others were well into their forties—had to pay $200 for the privilege of working, plus tipping the staff. Once you add costs, such as the commute, the costumes, and the essential two drinks (at least) to relax, to come home with $100 after a seven-hour shift they’d have to spend three whole hours in the champagne room, or give twenty one-song dances in the front. And with thirty girls working the day shift the odds were bad for a girl not willing to give a little extra. Maria sometimes came home after a shift with less than $50 in her bag.

But she never cried about it. She’d put the money under the bed, then take a shower to wash off the day. “You never know where their hands have been,” she told me one night after pulling away from me, “they probably just got off the subway.”

It was no wonder these dancers were all addicted to coke, and, most of the time, drunk. Before meeting me Maria had been knocking back twenty-five drinks a day. When she started working she’d try to stay sober, to keep her wits about her, but she couldn’t stop the tears. One of the other girls, a friend, brought her into the bathroom, and put a nail full of cocaine under her nose. That day Maria came home with twenty-five hundred dollars, but told me “I don’t exactly remember what happened,” laughing a little afterwards.

“So I started to buy this stuff so I could work and make money, more than $300—an average of $500, $600 a day for a while. But although I got crazy with one fingernail on the first day, it soon became one bag a week, then two bags a week, then every day…there was one point that I was never sober. I’d leave my house at seven in the morning and there was already the cocaine there.”

By the time we’d started dating she was a mess: few friends, a terrible outlook, and memories of a tough life. When she was five her father had died, a rich man, but all his money went to his siblings, with none going to his wife or kids. From then on life had been hard, and coming to New York had only made it worse. Once Maria’s visa ran out she found herself settling for service jobs paying $40 for a twelve-hour shift, limping home on bruised feet. A friend of hers who had a beautiful apartment and nice clothes told her she made her money by stripping, and offered to get Maria an interview. She refused at first, but later accepted, too weary and too poor not to give in. Two years later she was convinced that she couldn’t depend on anybody but herself.

From what she said, this seemed to be the story of all the girls who worked there. Some were married, others had children, and all of them, without exception, were addicts of some kind. She told me if a girl had been stripping for more than a few months, and she told you she was clean, she was lying. And yet there were girls working there, women really, who had stayed in the business for over a decade, sometimes two, addicted also to the money, their fancy apartments, and, perhaps, the attention. The mafia who ran the strip clubs in New York took liberties that probably aren’t exclusive to the adult industry, but are distressing nonetheless. Maria told me of the ultimatums they faced; sleep with the boss, or get bad shifts; allow yourself to be used, or quit; let guys touch you all over, or make nothing. And all this was happening in the center of America’s most sophisticated city.

I asked her to stop stripping. I’ve got to admit I have a superhero complex, and like to help change the lives of friends and girlfriends alike, but in this case I felt an extra sense of duty. I kept telling her that anything, including leaving me and going back to Brazil, would be better than working there. She’d stopped taking drugs already, and I was sure she could keep changing for the better. After two months of dating she quit the club, and we tried to enroll her in a school for dental assistants, something she had always wanted to do. After a couple of hours pleading with the plump, friendly director, he agreed to let her in, despite concerns about her legal status. The school boasted a 95% placement success after graduation, but without citizenship she’d be refused everywhere. So she decided to get married.

Marrying me was out of the question, not because my family would never understand, but because I was already getting a little bored of her cynicism; at one point she even tried to make me believe that João, my best friend, only liked me because I had lent him money. “Of course he’s going to be nice to you,” she said, “because it’s best for him to be that way.” It was that moment I decided I had no obligation to her, and once she was sorted out, I was going to leave.

Luckily for both of us her half-brother, a middle-aged florist, was able to help. His friends were mostly gay, and despite New York’s liberal façade, many were looking for a “cover” to divert their neighbors’ suspicions. Immigrants usually pay tens of thousands for this service, but one man, Clive, as a favor to her brother, offered to marry Maria for free.

So, during the last couple of weeks of our relationship I quizzed her both for the dental tests she’d be given in class, and the exam for the Immigration & Naturalization Service. She’d meet her new husband every so often to synchronize their answers, taking fake photos of a wedding, of them smiling together, anything that would convince the US government. I, however, was beginning to worry about when to make my next move. One evening, while I was lying at home, wondering what I should say, she called and asked me what my problem was. I told her I didn’t love her anymore, said “I’m sorry,” and hung up.

Maria took it well. We promised to stay friends, to keep in touch, and I told her if she was ever in trouble to give me a call. I wish I could say I was merely being a good guy, but as her superhero I was keen that she wouldn’t revert to her old ways. Actually, in a surprisingly short amount of time she had changed from a love to a project of mine to something that made me feel horribly selfish and insensitive. I began to think of myself as a jerk. However, after a few more months, when she graduated as valedictorian and began working for a good dentist on Park Avenue, I stopped feeling so bad.

—

Just before we said goodbye, the last time we met, she looked me straight in the eye, and I saw a little of the cute, seductive girl I had known back then. “I can still be gentle if you get to know me,” she said, “but now I won’t speak to you on the train and I won’t open myself until I feel comfortable. I can say I’m like a true New Yorker.”

In the end, I hope she remembers me not as a guy with an ego and a desire to “save” her, but for what I wrote on the inside cover of the diary I bought her just after she’d quit; an epitaph for the girl I hoped she’d leave behind.

“Here lies Maria Adrianna de Ferreira e Santos,
Depressed, lonely, scared,
The result of many wrongs,
But the origin of NY’s newest success…”