Live And Learn. Niobia Bryant

make my money. It was my job to turn these cats on. That’s why I was the best at Club XXXcite.

      Squattin’, I knew they didn’t have to imagine a damn thang as all my business pushed forward like a fist. Bam!

      Them fellas went wild, and the paper money fell down around me like rain.

      That’s what the hell I’m talkin’ about. Makin’ that loot. Dollar dollar bills, y’all.

      I finished my set, grabbed my cash, and hauled ass off stage.

      Sweat was pourin’ off me as I walked that walk in my stilettos and counted my cash. One hundred and ten, thirty, fifty, seventy-five, two hundred dollars. That was cool. We made the real money durin’ the club’s showdown. That was when all of the dancers either mingled with the crowd givin’ lap dances or took customers into one of the special rooms for some freak-a-deak private dances and who knows what the hell else.

      I danced. I gave hellified lap dances. I might even let a dude suck a tittie or two, but no fuckin’, no suckin’, and no dykin’. Period.

      I went downstairs to the dressing room. Man, it smelt like old fish and feet up in this piece. Damn.

      I grabbed my Coach leather sac from my locker just as my cell phone rang. Flippin’ it open, I answered it. “What?”

      “Kimani wants to talk to you, if you ain’t too busy shakin’ that little ass of yours.”

      Oh, Lord, here we go. I hated to hear the sound of Diane’s—she’s my mother—voice when she was in her “I’m a bitch” mode. She was trippin’ again ’cause I stuck her with baby-sittin’ my four-year-old daughter, Kimani. Okay, it was foul for me to lie and tell her I was going to the store when I knew I was really headed to Lex’s for me a good dickin’ down before I went to work.

      Ain’t like I never did it before. Dang, she should be used to it.

      “Diane, you wasn’t complainin’ about me strippin’ last week when I bought that big screen TV for your bedroom,” I snapped back.

      “You want that sorry m’fer back, because you can have that sorry m’fer back,” she yelled at me through the phone line.

      See where I get my nasty mouth? Diane’s a straight wacko. Either she boostin’ me up to do this shit—talkin’ ’bout make that money—or she wreckin’ my nerves tellin’ me I’m wrong. Her praise or criticism depended on her moods, which depended on whether she was f’ed up or not.

      Ready to get off the phone, I promised to bring her some goodies so she would calm her ass down: a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice—which she drinks like water—and a couple of Philly blunts. You know she wanted a little sum’n sum’n to go in the blunts.

      To get ready for the showdown I wiped the sweat from my body with a towel and did a couple of spritzes of my favorite perfume, Beautiful by Estee Lauder. I threw on a two-piece sheer bathing suit and headed upstairs before all the free-givin’ customers were taken.

      Funny-colored lights flashed around me as I danced around in the dark until I chose my first mark. I didn’t feel nervous. Ain’t had no shame. I just wanna make my money. These men don’t mean shit to me. Most of the time I’m thinkin’ ’bout anything but the m’fers while I’m grindin’ on ’em.

      I saw a big buff brotha still in his work uniform with a wad of money in his hand tryin’ to catch my eye. I saw the glint of his wedding ring on that left hand, too, but that ain’t my damn problem, ya heard me? I headed straight in his direction.

      He was a new face in the crowd. Another lost soul lookin’ for a damn fantasy. As I gave him a lap dance—grinding against his hardness—I had to hold my breath to keep from swallowin’ down the stank of his breath and his crotch.

      Damn.

      What people do for money.

      Girl Talk

      Dom, Cristal, Alizé, and Moët walked up Fifth Avenue together. Their shopping bags were swinging from their hands, their hair blowing freely in the slight winds. The energetic sounds of New York were their background music: the blaring horns, squeal of tires on pavement, and the music pumping from passing vehicles that whizzed past.

      “What’s better than shopping on a nice Saturday afternoon with your friends?” Cristal asked, using a hand to shift her Morgenthal Frederics shades up farther on her pretty round face.

      Dom just shrugged and lit another Newport cigarette.

      “Lunch at Justin’s after shopping on a nice Saturday afternoon with your friends,” Moët chimed in, sweetly smiling at a sexy police officer on horseback who winked at her.

      “Aw, hell no. I know what’s better.” Three sets of eyes turned on Alizé. “Having great sex all night long, after shopping with your friends and having lunch at Justin’s on a nice Saturday afternoon,” Alizé answered, lightly knocking her shoulder against Moët’s as they came to a stop on the corner.

      “Now that sounds like a f’ing plan,” Dom drawled.

      The four friends all burst out with laughter.

      5

      Alizé

      I never been in love before, but I’m not sad about it because I wanted it that way. To me, love is a weakness. Love, or at least thinking you’re in love, will fool you into doing some dumb shit. Like letting a man beat up on you. Or cheat on you. Or not support you. Or wait for him to come back to you after he leaves you.

      Love shouldn’t be a reason to settle for less. I learned that lesson a long time ago when I was fifteen and I let my boyfriend, Marquee, convince me that my first time making love should be in this dingy little sewing room in his best friend’s house. See love—or thinking I was in love—had me carry my hot ass right up in that room that was no bigger than a walk-in closet and give up my innocence like it was nothing. Later on I found out all of the neighborhood boys used that same little room, with that same little twin bed, as their same little ho central.

      Nice memory, right?

      That was many years and numerous male “friends” ago, and my love life isn’t faring any better now. Everlasting love just isn’t in the cards for me. I’m fine with that because I will never fool myself into believing I am in love again.

      I’m sick and tired of taking chances with my heart, colliding with liars, cheaters, and beaters until my fairy-tale prince finally comes into my life and proclaims himself “the one.”

      Hell, as much as I loved my daddy, my mama’s love didn’t keep his black ass home working on the “happily ever after” and “until death do us part.” But that same love had her putting her own life on pause while she waited for him to “realize” that he wanted his family back. How many times did I listen to my mother speak of my father as if they were still married? As if he were gone for the day to work and not gone for good living in his own apartment across town. She called on him to do any repairs around the house. She fixed his favorite meals just hoping he would stop by to see me on his way home from work.

      All the while I watched as Daddy blocked her advances, missed the dinners, called repairmen instead of coming himself, and did everything short of hurting her more to let her know it was over.

      Love? Oh, love is a stupid fat nothing.

      I don’t need or want to be in love with someone. No, not when I’m in love with something.

      All the love I had in me—that love I refused to share—I poured into my dancing. As much as I loved my mom and dad, and as tight as I was with my girls, none of them really understood the thang I had for dancing.

      They didn’t know that when I danced I was in a world all alone. I would put on an R & B or jazz CD and turn up the volume so loud that the music seemed to press and beat upon my body. I would close my eyes and take my position in front of the