Never trust anyone over 30.

I heard that a lot when I was growing up. It was kind of funny then; now it stings a little.

The first woman I ever saw naked onstage, as I walked into the smoky darkness of my first strip bar, was 34 years old. She was statuesque and beautiful - built better than I was. She was Latin, and her hair was black and thick, abundantly wavy. Her eyes shone like obsidian. I didn't want to stare openly, but I couldn't stop myself, either. I had never seen a woman move like that, and here she was, ten feet away.

Later I saw her in the dressing room, and realized what good friends the red and black lights are to a stripper. She was still a lovely woman, with skin like milky coffee, but she looked her age - and maybe a bit more. Her body was still exquisite under the fluorescent lights, but her face was lined. She was friendly; she introduced herself as Whisky, and we chatted for a bit. I asked her how long she had been in the business, and when she told me fourteen years I'm ashamed to remember that I felt a pang of pity.

Fourteen years, I thought. How could she have done this so long? What happened to her life?

"If I'm still dancing when I hit 30," I thought to myself, "I hope someone is kind enough to put me out of my misery." I was all of 19, with all of the naivete and bravado that comes with it, and 30 seemed an eternity away. I thought a decade in a strip club was a tragedy - a waste.

Now, this summer marks fourteen years since the first time I cast off an entire set of beliefs and prejudices along with my clothes. Many things in my life haven't gone as I expected them to in my callow youth. I'm not rich or famous, and somewhere along the way the idea of amassing material possessions kind of lost its lustre. Instead I've come to value peace and quiet, solitude, and the company of good friends and family. I think of buying clothes as a seasonal chore instead of a weekly outing; I'd much rather spend the money on books. You're likely to find me out on a nice summer night, it's true, but I'll be watering my garden, not tripping the light fantastic.

In other words, I've matured. And I'm not alone.

I was sitting around with a few of my friends the other day when something happened: I looked around and realized that we were a gathering of women in our thirties. No one was watching Oprah or comparing notes on wrinkle creams, but there we were - thirtysomething, every one of us. More important to me is the fact that I was at work, and all of the women in that gathering were strippers.

Even in my time, I have seen a great deal of change in the industry itself and the women who do it. I started out at the end of the 80's in a rough, seedy little joint where many of the women were much nearer to the stereotype. There were a few tired and faded biker mamas in the group, and they made 30 and up look pretty bad. Not that they weren't perfectly nice ladies, but the years and the manner in which they had chosen to spend them had not been kind. I shuddered to think that this was what was in store for me.

I have met hundreds, maybe thousands, of dancers now. I have also made the trip from 19 to 30 and beyond, and I see that the way looks almost too long to imagine from the one end, and almost too short to believe from the other. I have had friends and mentors who've helped to guide me on my journey, women in and out of the industry who have shown me how beautiful women can be as they mature, and how gracefully they can age.

Among them was one amazing lady who retired at 45; up until the very day that she left, she made more money on a bad day than I ever dared to dream of making on my best shift. She put her kids through college and maintained a gleaming, tennis-wife existence. Some of the sexiest dancers I've ever seen are the older girls. There was Irene, who moved like molasses, and had the most mouthwatering way of looking down at the part she was uncovering ever… so… slowly. She knew hundreds of jokes and had a laugh like a creaky door. There was Jamie, with hair like midnight and breasts like Baked Alaska, who named her youngest daughter Alysabeth. Regal Devon, who quit at 36 and who could still make a killing today if she wanted to. Iesha, who carries herself like a queen; Unique, who can make anybody feel better in just a few minutes; Sapphire, who had a music degree and skin like mahogany.

I am surrounded by vibrant women of all ages at work. One girl is 37; she owns a real estate agency and just started dancing a couple of years ago. She loves it, and wants to do it as long as she can. Two others are fitness models and competitors who, at 30 and 35 respectively, seem to be getting more beautiful instead of less. One girl who moved away just recently was so baby-faced and gorgeous at 35 that she occasionally worked without any makeup at all: I'm green with envy. Another, a military wife and psychology student, started at 29 and turned into Super Stripper in a matter of weeks. I recently got a letter from a woman who started out bartending at a strip club and then began dancing at 37; at 40, her only regret is that she didn't start at the same time her friend did, when they were 18.

These are not the poor, tired victims of circumstance I once imagined, but women who like what they do and know that the adage about women being like good wine isn't so far from the truth. They, like me, have come to the place that looked like the end of the road from where they started out, and found instead that they're just hitting their stride.

For Private Dancer Monthly
July 2002