That next summer, I found out about a club in a small town about an hour away. The club was called Charlie’s (now it’s a Baby Dolls, part of the chain I worked for in Dallas). Thursday through Saturday nights they featured “Charlie’s Angels.” I didn’t like the drive, but since it was a bikini bar, I persuaded the boyfriend to let me check it out. If we both liked the place, I could try it.
It was a private-membership club to skirt the local liquor laws. Although I wasn’t yet 21, they let me in when I explained I wanted to work there. The DJ and a manager took turns explaining things to me. There wasn’t much to know. It was a bikini bar, but I could just wear lingerie, as long as it wasn’t sheer. There wasn’t much to see. Seemed harmless enough for a naive college kid and podunk enough for my total lack of dancing skills.