Barbie's dolls

They are not strippers. That's the first thing to know.

Vanessa Hondromihalis, 20, frequently explains this, most recently to a friend's father, who like many people assumed that ''professional dancing" meant ''nude dancing."

''I was like, 'That is not what we do. We dance,' " Hondromihalis said, as makeup artist Bre Welch spread thick shadow on her eyelids on a recent Saturday night. ''It's much classier."

This is what the ladies of Lansdowne will tell you about their weekend job, which essentially involves gyrating feverishly while perched on platforms and wearing tiny, shimmering costumes. To those who crowd the dance floor each weekend, they are stars or, at the very least, heavenly bodies.

Yes, they are scantily clad, but the clothes they have on stay on. Go-go dancing is about sexy, they say, not sex.

It is also about setting the mood for a trio of Lansdowne Street clubs -- Avalon, Axis, and ID -- and making the throngs below feel as though they've been transported somewhere else, somewhere exotic, a place where hot pants reign supreme.

From midnight to 2 a.m. on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, 10 to 15 dancers are directed on and off stages at all the clubs by Barbie Gilman, dance coordinator and the woman who oversees every detail of the evening, from headdresses to thongs. Gilman, whose striking pale complexion and long black hair make her easy to spot among her dancers, was once a go-go girl herself. She's danced at the Palace in Saugus, as well as at Avalon and the now-defunct Karma Club.

But for Gilman, 27, there comes a time when you just have to stop dancing on platforms and in cages.

''It was the best time of my life," she said. ''But, well, you just change. It's just not for me anymore."

Gilman now serves as something of a den mother to her dance team, which is made up of about 20 girls. She decides who dances when, how often they dance, and how much money they will receive for the night. The girls aren't allowed to disclose their pay, not even to each other. Gilman says they make what they would spend if they were out clubbing by choice for a night -- about the total of what it costs to park, pay a cover charge, and buy a few cocktails.

It's a good deal for 23-year-old Susan Fitzgerald, who was ''discovered" by one of Gilman's friends on the dance floor of the Palace more than two years ago.

''If I wasn't dancing here, I'd still be out dancing," she said, pleased that she now essentially gets paid to go clubbing.

The dancers at the Landsdowne Street clubs may look simply like eye candy, but they are part of a highly technical operation, one that involves the precision of a stopwatch, management expertise, and a team of professionals who monitor everything from mascara to security.

Gilman's dancers arrive just after 10 p.m. on dance nights, looking sleepy and wearing sweat pants and old T-shirts. On a recent Saturday, one of the smallest dancers in the crew had on a top emblazoned with the words, ''I love carbs." A few wore rather frumpy knee-high striped socks hidden under their tall, black boots.

The dancers have a variety of backgrounds and day jobs. Fitzgerald, of Roslindale, studies criminal psychology at the University of Massachusetts at Boston. Hondromihalis, originally from Mansfield, is preparing to move to Los Angeles to start a career as a makeup artist. Melisa Valdez, 19, works in the restaurant of the Marriott Hotel in Milford. Natasha Winslow is a 24-year-old model in Boston. There is one male dancer on the team, Ricardo Delgado, a 24-year-old from Somerville, who dances on Fridays and also lends a hand as a makeup artist.

The dancers are friends, so when they arrive they catch up as Gilman hurries them to get their eyes and lips painted and find an appropriate costume.

''A lot of them I make," Gilman said of the dancers' wardrobe.

She sifted through a pile of beaded bras and petite silver shorts before Avalon's recent Brazilian anniversary party.

''Some of this stuff is rented because tonight is special, but I just find things and put costumes together."

Everything Gilman has in her costume pile seems to fit all of the girls. They are all a size 0 or, at most, a 2. Costumes change based on the night's theme and the crowd. On that night, next door at Axis, for example, the dancers donned denim micro miniskirts and ripped tops for the hip-hop crowd.

Regardless of what they wear, the last step is always the same. The girls line up as Gilman takes out her jar of body glitter -- the fairy dust of professional dancers -- which she sprinkles on them liberally, like she's flouring kitchen pans.

''You can never use enough" is Gilman's rule.

When midnight hits, she begins her mad dash. She grabs a few of the dancers and rushes them through an almost pitch-black labyrinth backstage that leads to Avalon. She points each girl to a dance space and begins screaming for them to move.

She then quickly returns to the upstairs dressing room, yells for a second group of dancers, and rushes that team down another backstage hallway that leads to Axis, where she places each woman on a pole or caged platform so they can begin their 20-minute set.

If she has a moment of downtime, Gilman nervously eyes the clock, making sure she doesn't leave anyone on for too long. The restless crowd wants to see new faces, and the dancers, who are not allowed to drink water onstage, need rest. Gilman also tends to the dancers who have come back to regroup between their sets, re-pinning their costumes and giving them tickets for free drinks, which, for the most part, are nonalcoholic.

Despite their sex appeal and the welcoming looks they shoot the crowd, the dancers generally receive a chilly reception when they first take the stage, whether it's at Avalon or Axis or ID. There is eye-rolling, usually from women in the crowd. A few of the young men on the floor are bound to point. Then, inevitably, someone accuses the female dancers of being men.

''They all say that," Fitzgerald said. ''They'll go, 'That's a dude.' "

The dancers try not to take it personally. Delgado, who sometimes performs in a blond shag wig, says he gets mocked the most, especially when the crowd is feisty. Sometimes the taunts turn dangerous.

''Someone once threw a beer at me," he said, grimacing.

They are instructed by Gilman to be lively, dramatic, and showcase their own style. Looking bored is a no-no. Onstage, Fitzgerald spreads her arms wide. Hondromihalis is more contained with a sultry shake. A limber Kamaka Clark, 28, uses some of the moves she learned from studying ballet and modern dance.

The end of the evening is a letdown for the dancers, the time of the night when they come off stage and gather near the entrance of the club to pass out fliers to the crowd, a job requirement. They come face-to-face with some of the men who ogled them from the edge of their dance platforms. They're still in costume, but they seem smaller now that the lights are on.

They look their age, like young girls in dress-up clothes.

At about 2:30 a.m., the dancers make their way back to the dressing room and remove the sequined tops, the hair extensions, and hot pants. Twenty minutes before, they were covered with sweat, but now they look uncomfortably cold. Once they have found their sweat pants and T-shirts, the women bundle up and go straight home to sleep off the night.

''It's just total exhaustion," Fitzgerald said.

Meredith Goldstein can be reached at mgoldstein@globe.com.