Intro

I found out I was pregnant, and immediately regretted it (at least, I did, at the time). It’s funny because my actions leading up to this moment suggested otherwise. There should have been no surprise. No shock. But, here I was, like a dumbass, constantly flip-flopping between “abort mission” and “all systems go”.

I think deep down I wanted to have a baby to go against the good girl norm I felt boxed into since elementary school. Like, I knew how it looked: I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even really dating the guy. “Dating” implies getting to know someone, meeting each other's families, being out in the world with each other to see how they function in life. We were just sleeping together. And, deep down I knew that, but I chose to ignore it. As time went by, I realized that guy, the sperm donor, and I were not really on the same page. We weren't even in the same book. So, I decided I would just do it without him. I mean, it is the 21st century. Women are capable. Women can choose to make decisions about their lives and their bodies all on their own. It's been done before. I used to babysit all the time. Kids love me. How hard could it be alone? Oh, how I wish I had known what I was getting into…

I know they say you can never be READY to have a baby. But, I think you can be pretty damn PREPARED for one. Once you get past the initial shock (which, for me, meant taking 3 tests because, no it’s not expired, no it’s not an error, you are actually pregnant, dumbass) there’s so much more personal exploration and growth that happens that’s sometimes briefly talked about, but needs to be expanded on. Parenting ain’t got nothing to do with registry items, baby names to contemplate, cleaning bottles and changing diapers. That's light housekeeping compared to the mental labor of dealing with the sudden triggers you never knew you had and the bright-ass reflection of yourself, flaws and all, that having children becomes. The negative, condescending comments from some people, the planning and life adjustments you should and need to be thinking about, the calculating that never quite adds up, and the resources nobody talks about you needing, can all feel like a brick being thrown at you, but from the back so you can’t see it coming. It would have been nice to have some guidance beyond Barnes & Noble’s offerings, which were mostly from the perspective of wealthy white women. Anything that could help me figure out a budget, what I really needed to register for for the baby shower, best ways to find a babysitter/daycare, what kind of assistance I could get when things got really rough, how to keep following your passion even with a kid, was what I was looking for.

There are so many questions I wish I had known to ask myself: do you like where you live? Is it convenient, with room to grow with a child? What does “maternity leave” look like for you at your job? ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS ALONE?

I was looking for a book to help me navigate all of that. And, at the time, it didn’t exist, not written from the place I was in. We didn't have the same problems. We weren’t addressing the same triggers. Everything out there was written from a 2 income household, or for a single mother, boss-ass entrepreneur, divorced and working to coparent. There was nothing from the perspective of “soon to be mom who was also a young artist who lost her way and felt alone in the world, making just enough bad decisions to be toeing the line of purposeful failure”. That was the kind of book I needed, but it didn’t exist. So, I originally set out to write a book that was a guide for single mothers living in New York City on an income far less than what statistics suggested. But, since I found myself gravitating towards books like, Eat, Pray, Love and Operating Instructions, books that were an authentic testimony of self-struggle, venturing into dark corners of yourself with a tiny-ass book light instead of a set of fog lights, seeking stories of fighting to heal trauma, stories that showed me the tools and skills needed to deal with stress, or reminded me that I had the tools and skills and maybe just needed a curriculum refresher, what emerged was something different. I couldn’t just give suggestions, advice, or resources without explaining who we are, how we got here, why we needed them and whether they actually helped or not. Maybe it was all the self-help reading I was doing at the time, but I felt it was important to know our story, for context. Who knew that it would take me 15 years to finish?

In the beginning of the plan to write this book, I was simply exhausted from trying to survive day to day, week to week; all I had the energy to focus on was feeding my kid and finding ways of letting him rest from our crazy lives, and always, always trying to make more money. When I found the energy and began writing, revisiting our beginnings was triggering. I was basically reliving the trauma and stress all over again and it made me want a glass of something much stronger than wine. But, in the later years of completing the book, the biggest obstacle was good old imposter syndrome. Motivated to help others, I would gather myself and start to write a section, only to complete it and then think, No one cares about your story and what you have to say. Besides, who are you? You’re not famous. You’re not rich. So, why would anyone want to listen to you? It took me years to fight off that voice, 15 to be exact, and remind myself that even if I only wrote it for 24 year old me who found herself pregnant in the midst of trying to crawl out of the darkness she so desperately wanted to be swallowed by, who was searching for a light at the end of a long dark tunnel, it was well worth it so, keep writing. I had to make it.

So, maybe your situation is the same as mine, a single mother trying her hardest to keep her head above water, or maybe you’re a person feeling like the walls are closing in and this story of the demented rollercoaster I voluntarily got on can be entertaining, cathartic and inspirational. If you take away nothing else from this book, if you don't read past this intro, know this, the biggest lesson of all time: stress can make you a bad person, a bad mother, a bad friend, a bad wife, a bad daughter, a bad boss, a bad employee, a bad human. I also hope my story can shed some light and give some humor to the dark journey that is self growth. Because, unbeknownst to me, I was both the villain and victim in my own story. 

So here's how we got there…

Part of Chapter #1

Ever hear an album or a song again and realize it was the soundtrack to a particular time in your life? During my descent into, and my temporary residence in, the darkness, Res’ “How I Do” and Christina Milian’s “It’s About Time” were constantly blaring in my headphones trying to help drown out the noise of the voices that were consistently LOUD in my head. Those two songs, at the time, felt like a musical representation of who I wanted to be again, who I was trying to get back to. Res' album was the eclectic, down-to-earth, mysterious, funky, cool, chill, intellectual, confident part of me. Milian's album was the grown and sensual, casual-sexy dressing, over the break up and onto the next, don't care what people think, confident in my appearance, part of me. But, most of my actions at that time were rebellious and uncentered; I thought that the music would help, but I just couldn't find my way. The descent into the darkness won.

Voice #1: “What are you doing with your life?!”

I had just graduated, in debt, from a Performing Arts program at a university that killed my desire to continue to dance. It wasn’t a supportive program. There was no guidance. No clear communication. The academic department did not communicate with the performing arts department and vice versa. Midterms the same day and time as a performance; you had to decide who you were okay with pissing off more. If you were anything above a size 4 you were sent to “fatback clinic” where you were given nutritional advice from a retired ballerina that STILL had an eating disorder herself. Everyone was put on the Atkins diet.

I was pretty sure I was never going to use the degree I just spent the last 4 years struggling to get, all while multiple personal and intimate relationships ended in strife.

A dear friend from childhood was killed (still processing, to this day).

A job I loved to my core, no longer wanted me to be a part of their team…

Voice #2: “Clearly you don’t have much to offer anyone. You should just disappear.”

It felt like the very ground beneath my feet was slowly crumbling. And eventually, it disappeared. I felt hollow inside, just a shell walking and talking, nothing of substance behind any of it. A wave, a smile, small talk, laughter, all empty…

Voice#3: “You’re already at the lowest of the low, let's try doing something fun, crazy and WILD.” I would listen to Res and travel aimlessly through the city searching for that thing to do. I went to the pier at Christopher Street a lot, to sit in the sun and people-watch, hoping someone would talk to me, but also hoping they wouldn’t. Smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Oh, how I loved a good Parliament or Marlboro Light. Mmmmmmmmm…

Then came the moment I needed to make quick money to get a car, to get to a possible job that was a 40 minute drive away. How can I make quick money? Voice#3: “Let's do something fun, crazy and WILD to make money!” 

I thought.

Lightbulb

Stripping! Duh! It would just be temporary, ‘til I made enough to buy a car and then I’d move on.

I was already in a dark place; why not?! It was wild, crazy and sounds fun. And the thrill of hiding it from everyone, added to the excitement.

But, here’s the kicker: I could barely get myself to go in and audition! I mean, literally, I would spend about 45 minutes pacing the block outside, smoking cigarettes and listening to–well, that’s where Christina Milian’s album comes in, somehow, listening to that album got me feeling a certain way. Like, sexy, sensual and confident. Or, maybe, fierce, feisty and mysterious. Whichever it was, it eventually worked and I would walk through the doors and ask if they were hiring. The many clubs I went to (well, actually, it was only 4, but it felt like 100!) had the same M.O.

“What’s your name?”

“Are you 18 and over?”

“Take your clothes off. Except for your G-string. Stand over there. Let me look at you.”

Some places wanted to take a picture of you so they could show it to the club’s owner to make sure you fit the look of the women he wanted in his club. And if you didn’t fit the look, they would ask if you were willing to get work done, which usually meant breast implants and/or hair extensions. 

Hair extensions? Yes! 

Breast implants? Uhhhh…I wish, but I’m too scared to go under the knife for vanity!

The first two clubs I went to were more upscale. The decor was velvety and minimal. There were no fluorescent beer lights, or GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS hanging on the walls. The walls were either mirrored or a deep burgundy velvet. There were multiple little stages throughout, like a mirrored platform stage with a gold-colored pole. The dressing rooms looked like backstage at a Vegas show. Wide, open room, multiple-light mirrored dressing tables with stools and, of course, velvet carpet.

I don't know what was up with the velvet everywhere. Surfaces like that hold on to smells, so even though I was walking past the cleaning crew vacuuming and wiping down poles and tables, it still smelled of stale cigar smoke, liquor, sweaty skin and berry-scented body spray. You could tell these weren't places where the clientele “make it rain”. These were the type of places you would probably be asked to do coke in the bathroom or give a blowjob in the champagne room. I didn't fit their look. I didn't have the long, straight hair and big, fake-boob look they wanted.

I wish I could say I was unfazed by it all. They looked at you as if you were gross. Here I am, all dolled up and topless in front of the manager, and the look on his face is almost that of disgust. But, they took a photo nonetheless, to show to the owner. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t a blow to my already injured ego. And, you know, they never give you that picture back. So, unfortunately, there are a few photos of me topless in a G-string somewhere out there in the world. If they surface when I’m famous, just remember you heard it here first; let's not make it a scandal. Also pass them along to me, I wanna see! I was hella SKINNY, they could be great motivation to get back to doing my morning workouts. 

So, after those two ego-bruising experiences, I decided I needed to adjust my expectations. I lowered them a notch and I auditioned at the third club, Islands, a seedy looking place in midtown. It was less upscale and in my mind, that meant it felt less safe. I felt like being at a more upscale club would somehow make this quarter-life-crisis a little easier, make me feel safer. But, it didn't really make sense since I was already planning to do things that were way outside my character, right? Clearly, I listened to Voice #3 rather than the work required to tackle Voice #1 and Voice #2. 

I actually circled the block for two days trying to muster up the courage to go in to Islands and audition. Third time's a charm, I guess, after buying an outfit from the lingerie/sex store nearby, then sitting in a park down the street from the club listening to Christina Milian’s “Dip it Low” on repeat while I smoked almost a whole pack of cigarettes hoping all the previous would get me hyped up and feeling sexy enough to walk through the door.

I made it past the, “what do you look like in a G-string?” part. Now, it was time for dancing. The manager, a woman this time, asked what kind of music I wanted to dance to. I said, R&B. She said I only had to dance/strip for one song. It was a weekday afternoon and there were all of five people in there, including her. I performed my best “video vixen dancing on a pole” routine. Well, not so much “on” a pole. No tricks; I didn’t even know how to attempt one (that eventually changed). I gazed at the floor, afraid to make eye contact with any of the four gentlemen in there. Occasionally, I made eye contact with the woman I was auditioning for. But, mostly, I held on to that pole for dear life, afraid that if I let go, the reality of what I was doing would sink in.

Finally! The song ended. As we made our way back down some very steep steps to the offices and changing room, which had that now-familiar smell of smoke, berry-scented body spray, liquor and sweaty skin, she said, “You’re hired!” Placing a huge, white binder on the table and flipping through the pages she said, “What do you want your stage name to be?”, then slid the book over so I could flip through. There had to be over 100 pages in there with names like Star, Candy and Dream. But, I already knew the name I wanted. Part of my roaming the city aimlessly trying to find something wild, crazy and fun to do, included regularly stopping into Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center to see what was on the Bestsellers table. I would grab three books at a time, and as soon as I was near the end of the third book, I’d grab three more. I had just finished reading this book, Sunday Brunch by Norma L. Jarrett. The main character's name was Lexi; I was easily engulfed in her story as I was trying to run as far from my own as I could. That summer, I got lost in a lot of books. Books about daring women who were taking control of their lives, advancing in their careers or starting new ones, going through the highs and lows of dating, or having these amazingly connected sexual experiences with their significant other, traveling the world, having drinks with their girls, going to shows, dinners out…and I, had become a loner, a hermit. There was no reaching out to the outside world. Something about that character, I liked and wanted to be, so…

“Lexi.”

“Great! Well, Lexi, you start tomorrow. And it’s up to you if you want to go full nude or not. There’s no enforced rule about it.”

Nude? Wait. What?!

So, Islands was the first club I worked at. There was nothing special about it. As I mentioned, it was a very seedy club. And, it was a nude club, which meant there was no hard liquor, only beer; most guys came in already drunk. It was in midtown; the clientele was a mix of businessmen and construction workers on their lunch break or after their shift. The Champagne Room was in the basement. And, it looked like it was hardly ever used. I can't remember specifics but I do recall an underwater theme happening there. It was very dark and desolate, almost a “no one can hear you scream” kind of spot. But, I had nothing to worry about. Club rules were: only FULL nude privates happen in the Champagne Room. And, that was NOT HAPPENING! To me, everyone has breasts. And, yes, they come with different sizes, shapes, colors, and perkiness, but for the most part they look the same. Down there?! That’s different. That’s intimate. It’s not for just anyone. Needless to say, I didn’t really make much money there. But, I did learn a few things.

1. You dance in a set with three other women. Four songs is one set. If you want good music that gets you in the right mood to dance, entertain and make that money, tip the DJ well, or he will play some bullshit-ass emo techno song. (No offense. Just NOT the kind of music I wanted to stripe to.) 

2. Leave the club in a FULL ON disguise. You don’t want customers to be able to spot you walking to the train to go home.

3. Don't trust any of the women you work with. Most of them have an ulterior motive. I was lucky that on my first day two Russian women befriended me. They gave me scented lotion to rub on myself and explained how the men there liked that. They were tall, with long, blonde, straight hair, expensive outfits, new looking shoes, sparkly blinged out jewelry and cute clutches. Beautiful women, but when you really looked at their faces, you could see they were kind of dead inside. There was no sign of hope or light at the end of the tunnel in their eyes. They also taught me to:

4. Keep to yourself. The less you fraternize with the bartenders, shady women and lingering regulars, the more there’s mystery about you. And everyone loves mystery.

5. Get drunk before you get to work. That way you’re already loosened up to look comfortable stripping on stage, and you won't spend as much money buying yourself drinks to stay drunk if it's a slow night with customers. 

6. Wipe down the pole before you dance next to it, on it, hold it, etc. ESPECIALLY in a nude club because some woman’s “juices” are on it from the set before. 

7. Never let the first “no” of your shift dictate your whole night. Every guy wants a lap dance. He just needs to be a bit more drunk to want to part with his money so easily. 

8. Don't EVER, NEVER, EVER, EVER put money in your mouth or touch your hands to your mouth after handling money without cleaning them. I have seen and felt, first hand, the places where men try to stick $1s, $5s, $20s, even $100s. One dancer did this shoulder stance, opened her legs to a second-position straddle, NUDE, and had her customer place a $1 bill on her lips. You know which lips I’m referring to. And she proceeded to make the dollar bounce like a rookie cowboy at his first rodeo.

After about a month, I moved on to a topless club, CityScape, where I became more comfortable than I like to admit being a stripper, and learned a few other things. 

9. Have a backstory. Like a really good, solid one. It can be reality TV-worthy, something involving a crazy baby-daddy or a pimp living off your earnings. Or it can be as simple as providing for your elderly parents and five kids. For some reason, the sadder, the more bizarre the story, the more money they want to give you. I think it's part of the Captain-Save-A-Hoe mentality. You know, the let-me-save-you-from-your-tragic-life-even-if-only-for-a-brief-moment, mentality. Lexi had moved to the city from ATL, had three kids and was sending money back home to support my boyfriend and our three kids. It worked...until it didn’t. 

10. Don't put too much thought into your look, even though the outfits are hella expensive for a little-ass dress that barely covers anything, and a matching G-string. Honestly. It doesn't have to match. It doesn’t need to show your personality. No one gives a shit. All that matters is that your eyeliner is dark, your lips are glossy, your dress is tight enough to show the impressions of your nipples and short enough to show half your ass cheeks. No one cares if it’s one shoulder, or it brings out your eyes, or that you paid $95 for it. NO ONE CARES.

11. You don’t get to just go up on stage, dance, take off your clothes and make a shit-ton of money. Oh, if it were only that simple. You have to be invested. There’s levels to this. At a plain ole, local strip club you want regulars that come in specifically for you. And you have to be willing to become their therapist. Talk to them endlessly about their life, and hear the same story ten times in one night. Or, you could travel to a remote strip club in the middle of nowhere. The guys are a bit more seedy and sketchy, and you stay for the weekend at a motel across from the club in a single room with eight other women you’ve never met. I’ve heard it's a little scary but the money is usually good. If you work at a Gentlemen's Club where the patrons are a little more reserved, you have to know how to talk people out of their money, and they treat you like you are a prostitute. The ones that come in with a shit-ton of money to blow would like to give you a gynecological exam while you check their prostate for cancer. They don't just want to throw money at you for parading around half-naked, or give you $50 for a lap dance. What they really want is this fantasy they’ve created. They want you to have wild, crazy sex with them unlike what their wives and girlfriends are willing to do, if they even have one. The sister duo Fantasy and Angel told me there’s super rowdy clubs where you can make more money in a shift; there’s always a “baller” in there trying to show out and “make it rain”, but you have to be ready to show a guy that if he keeps slapping and grabbing your ass and calling you out your name, you gon’ mop his ass up or find a bigger dude to do it for you.

12. Did you know that you have to pay the club in order to work?! Each club is different. But the majority look like this, every night you work you have to:

Tip the DJ $15 and up–you already know why.

Tip the House Mother $10 and up–the House Mother is the one that watches your stuff; you can’t carry all your money, your regular clothes, your bags with you all night. You don't have pockets. And even though there are lockers in the changing room, they’re usually broken. And the dancers will try to steal your money, your outfits, whatever they can get. 

Weekdays you pay the house (the strip club) $50.

Weekends you pay the house (the strip club) $60.

AND you have to work at least three weekdays in order to work a weekend night. 

So, if you didn't make over $85 in your seven hour shift that you split with eleven other women, on a cold Tuesday night right before Thanksgiving, then you came out your pocket to prance around half-naked all night. 

It was a life I wasn't ready for. But, somehow, I found myself getting really comfortable in it. CityScape was mixed between the reserved and rowdy crowd, and the owners were even a mixed duo. One guy was very much about the business. No fraternizing with the workers. You never knew how he felt about you. Poker face. Seemed nice. Amicable greetings, but straight to business. The other? Well...he wanted to hang around the strippers, smoke with us, drink, talk shit, watch TV, suggest who you should walk over to to try to get a lap dance or Champagne Room sale from. He wanted to be in the action. Our most memorable interaction was in my second week working there. He comes over to a group of us, watching whatever’s on the big screens, laughing and drinking. And, out of nowhere, he says to me, “If I ever got the chance to fuck you, they would have to call the fire department, because your ass would be on fire from how hard and fast I would ride you.” FULL STOP. I mean, what do you say to that? Especially coming from a guy that's about 6’7'' and 290lbs?! I’ll tell you what you say: nothing! Laugh it off, walk away and from then ‘til the end of time, look over your shoulder to make sure he is not within arm’s reach of you. But the club itself was mellow most nights, turned up on the weekends, good chicken wings, and regulars who weren't looking for frills.

The strippers were a mix as well. And, I mean MIXED! All body types, shapes, sizes. All personalities, crazy, sweet, harmless, junkies. I mean, there was a woman backstage pumping breastmilk in between each set, showing everyone pictures of her two month old. Another looked like she just escaped from the Grand Theft Auto Vice City game, walking around like a zombie because she was so coked up. But, she was very generous with the drugs, she always offered, multiple times, to EVERYONE. And she made the most money. She lived in the Champagne Room and always came out makeup smudged, outfit on backwards, and headed straight for the showers.

There was the sister duo, Fantasy and Angel. Fantasy was gorgeous, bubbly personality…until you tried to cross her. Then, she was cutthroat. We vibed and had a double-team lap dance thing going purely for our own enjoyment. And, there are no words to describe her backside and its perfect complexion. It was high, it was plump, and each cheek could dance to its own beat! WHEW! You could put a plate on it and eat dinner off it. And, Angel could do these slow-motion pole tricks that could get anybody hot and bothered. They came from a really rough world. Fantasy had almost died at the hands of her baby-daddy as he tried to stomp her out on the concrete, in front of their kids; Angel never talked about what happened to her. Whatever it was, it made her a person who could cut off her emotions quick as a light switch cutting off lights. But, they were really awesome to me. Angel would come early to help me learn pole tricks, Fantasy showed me how to practice to make my ass bounce one buttcheek at a time. I still don't have that down. That crap is hard! We started making plans to go get piercings together. I already had my breast done, and Fantasy already had her clit done, so we made plans to go get the other matching piercings.

Then, there was Leila. She was beautiful, like, naturally, no makeup, sweats and t-shirt BEAUTIFUL. And, she was a damn good saleswoman. She could talk a guy out of $100 just for wanting to know her real name. And she gave the same name every single time. With money in hand, walking away for the customer, “My real name? It’s Linda.” Insert badass woman theme song. She learned how to get money for simply having a drink with a guy. No lap dance required. Just sipping and watching the big screen. And, she was so young. Like, barely-of-legal-age-to-be-there young. And, she always talked about trying to do something else. I tried to save her. Weird, right? Considering how badly I needed to save my own ass. But, I would come out of character, jump back into my real-life, mothering self, and try to give her advice on things she could do to get out of that world. I would search online and in the paper, and come back to the club with a list of places she could call with options for other kinds of work. I would have mini therapy sessions with her to tell her how talented she was, how beautiful she was, and how she could do anything she wanted. Leila brought out the old me, “Grandma Keisa” since like, the seventh or eighth grade, always trying to help people or show them love they may not be getting from home, even as I was trying to shut that side of me out and get lost deeper in the darkness. But, she was supporting her WHOLE-ASS family. Mother, father, sisters and brothers, everyone knew what she was doing. Her money was contributing to supporting the whole household. So, she didn't see a way out until her siblings were old enough to get their own jobs and she could look for something else. 

And, although we were all competing against each other to get the attention of the customers to make as much money as you could per shift, there was an unspoken sisterhood. A kind of understanding that everyone had something different to offer, and no one would try to stifle anybody else’s hustle. It was all kumbaya and shit. Nothing like working at Islands where we had to have locks on our lockers because there was no House Mother and women would steal other people's stuff. The only ones I could trust there were the 2 Russian women and this woman named Essence who became my friends, with their tips and advice on outfits and techniques to make more money.

At CityScape, there were two different kinds of women: the regulars and the drifters. The drifter chicks were shady as hell. They would be passing through for like, a week or two, and then you’d never see them again. Mean, shady characters that seemed like they were always trying to upstage you and definitely couldn't be trusted. 

The regulars were my kumbaya group, who were very friendly with me, helping me learn how to dance with the pole, how to spot the clients that like my look, and how to give a good lap dance and trying to help one another find our niche. My niche was being everyone's therapist. I mean like the dirty-talking therapist though. 

I had this one regular that loved for me to talk dirty while giving him a lap dance. He was probably in his 30s, white guy. Always wore slacks, a blazer and a baby-blue, button-down, collared shirt. Like, always. And, he always asked about my hair and wanted to know if it was a wig. Sometimes, we would talk about his real estate business. He always tried to cut that short, but I was genuinely interested in how he lived his life when he wasn’t there. Actually, I was interested in how ALL the people who worked there or were patrons there, lived their lives in the sunny hours of the day. Eventually, he got VERY comfortable with me and started asking me to say some off-the-wall shit. Like, some clearly, “I bat for the other team” dialogue. He wanted me to describe doing things to him with equipment I clearly did NOT have. He wanted me to describe how I would slap him with it, make him taste it, shove it places it might not fit, and shove it hard. After three weeks it was really getting out of pocket, so I gave him the name of a place downtown in the village that would be more his speed and wished him on his merry little way.

Besides the therapist, I was also the tomboy who would talk sports and politics. Not that I knew much about either, but I knew enough to engage in hour-long convos so I didn't have to give many lap dances to disgusting customers. I mean, it's one thing to give a cute, even semi-good-looking guy that smells good and has clean clothes, a lap dance. It's another when he’s sweaty, musty, his pants are stained, and he has dry, cracked hands scratching you as he tries to “caress” your back, and a death-grip on you while trying to dry-hump his nonexistent penis against whatever body part of yours he can. There were not enough baby wipes in the world to make me feel clean after that. I needed a full shower.

I somehow befriended two pimps that frequented the club. One ended up being like a big brother to me, watching out for me, bringing me food because I was over the chicken wings the club served, always had a fresh Heineken waiting at his table to greet me when I was done with my rounds. He also used to point out potential clients to me. He’d be like, “Yo, that one. He’s easy money. You can get like, three lap dances out of him easy. Go, go, go, before someone else swoops in there.” He was such a cool dude. I truly didn't understand what the appeal was of wanting to be a pimp, for him. I mean he came to my house numerous times for me to braid his hair, he was never out of line, never tried anything, never disrespectful. He always brought me food, money to pay me and a bottle of liquor for us to split while talking shit about life while I cornrowed his hair. I only ever saw him once with one of his “women”. It was from a distance, so I couldn't get details. But, he said something, she handed him something, he said something else, she kissed him on the cheek, and left. It was all very civil. Umph, I hope he is well.

Anyways, the other pimp was a different story. The first night I met him, he was trying to get me to go with him to Miami the very next night. He kept flashing his money, saying how it could be mine and handing me his phone to add my information to the airline website for the flight. And it didn't matter how many times I said, “No, thank you,” and walked away, he would find me later, wrap his arm around my waist, usher me to the bar to get me another drink, and I would kindly remind him that he would NOT be able to get me drunk enough to fly to Miami with a total stranger. He settled for exchanging numbers to get to know one another.

He called me just about daily for three weeks before I decided it was okay to meet up with him outside the club. Most conversations led to him talking about how he wanted to use my background in dance to open up a strip club in Canada, or how he wanted me to be a part of and help him run an at-home stripping service, where he would drop off a woman/me for a client and then come back in an hour to get them/me. I told him that was a surefire way to get raped, killed or trafficked and your picture placed on the side of a milk carton.

In one conversation I told him I needed to go shopping for new outfits and he suggested places with good prices out near him, and that he was buying. I asked what the catch was; he said, nothing, he just wanted to buy me something I wanted. You know how expensive those little (and I emphasize, LITTLE) outfits were? I mean, they barely cover the bare essentials and the shoes are made of plastic, but the prices are astronomical. So, if he's paying, no strings attached, I'm hopping the train out there.

We stopped in a couple of stores to compare outfits and prices. I settled on a place that had these white, thigh-high boots I’d wanted since I first decided I was going to start stripping. The total for the outfits and the boots was…