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 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 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 do some fun, destructive shit!”

I’m talking, like, live life on the edge, do something bad, something you know people would disapprove of, type shit. And the thrill of hiding it from everyone added to the excitement.

I would listen to Res and travel aimlessly through the city. 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. 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? 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?!  

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, and sensual. Or, maybe, fierce and feisty. Whichever it was, it eventually worked and I would walk through the doors and ask if they were hiring. Many clubs I went to (well, actually, it was only three, but it felt like 100!) it was 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!

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. But, 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. I have nothing to hide; let's not make it a scandal.

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, Voice #3 won those earlier conversations.

I actually circled the block for two days trying to muster up the courage to go in 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 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, I 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. 

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 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 second-position straddle, NUDE, and had her customer place a $1 bill on her lips. Her lips, south of the border. 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. 

1. 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. 

2. 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.

3. 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. 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.

4. 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 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 (club) $50.

Weekends you pay the house (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 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.” I mean, what do you say to that? Especially coming from a guy that's about 6’6'' and 275lbs?! 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.

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 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. They had just left their previous rowdy club after Fantasy’s baby-daddy tried to stomp her out. After nearly losing her life to her baby-daddy, she said she needed a more mellow club. And, that was CityScape. Mellow most nights, turned up on the weekends, good chicken wings, and regulars who weren't looking for frills. 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 quicker than the speed of light. 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 shake 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.” HA! 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 newspaper, 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 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: regulars, 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 drifter chicks. Drifter chicks were definitely shady as hell. They weren’t regulars. 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; those bitches couldn't be trusted. But, us regulars were cool with each other, trying to help one another find our niche. Mine was being everyone's therapist. The dirty-talking therapist.

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 play for the other team”-type shit. 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 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 $180, he gave the register $100 and walked away as if we had discussed he was only paying a portion of the bill. I was too embarrassed to put it all back, even though I couldn't afford $80.

Well, that pissed me off and I was ready to go home, but he had other plans. We were a ways away from the train at this point, so he offered to give me a ride to a closer train that could get me to the club, but he needed to make a stop first. I should have known…

We pull up in the parking lot of a grocery store. My first thought was, He’s about to try to kill me, dump me out of the car and drive off. But, then three women approached the car with lots of grocery bags. They loaded his BMW truck and hopped in. Then, I thought, Well, I guess he's going to kidnap me and now we're driving to Canada…but we ended up back at his place. As the women took the groceries in the house he decided to give me an unwanted tour. As he boasted about each room and where the furniture was from and how much it cost, I noticed the women were prefacing all their questions to him with “Daddy”.

“Daddy, what do you want for dinner, steak or chicken?”

“Daddy, where do you want me to put the extra sugar?”

IT WAS BIZARRE. Well, of course, the tour ended in the master bedroom, where he stood me in front of the dresser mirror with his arms wrapped around me from behind, as he boasted about what a good looking couple we made, and how this ALL could be mine. I could be running this house, and all the women living here would answer to me. I could be his wife and business partner for the strip club in Canada, he would buy me my own BMW truck and I would move in. I guess all this talking he was doing was getting him hot and bothered because next thing I know he's trying to undress me and consummate this marriage he seems to think we’d be perfect for. Now, at this point I realized how crazy this muthafucka was and that I needed to play my cards right to get out of this situation unscathed. So, I just played the “my period is not over and I’m not comfortable having relations while it's that time of the month” angle. To which his answer was, “Well, then, you are going to give me head then?”

A completely different tone than that shit he was talking about how good we look as a couple and I could be his wife. He felt I owed him. As I brought up the “no strings attached” he was spitting on the phone, I could feel his hand starting to push my head down.

You’ve got to be shittin’ me. Am I really going to have to do this?

Thankfully, I was saved by one of the women knocking on his bedroom door letting him know he had an important call to take. I think I made it outside to the car before he could even zip up his pants. This was before the era of Ubers and Lyfts, so it was taking me a minute to figure out how far off in the suburbs we were and how I was planning to escape, in the least obvious-fear-for-my-life kind of way. A minute later, he came outside, keys in hand and was like, “I’ll take you to work, I have to go over that way.”
Did I want to get in the car with this psycho? NO! But, it literally felt like it was my only option.

It took about 30 minutes to get to the club. He was trying to spit that you-could-be-my-wife crap again and asking if I wanted to stop at the dealership and see the car that would be mine. I politely declined, mentioning how I needed to make it in before my shift started. I prayed the entire ride, if the powers that be could just get me back to the club, I would never, never, never, never, EVER do that dumb shit again. I think I got hella drunk that night at the club, didn't make any money as I didn't want to talk or be bothered with anyone. I just sat at the bar taking shots and smoking cigarettes. I needed to drink off the scary shit that had just happened. My hands were still shaking hours later. But it made me understand why the women there were so tough, guarded and pissy most of the time.

The longer I was there the more I became the “Shit Talker”. Like, a ballsy shit talker. Like, the kind of woman that would catch a man trying to slap her ass, grab his hand before he can make contact and twist his wrist and lean in close to say, “You can only slap it if there’s a $10 bill or higher in your hand and you plan to kiss it to make it better. If not, you will pull back a nub. Don’t try me.”

CRAZY, right?! Like, who was I?! But, the most important thing I learned was: 

1. I can’t do this, none of this, any and all of this...I cannot do this sober. 

If you can’t do this sober, then why are you here?

I’m sure you all are wondering, why all the strip club stories? I thought she was telling us how she became a single mom…

Well, I needed to paint a picture. Hang the backdrop, load in the set, program lighting cues and organize costume changes. It needed to be clear how it started from a dark place. I was so lost in my own shit that I couldn't see the light. Actually, I didn't want to see the light. My insides had become cold and numb. I didn't want to be a part of my life anymore. I wanted to be someone else. Someone who didn't fight so hard to live in the light. I wanted to live in the dark. So I lived in the darkest corner I could create. At first I was leading a double life. No one knew about the dark corner. By day, I was a wild, curly-haired, fashion-forward dresser, attending high-level fundraising and entertainment industry-related events honoring pioneers, in between walking through Barnes & Noble looking for new reads, organizing people's homes and offices, being head cashier at trendy restaurants/bars, teaching youth dance workshops, very Carrie Bradshaw. By night, I was a throw-a-jet-black-bone-straight-wig-on, tomboy-on-the-way-to-the-club but tight-dress-accentuating-nipple-rings-at-work-wearing, shit-talking, pole-trick-learning, lap-dance-giving, pack-of-cigarettes-smoking, bottomless-glass-drinking, random pill-popping, high half the night, hanging out ‘til 9am, Diamond from Players Club character.

The thrill of a double life was exciting at first. It was my own little secret. And, it wasn’t the money. It might’ve started that way, a job I was doing just to get money for a car to get to the job I actually wanted, but after about three weeks of working at Islands not making much, I started to lose sight of that goal. By the time I was a month in at CityScape, I literally forgot all about trying to get a car for that job. I completely forgot all about that job. I was just enjoying disappearing into the night and numbing myself with liquor and weed, and not having to deal with the emotions I was feeling.

Since it wasn’t about the money, I wasn’t willing to do the extra stuff. I wasn't willing to have sex in the Champagne Room. I wasn’t willing to let men play with my “goodies box”. I was not there to sell my body. Not to knock anybody doing so; do you, Boo; it's just not my thing. So, I knew there was a problem when my “night life” no longer expired at 9am. My dark-corner wig-wearing was expiring later and later every day. I was telling certain friends what I was doing at night, inviting them to come by the club. No one person knew the whole story or saw the whole picture. If so, I probably would have been committed. I was doing stuff that was like the backstory of a victim on an episode of Law & Order. The same shit I had spent an entire 30 minute car ride apologizing to God for, I was still doing. Except, this time I was being smarter, or so I thought.

How safe could you be letting one of your new “friends” take you home? Yes, he’s been coming to the club for a while, yes, he’s FOINE, yes, we talked and I think I know his character. But, is it ever smart to let someone whose last name you don't even know take you home one late night because you are too tired and not looking forward to taking the train at 4am from Queens to the Bronx? WELP, apparently I thought so.

I mean, we did end up dating...for all of three weeks. He had the dreamiest blue eyes, with the bounciest, curly hair. He was cool, we could talk about a variety of things. And, if he didn't know about something, he wanted to learn, which was really sexy. But, he was a GOT-DAMN MESSY-ASS DRUNK! Chiiilllllld!

He would show up to the club already drunk, looking to hang out until I got off. And because he was so FOINE the bartenders loved talking him up and giving him extra drinks. He would have only been there 45 minutes and already be stumbling and starting fights with people for no reason. Forget if someone was getting a little handsy while I was on the pole, he was ready to drag a dude outside to handle it. Weird thing was, it was never when I was giving lap dances. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Whatever the case, I had to start warning the bartenders to water his shit down. I mean, he came in there drunk, he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. I couldn’t be breaking up fights every night. It was embarrassing. I mentioned it a few times, that maybe he should cool it with the alcohol and…well, he ghosted me. Our whirlwind three weeks of drunken fights, great sex, and cool conversation was over. I pretended to be sad for one four-hour shift, and was on to the next.

This time it wasn’t a customer; it was another stripper at the club. There was a lot of flirting going on, more so for the sake of getting tips from guys that wanted to see us kiss. But, nothing happened until after a week of knowing her, she invited me to spend the night at her place. (Yep, here we go again, going home with people when I don’t even fucking know their last name. But, I digress.) She was cute and clearly into me. I thought it would be a fun night. But, my OCD and her living arrangements were NOT on the same page. And, she made more money than I did; how is THIS all you can afford? You have a twin bed, with a 1987 TV on a crate, shag carpet, and your bathroom looks like that of a gas station.

Yes, I was being judgmental. I was a stripper. My whole survival was based on quickly judging people. And then, all she wanted to do was have me cornrow her hair, watch TV (don't get me started!) and cuddle. In this little-ass bed?! How, Sway?!

I don't even know if the first sun-ray fully rose over the horizon before I was in a cab headed home. Child, BYE! That was pointless. I could have braided your hair at the club and been comfortably in my own OCD-soothing home. 

What I’m getting at is that I was not myself. Some friends saw it and did what they could or what they thought would help. But, it didn’t. Not even the usual empowering words from my college anatomy professor turned trusted mentor, who had become a guiding light in my junior year of college when I found myself lacking parental guidance and support, could help. To be fai,r she had no idea what I was doing, or how deep I was allowing myself to drift away from shore. You know that saying…sometimes you have to cannonball in and almost die from the impact to realize you’ve been trying to swim in Rock Bottom Lake…okay, maybe I just made that up. But, it fits. I was an incident short of a needed intervention. In this darkness is where I met Sperm Donor.

His cousin Dante was a regular at the club. Dante never wanted a lap dance, meaning he never wanted to spend any real money. He just wanted to talk, get drunk, shoot the shit, be surrounded by half-naked women and buy them drinks all night. One night he brought a group of guys with him. In normal fashion all the women made their way over to see if any men were willing to part with a good amount of their money that night. In the process of talking it up and feeling out the crowd, Sperm Donor and I struck up a conversation about living in LA. He was clearly not interested in the seven half-naked women strutting around their table. He was more interested in the game on the big screen, but the LA conversation was cute. After I made my rounds at the club and was ready to take a break from grinding on patrons' laps, I did my usual and made my way back to Dante's table. Free drinks on my break! Woohoo! Sperm Donor and I conversed for like 30 minutes and realized we were kind of feeling each other. We exchanged numbers. And, while he seemed nice, in my mind I still was holding out for a date with Kryptonite.

Who is that, you ask?

Kryptonite is a guy who I was off and on again with for years. From our first encounter the chemistry was off the charts. People assumed we had known each other for years. We could talk about anything. We loved teaching one another about something the other didn't know about. Hours of phone conversations, laughing ‘til my sides hurt. With the slightest touch from the other or the simple raise of one eyebrow, we were ready to rip each other's clothes off, anywhere. And, we did. In the car in a parking lot, bathroom at a restaurant, at his job after hours. But, I don't know if you could really say that we were ever an item. I thought we were meant to be soulmates but he was tethered to a life that wasn’t what love looked like for me. We were on only when he seemed ready to walk away and try something different. But, quickly we were back off when he sank back to that tether. It was a constant back and forth. And, that is why he was saved in my phone as Kryptonite. He always, no matter how shitty it ended before, could get me back in his arms when he came back around every few years. We had a paintball date during this time of darkness and I thought it would be the start of our rekindling. I’d hoped he’d remember how amazing our chemistry was but…no dice.

He didn't even acknowledge my advances after a day in the cold paintballing with him and like, five of his friends. I felt unwanted and defeated. Which made me want to replace him. I wanted a distraction, a distraction that would pay me lots of attention. So, Sperm Donor it was…something to distract me from the downward spiral my life was taking.

I was getting eviction notices in the mail and was in housing court trying to ask for more time to pay. This process went on for a couple of months because I somehow would never have the money, no matter how much time they gave me. But, they always tried to give me more time because for the past  four years and up ‘til then I had been a great tenant who paid on time or early, even months in advance. I was making money, but never had money. I would come home with an amount of money and when I went to deposit it in the bank in the morning it would always be $70-$150 less. I lived with no one. I counted my money before I went to sleep. There was this basket of scarves I had in the closet and I would put the money down in there every night. I figured if my apartment ever got robbed, no one would think to check in there. Insert side-eye. I went straight to the bank when I woke up. Nowhere else in between. Where did it go?! I honestly can't tell you. I don't know. Besides the eviction notices, there were ALL my bills. My lights were on the verge of being shut off. I owed ConEd over $600. My cell phone was actually shut off every two weeks, because I could only pay like, $75. But, once the new cycle hit and the amount of the bill went back up to my maximum line of credit limit amount, $300, it was shut off again. My cable service had been disconnected for well over 7 months. I watched VHS tapes of Friends episodes and DVDs of old rom-coms and the entire series of Sex and the City, over and over and over and over and OVA’ again. Never booked an audition. Not that I went to many of them. The ones I did go to I made sure that I had a decent chance of booking, but it was just rejection after rejection. 

The only other bill would have been groceries. But, I had stopped buying those when the depression set in. I already did not like the kitchen in my apartment. It was small, cramped and dark, with one window that looked out to another wall 20 feet away. The overhead light gave the room this yellowish feel, and no matter how much I cleaned it, that light and its smallness made it feel like it was never clean enough. There was no joy in cooking, anyways. I was too tired. I would just buy 50 cent bags of chips, fruit snacks, Honeybuns, an occasional slice of pizza and cigarettes. I usually didn’t have money to buy myself dinner, so I tried to have customers order and pay for some wings off the menu at the club for me. We had really good wings. Or I’d try to split a meal with another dancer. Mostly, I just smoked to pass the time, or had one of the bags of fruit snacks that were shoved down in my purse. As I sit here writing about it, I’m remembering how skinny I was then. I was a cute size eight! I usually live between a 10 and a 12. But, I digress…

Besides the bills piling up, there were customers, weekly, daily, asking me, “Why do you work here? You seem like you could get any job in the world you wanted. Why are you here?” To which I would normally grab my drink, give a side-eye and walk away. Stop trying to make me face the truth, DAMMIT! I was there to forget about my real life. And how it was all falling to shit. And, how lost I felt.

If I wasn’t at the strip club and had an extra $30 in my pocket, I spent my day smoking cigarettes and aimlessly walking around the city. If I was broke, then I would be home watching the same DVD’s over and over again as I couldn't afford to pay the cable bill. Stepping outside to smoke a cigarette got old real quick. I went from smoking on the fire escape to full-fledged just laying in the bed, under the covers, smoking. There were a few, and by “few” I mean, A LOT of burn holes in that comforter. I was living vicariously through the characters on the DVD’s I watched. I wasn’t happy. I was faking it. Then Sperm Donor would take me out in his neck of the woods. We would drink, dance and hang out ‘til the local club closed down, or spend days and, I mean, days, just in the bed, watching TV, sexing, eating, and smoking. Repeat. I thought I faked it pretty well on the outside. On the inside, I was miserable and Sperm Donor seemed like a good distraction, or so I thought.

Let me be very clear: when Divine wants you to do something, everything you do that goes AGAINST that, will crumble into nothing. Divine’s power, I have witnessed first hand. Take heed. When things seem to be going uncontrollably wrong, I’m talking about, every aspect of your life shattering on the floor like plates at a Greek wedding? It is a sign from Divine that something is NOT right. Something is not in order with you and the Universe. And, you need to fix it ASAP!

It took me eight months to finally realize that. 8 months of ignoring the clear signs that while it seemed easier than facing reality, trying to drown in the darkness was NOT actually making me happy nor was it what I REALLY wanted. One of my biggest cheerleaders to leave the club was this customer, average looking, with beautiful locs, who never wanted a lap dance, Champagne Room visit, not even for me to rub my breasts across his back. (Yes, that was a thing. I don't know why.) He would just order us dinner, we’d watch the big screen and talk about politics, the economy, stories of growing up in different states, dating, whatever came up that night. And, then, he would give me a fistfull of cash and say, “I don't want to see you in here next week.” But, next week, I was up in there, and we would do that dance all over again. We probably did that dance about three or four times before I finally applied for a job at Pottery Barn and got the courage to quit. And, I kid you not, the second I had the courage to walk away from the darkness that I “wanted so badly” to live in EVERYTHING GOT BETTER.

Yeah, I know, I asked the same thing. Courage? To stop working a job that you had to be in an altered state to work? Why did I need courage?

Because, quitting the strip club meant I had to go back to my reality. My disappointment. My shattered dreams. My loneliness. When I called to quit, of course, it was the “call the fire department” owner who answered. 

“Hey Jimmy, I’m sorry, but I need to quit. I’m not going to be able to work there anymore.”

“Why? What’s up? Is someone bothering you here? You need to work different hours? I can work with you on that.”

Was that all it took to not have to work Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday? No one goes to the stripclub on a cold, rainy Tuesday night. I never made any money during the week once the winter came. 

“No, no one is bothering me. I just have some family stuff I need to deal with a–”

“You can have time off if you need to deal with some shit and come back when you're ready.” 

“Aww, thanks, Jimmy. But, no, I’m sorry. I’m just going to need to quit. But, I will come by and visit. Promise.” 

“Okay. Well, good. Don't be a stranger.” 

“I won’t!”

“A’ight, bye.” 

“Bye.”

Whew, the largest weight was lifted off my shoulders. We are not going to talk about the fact that I was apologizing for quitting a strip club. We’re going to sweep that under the rug for a different therapy day.

Well, when I finally decided to quit, leave the darkness, and get right with Divine, all my bills magically were settled. No shit, Sherlock, I’m not kidding you! Close your mouth. That was me, too. But, ConEd, all of a sudden, was like, “We’ve overcharged your usage amount for the past five months. So, with the adjustment and your payments, we owe you $128.” My cell phone was turned back on. I hadn't made a payment. We were still at the $375 mark. My phone should have still been off. But, NOPE, I could make calls again. More opportunities to make money? Why, yes! The first audition I went to after I quit, I booked! I got a cruise ship job. YES! Because, after only two weeks, I was already looking to replace my Pottery Barn job. Standing around for a six hour shift, trying to convince people to buy overpriced furniture was not the business. Best of all: I was no longer getting evicted! They asked if I wanted to come to a middle ground. Yes, you read that right. They asked ME if I wanted to come to a middle ground. They offered to give me 45 days to move out and I could take as long as I needed to pay back the money, as long as I paid small amounts every month. If you know New York real estate and housing court your mind would be blown just as much as mine was. This made the new cruise ship job even more perfect because now my start date matched the 45 day timeline. Things still needed adjusting, but everything was doable. And easily doable. Things were looking up. I was seeing the light at the end of this tunnel and it was getting brighter every day. As the days got brighter, the notion of Sperm Donor got a little dimmer. I mean, I was still thinking, maybe he could be a part of the journey back to the old me. I was ready to leave it all behind and start fresh. Maybe he was too. 

And then…

*SpongeBob Narrator voice*

3 weeks later…

I found out I was pregnant. Crazy thing was, I knew in my heart of hearts that at this stage in my life if I were to get pregnant I would automatically (as a good friend of mine put it): Boooop! Abort! But, something was telling me, “maybe you should keep it”, and THAT I didn't expect.

The first person I called was my good friend MT. She was a smoker, too, and not judgemental. She was one of the only people that knew the majority of what I was going through. She knew the old me and the new me. The light version and the darkness version. She would let me vent, cry hysterically and make me laugh all in the same breath. She always supported me and let me know that she would, no matter what, give me unconditional love and friendship through the darkness and beyond. I called to say, “I’m pregnant.”

She replied, “Okay, are we happy about this? Or not so much?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“So what are we going to do? Whatever it is, whatever you decide, I will support you 100%.”

Even though I hadn’t made a decision, her words made me feel like whatever I decided to do, everything would be okay. Until, out of nowhere, I became terrified of having an abortion. What if they messed up my insides and I could never have children? Suddenly, it was a lot less scary to try to have a baby and raise it, than having an abortion. But, then, there was that perfect job…I can’t have a baby. Not right now.

And, that was it! I knew that I couldn't have a baby because this job was going to get me back on track. So, I called the clinic to make an appointment. My plan was: get an abortion, quit the Pottery Barn, secretly go back to the darkness for just three weeks to make a little money, get all my affairs in order, pack up my apartment, and start the new job that would take me out to sea where I could start fresh. Yes!!! 

Remember when I said Divine will shatter everything that is not in accordance with the Universe and you? Well, the day after I quit Pottery Barn and had packed half of my apartment, all of sudden, my perfect new job vanished into thin air.

I called in, as directed, to get the details of my contract and start location. The Director said if we didn't receive our official email yet, as their offices are understaffed around the holiday and that might slow things a bit, to call her direct line and she would give us the info over the phone so we could plan accordingly. Well, when I phoned in, she had no idea who I was. I gave her my audition number, location and date of the audition. I even talked her through the audition, the combo, and our hour-long talk afterwards. And she still stood firm, she didn't know who I was or how I got her number. They had no record of me auditioning for them on that day. Then I remembered they had recorded the audition. She said she would go watch the video and call me back. While I waited, I contacted Talia, a friend who was at the audition with me and both of us were kept at the end. I asked if she had received her email with her contracts and destination. Yep! She excitedly asked, where was I going? Nowhere. What?!

I told her about the bizarre encounter with the Director and that was why I was reaching out. I needed to know if I was crazy. Was I not at that audition? Was I looking for something to pull me out of the darkness so bad, that I made it all up? Talia laughed for like, two straight minutes before she realized I was serious. Then she proceeded to remind me of everything that happened at the audition, as I gave confirmation that I remembered it, too. She even asked if I wanted her to call and speak on my behalf. YES, PLEASE! This was supposed to get me out of the darkness. If this falls through, what am I going to do?! 

Two days later I had to call the Director again and she was like, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I did watch the video; I didn't see your number. There’s no one that looks like you on the video. But, I’m glad you are interested in our company. We have auditions coming up in April; you should come!”

I hung up the phone, stunned, thinking, Are you SERIOUS?! Are you trying to tell me something?! I mean, the MAIN reason I was going to “Boooop! Abort!” was because of this amazing job I THOUGHT I had. I sat there for a second…I mean, maybe I cou-

Noooo, that's just stu-

But if I pla-

What the fu-

I picked up the phone and called the clinic to confirm my appointment.