My Dancer Diary

In 13 years of exotic dancing, I have seen this business from every angle. I’ve seen it through the eyes of a frightened teenage girl and the mind of a self-aware, sober goddess. Through a smudged full-length mirror, foggy red lighting and drunken double vision.

From the inside of a tequila shot (or ten), a broken bathroom stall, a cramped but cozy DJ booth. From a sagging, smelly sofa, a dirty denim lap, a dangerously slick stage. From the best club in Texas to the peak of Las Vegas, the best times in the business to the depths of a recession.

From a hard hustle to a soft sell, a rigid bulge to a bruised labia. From the dark corner of a private VIP to a sobbing sister in a trashed out dressing room. From inside a man’s pants to inside a man’s head. From a broken heart to a broken back, to a full body slide to purse full of cash.

From the unwelcome saliva of strangers and the nibbling of piranhas to their longing adoration and the time of my fucking life. From erotic and emotional connection to frigidity and dissociation. From beauty to horror – sometimes in the same night, sometimes in the same moment.

I have seen this work, the business of male desire and human desperation, navigating intimate engagement entwined with survival mechanism deflection. This work has damaged me, uplifted me, gutted me, healed me, saved me and cursed me. It has defined me while robbing my authenticity.

I have seen this business from every imaginable position. From my knees to your pedestal to doggie-style simulation on worn & splintered linoleum. From complete exhilaration to pitiful demoralization.

And you?

You, dear sirs, have seen it from exactly ONE side – that of the OUTSIDE looking IN. And I suggest you remember that fact from here on out, every day that you strut around your silly little kingdoms knowing absolutely nothing about the experience of those of us that built it.