As I walked what felt like too many blocks, I pictured tall leggy Russian women with long satin gloves and incomprehensible accents.
Not a short ethnically ambiguous chick with tattoos and striped knee socks.
It was nothing like my club in Arizona. This place was huge. I was taken to the dressing room and amazed at all the space. They even had a House Mom. And a makeup artist. And a woman with a rack of gowns for sale.
Well, here I was. Only five months after I "quit". I started to change when...
"Oh," one of the dancers said to me with a disgusted look on her face.
If being the new girl on her first day at a big New York City strip club wasn't hard enough, there I was, in my bra and underwear, being stared at by every single woman in the room.
You would have thought I peed myself. Or had a penis.
"You can't work here."
A few dancers started to laugh and whisper. My insides went cold and I wanted nothing more to run as fast as I could.
"Honey, we have a no tattoo policy here," the House Mom said nicely. At least she was trying.
"Oh," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Well, maybe Linda can cover them up," she looked at the makeup artist, who was too busy dusting bronzer on a pair of breasts.
"I can't cover those up. Are you kidding me? Those are huge. I'd have to charge you so much. No way."
"It's okay," I said, in the voice you make when you're doing all you can not to break down and cry. "It's okay, really." Did I really buy shoes and a FUCKING gown, do my hair and makeup, take three trains, and walk sketchily toward the Hudson River just to be rejected within a matter of minutes?
And while girls were either still laughing at me, still staring at me, or still disgusted with me, I put my clothes on as fast as I could and stormed out even faster.
I pushed open the door into the cold night air, walked as fast as I could, and as soon as I made it around the corner, cried my eyes out.
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