Nobody was there.

So I bought a drink. Nobody came. So I had another one. And another.

And another.

And then people started to show up.

By this time, I was eager to get on that sorry excuse for a stage. I got on one pole, and Mediocre #1 got on the other.

I was pretty buzzed, and I relished the idea that it had been awhile since Lux was out, since she was wearing these shoes, doing what she does best. I danced, I stretched, I crawled, I flirted, I laughed, I thought to myself, this feels like home. But as I danced and danced, the men kept staring, and I stared back. And then the buzz started to wear off, and then I saw what was happening. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I spun around the pole, and then I saw that I was half naked behind a sketchy bar in Queens. And then I wanted to go home.

But all I had made was $2.

In the back of the bar was where a customer could take a dancer to purchase a lap dance. It was like stripping at Spencer Gifts at the Arizona Mills Mall - tacky animal print chairs, bad lighting, beaded curtains. There was nothing right about it.

Alex, a ghetto Colombian 20-something in oversized everything, had that strain in his eye, snap in his gum-chewing, and carelessness in his touch that only dudes on cocaine have.

"Come home with me and my boys," he said. "Call your girlfriends."

"I can't, " I said.

"Wanna bump?" He showed me.

(See, told you.)

I kept dancing, and he looked up at me. His eyes were too scary to look into. I tried to think about my bed. And sweatpants.

He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer. I looked around. Nobody was going to save me from anything.

I froze there, straddled in front of him. He moved his hands up my back, and then rubbed them down to my thighs. He started to kiss my collarbone and he rubbed my inner thighs so hard now that it hurt. And I was scared.

"Sorry, I gotta go!" I said in my best perky-stripper-who-isn't-affected-by-anything voice. He eventually reluctantly gave me my $40 with no tip, and I went straight to the dressing room to grab my things and go.

I made it out the door, to the subway station, through the train ride. I made it to my apartment, to my room, to the sweatpants, to the bed. I fell asleep. I made it.

I woke up the next morning and looked over at my kitty collar and pearls on the floor. And then I cried.

I couldn't give up just yet.

I have never been this broke in my life. But I make it work. I eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day and steal toilet paper from bars.

I had to expand my search. "Do you allow tattoos?" Everyone said no.

Until I lowered my standards.

There's a sketchy bar in the middle of a sketchy neighborhood in Queens.

The cold manager stared at me in his cold office. "What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

I filled out some paperwork and he took my polaroid.

I went to the dressing room and changed. I guess it was only me and one other girl. She wasn't very attractive.

I walked out to the bar. Behind it was a tiny stage with two poles on each side. And nobody was there. One bartender, one bouncer, one mediocre, slightly overweight stripper with bad teeth, and me. Hello, Lux.

I needed money ASAP.

After looking online for clubs, I started to have doubts. It didn't seem like any of these cheesy places would be into someone like me. I called around, and so many places required gowns. Really? Gowns? I called one club and they said to just come in. I took my chances.

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.

I moved to New York City.

I had to get out of Arizona. I hated it there, and I hated who I had become. (See previous posts.) The sole reason I moved out there meant jack shit to me (he is now fat and republican and has an overwhelmingly obnoxious tribal tattoo a la George Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn) and let's be real - it was fucking hot. It was ridiculously, disgustingly, hot.

I moved out here to 1. write for a magazine, and 2. pursue a career in theatre. Okay - I will now pause for your guffaws, eye-rolling, and exclamations of disbelief. Yeah, yeah, now I must be fake, or a man, or a jaded slanderous stripper telling lies and defaming the face of sex worker blogging forever. Whatever. That is so two years ago. Anyway, I'm actually not kidding. (I know this all sounds totally random, but aren't you happy to be catching up?)

I've always loved writing. I spent every single college summer in New York, interning at different magazines. And in Arizona, I wrote for the big newspaper. (And then my cocaine addiction got bad and I stopped showing up. And then I was fired.)

Halfway through college, I changed my major from journalism to theatre. Again, the cocaine addiction was getting bad. And I found myself rushing to my evening acting classes after working the day shift. There I'd be, closing my eyes and deep breathing during pre-class meditation, distracted by how much my hair reeked of cigarettes and how badly my skin smelled like sweat, red bull, and shame. (And of course, Aquolina Pink Sugar perfume.)

I was about a semester away from graduating, but I dropped out. I threw out all of my stripper gear, packed my bags, and moved to New York City. I had an interview with one of my favorite women's magazines. Beauty writer. No sweat. My portfolio was killer. My references were top-notch. I knew I was I going to get the job.

After not hearing from them, the magazine eventually folded.

There was an open audition for an off-Broadway show. I stood outside in line with over a thousand people. And after callback after callback after callback, I was told that they loved me! That I would be a star! And that I would be perfect for a certain role - that they didn't need anyone for - at the moment. It wasn't bad news. It wasn't great news. And they would eventually call me. But not now.

Long story short, while anxiously awaiting my big New York City stage debut, I was broke. So I went to the West Village and bought a new pair of heels. I doubled up my long pearl necklace around my neck, and buckled on my velvet kitty collar - the one with the 'Lux' heart on it.

Did you really think I was going to throw those away? I knew there was a reason to keep them.

More later.