“Oh my god…” I whispered to myself on the floor of my friends room. “I made a thousand dollars…”
Still in shock, I drunkenly recounted my money. But there wasn’t a mistake, I had banked a stack that shift.
“Mike! Omg wake up!” I shouted.
He nearly fell out of bed, still not quite used to me coming home at 3am, loud and hyper from the buzz of the bar.
“Ashley! Jesus! You’re gonna wake my dad.” He sat up in bed and followed my wide eyed expression staring down at the floor. “You what?”
“I made a thousand dollars….” I shifted my gaze back up to him. “Fuck I’m not gonna quit now. I’ll be rich by the time I’m 25.”
That, ladies and gents is the sole reason girls find themselves waking up in their 50s, still stripping. The money is good and whats worse is it’s fast. Fast in making it and faster in spending it.
At the time I didn’t realize how dangerous that was….I would take “shopping trips” for new shoes, bags, hair extensions, clothes, makeup all stuff i already had plenty of but never seemed enough.
The thing was, I knew that if i spent it all, it was no big deal because all i needed to do was head into work and make it back just as quickly.
One experienced dancer suggested that i put 20$ away each shift. It was a good idea but i needed those thigh-high “come fuck me boots” more.
This is the thing about the club, its addictive; the glamour of getting dolled up; its almost in the job description that you get your nails done, hair done and shop. The feeling of being desired doesn’t hurt either .
Before work, I spent an hour getting ready, doing my hair and makeup and deciding upon my outfits that night. If I tried hard enough, I could lie to myself during the hour before work, that i was actually a showgirl in Vegas and wasn’t working in a seedy bar run by outlaw bikers. But that would have to due.
I felt like i was in control, something I never really had before and in some ways i was. I was my “own boss”. I could work whenever i wanted, sleep my hangover away all day and if I just didn’t feel like going into work one night, i didn’t have to.
The attention didn’t hurt either. Its basically a party where you’re the main attraction. When you’re being bought drinks and shots and being fawned over, making fast cash and essentially being your own boss there isn’t really a reason to stop. Who wouldn’t want to be told they’re beautiful while getting paid for it.
People would literally flock to whever you went, they wanted to see you.
And if one day you just didn’t feel like being yourself, it was fine, just throw on a wig and suddenly you were whoever you wanted to be. You gave a fake name and a sob story to match. Because you weren’t obligated to be honest about it.
No one cared.
These were some of the addictive reasons to keep dancing. I found solace in the club because it wasn’t reality…instead it was a place i thought I could escape to.