Confessions of an Exotic Dancing Librarian

This quiet librarian was naked, except for a pair of T-backs , 6-inch heels, and a class ring from "The Harvard of the South" that glinted in the dark. As I stood on the raised platform, I felt as though I were on a pedestal, a golden goddess on her throne. I shimmied and gyrated to the music, feeling an intoxication unmatched by alcohol. A trio of men grouped around my small stage, each eager to tuck singles into my elastic band. The club was dimly lit, an eternal twilight that belied the blazing Texas sun outside. The AC pouring through the vents made my n*****s hard and dried up the sweat on my back from the exertion of dancing. There were six stages, six dancers, and stage lights illuminated each one of us like dolls in a cabinet; we were living, breathing mannequins, each moving with a sensual fluidity as unique as a fingerprint. A mix of country and rock pounded through the stereo system, and groups of half-nude women chatted with fully clothed men in suits and cowboy hats, lounged on laps, sipped on cocktails at half-past eleven. Other women walked the floor, faces fully made-up in bright colors and deep contours, bedecked in skin-tight dresses, searching for lonely hearts who wanted a personal dance or five. Above the din, bartenders flipped and tossed bottles of liquor, entertainers themselves, pouring shots of Patron and Skyy vodka, as customers shouted their orders. Waitresses scurried to and from the bar, bringing bottles of beer to good ole boys and champagne to high-rollers. With each bottle of champagne, the managers lit a sparkler, as if it were the Fourth of July, as if buying a bottle were always something to celebrate. The smoke from the lit sparkler wafted up and mingled with the smell of Crown Royal Apple and human sweat and desire. I got down on my knees, feeling the hard wood of the stage beneath me, and presented my body like a treasure chest waiting to be opened. I grinned. Kitty wants to play. Gently, I pulled a customer toward me, grazing his face with my breasts, while I wiggled my ass for the benefit of the man behind me. The admirer of my backside cupped my ass cheek and slapped it, while sliding one-dollar bills around my t-back . The man whose face was buried within my breasts breathed deeply, already drunk on me. "When do you get off stage?" he murmured. The song ended, and another dancer came to take my place. "Right now." I climbed down from my tiny arena. He grasped my hand, a prince guiding the princess down the staircase. When my feet touched the ground, he didn't let go. He guided me to a dark corner of the club, where we sat in plush, faux leather chairs. Don't look too closely, or you'll see how everything is fake in this temple of flesh. Faux leather. False eyelashes, fingernails, hair. Counterfeit intimacy. Fake love. We chatted and flirted, our conversation a subtle dance before the physical one. He admired my dream of becoming a librarian and saving the world through knowledge and literacy. "You're so smart," he whispered. "What are you doing here?" What are you, a graduate from a top-20 university, going through a Master's program in library science, doing in a strip club, getting naked for strangers? I was dancing. I was feeding my desire for the right-brain, creative, emotional, illogical thrill of dancing on a stage for people. Exotic dancing was muscle memory and creation and movement and fluidity and art. Dancing is art, unless it's stripping, then it's considered obscene. But all art is inherently obscene; art rejects what is "real" and embraces what could be, rather than what is. Exotic dancing thrives on this. My dark descent into the world of flesh as a buyable commodity began out of curiosity, but I stayed out of passion. I never wanted to be confined by anyone's rules, least of all society's. I ultimately went back to the strip club day after day, because I liked it. It wasn't about the compliments to my beauty, nor some craving for attention. It wasn't for the money, either. It was a riddle to solve, a puzzle to pick apart; there were new rules to learn, and once I did, I could bend, twist, and skirt around them. I just didn't realize this adventure would pick me apart first. My time on and offstage was a delicious vice. Some people gamble; some people drink; I dance. Champagne. Cocaine. Bright lights. Wild nights. Please, step inside.