The lessons began at age four. “Don’t open that door for anyone,” Nana said. “I don’t care what he says he’s here to fix. I don’t care if he shows you a policeman’s badge. You do not open that door. Do you hear me?” At
Tony had been a regular for a couple of years. I enjoyed everything about him and lit up when he came to visit at the Penthouse Club. He reminded me of a kid from high school—the short guy on the basketball team who still managed to carry his weight
Living out loud comes naturally to me. Telling the truth is my knee-jerk reaction. I’m open, not secretive. I’ve actually had to learn to temper these instincts in order to be tactful and not hurt people’s feelings. But I still won’t lie outright. So when
When I was 23, I had a boyfriend who was obsessed with Pam Anderson from Baywatch. I can still hear the yearning lustfulness in his voice. “She’s soooo hot,” he’d moan every day. It was the early 90’s, the height of Anderson’s fame and her image
I was dancing on stage at Ten’s World Class Cabaret in New York City the first time a customer said this to me. The stages at Ten’s were small. The club itself was small and intimate, the kind of place where our finance-bro customers felt comfortable approaching
Author’s note: I originally wrote this story in 2023. The encounter with Donald took place during my earliest years working as a dancer, more than twenty years ago. The descriptions of club cuture and language reflect that period. Recently, I was chatting with a lawyer friend who said, “People
I was partying with an ex-cop and a runaway preacher’s wife at 5am on a random weekday. The preacher’s wife and I met at a Manhattan gentleman’s club where we both worked as dancers. She never wanted to be a preacher’s wife; it was a
It was 1985. I was 15, a sophmore in high school and captain of the junior varsity cheerleading squad. Freshman year had been lonely and awkward. I’d moved from a town where Marlboro Reds and black leather jackets were cool. At my new school, lacrosse and Ralph Lauren were
Every once in a while I’ll see a young woman openly weeping on the streets of New York. She’s always well dressed and on the move, clearly in the midstof her day-to-day routine. Maybe in another city, she’d get to cry in the privacy of
I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and didn’t notice anything was wrong. Sure, I saw a few heads turn then quickly look away, but I didn’t think much of it. It was early and I was still groggy. In the time between waking up and
Originally published on Medium in February 2024. This essay documents my thinking at the time. I can’t believe anyone denies climate change. I’ve seen the climate change in my own short life. Winter in New York is not what it used to be when I was a kid.
I was talking with a coworker, a fellow stripper (or to be more specific, I was listening to her) when my eyes were opened to something I hadn’t considered before—this girl had organized her life around an advertising image: luxury cars parked in the driveways of big houses.