She left behind nothing but her glass slipper...

I’ve started to adjust to using a name that is not my own every night, so you can call me Melissa. I am 22 years old, and I have just recently entered the world of exotic dancing. Entertaining. Stripping. Whatever you would like to call it, that's what I have been doing for a mere month.

I’m a normal girl, I swear. I’ve never done a recreational drug in my life, unless you count some all-nighters studying with the aid of adderall, and the occasional high school flirtation with marijuana. I’m not a single mom, although I have all the respect in the world for the girls I work with that are. I’m just a girl whose whole family and life were turned upside down by this economic crash, and is making the best of it.

I’m a country girl at heart who moved to the city for school; I work about 30 minutes outside of it to avoid any run ins with people I know. I have a steady, long term boyfriend who I have lived with for a year now. And yes, he knows, and supports me 100%. We have two roommates, a yellow lab, and a relatively normal life. I work another job waitressing and bartending on my off days and nights, and make frequent trips home or up to the mountains where he lives to visit our families. I was a student at a fairly prestigious college for the past three years - a writing major with hopes of breaking into journalism, until the crash happened. More on that later.

But every Thurs-Sat, when the clock strikes 7, I become someone else entirely - by both name and appearance. I change out of my jeans or sweatpants and in to a g-string, 5” clear heels, and whatever microscopic dress I pick out for the night. Sometimes I clip in long blonde hair extensions to add to my shoulder-length hair, and the make up artist proceeds to turn me into a man’s fantasy. Glossy lips, long (fake) eyelashes, the occasional spray tan; all the glamorous and perhaps borderline trashy details that men secretly and not-so-secretly love.

And then I dance. On stage, in private, a few times in the champagne room. I use the term “dancing” loosely; I’ve never been too great at it. I have the flexibility of an 80 year old man thanks to an old foot injury, though I’ve been assured that it will improve the longer I work there. It’s more winding and moving seductively than anything, and that I can do. There are girls that are immensely talented and can do all sorts of tricks and contortions on stage, I’m just not one of them. Yet.

When 2 A.M. rolls around it’s all over. The locker room becomes packed with girls counting out their money and tip-outs, changing into their normal clothes, grabbing their purses and waiting for the O.K. that the parking lot is cleared and it’s time for the bouncers to walk us out.

It’s been a whirlwind of a month in this new occupation of mine, and there certainly is a learning curve to it. I’m still learning the beautification tips of the trade, which I may venture into in a future post, as well as stripper etiquette, hustling techniques, etc. It’s still very new to me but I feel myself starting to get comfortable with it. Most importantly, I am making more money than I ever have in my life. In just the first two weeks I was able to pay off all my credit cards AND my rent. With some leftover. The feeling is unbeatable, my friends. I remember sitting in my car at the end of my first night, wide-eyed as I counted out $500. And I’ve been told that’s a bad night. So I will continue to dance, and write about it throughout, however long that may be.