“F**k you, Asshole!”

I stood in the parking lot humiliated, wearing little more than my red stilettos as the 6′6″ man flew toward me. His clenched fists flying first.

A protective move placed the diminutive frame of a quick thinking valet driver between me and the assault. My protector crashed into me as he took the punch, knocking us both to the ground.secret

Within seconds, the police had jerked my assailant’s fists behind him, throwing him onto a nearby car.

I burst into tears.

I had stripped an eight hour shift and had nothing to show for it.

Insisting the cash he owed me was in his car, the man had been trying to get me out of the club and into the parking lot. My suspicious reluctance as his tried to draw me away from the club entrance finally prompted his violent rage.

Selling your body is degrading.
Selling your body and being broke, even more so.

I don’t tell anyone that I used to be a stripper. (It doesn’t easily work itself into a conversation.) But I’ve lived so comfortably for ten years now, that those eight years are almost completely blotted from my memory.

But something about this blogging is bring them back.

Something even stranger is prompting me to write about them.

I keep getting flashbacks of being on stage. Or of working in the club. Things I haven’t thought of in years.

I don’t know why.

Is this blogging bringing back that familiar feeling of over-exposure and insecurity? Or is this some effort to finally reflect on it from a protective distance? An awkward attempt to make you work through this with me as I disclose all of my secrets?  Some of each?

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