During Christmas break, I worked every night at my part-time job and started my photo internship (in Dallas; 8am-5pm). Since I was operating on about three hours of sleep a night, I lasted a week (by the end of it I was hallucinating while driving). With the internship over, I realized I had some spare time and decided to look for a good paying job.

I checked out the possibilities of a studio. The Venus Room had just opened up and was running ads. I went there one afternoon. They were professional. The girls were skinny, beautiful, groomed and dressed to the nines. The place smelled lovely and rich. It was subdued and attractive. The woman who took my application (another application form!) and answered my questions was very nice. This place ran in shifts, but the hours were very reasonable. They closed at 10pm on Fridays. In other words, no crazies. I liked it, but wasn’t sure I was ready for a studio. I understood there was sex, but, once again, there was also the whole dancing/tipping thing too.

So I decided to try and waitress at a strip club.

Read more

I am nothing if not stubborn.

The next week I picked up the new issues of The Met and The Observer. I found an ad that I liked. It was plain printing with no pictures, offering professional models for lingerie shows, bubble baths and modeling. I called the number and was able to come in for an interview the week after.

Read more

I would pick up The Met (now defunct) every week. Every now and then I would pick up The Observer and look in the back pages. There were ladies who offered massage or domination and there were mysterious “escorts.” I was intrigued by the idea of offering phone sex, but with the problems the college phone system always suffered, I knew it wouldn’t work.

One time, (with the aforementioned boyfriend), I had gone to visit a photographer who advertised a need for nude models and paid $300-$500 per shoot. He was a professional and had a great studio. His portfolio was full of Playboy-style photos of womanly women. I think I looked too young for his taste, although he was complimentary. I know I didn’t look sophisticated enough. We talked for at least half an hour and when I left, he told me I could come back and pose if I wanted. But, of course, the boyfriend vetoed that. I was a little steamed since the pictures and the photographer seemed harmless and very nice (but it wasn’t “art,” in my opinion). The boyfriend had already put a stop to my (free) nude modeling for art/photo students. He really cramped my style.

As the relationship with my boyfriend was winding down, I struck up a friendship that summer with a non-traditional student who lived on campus. Her name was Anna. One day I showed her an Observer ad for the much-envied Dallas Fetish Ball (I finally attended it years later and it really wasn’t wild, or maybe I’m jaded). That sparked quite a conversation. I showed her some of the other ads that I found intriguing. I explained my need of money. I was hoping for support and not recriminations. What I got was a surprising history and lots of advice, which I sorely needed.

Read more

A couple weeks later, I get the urge again. I want to try dancing on a night when the plant paid its workers. I consult a calendar and plan my return. Once again, the boyfriend sits and glowers in the back. I don’t think they like him there, but he doesn’t cause trouble. I had done the math and if I couldn’t pull in $100 this night, it would not be worth it. It was a long round-trip.

Read more

That next summer, I found out about a club in a small town about an hour away. The club was called Charlie’s (now it’s a Baby Dolls, part of the chain I worked for in Dallas). Thursday through Saturday nights they featured “Charlie’s Angels.” I didn’t like the drive, but since it was a bikini bar, I persuaded the boyfriend to let me check it out. If we both liked the place, I could try it.

It was a private-membership club to skirt the local liquor laws. Although I wasn’t yet 21, they let me in when I explained I wanted to work there. The DJ and a manager took turns explaining things to me. There wasn’t much to know. It was a bikini bar, but I could just wear lingerie, as long as it wasn’t sheer. There wasn’t much to see. Seemed harmless enough for a naive college kid and podunk enough for my total lack of dancing skills.

Read more