People talk about “falling” into the adult industry all the time, as though it’s easy to do. As though it’s just right there waiting to grab anyone who steps off the path for minute. I found out that getting into this world is very difficult. I had to fight and struggle for a few years before I finally broke my way into making money off “selling” myself. Or maybe it’s just my usual method of doing everything the hard way.
I’ve decided to share my lumps and bumps on the road to where I am today. Everyone has a history and it usually isn’t glamorous. I’m no exception, but I hope you’ll enjoy the droll misadventures of a determined-to-be-deviant college girl.
I’ve wanted to be part of the adult industry since I was in the single digits. First, I wanted to be a prostitute. As a sheltered child, I have no idea where I came up with my ideas about prostitution, but it seemed like a fun, free way to make a good living. When I got into junior high school, I discovered that there were strippers. That seemed like a more realistic ambition for me since I knew from magazine articles that a lot of strippers used their jobs to pay for college. There was never a question in my mind that I would go to college.
When I first got to college, I had the idea that since the town had bars it would also have topless clubs and I could do that through school. What I failed to realize was that this town was really small and puritanical; and that college boys don’t have money. Since I was too intimidated to go to Dallas and dance, I didn’t.
I managed to see the inside of my first strip club during my first semester at school. This guy I met in the photo lab offered me the date of a lifetime — he would take me to the seamiest parts of Dallas that he could find and it was mine to enjoy and absorb. I couldn’t wait.
After our dinner, we went to a Harry Hines strip club. The only way I could get in because I was 19 (and they served alcohol) was to say that I wanted to work there. I also think they didn’t care a tiny bit.
It was a strange little place with the outside done up like a boat. The customers had to walk up the gangplank to get to the door. It was nearly pitch-black inside. There were a lot of Middle-Eastern men in there (this is not a racist comment but a sign that the girls at the club did a lot of “extras” really cheaply). The strippers wore a lot of neon in order to be seen and there was a cute, skinny girl on stage playing with a large beach ball. The stripper nearest us was lounging on her stage. She was wearing ankle books with pointy toes. I asked her if her feet hurt. She said they did. My date and I chatted with her a little bit. Then we left because I wanted to see an adult bookstore.
He didn’t buy me any magazines, but I sure got an eyeful. It looked like candy-land to me, although the floor needed mopping. We made a couple other stops, but I no longer remember where.
Although we got along well as friends, and stayed friends, we never became romantically involved because we did not excite each other. He obsessed over his ex-girlfriend (a minor who looked like Traci Lords) and I was obsessed with my own explorations. (One time I approached him with an idea of The Crying Game in reverse–me dressed as a gay man–but he said I was too feminine and it wouldn’t work. It dashed my hopes of a good time.)
Some months later, completely accidentally, I ended up with a boyfriend. My braces came off soon after we became an item and I expressed a renewed desire to strip and make some real money. He introduced me to a former high school classmate of his who was going to college with us and dancing at Deja Vu (a club in Dallas not associated with the chain; it no longer exists). She was pretty. She made a lot of money. He sent her to talk to me to discourage me from dancing. After two full hours of pestering her with questions and listening, I knew she did hand jobs in the corner, but it paid well and I had a “school girl” look that men would love. (In other words, I looked young, dumb and innocent. All of which I was.)
I was dying to start earning some real bucks as opposed a part-time minimum wage job. Since I was now 20 and my mouth was metal-free, he agreed to take me to a strip club so I could see what it was like. We (him, his roommate and I) went to Obsession one night (this is the club where I eventually started dancing; I don’t think anything is in the building now). It was the classiest club they could come up with. We all had a lot to learn.
The door girl let my underage self in the door because I said I wanted to work there. I was impressed with the interior. This was a far cry from the Harry Hines Yacht Club (not its real name). The women were pretty and sexy and the place seemed right. I was in a silver dress, wearing high-heeled silver sandals and pantyhose (young, dumb, innocent). I was getting excited at the thought of the money and seeming so sophisticated. I was picking out my stripper name. My boyfriend was nearly crying in his beer. He just saw me going down the road to degradation and hell. That night he told me that if I started dancing, he would eventually have enough of it and leave me. I should’ve said okay, it’s a deal. At the time, I felt I didn’t want to lose him. (Two years later I wished I could make him disappear.)
The manager I talked to had told me to come in that Sunday and he would show me the ropes. That Sunday, I was on pins and needles. I still hadn’t decided whether or not I would show up there at 7pm. I had told several guy friends I was going to start stripping and all were encouraging. My boyfriend was hateful to me. Ladies who are reading this–this is a sign. He wasn’t paying my bills. In fact, he spent most of his time mooching off what little I had. He would’ve made the perfect stripper boyfriend.
Sunday passed. He got happier. I felt I had let something important slip by.
The saga continues as I discover how to earn tips while dancing (quite badly) in my underwear.