Bullying

“Do you think this is okay to wear?” a girl asked me last night, twisting so I could see the simple outfit she had on. “I don’t want anyone to say anything since I’m not exactly popular around here…”

For reasons I still haven’t figured out, a lot of the girls have been picking on her. The club I’m at now is a lot kinder than other places I’ve worked, but strippers in general are worse than junior high kids when it comes to bullying.

I’ve been the target at some clubs and the mean girl at others. I learned over time to navigate the politics of dressing rooms- being friends with a girl no one liked did me in at one club- and I did things I now wish I hadn’t.

To a certain girl in Vegas,

I don’t know if you remember that tiny club with the cheetah-print carpet and the manager so high his eyes were like the stage mirror after everyone’s put their hands all over it. Your reputation got there before you did. We knew you got arrested for selling pussy on the strip at seventeen, and there you were in our dressing room, on the phone with your ‘man.’ I sat in front of you, talking about how dirty and cheap girls with pimps were. I was looking at you in the mirror.

I still don’t know why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to go along with the other girls, who were some of my only true friends by the way, and actually really good people. Maybe I was afraid if I closed my smart-ass mouth I’d have to open my dumb-ass eyes and see that the boyfriend who took most of my money while fucking other girls wasn’t so different from your ‘man.’

Except he was different, in one very big way. When the time came, he did the kindest thing an evil man can do: he let me go without a fight.

I was lucky, and since you weren’t, I hope you were smarter than me or stronger than me, or found someone much kinder than me who could help you get out. Wherever you are now, just know I will never forget the image of you staring straight ahead just like you’d been taught.