Forget everything that you have learned about politeness. Inside of that building, you are released from those shackles of pious and virtuous woman. You are a parasite and you must be blood thirsty. You must demand everything and give nothing.

“No, I don’t want a dance, but you can come to my hotel.”

You must suck your teeth, and spit, “So you gonna give me $10,000.00?”

“I’m sorry, I have a wife.”

Slyly tilt your head so that your locs brush on your brow. Laugh. “Do you think I give a damn? Swipe your card and I.D.”

You must be unforgiving, unphased. Aggressive. Stoic. You are not to ask any questions disguised to elicit validation. So what if you are not his type. So what if he actually has his eye on the skinny blonde girl (no shade to y’all), tell him how much it costs for 5 minutes of your time. And when you tell him the number, do not waver in uncertainty, as if to ask a question. Root into the ground. Be a tree unmoored in a storm.

And if he tells you no, then you must not internalize it. It must be water that rolls off your back. Enact your revenge when you are on stage. Point those dagger heels in his direction, threaten his livelihood with your gaze. Stomp like a mad woman. Slam your legs into a split, and smack the stage. Get up. Climb the pole like you are touching gods nose. Oooze down the pole. Remember when that shit used to hurt so bad that your brown skin bruised in blue? Now you feel nothing cause the skin already been burned off. You are a conqueror. So conquer.

And if you service him. And if you provide him the luxury of experiencing you, never ask for a tip. Asking for a tip is based upon the assumption that he has a choice. Instead, ask how he would like to tip you with cash or card.

And when he says that he will do it later that he just wants to have a beer, you say, cash or card.

And when he thinks about escaping you, box him in a corner, stand nose to nose with him, and ask, cash or card.

And when he says that you are aggressive, as he puts his pin the ATM, lean over his shoulder, and ask for $300 more than what he was about to give you.

And when says that you should be more nicer, that your probably missing out because of your approach, snatch the money from his hands, and do not say thank you.

Ray, the door guy is walking you to your car on Conti as he tell you about being at sea in the Gulf of Mexico for 10 days. “It changed my life. I don’t know how long I can do this. Working on Bourbon is hard. You know something, there was a time when my friends and I didn’t talk for three hours and none of us noticed it. There’s something so peaceful about the waters.”

You should’ve made more. Cause $1,000 is just water slipping through your fingers, and you wish you was velvet. The type of fabric that absorb the water. The type of fabric that the night can’t tear apart.

Can you make that shit happen again? Can you craft a consistent miracle? Nah, you can’t and so maybe you should’ve hustled harder. That slouched table of boys who looked Latinx and slouched over their beers—why you ain’t talk to them? And you left an hour before closing, why wasn’t you the last girl on the floor?

“Does it ever get draining,” you ask as y’all approach your car. “Like working the door ?”

“Bourbon street is chaotic.” He say, as he hand you back your bag. “I feel like I’m inviting so much energy in. It’s exhausting.”

“And your body know the difference between you inviting energy into the club v.s your body.”

Ray nods to a door guy outside of Three Legged Dog, and then looks at you. “I’d rather invite peace in.”

You want to invite peace into your bedroom and undress her, just as you undressed yourself in the locker room. You want to wipe off her makeup, adorn her in red lingerie, robe her in chiffon, burn sandlewood incense, and rock her to sleep, but the night got an attitude with you cause you ain’t slept with her in a minute.

You want to invite peace in but all you can think about is how you could’ve made more money. How you should’ve made more. $1,000 is just water slipping through your fingers, and you wish you was velvet. The type of fabric that absorb the water. The type of fabric that the night can’t tear apart.

Can you make that shit happen again? Can you craft a consistent miracle? Nah, you can’t and so maybe you should’ve hustled harder. That slouched table of boys who looked Latinx and slouched over their beers—why you ain’t talk to them? And you left an hour before closing, why wasn’t you the last girl on the floor?

It’s okay girl, it ain’t your fault that you feel like $1,000 ain’t enough to give you peace of mind. I understand that you spent so long not having, that even having make your mind run naked in the street. But come here baby, let me tell you something I wish somebody told me. Money ain’t ever gonna fill in that hole, that void that got you chasing after niggas that don’t want you. That void that got you up thinking that accolades gonna make you at ease with yourself.

Stripping dangerous on the self baby. I ain’t telling you to quit, but I’m saying you got to be careful with chasing money that come from a man’s desire.

But somebody got to do it, somebody gotta turn those fuckers on, tell them where to put they hands, and how much to put in your hands. Power can’t go unchecked so find the balance baby.

Ray hands you your tote bag, and you drive him back to Bourbon. “You working tomorrow?”

You got the type of job where you can go in whenever you want. And if you made money today, then you gotta get it in while it’s good. Or you could inhale. Take a deep breath, call someone you love tomorrow, lie in the grass, go to a yoga studio, or meditate at the Mississippi River.

“Fuck no.”

But are you ready for them full moon nights that swell in your ankles? You ready to walk, dance, flirt, laugh in 7 inch stilettos while a thong slung so deep into your ass it leave a mark? You ready to work that pole? Yeah, you went to that pole class and you got a few moves up your sleeve— hell, maybe you can hold your own body weight and even invert now. Good for you sis, and this no shade, but can you do that same routine 10 times a night? Sometimes for a club of tippers, and sometimes for people who look at you and yawn.

I know baby. I know you ready for that fast money. Ain’t nothing like being sexy on a stage bathed in blue strobe light while a somebody husband make it rain on you. Ain’t that a type of baptism? A type of wading in the waters? A type of miracle. You came into work with less than $50 to your name, and you leaving with over a band. Ain’t that a type of magic trick?

I know you ready for those nights when a man give you $500 just to massage your feet while you tell him that you a writer, and dream to one day publish a book. I know you ready for when you sell that champagne room, and make so much money that you pay off a credit card in 30 minutes. Oh! How we crave those luscious generous nights that pour out to us like an offering. Oh! How we swish our hips, bear the pinching stilletos, swollen ankle, the biting thong.

The power we yield. The danger. Yeah sis, I know you want this. But can you handle it? Again, no shade sis, but true power can’t be found in those nights where money rains, but when it’s a dry corn stalk. It’s the drought. It’s when you been shaking your ass for 6 hours, and you ain’t got nothing to show for it except swollen feet and tight shoulders.

I ain’t telling you not to come, but if you want to make money, then you gotta learn how to keep your head up when you don’t. And baby that’s the cruelest lesson you gon have to learn, that you not worth what you make cause you already worthy.

Anyone who says that stripping is not degrading has never taken off their clothes in a room of strangers whose eyes widen at the sight of your exposed nipple. Men tell you, strip clubs aren’t my thing as if to apologize for their participation. Women who come with their friends or partners snicker and sweat with curiosity intermixed in disgust— they love what you do, but they themselves could never do that.

When we are young, we teach our children that they can, with hard work and discipline, be anything that they want. And we insist that what they want to be is a doctor, lawyer, engineer, accountant, or entrepreneur who earns an honest and respectable living. For career day, we invite the firefighter, policeman, teacher, or business owner. Could you imagine a world where an exotic dancer did a presentation to a class of 7th graders for career day? Or could you imagine a world where young girls proclaimed that they wanted to be a stripper when they grow up?

Stripping in our world, is seen as the thing you do when all else fails. Think back to The Best Man when Candy (Regina Hall) is hired for Lance’s Bachelor party, and ends up falling in love Jullian (Harold Perrineau). Jullian doesn’t fall in love with Candy because she is a stripper, but in spite of it. Candy puts up a front cause for her the party is just business, but Jullian senses that she is a good girl who kinda just ended up in a fucked up situation. In the end, his love transforms her from stripper to a more respectable title, wife and mother.

Do you remember Player’s Club where Diana (LisaRaye), aspiring journalist and college student works at The Player’s Club to pay tuition? Remember when Ebony (Monica Calhoun) ends up working there as well, and unlike Diana she loses herself in the adult entertainment world, and ends up at a party where she is violently assaulted. This movie taught me that stripping is a last resort, it’s what you do when your back against the wall and you got no where to go. It is a cautionary tale that says beware, this could be you.

I sold a champagne room to a young man about a year ago and his older brother paid for it. “It’s his first time at a strip club, treat him good.” I smirked and put my hand around the lanky man who looked like he had just turned 21. Towering above him in my 6 inch stilettos, I nestled his head under my neck.

In the room, he got on his knees and massaged my feet. I moaned like a trucker who finally saw a pit stop after an endless drive. “You like massaging my feet don’t you?”

“Yes.” He replied.

“Yes what?'“

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy.” I bent down and ruffled his blonde hair. “Now let me take care of you.” I slowly took off my top, and then straddled him.

He hissed and tilted his head back. After a few minutes he choked on his ecstasy. “Please tell me that your doing something other than this.” I raised my brow. “Your too good for this place.”

Here we were in this champagne room for 15 minutes that his brother paid $400 for and he was shaming himself for his expression of desire.

Strip comes from the word strepen which means “to plunder, rob, despoil” It is an act of vagrancy, a spit in an elderly woman’s face and devoid of morality and virtue. And yet, when this young man begged me to find another job as he cupped my ass, as he moaned in my ear, I was not ashamed nor offended. Because I’ve learned over the years that stripping is not only degrading for the one who strips, but for the one who looks.

“And the manager let y’all do that in the room?” I’m looking at her in the mirror while I put on my face for the evening.

“Hell no.” She stumble back to her corner and take off her shirt to reveal a perfect set of titties. “The manager made us take it out.”

Another girl chimed in, “That’s nothing. Remember when that white man came in here, and we beat him up so hard that he started bleeding on his head?”

And then another, “Oh and remember when we made him tip us $1,000 a piece?”

On the main floor, kind girls like Ecstasy tranform into animals. Into sharks who smell Tom Ford shoes and rolex’s from a mile a way. There is no courtesy, mercy, or kindness once the music is pumping and the night is rolling. Girls like Sin got three mouths to feed, and so when she get on that pole, she act like it. Girls like Lollipop saving up for a BBL in Miami, and so she drag motherfuckers up to the ATM like she about to buy a new body cause she is.

I used to take it personal when I’d talk to a customer, and a girl like Ecstasy or Sin would swoop in and squeeze that man until they tossed him back to Bourbon street, shirt inside and a desperate case of blue balls. On the main floor, girls are ruthless, but in the locker room, the same girl that macheted her way into the customer you first talk to, will give you an extra pair of lashes, a tampon, or help you clasp your bralette.

The girls locker room is where you bend over and ask another girl if she can see your tampon. Or where another girl hands you a pair of scissors, and you cut her tampon string off. Or where somebody storms into the dressing yelling that some nasty bitch done clogged the toilet with a bloody tampon, and that bitches need to have some decorum. I don’t know why, but it always got something to do with a tampon.

Maybe its cause on the main floor, we just caricatures of a fantasy. We objects strut walking amongst other objects, trying to make a way out of no way. We what society call hoe, slut, bitch, fast, and if you look up the word, marginlization, you might see a snap shot of Ecstasy’s perfectly sculpted titties. But in the locker room, we see each other before the make up. We see each other with the four corn rows, sparse eyebrows, and then after with the smudged liner and left over glue from our lace fronts. Somehow someway we get along in the locker room long enough to tell war stories.

Maybe it’s cause we know that at the end of the day, we all bleed.

Am I Carrie Bradshaw, balancing romance, writing, and living in a city or am I just stuck in a fantasy world where the only person who exists is me and this gorgeous man?

This morning he kissed me on my forehead. I pretended to be asleep but inside of me a door swung open. There’s a version of this scenario where a man sleeps with me, and leaves no trace of his existence. There’s a version of this where I wake up in the afternoon and feel betrayed, cheapened, a dark corridor with darker corners. I have ran from love even when I thought I was running towards it.

I’ve been re-watching “Sex and the City” and I gotta admit, I love those four white girls. I relate to how Carrie can find flaws in every lover that she dates, and how she goes so far to even fake pitch a book to Mr. Big’s ex wife. I’ve also been Samantha, the hot girl who doesn’t know her self, and finds validation in her desire of men. And Miranda, who seems to be a closeted pessimistic lesbian, and Charlotte who seems to be overly optimistic.

Today I thought I would write my morning pages, meal prep, and go to work as I am headed to a writing retreat tomorrow afternoon. But the thought of being away from this man for a week straight, seems unreasonable, unfathomable. I want him living in my skin; I want him next to me while I write, while I read, while I think.

Am I off the deep-end? Am I lost? Am I losing myself in a nigga? In what world does a boss girl choose spending time with a man over going to work and making a rack? Have I fallen off the deep-end?

He picked me up this afternoon, we went to the gym, did yoga in a sauna, went on a walk, I made us salmon, we took a shower, and are now at the coffee shop. We sat outside, and he read me the first few pages of “Song of Solomon” and I read him some poems from Morgan Parker’s “There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé”

Carrie Bradshaw doesn’t pretend to have shit figured out. She roams New York in overpriced heels, doesn’t mind her business, overthinks, and loves love. Maybe you can find love, and still not know what the hell it is and still feel lost.

Yolo, we ball.

It was a Wednesday summer night on Bourbon, a time that is notoriously slow. For the first hour, a few of us girls lounged on the velvet seats, kicked our feet up, and yawned. An older woman sauntered in, unsure if she should stay, but our floor guy coaxed her into getting a drink.

She sips her rum coke, “I used to dance in the 80s.” She laughs, “Now I’m an old woman.”

“Ally!” I put a hand on her knee, “Your not old, just seasoned.”

I learn that she has been on a road trip from Michigan headed to Miami to spread her mother’s ashes. “It’s our last time together.” Her shoulders sag with an uncomfortable sadness. “Let me see you on stage!”

I do a little one-two for her, and huff at the end of the stage. She gives me $40, and hugs me. “Thank you for entertaining an old lady like myself.”

“Don’t talk about my girl like that!.”

Two guys walk in and my eyes dart towards them. “Go get em girl!”

They call girls roaches or sharks who flee to men who have just walked into the club and haven’t even sat down to order a drink. But the odds weren’t in my favor. It was edging towards 11pm and there were more girls than customers. I plop down, unsure of which man I’d have a better chance of winning over. I tried my luck with the skinnier one, with a black bang covering his eyebrows, until the waitress came over, and the ginger-haired man paid the tab.

Cardinal rule: Always win over the first who reaches for their wallet.

His name was George, and he wore these circular glasses that made him look like he belonged in a library and got lost. “You arite?”

“Huh?” His british accent was so heavy I thought he was speaking another language. He repeated himself, and I mimiced him, “I’m arite innit. A bit cheeky today.”

We chit-chatted, I laughed at his jokes, I leaned into him, I rubbed his knee, until he asked that golden question, “How do dances work here?”

I was a god the way I strung this white man back and forth to the couch to the lap dance booth. Everytime he gave me a 100, I pretended like it didn’t matter, and asked for more. His mouth would twist to say no, and then I’d throw my head back, and motion to take off my top, and he’d relent.

By the time he left, he’d given me $400.

If other girls sagged with envy because there wasn’t any motion, I ignored them. I swished my hips across the carpet, and told the Dj I was taking a lunch like I was a celebrity on a movie set.

When I came back downstairs, the london guys had left, and there was a black couple who sat a few rows from the stage. The woman had this foxy hair that puffed near her shoulders, and this wide smile. Her man, however, was stoic. A stick in the mud. I joked, “He don’t smile, do he?”

She laughed, “That’s the military in him.”

“You look good together, but you’d look better with me in the middle.” I batted my eyes and crossed my legs.

The man looked at me squarely, while the woman laughed and fanned herself.

I went on stage, and the woman tipped me. I had resolved that I was waisting my time, so I went back to the bar to read. A few moments later, the man walked up to a co-worker and got a dance with her.

Why did a flash of betrayal thunder through me? And why the hell was this nigga I didn’t know the end all be all for my self worth and esteem. I felt so damn pathetic trying to get this man to like me. After wards, I ended up giving this Australian young boy a lap dance, and even though he gave me a $40 tip, I still could wash off the scent of rejecion off of me.

Was it my hair? Is it cause I’ve gained weight in the wrong places? Was it the neon one-piece— was it too bright?

I found Ally at the bar, asking a young man to touch his beard. He walked away from her. She slumped her shoulders and twisted her long gray hair. “I guess its just cause I’m old,” she said.

Maybe we never stop feeling not enough. Maybe you can’t shake off rejection, you can only accept it.

“Ally, stop it. I’ve told you, your not old—”

“I know.” She paid her tab, and left.

It’s been a good day. I want to write something smart, but I don’t got nothing to say at the moment, so here is a break down of my day so far.

12:45pm: Wake up, and go back to sleep.

1:07pm: Finally get out of bed, brush my teeth, boil water, fix bed, and drink warm lemon and celtic salt.

1:30pm: Sit out on back porch and do my morning pages. Three pages of blabbering and not giving a damn.

2:15pm: Meal prepping dinner. Cleaned and seasoned some chicken with lemon grass, Korean bbq, apple cider vinegar, black garlic, bouillon, over a bed of onion and carrots.

3:30pm: Made breakfast. Eggs, whole wheat pita, lettuce, avocado, chicken sausage and ate while watching Sex and the City.

4:30pm: Head out to cafe. Re-read “The Air You Breathe” by Frances De Pontes Peebles, Read Week 3 of “The Artist Way” by Julia Cameron.

5:15pm: A man pulled up on me with a bike, and talked to me about raising money to support a woman without a home and battling substance addiction. “You know Quentin Tarantino? Yeah Daughters of the Dusk. The movie start out with a bank robbery then turn into some Vampire shit. Ima make a commercial like that, just need to get me a script. You feel me?”

5:30pm: I got accepted into the Watering Hole Manuscript Workshop and a friend requested a time to sit down and read my manuscript. I write a letter to direct readers for feedback.

6:16pm: I start writing a substack, and instead just write about my day. I’m recovering from perfectionism and am trying to build more consistent blog habits.

now I’m going to get ready to go shake my ass for the cash, so i can keep doing my writing class.

The objective for every dancer, or at least most of us, is to sell a champagne room, and if not a champagne room, then at least a dance. To make the most profit in the least amount of time requires finesse, skill, and luck. Couples are tricky customers. If the woman is not into it, then you will not make any money regardless if you catch the man drooling.

Towards the entrance of The Lounge sat a white middle aged couple.

I squatted, and hugged the wife. “Hi, I’m June. Love that top!” I hated that top. It looked like she got it off the maternity section at Ashley and Stewart then vomitted a bouquet of petonia’s and roses on it.

“Thanks, we were just coming from dinner.”

“Oh! Well, we love some spontaneous fun.” I had a headache, but I kept up the performance, “And who is your handsome husband?”

The husband looked like he just left a country inn. He wore a blue and white polo and khaki shorts. He reached over his wife, shook then squeezed my hand. “Kenny, and this is Martha.”

“Nice to meet you Kenny, where y’all from?”

“Alabama.”

“Amazing!” I shouted, like a strung out sales woman who is getting to know you before she tries to sell you something you probably don’t need. “What bring y’all into town?”

On stage, Desmyn was a bottle of honey oozing down the pole. She landed on her feet, and gyrated down to the floor, where a few men sprinkled a few ones and whistled. Martha gulped down her rum and punch and stared at me like I had just called her a dumb bitch.

Nothing irritates me more than when men bring their girlfriends, wives, mistresses, or woman companions to the strip club, knowing damn well that said person don’t wanna be there. Leave them at the hotel room. Kenny placed a hand onMartha’s knee like he was trying to tame a jittery horse. “We here for the swinger’s convention.”

Not gonna lie, that caught me by suprise. These people look like they go to bed at 9pm every night but in this industry you learn that the most conventional looking motherfuckers usually the wildest. “Okay Martha! So I see you a lil nasty,” I teased. She offered a half-hearted smile. “Where’s the bathroom?”

I pointed to the back of the club where the cashier sat collecting payments for dances, and champagne rooms. She walked off and I sat in her seat.

“I’m just going to shoot it to you straight.” Kenny said. “We been married for twenty years. Before we were married, I only did open relationships, but June, I’ve been getting restless. I love my wife, but a few months ago, I gave her an ultimatum. I want to explore, you know? So tomorrow we are going to Coldless, but before then, I thought I would ease her in here.”

He had a Hustler band on his wrist. I pointed to it, “Have y’all been on a strip club tour up and down Bourbon?”

“We went to Hustler’s a little bit before this, but their private rooms are ridiculous.” My ears 1perked up. Our rooms at The Lounge were less expensive than Hustler, and if they had gone on a tour then that meant they knew what time it was.

Now it was my turn to put my hand on his leg, and I trailed up to his inner thigh then stopped. “Our 30 minute rooms only $800. Way less than Hustler.” He rubbed his chin. “Not bad at all. I really want you to work on Martha, but that’s not a bad deal at all.”

When Martha came back, Kenny went to the bathroom. I crossed my legs like I was interviewing Martha for a job. “Is this your first time at a place like this?”

“Not really my scene.” She didn’t take her eyes off Charlie, who was now on stage, and hanging off the pole like she was climbing monkey bars. Charlie hooked her knee on the pole, piked her legs, and laid back as if she was free-falling off a cliff into a geyser that led into a river. Her falling bra was a leaf that summoned the courage to return to earth. Martha sipped a refilled rum and punch, “Just here for him.”

Charlie descended like a deflated ballon, edged towards the other side where the same men who had been entralled with Desmyn, now worshipped Charlie. Men have such a short memory. A few women giggled, put money on stage then ran back to their seats like they were speaking in front of a class, and were shy.

I took her hand, and held it in mine, “And what about you, Martha. Why are you here?” She breathed deeply, and then frowned. “If I was 20 years younger, I would have done this.”

“It’s not too late to take a pole class, Martha.”

She laughed like someone had promised her a million dollars. “I’ve had three kids, and I’m overweight. I could never do what she’s doing.”

“Your body brought three beautiful children into this world. I’ve seen all types of bodies do pole and be sexy as hell. Besides, where I’m from, you thick.”

She swatted my hand away. “We can do what ever he wants. I just want our marriage to work.” She flagged Jayla over and asked for more drinks.

Kenny came back, and I sat on his lap. “Martha and I had a great time while you were gone, but I missed you so much! Please don’t leave us waiting for that long again, right Martha?”

To be an adult entertainer is to be a performer. You must perform servitude. You must pout, flutter your lids, sing praises, caress, rub, and bury your face so deep into their necks that they will smell your musk and perfume for the rest of the night. They will smell you long after they have washed you off, long after they remember what you look like.There is no where else in the world that they can go, and guaranteed to be praised and desired. Strip clubs exist because no one can get away from that universal truth that binds humanity together: we all want to be desired by what we desire.

He rubbed my leg, and I could smell cigarettes and beer off him. “You want to do a private room, Martha?”

Martha shuddered like a ghost brushed against her. “If it will make you happy,” she eyed the exit, “ then yes.”

I am inside of a coffee shop. A cute Indian man who looks like he has never missed chest day, leaves the bathroom. He walks chest forward. Our eyes meet, then he tosses his glance to another Black girl at a table buried in her laptop. The barista calls his name, and he brings her a pastry and a latte. He is generous, and if I met him at work, I could probably get $200 from him. Was I always like this? Noticing the subtle ways that men look at me, and then approximating the extent of their desires, categorizing them into boxes, of how much they would spend on me if we were at the club?

Is there a danger to this perception of the world, where every man I meet is a potential number? Is this exhausting? Sometimes it is. I am young and beautiful. I am a size six on the top and a size 10 on the bottom. I am what someone might call curvy. I had a customer who was a plastic surgeon and I asked him what he would categorize my breast to be. He looked at them and said, “You have not had children; they are young and perky.” It does not escape me that my breasts will not always be young and perky. That I will not always be this size.

I will at times gain weight, I will lose weight. My body is temporary. As my skin expands, new birthmarks arise, stretch and become prominent. Some days my face is peppered with acne, other days it is as smooth as a babies hind. The burden of my job is time, but is that not for most of us?

My father was a taxi driver for over 15 years, and has been an MTA train flagger for nearly 30 years. Each night, he hauls heavy equipment over his shoulders, works in a tunnel infested with rats, mold, dust and God-knows-what-else. As a younger man, he could brave the cold, heat, dust, and damp tunnel. As a man nearing 66, he can no longer haul his heavy equipment along his shoulders without a limp. His work is also his body. His body is his work. If the wind blows a cold breeze, his hips whimper, scream as bone rides on the bone of his hips. Is there a job, that exists in our world, in our society that does not require our body?

Maybe you might say that a white collar job does not require a body— that sitting at a desk is easy. Then I would ask you to think about the man or woman at a desk for over 30 years, the slipping of her posture as she bends over her keyboard, the curving spine, the blue light from the laptop that strains her eyes until she needs contacts or laser surgery to keep from going blind. The main arguments for society that I see used to construct shame on the sex worker— from strippers to escorts— is that they use their body for money. Do not we all use our body for money in some way or form? And if not our body then our mind? And if not our mind, then our soul?

Let me be real with you: I don’t always feel beautiful or desirable. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and think that I am too tall, too short, my face to round, too narrow, my breasts too small, my ass to firm. At work, I sometimes have to put on a mask, pretend I am feeling flirtatious and sexy when really I would like to be in an oversized hoody watching re-runs of The Bernie Mac show and eating ice-cream.

We all take our demons and ailments home with us. My father’s hip does not care that he is not on the clock; sparks of pain fly down his sciatic nerve like a train blasting into a station. A woman who works at a demanding firm, will go home, bent over a laptop replaying numbers in her head, long after she has clocked out. For me, I run profiles of men in my head, determine how much I can get from them.

I want to learn how to leave work at work. I want to learn how to drop the performance of being sexy on the nights I don’t feel like it. I want to learn how to let go of numbers, money, but I haven’t found the switch yet. Have any of us found it?

We who you call slut, whore, hoe. We who pour champagne down your throat. We who tell you that your wife should be cooking and cleaning for you. We who tell you what you want to hear when you want to hear it. We who dance for you, take off our tops and grind on your hardening dick.We who tell you how handsome you are, how your blue eyes look like oceans, how your hair falls over your thick eyebrows, how we wish we could go home with you. We who hold your chin in our palm, we who tease you with our bodies. We who are snakes coming out of a bowl.We who are ghosts of dior perfume. We who you think about when you look at your Amex card the next day. We who take off your sailor hat and tease you with it. We who tease you and look good doing it. We who you crave and cling to. We who wear 6 inch stilettos and rhinestone bikinis wedged in our ass. We who who draw black lines under our eyes. We who awake at the sunset, we who fall at sunrise. We who you call slut, hoe, whore. We who you ignore until you lust. We who you despise and desire. We who work in haunted clubs waiting for you to come back to us. We who wear the contracts on our sleeves. We who ask for your credit card and I.D. Who ask if you want more. We who service you. We who rub you. We who tell you what your girlfriend won’t. We who want to be with you but won’t. We who will go so far, not further. We who take shots, we who don’t. We who count bills. We who leave with cash. We who wake up and last. We who take our kids to school. We who have kids. We who don’t. We who go to school, we who don’t. We who you call slut, whore, hoe. We who wonder, why to us you still go. We who swallow shame, we who won’t.

When you go to a restaurant, a great waiter introduces herself, brings you water, highlights the specials on the menu, takes your order and brings you your food in a timely manner. She checks on you occasionally, asks how is everything, and if you need anything else. When you pay your bill, it is expected that you tip her; for you know that her job is a performance of servitude, and without your tip, she will only go home with $2.36 an hour.

Imagine if you go to a restaurant, pay for your food, and do not tip her; she might go into the locker room, crash out, then readjust herself for the next performance. That is was its like for night time ballerinas, when people to walk in, watch the show, and do not tip. We do not make an hourly wage and rely 100% on your tips.

Performances are laborious: pole classes and training, make up, hair, outfit, shoes, parking, etc... Our bruised sore bodies tell the stories of seduction, perfection, and a fantasy, but we are human, and when you do not tip, when you say, I’m just here to watch, you are spitting on our performance. I used to crash out when people did not tip, until I discovered a secret weapon: farts.

A months ago I went to the emergency room after I ate a slice of pizza and threw up. My homegirl stood at the bathroom door concerned, but I brushed it off and said, “This just what happens sometimes.”

It was 3am and we had been talking about life at the club, goals, and boy problems while she cleaned and I petted her dog. After I threw up, she insisted that I get checked out. Not having anything better to do, I went to the emergency room and presented with a diabolical case of constipation. After a blood draw, X-ray, and physical exam, the doctor told me that I was full of shit, should take Miralax until I die, and to replenish my electrolytes.

I am a hot girl, with hot girl tummy issues—no one really talks about what’s it like to be a dancer, not know when you will be constipated, have to take a shit, and the struggle to find your sexiness while your stomach rumbles. Do you feel sexy after you have taken a dump, or after you have bent over on a toilet, trying to squeeze out two pebbles?

Our world views sex workers as objects and objects do not have human functions such as bowel movements, feelings, and an identity. I will expand this to say, our world does not view any worker as a human outside of the service they provide.

It can be easy to think of your barista whose sole purpose in life is to serve you coffee; or your waiter who brings you food, or sanitary workers who pick up your styrofoam cups, glass, and bags on Bourbon street.

I asked a few of my dancer friends what they do when they have to take a shit at work. One girl said, “I go to the bathroom on the fourth floor where no one is and I handle my business, use baby wipes, and spray perfume.” Another girl said, “I stop eating after a certain time cause I can’t take a shit at work.”

My bowel movements have been more regular since I have taken stool softeners, and now when I leave a chunky healthy lump I cry with tears of joy. Most days, I am able to time my shits so that I don’t have to take one at work, but if I do, I smile, find a private bathroom, lock the door, line the seat with toilet paper, get comfortable, and let that bad boy rip from me. I wipe twice with baby wipes; the first slides in and out of the cheeks, and the second ones goes up into the glory hole, circles around it, and I keep wiping until the wipe is white. I wash my hands twice, spray deodorant and perfume, and put my ass in the next person’s face. They inhale me gingerly and say, “Wow you smell so good.”

And that is how I can keep the facade up.

Now that my bowel movements are a smooth train, farts have become my latest demise. One time I was on stage inverting into an aerial chopper and as momentum exploded from my feet to my arms, I broke wind. No one else heard the sound of a balloon popping over loud club music, but I am sure they must have smelled it, because the two men at the tipping stage, looked at each other, smiled, and then got up.

At first, I was embarrassed. Embarrassed as I sprayed and wiped the pole down with alcohol, embarrassed as a floor guy helped me off the stage, embarrassed as I headed up to the locker room to change. I felt disgusting, dirty, and very un-sexy.

After I changed into a pink rhinestoned bikini set, I spoke with a man who I will call Tom. Tom was a bit peculiar in that his eyes were dim lights hanging on a low ceiling, he clutched his beer in his hand and kept staring at the floor. Before I could ask where he was from, he cut me off, “I’m not here to do anything, just to look around.”

If I accepted that answer I would never make money. Ask any night time ballerina you know, and if she is a good hustler, she will tell you to never accept no for answer, to push, but not too hard. I licked my lips and spun around, “Take a look.”

“Why don’t we sit down and have a drink?”

A soft no, to a sit down? Not bad. I hailed a waiter over, and seized Tom. White, brunette, red lips, blue eyes, black and white striped shirt, and jeans, but a little slow and hesitant in his movements. He took his time pulling the bar stool from under the counter like a toddler trying to open a cabinet.

“I don’t want to be disrespectful,” he began, and I clenched and relaxed to brace myself for the stupidity that might tumble from his mouth, “But I want to fuck you.”

Yuck. Not the worst thing that I have heard but still, yuck. “Oh do you now,” I teased and greeted our waiter, “Hey babe, let me get a virgin mojito.” He ordered another Modelo, and drank me in.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” He melted, like a puppy who knocked over a glass of water, “I hope you don’t take it the wrong way.” I put my hand on his, and lightly held it, “No worries, I’ve heard much worse.”

The waiter returned, “That will be $30.00 babe. How you paying? Cash or card?” Her southern twang cherried and rich enough to be heard over the music.

He snatched his hand away from mine, “No way in hell I’m paying for her drink.” He slammed his debit card on the counter, “Just the beer please.”

The waiter and I locked eye contact and we both scowled. I leaned over the counter, “What a piece of shit, don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”

She swatted away my money, “Don’t worry, it’s on me. What an asshole.”

When she handed me my drink I wanted to splash it in his face, and kick him in the balls. But I had to remain demure, had to keep up the facade of being hot and unbothered. The bubbles from the club soda made my stomach flare, and I felt that familiar tugging in the base of my spine, like a pulling of a string through my body. I lifted my butt cheeks towards him, poking it out ever so slightly, and I let a bad boy rip right through me in his direction.

Then I strutted off, in search of my next victim.

Buy Me a Coffee So I can Fart

Who hated women badly enough to make them wear 6 inch stilettos for eight hours, Diva thought to herself. A shooting pain that began from the ball of her toes, expanded to her feet, then blossomed up her thigh. All she could think about was soaking in an epsilon soap bath. And who could blame her?

Tonight the club was packed, and she wanted to hustle a little bit more before she called it a night. She wore a bright pink bikini set that looked like a bedazzler vomitted on it. But contrasted against her ebony skin, she felt ethereal, like she had descended from the universe and was sent to rule mortal beings. She saw a few men along the wall, half-dozing, she went to them.

“Hey suga,” she said, and then sat on one of their lap. The man whose lap she sat on, he had a huge belly so that she had to sit on the edge of his knees and he wore a yankee stadium hat and yankee stadium jersey. “Why both of y’all look so bored?”

The man next to him, presumably his friend smirked, “We just tired that’s all.”

“Well how about I help to wake y’all up.” Diva got up and started to dance a little, but when she turned around the men smiled like they enjoyed it but did not give her any money. If she was a younger dancer, she might have stuck around and tried to talk to them a little more. She might have thought that maybe if they liked her they would be more inclined to give her money, but let’s face it, she thought to herself. It would take her about 15 minutes to form a connection with these men, and in those 15 minutes, judging by their countenance, and the fact that they had been nursing the same drink for over 30 minutes, the most she might get out of them would be about $15, if that. Her time was money, and she did not have any of it to waste.

Rent was due the next day. But don’t judge her. You might think that as a stripper she should never be hurt for money, but let me tell you this okay, easy money, easy going. Fast money burns quick. When you have all that money in your hands, life feels real possible. All of a sudden those new Michael Kors shoes, with the all black sexy straps that hugs your calf muscles seem real attainable. And your cousin who lives abroad who needs money, suddenly you not missing the 100 that you sending to her. And let’s not forget about your dream to be a lawyer right? And the fact that you chose to go to a private school that only gave you a partial scholarship.

And the fact that you got dreams don’t help. And then of course, sometimes you wake up and your body hurts so bad, all you can do is moan and pull the blanket over your head. Yes, you are young and you are beautiful but you won’t be for long.

The club seems packed but no one is spending money. You look at the girl named Jayla on stage, and her stage set is empty and she is upside down in a split. If she not making on stage, then neither are you.

Your home girl, Ryan leaning on the bar. You walk up to her, “Your feet hurt too?”

She look at you, flip her bust down, then roll her eyes, “Bitch, what? You feel me?”

Work is hard, but friendship inside the club make it easier. But don’t get too comfortable, any bitch liable to step on your toes. It’s not personal, it’s just the game. “I’m so ready to run me a hot bath.”

She lean on you a little, and you can smell her. She smell like rose mist splintering with a roasted cinnamon and crushed berries. You like the way she smell, and she real pretty in her red body suit. She about to say something when the men you were just talking to waive at y’all. Y’all look and both of you walk over to the fat man in the yankee hat.

“Hey baby,” you coo. Maybe he changed his mind. You could probably get a quick hundred off him. It wasn’t much, but it would definitely be something seeing that you haven’t made a dime tonight and already it’s past midnight. You always said to yourself that once you got your first dance, then you be rolling. But sometimes getting that first one can be a little difficult.

He ignore you, and look straight at her when he say, “I only want her.” Ryan mouth a “I’m sorry” look but also a don’t make a scene and fuck with my money. You smile, “of course” and in your mind you can’t stand her fine red boned self with a dragon tattoo crawling up her leg. You look at the friend, and he real skinny and missing his front tooth, but fuck it you say to yourself. Maybe if his friend spend some bread, then he might too. Y

ou sit next to him, and silently gag. He smells like wet funk, a mop that dipped its head in shit and urine then went out to smoke a cigeratte. He put his bony fingers on your thigh and it make your skin want to crawl.

“Your skin is so smooth,” he says. You manage to say thank you, and ask if he wants a dance. “How much your dance is pretty lady?”

“Only $40.”

His eyes pop out his head. “$40.00? Damn, you gon suck my dick back there?”

The old you might have tried to negotiate with him, but you know any man who think his dick gon be sucked for $40 is a cheap son of a bitch. So you roll your eyes and walk away. From the corner of your eye, you see Ryan bent over, stepping in a pool of ones. You sigh, and walk to the locker room and take your shoes off.

Some nights it’s like this. Not all glamorous but men who think your head worth $40. You don’t offer that service, but if you did, you would need at least two zeros behind that. The audacity. You clock out for the night, and you grateful that at least you made your house fee, have enough to pay for parking and buy you a nice late dinner. A security guard walks you to your car, and waits for you to pull off. You stop at a near by Mcdonald’s cursing yourself out as you order the Big breakfast with the hotcakes. You want to eat better, you really do, but won’t those buttery pancakes make you feel better.

Tomorrow you will wake up at 4pm constipated, wondering if now is the time to dust off your linkedin profile.

You won’t.

Buy Me Coffee

Writer’s Note: I am writing 1,000 words everyday; I came home from work and wrote this story in about 20 minutes. I am teaching myself how to write, and by sharing my messy drafts with you, I am teaching myself how to be an author. Enjoy!

I do not want to write about race, gender, and sexuality inside a gentleman’s club. I do not want to write about Black women who sell fantasies of themselves, who weaponize eroticism, who flirt, seduce, sin within the margins of the margins.

I do not want to write about my own experiences as an exotic dancer, about the poetry of seduction, the minefield of the strip club. I do not want my friends to read what I have to say. I am afraid of what my parents will think of me, if my colleagues find my page, or how it rubs against and with my practice of Buddhism.

I am not ashamed about what I do, but I am ashamed about writing about it, and for that reason alone, I must.

Would you think less about me if I told you that sometimes, when I am in a room gyrating on a man who hardens underneath me, that I enjoy it? That once or maybe twice I closed in on him to tease him and accidentally leaned in to far and went in for a kiss?

Would you call me a slut or a whore if I admitted that this man sucked on my nipples for a few seconds, and though I ripped my breast away from his lips, slapped him, told him he was not allowed to do that, that I enjoyed it, and did not want him to stop?

I created a box for myself. I wrote a list of things that I would and would not do, no matter how much money was offered to me. I would let them touch my thigh, stomach, butt, arms, and face. I would not let them touch my vagina, my breasts, lips, or ass hole. I would let them massage my neck, feet, and back, and sometimes kiss my cheek.

I would not let them suck, bite, grab, or choke. Over the years, I became more dull to their touch. Over the years, I did not mind them grabbing my breasts to fondle them. I do not let them pinch my nipples. I do not know what will change.

For a long time, I did not want to belong to the club. I never wanted to feel at home. I wanted to retain my modesty and still profit. I wanted to give men a girlfriend experience. I wanted to be the girl next door. I wanted to listen to their personal lives, offer them gentle and loving advice. I wanted them to know that I cared about them, but money was necessary for our continued interaction.

I was kind. I was polite. I smiled, I laughed, even when their breath stank. I took rejection personally. I drank myself into a stupor. I smoked myself into a fog.

Back when I was in graduate school and lived in Baton Rouge, a dancer named Ecstasy brought me home. She sped along I-10, blaring down the empty lanes as the sun yawned and lavender stripes ribboned the crackling sky. “You did good?”

“It was a slow night,” I said, looking at the aisle of trees along the highway.

Ecstasy sucked her teeth. She was blunt, but caring unless you fucked with her. Raw, unfiltered, but behind her resting bitch face, she was a sweet girl who life had hardened. “Bitch, you're too nice. I saw you talking to people. You need to tell them to shut the fuck up and give you money.”

I raised my brow, “Does that actually work?”

“I used to care if they liked me or not. Now I don’t give a fuck.” I wished I dare go up to someone, yank them by their collar and tell them to give me their credit card and I.D like I have seen her do.

We pulled up to my house, and I put a $20 in her cupholder. She handed it back to me, “Don’t worry about it, you ain’t have a good night. You got me next time.”

Before I could say thank you she drove off.

Over the course of the next few times she would pick me up or drop me off, she taught me how to hustle. If money or a drink was not in my hand within 5 minutes, walk away. Demand. Persist. Treat them like shit.

She taught me that I had the power to bend a man over, spank with his own belt, and be paid for it. Sometimes I think about slavery, colonialism, jim crowe, and every white person who has ever wronged me and I hit harder.

Would you judge me if I admit that I hunger for it?

Would you judge me if I told you I became power-hungry, and did not know how to separate the club from the real world? How empty I felt, hung over the next day, with a duffle bag of thousands of dollars. That somehow, I still managed to get into credit card debt and have student loans?

I keep asking how you feel about me, but maybe, one day I won’t care. I am peeling back the layer. I am writing about it until I find my way. I am finding my way.

Never mind that the managers were watching my audition upstairs on the camera; for the next five minutes of my performance, I locked eyes with the white man in a blue polo shirt. My body molasses spreads on the counter of the stage.

My performance is not about seduction, although I roll my tongue over my teeth and whip my locs like grapevines rattled in the wind. My performance is not about voyeurism, although I derive pleasure from the way he unbuttons his collar, inches forward in his seat, and does not blink.

My performance is about power, about navigating a racist world that wants me dead but is too turned on to kill me.

His agape mouth—the liminal space between his lips, a playground for seduction and death. The Bourbon Street gentlemen’s club dematerialized. I am what Dr. Jennifer Nash might describe as "an erotic enjoyment of the black body which takes up racial fictions and mobilizes them for sexual delights."

I see a man who represents everything I have grown to despise in America: greed, lust, racism, capitalism, sexism, xenophobia. But for the next few minutes, while I'm on stage, I have something that he wants, but cannot have.

I am powerful, vicious, and cunning.

My second song (censored), Nicki Minaj's Superbass comes on, and my top comes off. I fondle my nipples and slide them up and down the pole, gesturing for him to imagine the phallic steel as a metaphor for what I could do for him, to him.

But he will never know because when I get off stage, the manager asks me to follow him upstairs, and in the elevator, he says, "It's gonna be a no."

My voice unwavering, "Was it my performance? Do I not fit the look of your club?"

He opened his office door, "It's slow, we don't hire girls during slow season unless their audition is really amazing, like flying from pole to pole." He stepped in his office, "Try again in September, October month."

In the dressing room, I ran into an acquaintance who told me she had been hired the day before. She was light-skinned and had long hair.

Tears don't stream down my contoured face and burgundy lipstick. I have worked in the exotic dancing industry for four years. The odds of a Black woman, (a darkskin Black woman with locs) being hired at a predominantly white club is akin to threading a needle through a raindrop.

How could I take it personally when the blackest thing besides me was the stage? Had I been white, I could have gone on stage and done the robot and still been hired. In every part of a post-colonial world, Black folks have to work twice as hard to get half of the reward, and in the strip club industry, this was no different.

You might ask, Why audition at a racist place like that? Well, let’s do some of the math, shall we? At the predominantly Black club (where I work), our most expensive champagne room is $1600.00, and customers are allowed to touch us during lap dances. Whereas at the predominantly white club, the most expensive room is $5,000.00, and customers are not allowed to touch during a regular lap dance.

Sociologist Dr. Sionhan Brooks might think about this disparity as erotic capital, in which managers, not patrons, decide what is and what isn't desired. She writes, "contrary to the notion that male customer taste is objective, it is carefully socially constructed through club marketing techniques, as well as the media at large, which overproduces images of White and mixed-race people as sexually desirable."

There is no doubt in my mind, I could have talked that white man into spending hundreds, if not thousands, within an hour. I have met men like him before. I would have sat next to him, ordered a club soda and grenadine, smiled, and rubbed his knee.

If he complained about his job, I would have caressed his hand and thanked him for being a hard worker. If he complained about his wife, I would have locked my arm with his and said, "You're right. Susan is a cunt." If he told me that New Orleans was the best place in the world, I would have told him, "My private room upstairs is even better."

Downstairs, the door guy, a Black man with locs, asked how it went. "I didn't get hired."

"I'm sorry. You are really beautiful."

"Thanks."

The world doesn't know what to do with my fine, intellectual, meditative Black ass who chooses to profit off the sexual fantasies of men and their racial imaginations. I told myself not to let my head down like a shriveled plant that did not get enough water or sun. I wanted to channel Maya and walk into Bourbon Street like "I've got oil wells pumping/ in my living room."

But I'm human. And when I finally got to my car, I cried.

The year is 2023 and the world has re-opened but my heart has not. Loneliness has held me hostage, tormented me, and convinced me that the only way out of my misery is underneath someone else. It is sometime in March and I am at an international writing conference in New York City. My favorite writers are behind or in front of me in line for food at the Hilton, and everyone looks so dreamy with their pulitzer prize winning eyeshadow, their National Endowment of the Arts broad shoulders, their chic New York Times Best selling book smiles.

I am a small fish in a big pond, but where I am not known for my writing, I know that I’m fine. I flaunt a manhattan style trench coat, my hair pulled in a tight ballerina bun, my face beat for the gods, and a sexy black crop top, tight jeans, and black booties. The conference rooms are converted into black stages with professional lighting and sound as authors talk about their books, muses, and what keeps them up at night.

I told myself that I was at this conference to network, attend writing workshops open mics, and expand my literary community. But I am off three hours of sleep, caffeinated and running to a panel a good friend and fellow writer is on. I make it just in time to hear him read his poetry. His taut lips that pronounce water, the tongue that laps up the roof of his mouth, how he takes off and puts on his glasses. You see, a few hours ago, he was pulling on my hair while I moaned overlooking the New York sky scrapers.

This is love, I told myself as he talked about preparing to talk about his first book while we held hands. He is so beautiful, I told myself as he recounted the day he got the call that he had won a prestigious book prize. He is so talented, I told myself as I read his collection, poured over his metaphors and infusion of colonialism, African diaspora, and contemporary Blackness in the wake of slavery.

I thought I hungered for him, when he kissed me on my neck and asked how many fingers I wanted. I thought as we collided under the sheets, as we thanked each other for the service of our flesh, as we ebbed and flowed in and out of time, that I was satiated. Fill. My insecurities of not writing was the smoke that vaporated in the steam of the shower. If I couldn’t have a book out, then the next best thing was to sleep with someone who did.

Alot of us who talk about eroticism, longing, and pleasure love to cite Audre Lorde’s canonical text, “Uses of the Erotics.” We love to say, “The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings.” And as I lay in that hotel bed with him, as I licked, spat, clung, begged, rocked, rollicked, I thought oh, the erotics of pleasure, of poetry, is a beautiful somatic practice in resisting the colonial state. That Black womens’ pleasures have been denied and it is rightfully time that we claim it.

And yes to all of that! But remember that Lorde also says that, “the erotic must not be misconstrued as demanding the impossible from ourselves nor from others.” For me this means that it is unfair to expect another person to satiate my thirst to create art. It felt like a movie, to be moving through the dark and then to pretend that we don’t know what we taste like, but that was not love nor what eroticsm is. At best it was “the suppression of true feeling…. sensation without feeling.”

I ran from loneliness, insecurity, and shame head on into him. I was jealous that he had written an amazing piece of work, and I hoped that his talent would diffuse through me via osmosis. The truth was that I was and am a talented writer who was afraid to get to the essence of my own truth. I was afraid to do the work, afraid to shut up, and write.

Over the past few years, I have made radical changes in my life which all began when I picked up Julia Cameron’s “The Artist's Way”. When I picked up this book a year ago, I was burnt out of trying to screw my way to success, my creativity was blocked, and I thought that maybe I should give up writing. Through the morning pages (which I actually do in the evening) I learned that I was a recovering artist who suffered from a

mean inner critic. I learned that my inner critic was born when my mother who navigated the throes of capitalism told me, “Writing is not a real job.” I learned that every rejection, every failed poem, essay, or story supported that.

After months of rigorous learning, affirmations, and re-wiring my brain, I am learning that I am that girl! Now, I write 1,000 words a day no matter what. I blog regularly, I read every day, and I am making great progress on my upcoming poetry collection. A few of my poems were recently featured in a gallery at the Mary Beth Hotel.

As I recover from my wounded artist, I recognize that celibacy is one way I can channel my erotic energy into my writing. As a daughter of a strict Senegalese woman, I grew up to be promiscuous, flirty, and usually in some passionate state of desire. Instead of wasting that energy on a man, I channel it into my writing. If I’m feeling slutty, I don’t send a u up text. I write a scene about two women who kiss for the first time in front of a movie theatres downtown New Orleans. Or I write a poem, or I dance seductively on my pole, or I rollerskate, or I twerk.

What I’m tryna say is that I no longer sleep with artists I admire, now I create art I admire.

"I want to see your Black p*ssy," he said in a Baton Rouge southern drawl.

I danced to Black eyed Peas, Boom Boom Boom, unsure of how I would spend the hour entertaining him. I moved my hips, and wiggled my ass back and forth as if I was trying to fit into jeans that were too tight, but it seemed like nothing I did could satiate his hunger.

I cupped my breast. I flicked my tongue. I dropped into a split. I ignored my tight hips that screamed, and bounced up and down, but each time it was the same chorus, "I want to see your Black p*ssy."

Even if I wanted to show him my Black pussy (which I absolutely did not), I could not. The President Gentlemen’s Club had a strict no nude policy. We could take off our tops but we had to one thong on at all times.

A small red dot on the corner of the room blinked like a sleepy lover with crust in their eyes, reminding me that the white man reclined on the leather couch like he was watching a movie, was not the only person watching me.

"Pull your panty to the side, I just want to see your Black p*ssy. Never seen one before.” Each time he said the words Black pussy, hairs on my arms stood up, and a cool draft slipped in through the red velvet curtains.

I couldn't say no. I couldn't say yes.

He, like many men who frequented The Presidential Gentlemen’s Club during the dayshift, waited out the rush hour traffic before crossing the Horace Wilkinson Bridge out of Port Allen.

I was sitting at the bar, reading a poem for class on my phone when I looked up and saw him come in. Curly gray hair, striped blue collar shirt, black buckle and cowboy boots. As he pulled up a chair next to me, I leaned over and said, “Hi , I’m June.”

The bartender placed a napkin in front of him. "This definitely alot more fun than waiting in traffic”, he said, his blue-green eyes licking me up and down. The bartender came back with a Modelo a few moments later, and I noted that he hadn’t offered me a drink.

As he took a swig of his bear, the white, blue, and purple disco lights reflected off his silver wedding ring. Was I wasting my time talking to him? At that point it was almost 5pm, and I had been at the club since 2pm. I had not made the $18.00 it cost to uber to work, not even the $10 for my house fee which was discounted for day shift, the bunions on my toes roared in my black stiletto boots, and I was hungry.

Placing my hand on his knee, I asked, "Where you from?"

He replied, "Texas but I moved down here for work."

"And what do you do for work?"

"I'm a supervisor at the plant. Can be long hours and pretty dangerous but it pays pretty well."

In the strip club world, there are three main things that a girl must determine, and she must determine it quickly. 1.) Does he have money? 2.) Will he spend it? 3.) Will he spend it on me?

Does he have money? check. Will he spend it? (He purchased a drink and left a tip… check.) Will he spend it on me? pending…

Up until that point, the conversation was filibuster, in that we exchanged pleasantries, did the whole what is your name, where are you from? But how could I pivot to pitching a lap dance? A lapdance cost $30 and the house would take $5. Maybe I could convince him to do at least three dances and that way I could at least make $50.

In those early days, it had not crossed my mind to pitch a champagne room. Who in their right mind would pay hundreds of dollars to be in a room with me and not have sex? As I twirled the curls that fell out of my curly bun, as I leaned and spoke, as I put my hand on his leg, my negative account balanced flashed through my mind. The cost of cat food, $600 in rent, money for groceries, and at least a little bit left over for fun flashed through my mind. If only I could make $1000.00 if I worked for a week straight. I did not expect to leave with $1000 that night although I know that some women did on a regular basis, but if I could leave with $300 I would be satisfied.

But then he said something that changed the course of my night, that changed the course of my dancing career. What he said opened the window of the sexual desires of white men. What he said showed me where the string was to pull upon, where and how to harness and hone in on their fantasies. He laid it out for me, and that conversation helped me to solidify who June, the exotic dancer would be, who she could become. "Never been with a black woman before."

Exaggeratedly, I gasped. "What? No way. Why not?"

"Not really attracted to Black women but you are really beautiful." Inside I screamed. My hand rubbing up and down his leg felt like it was on fire. I wanted to take my glass of water and throw it on his face, but I needed the money. "Well tonight is your lucky day."

"How much do the private rooms cost?"

That was the first time someone asked me how much the private room cost since my very first night when I was with Dia in Boca Raton. The customer that I got then, a middle aged Jamaican man who knew that it was my first night, and perhaps out of pity and perhaps because of good conversation, did a private room with me. But that room felt different. I danced for him a little but but we spent most of the time talking, and it was only for 15 minutes, which is the equivalent of five three minute songs.

But this white man asked me how much the private rooms cost as if he was asking me to name my price. A popular stripper on a youtube vlog, said, while she did her makeup, to always start from high to low. I remembered my notes that I wrote in my notebook. After my embarrasement at Jungle's night club, I started to take dancing more seriously. I remember what Serene had said, "Dancing is hard work, but some women make alot of fucking money." And then I pushed it out, "Well, the hour room cost $800."

"Will you let me see your Black pussy." I ignored the jolt that electrocuted in my chest, ignored the anxiety that fluttered in my chest, ignored my dry throat, and blinked to hide my uncomfortability. "Why don't you buy me a drink and let's see what happens in the room."

Now that I was in the room, only ten minutes had passed and he began to grow more impatient. As a newer dancer, I felt bad for him. I did not lie but also did not tell the truth. My parents always said that omission was like lying and I felt bad. He had spent $800, and $500 of that would go to me. "If you let me see your Black pussy I will give you extra." My ears peeked up at extra. I hadn't expected to make $500 and was still in shock, but if I made $500 what if I could make $100 more? Then I would have $600. "Come on, let me see your Black pussy, I've never seen one before."

Perhaps it was the cheap wine, which made my limbs relax, or maybe it was the acceptance of the present moment, the smell of Chanel perfume, the feeling of my lipgloss pressed against eachother, the sweat gathering between my legs, but I became desensitized to hearing Black Pussy.

Afterall, it was just two words. I was Black, and I had a pussy, and if I kept leading him on then he would give me more money. I stretched out my thong string, and he dug into his wallet and put in two crisp $100 bills. I salvated. But still I could not show him my privates completely, as that would result in immediate termination. So I pulled down my thong just a litte bit, smooth skin lie where I shaved. Shortly after, he ended the room early, thanked me for my time and left.

Outside traffic was a stuffy nose that cleared, and the highway took a deep breath while I held mine in for the next four years.

I don't know about you, but my inner critic is a mean bitch.

One time a friend and great poet named Skye Jackson invited me to read at her poetry book launch, Libre (which you should totally get!). The Opera Hall turned into poetry reading hall was silent, except for my crackling voice. As I flipped the pages of my work, my inner critic hurled insults at me: dumb bitch! haha, look at that old white lady in the front row with her eyes closed, she is already in the brink of death, and you are boring her to it

I read faster just to get off stage. I was bewildered when after the reading, people came up to me and said kind things. The moderator, before introducing the next writer said, "Penda, let us know when your book comes out so we can throw an event for you too."

My inner critic is rooted in F.E.A.R. (false evidence appearing real, IDK who came up with this, but they ate!) When my artistic voice wants to leap onto the playground of the page, my inner critic is the parent who yanks her by her ear. When my artistic voice splashes in bubble bath water, my inner critic drains the tub.

How can I write when a mean bitch who sounds like me is babbling in my head? Through mindfulness, therapy, and alot of journaling, I realized that I can't trust my mind. My thinking is infected with the disease of low self-worth, insecurity, and shame.

When I was younger, I wrote because I was bored while I waited for my clothes to finish washing in the laundromat. I wrote because some skinny boy in elementary school said, "You would be cute if you got your teeth fixed," and that shit hurt my feelings. I wrote because my mom and dad argued alot, and in the midst of them arguing, I had to be a second mother to my younger sisters, and felt like no one was there for me.

My inner critic was planted when my well-meaning mother told me that poetry would never get me anywhere. Probably dog tired from work, an aching back, and fragments of an American dream, she poured thousands into private school and tutors when I once said when I was about five that I wanted to be a brain surgeon. The truth is that I had watched the Ben Carson biopic, and I thought that a white coat was cute.

From then on, she could not let go of the fact that I was to be a doctor. If I won a writing contest, she would give me a fake smile and remind me to do my homework. If I wanted to go to a poetry slam or an open mic, she would tell me I couldn't go because I had to do chores. I remember when I got a full ride to the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a First Wave scholar. She barely said congrats, but asked, "Will you still be a doctor?"

As a little girl, and even today still, I wanted nothing more than to make her proud of me. I wanted so desperately for her to be proud of my writing, to show up at my performances as other parents did. So in those years, what was an inner critic seed, germinated, reproduced, proliferated, and then matured into a mean bitch that criticizes my every move.

If I write a line of poetry, my inner critic says, "you dumb hoe." So it makes sense why writing, though it gave me joy, serenity, and pleasure became something I avoided, procrastinated and put off. I would tell myself, I will write when I am certain that it will be a good poem. I will research, brainstorm ideas, read, go for a walk, watch a movie, do dishes, cook, and then I will percolate and summon an idea that will be so genius, so brilliant, that my inner critic would have nothing to say about it.

As you can imagine, that time never came

My coffee was too cold, or too hot. I couldn't find the right playlist. I needed a new desk or writing chair. It was too early or s too late. All of that changed 66 days ago when I committed to writing 1,000 words every day.

Writing 1,000 words every day means I cannot close my eyes and enter a new day unless I have poured out 1,000 words. This at first seemed like a constraint, but honestly, it's one of the most liberating things I have ever done. For the first time, since I was a young girl, I wrote whatever was on my mind, and then when my mind became freer, I wrote fiction, poems, nonfiction, babbles, rap lyrics, it didn't matter. I didn't care if it was good or not, how I would publish it, but I just wrote, and it felt like driving in a drop top with the wind blowing in your face.

I felt (and feel) like I’m on a swing set, propelling myself forward. The first week was hard; my inner critic wanted perfection. She was an annoying cat that couldn't get enough Meow Mix. She was a blood thirsty mosquito that would not move on unless there was no more skin to attack. But through writing my 1,000 words, I invited my inner critic to a quiet room in my mind, made her some tea, and then I locked the door.

I can still hear her muffled voice, but I am holding her hostage, not giving her the food of self-doubt. Today I have about 200 pages of writing, and nearly 70,000 words. Most of it will probably never see the light of day, or maybe it will. The purpose is not to be perfect, just to do.

My dream is to write a book. But how can I write a perfect book if I have never actually written a book? I don't talk about what I want to write or how I want to write it anymore. If I get the urge to write a screenplay, I don't worry about the format, descriptions; I just write. Sometimes I write weird things like my story about a cockroach named Roachana whose baby daddy comes home from scavenging with a missing head, and she must go out and find food to save the colony.

Sometimes I write about my childhood. About fearing my mother's house keys and talking to boys in the night. Sometimes I write analytical essays, close reading poems from Lucille Clifton's anthology. The point is that writing 1,000 words has softened my inner critic, has rained upon her fire, and tucked her into bed. I keep on writing every day, no matter what, because the more successful I become, the more my inner critic will become dangerous. If she is doing push-ups, then I am doing chin-ups. My inner critic is a part of me, and I love her.

But sometimes, you gotta love folks from a distance.

This is a blog for emerging writers who seek a consistent, nourishing practice. Through personal experiences, I will talk about pursuing the MFA, books I love, pop culture, politics, writing residencies and retreats, and enjoying the creative process. For the next few articles, I am doing a 10-part series on how writing 1,000 words a day has not only transformed my writing process, but my life.

Sample topics will include:

Being Under the Influence Doesn't Make You a Better Writer,

Well Sh*t, I Could've Written That: Writing through Jealousy

You is Smart, You is Kind, You is Special: Affirmations in the Writing Process,

Instead of Sleeping with your Favorite Writer, Why Not Just Write?

Issa No From Me Dawg: Reframing Rejections

I'm Just A Girl: Managing Adulthood and Creative Pursuits

Damn, That White Lady Had a Point: Reflections on the Artist Way

Who all Gon Be There: Finding a Literary Magazine that Fits Your Voice

Yo, What's Your ETA: Cultivating Patience through the Process

How You Gon Hate From Outside the Club, When You Can't Get In: Protecting Our Art from Haters Masked As Friends

Love y’all,

Penda

It is a hot May day, but the AC is a type of refuge inside of a middle school classroom. My 6th graders are buzzing with energy; a girl puts a chair on top of her head, two students play volleyball with a blue balloon, and a cluster of students play Uno in the corner, yelling so and so is cheating, while "Land of the Times" plays on the smart board. It is the end of the year. They have taken their state exams, and while I do teach them introductory materials for 7th grade, for the most part my job at this point is to be a babysitter. If you were to walk into the classroom right now, you might be overwhelmed by the chatter of pre-adolescent children, a popped balloon, and a student slamming a draw four on the desk. You might be confused to see me writing, occasionally looking around to make sure everyone is still alive, and feel peaceful. How can I find peace in this present moment, of raging hormones, inflammatory responses, and a TV in the background? I read Thich Nhat Hanh's poem on The Practice of Mindfulness, "Breathing in, I dwell in/ the present moment. Breathing out/ I feel it is a/ wonderful moment."

To be honest, when I decided to do a journal session, I did not feel peaceful. I thought about how I have built a community here on substack, and abandoned them like a flat tire on the road. I thought about the essays budding in my head about girlhood, coming-of-age, and my unfinished poetry collection that has been collecting dust since I graduated from my MFA program years ago. I thought about my income for the summer, and wondered how would I make rent. I thought about scheduling a doctor's appointment, and how I could visit as many doctors as possible before my I have to pay insurance next month. I thought about my aging parents, how I wish to make amends with them, but how stubborn they are. How they don't see me, how I don't see them. What I am saying, is that I have an untrained mind that robs me of the present moment; and when I do not have access to the present moment, I do not have access to my body; and when I do not have access to my body, I do not have access to peace, love, understanding, anger, despair, hope, and joy. How can I write if I cannot feel? How can I feel if I cannot sit still? How can I sit still if I cannot be present? How can I be present if — a student interrupts, "Ms. Smith they made me draw 104 cards. You think I'm cooked." Yes, I tell him, your cooked. Another student asks to use the bathroom. Yes. "Breathing in, I know I am/ breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am/ breathing out." And just like that I inhabit the present moment.

Living in the present moment requires a decision, intentional, and deliberate breath, and for writers, I think we really need to train ourselves to live in the present moment. How else can we describe a sycamore tree, mud rot climbing it's bark, while the leaves tremble in heat? How else can we get to know our characters, their deepest fears, joys, and dreams?

How can we imagine, and use our imagination to conjure while we live in a society that tells us to create is a waste of time? How can we summon the courage to create while we read about about budget cuts that support our arts. How can we not wail, fist to pavement, when we read, "The NEA is updating its grantmaking policy priorities to focus funding on projects that reflect the nation's rich artistic heritage and creativity as prioritized by the President." Reading this, reading the stories of my dear artist friends whose projects were squashed, left out in the cold to fend for themselves, makes me angry, hopeless, restless. Breathing in, I am suffering. Breathing out, I am suffering. My breath anchors me, and grounds me through anguish and joy.

Now I can remember what Audre Lorde said, "For the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house." Now I can remember Alice Coltrane’s laments, "Krishna Krishna." Now I can remember Ari Lennox's "Shea butter baby" and find the music in my thighs, hips, and arms. Now I can remember that the NEA did not give me my joy, and so the NEA can't take it away. Now I can remember that liberation exists in the present moment, that each moment it can be given just as quickly as it can be taken away. Now I can remember that the doorway of creativity exists when one stops, and looks deeply. Now I can look at the students around me, rowdy with summer angst, with love and compassion, now I can remember who I was as a 6th grader, and I can smile at them and myself.

Breathing in, I know I am

breathing in.

Breathing out, I know I am

breathing out.

Breathing in, I notice my in-

breath has become deeper.

Breathing out, I notice that

my out-breath has become

slower... Breathing in, I

calm myself. Breathing out, I

feel at ease.

Breathing in, I smile.

Breathing out, I release.

Breathing in, I dwell in

the present moment.

Breathing out, I feel it is a

wonderful moment.

Thich Nhat Hanh, The Practice of Mindfulness

With love and gratitude,

Penda

Hello readers, friends, beings:

I read, re-read, and re-read Brittany Roger’s Good Dress and I felt so seen. I included this audacious poetry collection in my syllabus, and have enjoyed teaching and discussing it with my students. But then I felt haunted— Have you read a piece of work and felt so seen that you had a strong urge to talk to the writer about it? I felt compelled to write a book review, praising the collection for its lyrical precision, craft, and innovative form to discuss motherhood, girlhood, sexuality, and pleasure, but that would not have been sufficient to document how this collection made me feel. That would have been to far removed; what did feel good was an open letter to the writer. I hope you enjoy reading this, as much as I did writing it. Needless to say, whoever you are, you need Good Dress in your life.

Dear Brittany,

My mother's dress wasn't purple, but a sequin Black dress rimmed with gold. Her nails, long, red. Her hair, a burgundy afro with curls springing about like magnolias in full bloom. Who was this woman before she was my mother? Who did she belong to, was it herself? When I was born, did she belong to her husband, to me, to the world? Does the birth of a child mean that the mother is no longer herself, but only a woman insofar as her relation to her offspirng? How lonely that must be. Brittany, you write in Ode to my Mama and the "Purple Dress" circa 1992-1993,

"we won't discuss who she was before children// though I know she belonged to herself once." You write, "we wore her down." I think about the time when my momma threw a plate at me, nearly missing my head, how the plate shattered against the wall, the food splattered on the floor. She said it was cause the lamb I made was too soggy, that I wasn't paying no attention to the meat on the stove, that I ain't "... cook/ her meat the way she likes." Between you and me, I know that she was tired. She was a dress that she couldn't fit; a dress that once glittered against her ebony ribbed skin, now dull and splitting at the seems. I was a girl-child then, my mind occupied with men "making a game of their lust." My mind ignoring the scalding pot in the kitchen, but instead tending to "Zane novels tucked into Guess Jeans." I too never got caught reading erotic fiction, imagining that I was the main character Zoe, with a raging addiction to sex, but I did pay for it in another ways. I paid for it when I was 11 and met fifteen year old boys online and told them I was thirteen, my mamma bursting into the kitchen while my phone rang in the drawer, her calling the number back and reading my text messages outloud. How shame was a father with unsanctioned fists, "thick with force." I paid for it again when I was thirteen, and got caught kissing a boy at school on a staircase-- then you couldn't tell me "I wasn't a woman now." And if I was a woman, then the belt my daddy flung across my hind split my skin open as "sirens spin the night". I ain't saying that we the same. You found refuge at Detroit Public Library, for me it was the Bronx. But we both, in our different cities, made a home, "in that damp corner while the radiator hummed her low, uneven tune." You say that the library should have "An alarm that caws when minors approach", but how else would I have learned about "the glory of exposed thighs, large hoops?" By the time "I grew a mouth like the grown men in my hood", my mamma gatekept her days of minishorts, croptops, and dangerous black eyeliner that could hide tired eyes. Brittany, I have no reason to lie to you, I still ain't forgive that woman. Who taught me how to fit shame, "a too-large mink, draped over my shoulders." That woman, my momma, who acted like she never "dressed to pull/ her hand a cocked smirk at her hip

cabernet-colored lip/ curved like a fishhookdragging men behind her." How everytime I wanted to taste pleasure, to lick milk off my fingers, how my mamma invaded my privacy, "peeking over my shoulder asking what I was staring at/ so dangon hard." Brittany, aint that a damn shame? That I inherited my mamma's Black sequin dress, her gold and mink coat blushing with shame? Brittany, "ain't that sad, grown as I am? Grown as I am?"

With love & audacity,

Penda