You Won’t Break My Hooole

Grief.

It seems to be the only thing knocking around in my head this week. Between tearful episodes, I’ve been doing my darndest to stay productive like the little robotic pawn of capitalism I must be to survive. But lord, is it hard. This is one of those moments when the best move is to blast Beyoncé and try to tap into the resilience songs like BREAK MY SOUL offer. I will say though that it’s a lot easier to remain unbroken as a billionaire. It’s easier when you don’t have to contend with the precariousness of living on a fixed income.

I left my partner of seven years last Friday. It feels like removing a piece of me. I don’t want to talk about why or what happened right now, but all I can say is that I am struggling to make it through this period.

Thursday, I tried to will myself to work, but I couldn’t consider getting pretty to sell intimacy as my own intimate life laid in shambles. I shaved, trimmed, prepared my look, and yet when it came down to leaving the house, I felt like my heart was being wrung out in my chest. I called my friend and he told me about a Grindr profile that said “YOU WON’T BREAK MY HOOOLE,” which is its own exercise in resilience. In that person’s case, it was intended to be a joyful declaration of wanting. Test the capacity of this hole, baby. If I said it, I would probably be talking about my Built Ford Tough WAP.

It’s a surreal moment, walking through my house and considering what I want to take with me. I imagine all the naked screws in the wall, my pictures no longer covering the space. All of the photographs we've taken together; all of the collected mementos from our trips; all of the symbolic tokens of our years together—I don’t know where to put any of these things. Do I take them with me? Is there space for these bittersweet memories in my new life apart?

For some people, seven years isn’t a lot of time, and perhaps in the grand scheme of things, it is just a small portion of my life. But right now, it feels like forever.

Some talks stay with you. I still remember a talk I had in high school with one of my friends following a breakup with my high school sweetheart. My friend had drawn a circle with a smaller circle inside.

“Right now, this big circle is you, and your ended relationship is the smaller circle. It takes up a lot of space because your life is just beginning. But as you get older and your circle grows, that small relationship circle will stay the same size.”

I imagined my future circle growing and growing, and the relationship circle eventually becoming a tiny dot in comparison. It has been twelve years since my friend drew that diagram for me. While in the moment, it had felt unfathomable to consider a point where that relationship might mean very little to me, but here I am. That breakup had been the most difficult to bear up until now. I loved differently as a passionate young teen. I had been more or less dependent on that relationship to escape the abuse I was experiencing at home. It was a bond born from trauma, necessity and horniness. It had been hard for my teenage brain to process the loss. I searched the school library for books on coping with a breakup—only it hadn’t felt like a breakup at the time. It felt like a divorce. I was losing family and friends, the home where I’d found safety. I found a book on divorce and started reading it hoping for any clues as to whether or not I would survive this severing, but it was full of notes on dividing a property and child custody. While the impact at the time felt as profound as a divorce, the reality was that we were just kids. My heart was broken, but it was a child’s heartbreak.

I found another book on breakups. The relationships the author wrote about sounded so shallow in comparison to the bond I felt with my ex, but there was one perspective that has stayed with me through the years. It said that most people will recover from a relationship after about half the duration of the relationship has passed. For my first relationship, that meant recovering in a year and a half. I clung to that future date as I grieved my loss, hoping it would get easier. Sure enough, at the year-and-a-half mark, I had more or less fully moved on. After two years, I could hardly imagine why I’d been with him in the first place.

This relationship ending feels more like a divorce. We have paperwork to sort, a house to divide, plant babies to fight over for custody. We have seven years of family gatherings to reflect upon, and the impending holiday season which will inevitably feel lonely. Who gets the Halloween decorations? Who gets the X-Mas tree? Are we allowed to stay in contact with each other’s families?

I didn’t leave my relationship because I fell out of love. I decided to leave for my mental health and autonomy, still in love with my now ex-partner.

It is a giant risk financially to attempt to survive in LA on a fixed income while attending grad school. I genuinely don’t know how I will manage, but like a cat, I’ve always landed on my feet.

***

I arrived at the club at my new normal time, 9p. My stomach fluttered with unease as I looked around hoping to spot a potential customer, but the club was empty aside from staff and dancers. I went to the back to get dressed. I counted my breaths, hoping to slow my heart rate. I couldn’t help but feel that at any moment I might be pulled aside for another shakedown. Axel waltzed into the dressing room. His face brightened when he saw me.

“It’s gonna be a good night! Selena is here!” He exclaimed.

I forced myself to smile.

Last week, Danny had come through, his eyes glossy. He’d been drinking and partying, and had no intention of stopping the party train.

“Rit-u-al! Rit-u-al! Rit-u-al!” Danny chanted.

It was Axel who had feigned a smile that time.

“Yeah, buddy. I’ll be right back with our party supplies,” Axel had leaned over to whisper to me, “You don’t mind, do you? This guy just wants us to do a bit of coke off your tits.”

“It’s fine, I’ve known this one for many years now,” I replied.

“That’s right! We’ve been getting into trouble for years now!” Danny inserted.

“Alright you two,” Axel sniffed, “Brother, I like your style. If I could dance with anyone, it would be Ms. Selena.”

I assumed Axel didn’t mean it. He’s a man of fluff. A brother to every customer who walks into the establishment. A certified Yes Man. Axel returned with a tiny baggy of coke.

“How do you wanna do this, brother?” Axel asked.

“Let’s do it off her asshole!”

Axel and I exchanged a look. Neither of us wanted that. I did not want my coworker anywhere near my asshole, and Axel is familiar enough with strippers to know that we don’t shit rainbows and flowers. He knew intimately the unhygienic nature of the job.

“Uhh, how about her tits?” Axel offered.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” I asserted

Danny didn’t argue. I cupped my breasts in my hands to create a shelf for the drugs. Axel gently tapped a tiny white hill above each nipple.

“You go first, sir,” Axel said, deferentially.

Danny wobbled as he stood, then snorted with gusto, his large nostrils inhaling every last speck of powder. Axel took his turn. He inhaled sharply, then surprised me by flicking out his tongue and licking the rest of the drugs off of my nipple.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt violated, but simultaneously, I also had dirt on him, which was a plus.

I recalled the lap dance I’d given one of the DJ’s for his birthday years ago. He’d come in midweek during my shift with a crew of off-duty strippers and other staff members. Everyone had been shitfaced. He’d prodded me and whined, asking for a twofer dance. He promised he would tip well, because staff didn’t have to pay the club cut for dances. Midway through the dance he’d unzipped his pants and whipped out his dick. I’d pulled back, sticking to my boundaries.

“You have to put it away,” I stated firmly.

“Awww, Selena. Can’t you just touch it a little? He really likes you.”

“We’re coworkers. I’m not touching your dick.”

“Awww,” he pouted.

In spite of that incident and the lackluster tip he’d given me for all that he’d put me through, he and I had managed to move on and return to a somewhat normal working relationship. Although, he made it evident that he would do anything to get between my legs.

Axel, by contrast, had never given off the vibe of genuinely wanting to fuck me. He was an opportunist. A bottom feeder. He would take whatever scraps the customers tossed his way and try to wriggle his way into good favor with management. I pondered this as Danny and Axel chatted until—

“You know, my mom was gang raped, haha!” Axel giggled, out of the blue.

Danny and I exchanged a sidelong look.

“I’m not joking! She really did. But anyway, you guys have fun. I’ll be here if you need me!”

***

It was as if Axel didn’t recall any of the prior week’s events. Sure, it was my nipple, but it could have been any nipple. I waited uncomfortably as he scurried out, then began getting undressed. I felt someone’s eyes burrowing a hole in the back of my head. I turned around to find Mariah standing behind me.

“Hey!”

“Hey! How have you been?” I asked.

“I’ve been good!” Mariah replied with her sing-song voice, then she looked around nervously, “Did you notice the quota went up?”

“What? When? How much?”

“Last week. Now we have to make like…” Mariah paused to do mental math, “Well, it used to be you had to make about $200 to meet the quota, but now you have to make like over $300 before you start making money.”

“What?!”

“I know! And did you know the prices went up for dances with closed curtains?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I agree they should just add the extra cost into the dances, but we’re still getting the same amount of money.”

“I know. They’re taking like 60%.”

“Have you worked at other clubs?” Mariah asked.

“Yeah, I’ve worked at other clubs.”

“This is my first and only club, so I don’t really know what other places are like. It used to be so good. I remember when we used to get free food and drinks, and the bonus for coming in early…”

“Me too.”

“But now it’s so hard to make money. I’ve heard other girls talking about it too. Lauren is working at Plan B now. I’ve been thinking that it might be time for me to look around too.”

“It’s really gone downhill. Nobody looks happy right now.”

“Did you know they moved Gio to day shift?”

“No!”

I was aghast. That punkass had been the first to call me for a late evening shakedown over my below average tipping. I felt a bit of schadenfreude imagining how shitty that little turd must have felt losing his sought after position as weekend night manager. After years of sucking Mike’s cracked out dick trying to curry favor, it wasn’t enough.

“They moved Shawn too. It’s all Chase’s people making these changes. They don’t know what they’re doing. Everyone is leaving.”

“They’re going to run this place into the ground.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Mariah crossed her arms and looked at me with her large round eyes, “Do you know about any other good clubs?”

I sighed, “Yeah.”

I shared a list of possible options with her and we exchanged numbers. We were going to audition together. I had my reservations. Mariah is a pretty PAWG (phat ass white girl). It’s always a risk auditioning alongside a white friend. Clubs love to split up friendships, hiring one half of an auditioning duo and sending the other home. White dancers almost always have the upper hand. More white dancers is always a hiring priority. I worried that bringing Mariah along might affect my chances of being hired, yet I didn’t want to go alone.

It was a dismal shift. The customers who came through were overwhelmingly young, poor, and visiting from developing places like the Bahamas and Pakistan. The stage was dry. We took turns dancing for a single dollar that we unanimously agreed to ignore. The dollar sat on the side of the stage, a mockery of what we had gotten dressed to earn. Morale was low not only among strippers, but also for staff. I could see a fearful look in everyone’s eyes which only worsened when Craig and his lumpy, roided-out head arrived.

I felt like crying, but instead I sold my dances, worked on my phone, and kept my head down. At the end of the night, I had Tim walk me out. I have two security guards who I like at my club, and Tim is one.

“How was your night, sweetheart?” Tim asked.

“Uhhh…” I looked around, “I don’t know. The new quota sucks. Even Jeff said as much. It is definitely weird out here.”

When I was checking out, I’d asked my manager, Jeff, about the new quota.

“I know, it sucks. It sucks for us too cause now we make less tips. It sucks for everyone, but I’m not the one in charge. Craig is the one calling the shots, not me.”

Tim’s eyes hardened and he frowned, “Yeah, it’s getting bad here. I’m even looking for other employment opportunities.”

“Damn. They’re going to lose all of us.”

“And the thing is, I think that’s what Chase’s people want. They want to get rid of the old crew and replace us with a whole new group of people who don’t know how it’s been or how much worse it’s gotten. This place is profitable, but Mike keeps fucking up the money. He doesn’t know how to budget. He’s always high and buying hookers and other bullshit. You know, they spent over $500,000 to get a box at the stadium?”

“I didn’t know that! Wow, $500,000. And they’re taking more than half of my money. I see how it is.”

“Of all of our money! And the thing is, they had a smaller box, but because they saw other people with the big box, they felt they needed to keep up.”

“It’s fucked.”

We both sighed in unison.

“It used to be so good.”

“Don’t I know it,” Tim said, clicking his tongue.

I felt the heaviness of defeat in my chest. Was this it? Would this be the reason I finally left my home club of four abundant years?

“Drive safe, sweetheart, and remember: if you need anything, don’t hesitate.”

Tim shut the door to my car and left. I lingered for a moment, wondering.

Is this it? Is this The End?