CW: Rape pt. 1

It’s been difficult writing recently, because of my current relationship tumult. I’ve been with my partner since I began stripping. Prior to meeting him, I’d dabbled a bit in sex work. I’d tried to find a sugar daddy during one summer spent working a miserable internship in Brooklyn. A few years later I took up camming with little success. It wasn’t until I was months into my relationship that I decided to take the plunge and enter the strip club. It’s funny, the questions people ask about dancing. It’s always things like, “How does it feel having all those men watching you, thinking about fucking you?” I wish that that was my primary concern, but in my experience men aren’t observant. People in general are all wrapped up in their own little worlds with their internal soap opera or comedy playing in the background, and everyone else is a background actor.

My partner isn’t new to dating strippers, in fact he’d sworn off us clear heels gyals after one too many bad experiences. People ask how he handles jealousy, knowing my job entails intimate contact with other men. Of course he gets jealous sometimes. He doesn’t read my stories very often, which helps. It’s important to create healthy boundaries for how much information one ingests about their partner, even in normal civvie relationships. Thankfully, jealousy isn’t the primary concern for him. He’s concerned foremost about my safety. He worries about me straining my body and dancing through injuries; about me working a shift when I haven’t properly addressed my mental health; and about men treating me harshly, whether it be physically or emotionally.

Last year I was raped. For a long time I wasn’t able to talk about it or call it what it was, because it wasn’t violent: it was a coercive situation where I froze and complied. I didn’t tell my partner until this week, because I could hardly handle my feelings, let alone his. I was angry with myself for doing nothing, for forgetting everything I knew and imagined I might do should I end up in such a situation. Of course life is never the way you rehearse it in your mind. When I told him, he ran to the bathroom and heaved over the toilet. He returned sobbing. I’d never seen him so overwhelmed with emotions. He wanted me to name names, but I refused, because I know how the system works. I thought, if I dropped the name of this rich and powerful man and tried to build a case, I would be sued for slander or defamation, and the defense attorney would grill me about what I was wearing, what I do for a living, my general promiscuity, and in the end they would decide that I was just another girl “asking for it”.

The system isn’t built for rape survivors period, even people like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford who is an actual fucking doctor and professor. People still don’t believe those poor men who were raped as children by Michael Jackson, and they are white cishet men, yet somehow their experiences are still under debate. It’s sickening. So when my partner asked if he could talk to some of his colleagues about the options for filing some kind of civil suit against my rapist, even though my partner is an attorney and he knows so many other lawyers, I just didn’t feel like it was worth the time. I didn’t want to have my powerlessness reiterated by legal professionals, but I agreed because he’s a secondary survivor. He shares my trauma, just like I shared my sister’s trauma. He told me not to worry about being sued for defamation or slander. So here I am.

This is the story of my rape.

I met Dino one night at Deja Vu. I was dancing on the side stage, trying to spot someone to talk to when he walked over to me and handed me $20.

Him: I can’t believe no one is tipping you. Come talk to me after you’re done.

I hadn’t made any money dancing on that stage, so I hopped down at the end of the song and found him sitting alone in a VIP booth. I didn’t know who he was or if he’d paid to sit in that booth, but I hoped he would tip me more or take me for a dance. I sat beside him. He was average height with gray hair and grave furrowed brows. I remember he smelled strongly of cologne. I guessed from his accent that he was Middle Eastern, but I wasn’t sure.

Him: How do you like the club?

Me: It’s good most of the time.

Him: We need more girls like you. You’re a good dancer. That’s why I stopped by.

Me: Thanks.

Him: How old are you?

Me: Um… I’m--

Him: You’re over 21?

Me: Yeah, for sure.

Him: I own the Deja Vu’s. I’m opening one on Main Street, but it’s gonna be topless so we can serve alcohol. You should come by some time, work a shift, see how you like it.

Me: Do I have to audition?

Him: Just tell them Dino sent you. Don’t worry about it.

Me: Okay.

Him: Where are you from?

Me: Oklahoma.

Him: What brought you out here?

Me: I just wanted to live here. I like California. Are you from LA?

Him: My family is Greek and Turkish. I grew up here and in Greece. It’s funny because the Greeks and Turks don’t get along.

Me: That’s cool.

Him: Let me show you my jet.

He pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his pictures. He showed me a photo of him in front of a private jet with a beautiful woman beside him.

Him: That’s one of my daughters.

He continued scrolling, showing me vacation photographs of him traveling to Petra and Venice. In every picture there seemed to be a different woman beside him.

Him: Have you traveled much?

Me: Yeah! I’ve been all over: France, England, Germany, Japan, South Korea, Brazil, Mexico, and… Canada? I think that’s it.

Him: It’s good to travel. Have you ever been to Vegas?

Me: I haven’t.

Him: I like to drive up to Vegas with some girls and have a good time. They can work, I take care of the hotel. Let me show you.

He pulled up a picture of the interior of the Vegas Deja Vu. In the picture, Dino’s lined up beside Larry Flynt, Snoop Dogg, and a handful of rich looking white men, all holding up drinks.

Me: Wow. How did you get into the strip club business?

Him: For years, I was a real estate developer. I would take commercial properties and do renovations or build from scratch. I was making the buildings for these clubs for a while when I noticed how profitable they were. They practically paid for themselves. That’s when I decided that instead of selling the club, I would keep one. One became two, and now Deja Vu is everywhere. There’s even one in France.

Me: Wow.

Him: Are you interested in a job?

Me: What are you thinking?

Him: I need a few girls to travel with me to my clubs. You would come in pretending to be a customer, have some fun and try to get free drinks from the bartenders. If they give you free drinks, you tell me.

Me: Oh.

Him: Is that interesting to you?

Me: I don’t know.

Him: Okay. Think about it.

I wanted a job, but I didn’t want to be a narc. Snitches get stitches, and I had no desire to snitch on anyone.

Me: Do you ever need girls for advertising? I always wanted to do that.

Him: Oh yeah. I wish we’d met before, because we just had a photoshoot a week ago. Why don’t you take my number and I can let you know when it happens again.

Me: Sure!

We exchanged numbers. His stubby old fingers hunted for the right buttons to dial.

Him: Can you check out the Main Street location this week?

Me: Sure. Are you around Tuesday?

Him: Come by Friday at 7.

Me: Okay.