I Was An Exotic Dancer For A Night

by Chloe Summers
Originally Published: 

Prior to bearing all five of my children, I was a wild child. My poor mom. She’s never smoked a cigarette in her entire life. Meanwhile, there was me. A rebellious, hungry for all the outrageous things in life type of young woman. I’m actually not sure how my mom made it through that stage in my life, but she did.

One of the more wild things I’ve done is strip for amateur night. Yes, that’s right, I was an exotic dancer for a night.

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My best friend worked at the club I danced at. And let’s just say, she was earning her fair share of the profit. Actually, she was killing it. Month after month went by with her begging me to climb aboard the stripper pole with her. And while I didn’t want to strip for my primary job, I gave it a go one time.

I bought my stripper pumps and the most provocative piece of lingerie I’ve ever worn in my life. For most of the night (the whole three hours of it), I sat in the back dressing room with the other girls. I applied sparkly, puffy paint to my nipples, and when it was time, I danced like an amateur stripper dances on amateur night.

In other words, I was awful.

There were no tricks. Actually, just a few charmed laughs… or maybe they were truly just laughing their asses off at me. After all, my ankles were rolling and I even tripped a time or two. Either way, IDGAF because everyone got a few hoots and hollers out of my performance.

I didn’t have to take off my top, but I figured… eh, what the hell? So I did. I danced in front of complete strangers for six minutes while wearing nothing but a G-string and 5-inch heels while a bunch of strangers threw money in my direction.

Now, was this degrading? Maybe to you. But was it liberating? It definitely was for me.

It was something I never thought I’d do, and I did it without hesitation or shame.

Now, as a mom, I might have a different opinion if any of my kids did this, but this wasn’t about them; it was about me.

Somehow — even though my ankles gave out on stage and I had to catch myself twice — I won that night.

When they announced my stripper name over the microphone, they asked if I would do a “trick” on the pole to end the night. But let’s be extremely clear… even if I were wearing sleeves, I wouldn’t have any “tricks” hiding up them.

So I did my best attempt at one of their so-called tricks. Which was, hurling the back of my left leg around the pole and (sort of) allowing my body to glide along with it. I thought I looked hot, and I thought my body was waving like I was the new Beyoncé. Apparently not. The D.J. audibly laughed out loud while voicing, “Nice try,” and the rest of the crowd joined him in laughter along with a pity clap for my forced effort.

But hey, I still won. I barely left the dressing room, but I did give a few dances that night.

I walked out of those neon doors with over $800 for working three hours. THREE. And looking back on that night, I had a freaking blast. No, I’m not doing this for a job. But if I didn’t have stretch marks like a bear clawed its way out of my stomach, I might still be stripping on occasion.

And if you have anything negative to say to me about that, I’ll give you just a nugget’s worth of information.

I give just about as many fucks about your judgments as I do about the time when I was grinding on a stripper pole wearing nothing but a G-string and 5-inch heels.

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