I’m not a criminal. I just work. I can’t think of a cleaner dancer besides me. I can think of many who are as well-behaved, but none who surpass my level of well-behavedness. I never mislead customers into thinking that they’re going to get anything “better” in the VIP room. I never tell customers that I’m single to let them get their hopes up. I never ever grab their d*cks. All of these things are fairly standard practices for strippers. I’d even say that most of these things are harmless but, either way, I’m not interested in doing such things and I play it as safe as possible.
Either way, “safe as possible” wasn’t good enough.
I was cited for erotic dancing. My breasts, allegedly, made contact with a face. My butt, allegedly, made contact with a lap. Boy am I a menace to society.
In the office of a Las Vegas strip club, I sat on a chair and started crying, waiting for an explanation as to why I was cited and why my record was going to be forever marred by a sexual offense. Maybe ten other girls were also in the office. Two or three of us got tickets. The rest went to jail.
I sat and cried while paperwork was being filed, and everyone who was being arrested got escorted out. I saw their silhouettes against the light of the squad car in the back alley and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I knew most of those girls personally and they’re all so nice. The survivors scrambled around trying to figure out who would have to take care of the arrested strippers’ children after work.
“Just be glad you didn’t go to jail,” I was told a few times that night. Which bothered me even more. No one should have gone. We shouldn’t feel like we’re at risk of being hauled off every time we go to work.
I wonder if police officers ever feel like assholes when they screw over hard working people who are minding their own business.
I feel absolutely destroyed. My next move is to find an attorney.