“You have to be two people, the saint and the sinner. The librarian and the stripper.”
– Lucero, boardofwisdom.com
It would be too difficult to draw from any one point in time and say what event inspired me to begin stripping. My older sister tells me I always had it in me. At six years old I was cutting cloth bookcases into tube tops and strutting around the house. I was also that kid at weddings that stole the attention on the dance floor before puberty kicked in. However, I can say that I have always been one of the most reserved persons in any room.
I grew up Roman Catholic and attended private school since first grade. Until about my junior year in high school I was devout in my religious practices. I attended confession about twice every month, engaged in conversations with the Heavenly Father throughout the day, and was quick to apostatize when someone strayed from the Christian faith. My favorite professors were well-taught theologians, and to this day I am beyond thankful for the humility they practiced.
Still, and what I hope to elaborate in some future post, I found the faith to be hypocritical and oppressive in many of their traditional practices. To me, the idea of Christianity seemed founded on the sinful nature of man and the redeeming grace of the Creator. I saw how others could be thankful for the Incarnation, but personally it made no sense how an all-powerful God created a humanity He knew would choose to sin (because of His all-loving nature, free will, etc. etc.) when THE BEING itself, outside of time, could have maybe approached creation a billion different ways? But we don’t question God. Right.
Anyway, I lost the faith. During my first year of college, I still clung to what religious values I knew, but I questioned everything. I was insecure about my purpose, my looks, my personality, the whole deal. This insecurity, unfortunately, and my naive trust in the goodness of man led me to the Tinder dating app. Through Tinder I met John, a narcissistic asshole who changed the course of my life.
The second date with this guy featured a long drive to his house, where I was raped for about four hours before I left for my dorm.
As characteristic of many sexual assault victims, I didn’t know how to react when I left. I was a very bad victim in any case. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. Very little was said throughout the entire process. I just lied there and cried while he did what he wanted. I told my roommate the next day and reality set in. She suggested I call the police and report John. My university already had a history of concealing sexual assault, so I wasn’t at all interested. I most certainly did not want to get my parents involved because John would not be the only one faced with criminal charges.
Time passed, I told a few other of my close friends. The hurt from that night never went away and my childhood anxiety peaked. I started antidepressants and counseling, both of which did very little. My sophomore year of college I moved into an apartment with friends and started seriously dating my current boyfriend. However, the more time I spent with him the more I frustrated my very introverted roommates. The stress of keeping up my grades, trying to manage a job to pay for my super expensive rent, and balancing friends was way too much. If my GPA dropped below a 3.75 I would be kicked out of the honor’s society I was already super proud to have been invited into. Any lower than that and I would lose my scholarship, the only thing keeping me in university.
Toward the end of my sophomore year I was already seriously considering a job as an exotic dancer. Why not? I could work around my school schedule, no one would have to know because any person from school who might see me would be in just as much shit, and it was the smart economic decision. There is no way. I thought. Totally freaking impossible.
Turns out it wasn’t.
I called a local club and asked how I could apply. A pretty stoic bouncer, who I now flirt with on occasion, answered and said all I had to do was go in with my ID and fill out some paperwork. I talked with my boyfriend about it. The idea made him uncomfortable, I knew, but he also saw how much I genuinely loved the idea of dancing. What happened with John ignited this post-trauma sexual curiosity. Sometimes I wanted more than anything to explore my sexuality, and other times I didn’t even want to be touched. Still, I have always been comfortable showing a little skin, and dancing was one of my favorite hobbies. So I did it. I went in, asked the bouncer for an application, and sat on a bar stool until the manager came up front.
I stared at the name bank for a while and thought of what I should put as a stage name. Not a jewel. Not a car. What the fuck should I call myself?
Nicknames from the past came to mind. I won’t reveal too much, but I will say my true name justified the adoption of Kitty Kiki Price, or Kitty.
My clients love it. I’m tiny–under five feet–so I think the combination of my height, looks, and the name fulfill a sort of fetish fantasy or something.
I mean it pays amiright?