Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

Here, in this place no one feels sorry for you.

No one cares about your struggles or your woes. Emotion cut off. Just a sterilized world of dirt and filth. The world I live in is the dark seedy world your mother warned you about. Forced smiles false emotions released in exchange for money. Pushing out happiness. Giving birth to the girl of your dreams. Pretending to be someone else. Desperately, concealing your identity behind all the make-up; the false persona.

It becomes a juggling act in your own circus. Trying to keep your soft sweet life protected from the hard mechanical leaches. A world you don’t belong in. “You’re too sweet to be here” people say. It’s muttered and mumbled in between the “sweethearts” and “babydolls”. They’re right. I am too sweet for this. I’m above this. But then the familiar smack of the reality dashboard hits you in the face: My life is a car wreck in motion.

I can’t exist without them. The customers. The ones that tell me I’m not worth their money as it stares me in the face. The men that come to grope and fight to reach your most inner depths. The ones that make a fool of you, that belittle you, that make you their entertainment. That’s what you are, a toy for their amusement. It becomes a gamble with rape and molestation every single day.

I have been sucked in. Another statistic. Another coked up babydoll lost between the cracks. The lines left blurred by daily hangovers only to be fueled by more alcohol and drugs. The sweet life and the life of Dixie now barely a memory. It has become me. The sweet southern belle is dead. Something harder barely exists in her reflection.

My first time on stage I was nervous, my palms were sweaty, my legs were shaking. I held onto the pole for dear life, hoping that I would not fall from under my 7-inch plastic heels. I shimmied around the pole trying to manage dancing while struggling to keep my balance. I felt as if I were blushing as I slid off outfit. The hungry stares of men felt like they were piercing my heart.

When I got off a stage I walked around for tips. As I was snaking my way around the bar a guy jumped out of his place and pulled me away from a customer I was hustling for a lapdance.

“You are beautiful!”  He seemed to yell at me with an amount of enthusiasm usually reserved for football games, not the strip club.

Still holding onto my forearm he pulled me into the champagne room. He was older, I guessed 60. Wrinkles worked their way over his face. He only had a tuft of hair remaining, much like a cabbage patch doll. He obviously worked out from his rock hard body, which was unheard of for someone his age. He was a reformed gangster from New York. Trying to make it in the trash business the right way in Philadelphia.

We sipped cocktails while he rubbed my aching feet. He was kind. We just sat and talked. I told him about myself. My story. He was fascinated by me. Hypnotized by my southern sweetness. I had won him over. When our half an hour in the champagne room was finished he handed me his card.

“I’d really like if you called me.” He said.

Customers did this on a normal basis, but there was something about him that made it different. At the end of the night I cabbed it home. My nights earnings tucked into a garter still on my leg. The sharp smack of the cab door in the cold night echoed across the Philadelphia row homes. I clicked open the door and entered back into my shitty little life.

The house was empty. Being there alone in the night frightened me. You see, I was living with a guy I had been dating for several months. It was cheaper than trying to live on my own. He was sweet. Something that I seemed to love. I crawled into bed and passed out from complete exhaustion.

The next day, I pulled the card out from my purse. Dialed the number. That’s when it happened. I had just hooked myself a sugar daddy. The true meaning of the word. He began coming into my work every shift I worked. Giving me money and bringing me presents. I was hooked. I became addicted to my new sweet tooth.

I arrived in Philadelphia with the hopes of one day becoming a journalist. I wanted more than anything to be a writer. Ever since I was a kid I dreamed about writing. I did write. I don’t remember ever having a passion for anything else. I was doing well in school. Then I hit a brick wall.

My parents were unable to give me anymore money because of my sister’s health conditions. Surely, a spoiled rich brat like me wasn’t going to work 9-5 in some mall. What was I to do?

I remember reading Jenna Jameson’s book. Her recollection of how much money she made. How glamorous it seemed. But I didn’t look like her. I didn’t look like a Barbie doll with big plastic breasts and platinum blonde hair. No stamp on my bottom. I look like Grace Kelly. Refined and innocent. I didn’t look like I was plucked from the pages of Penthouse or Hustler. I had a vast knowledge of Victorian literature and SAT scores, but there really is a first for everything.

On my first day, I walked into the club, my heart pounding out of my chest. My arm pits were dripping down my sides. It was the middle of the day, it was quiet, but there was a hum of chatter over the pumping music and flashing lights. Men sitting around stages watching girls dance and grind. I tried to play cool. I pretended that I was accustomed to the neon and the tits. One of the house mothers spotted me and escorted me to the dressing room.

“Change. One of the girls will show you the ropes.”

The door swung open. The room bit my nose like the inside of a tween store. It was filled with scantily clad girls talking on cell phones; complaining to each other. There were a row of lockers that lined the back wall. I took one. Number 28. I did my best to change without anyone seeing my bits and pieces, then I realized where I was. Some girl seeing my bits and pieces was the least of my worries. I looked into the row of make-up mirrors in front of me and caught the glare of a small dark haired girl. She swung around from the make-up bar and patted the seat next to her. I sat down.

“I’m Amsterdam.” She said with a sweet foreign accent. One I couldn’t put my finger on.

Amsterdam was cool and aloof. She didn’t pay any attention to anyone. She was sporting in a neon green bikini, short brown bob, cheap perfume, and a scar on her chin. You couldn’t see the scar in the dimly lit club, but it was prominent in the brightly lit dressing room. I later learned she was attacked by a dog when she was young. She was from Prague and came to the U.S. to dance and go to school.

“Why is your name Amsterdam?” I asked bleakly.

“Why is your name Dixie?” She replied.

“I’m from the South.”

“Cute.” She said sarcastically. “Have you ever seen the movie ‘Gangs of New York’?”

“Yeah.”

“I like Leonardo DiCaprio, especially his character in that movie.”

“Oh.”

I glanced around. I was different than the other girls. Sweet, naïve, educated. I was from a prominent family. Most of these girls were foreign or from bad homes. I didn’t know how to talk to them. They weren’t like me. They eyed my handbag, heard my grammar, and smelled my perfume. I was a class all my own in this club. I frightened them.