Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

I’ve been in this city for 4 years now and my journey has brought me many mistakes and I’ve picked up a lot of city savvy. No longer the southern belle with a twang- a city slicker with sass. From learning which bars to avoid, how to plan and cancel a wedding, and how to manage to still be in college. All the while, navigating my life through men’s wallets.  I know the men of this city and what they have to offer. This is my tale of trying for the American dream.

I spent most of my life reading the headlines about the fashionables and the famous. Looking at pictures in magazines shaded by a big pecan tree on my Texas plantation. I wanted more. I had to find the right place and time to take my piece of the big American dream. I had to experience it.

Where was I to go? Manhattan? Like my mother. I was too weak to fight the fabulous of the big apple. Chicago? Been there done that. Philadelphia. The city of brotherly love. Not too big for my debutante ways, but big enough to give me room to explore. I needed a balanced diet of style and substance. I needed to write, to drink, dance, and discover the inner Dixie. I wanted it all and as often as possible!

Cut to 2005. I landed on our founding fathers soil with a suitcase full of shoes and lingerie. A bank account with little to cover my expensive tastes and a big designer handbag full of dreams. This meant I had to get a job. A job? I had never worked a day in my life. Working was for poor people and people without style. Right?

I applied at make-up counters, shoe stores, and Victoria’s Secret. No one would hire me for over $8 an hour. That wouldn’t even cover my weekly manis and pedis! I was doomed. Just, as my glittering tears began to spill down my porcelain face, I caught an ad in The City Paper. “Gi Gi’s”. I was intrigued.

I walked across the street, the sound of my Jimmy Choos clicking underneath the city pavement was a reassurance of who I was. I opened the door, the smoke stung my nostrils and the flashing lights burned my eyes. It was a strip club. Scantily clad girls running around, chatting with men at the bar, dancing on stages. I had always heard strippers made good cash. And boy did I need it.

“Can I help ya sweetheart?” A voice bellowed at me from the corner.

“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for a job.” The words barely escaped my mouth as I held onto the counter in case my knees buckled beneath me.

“Well can ya dance?” His voice was soft, but slightly husky. I imagine from the years spent inhaling smoke and broken dreams.

“Yeah.” I was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of sounding like Fanny Brice.

“Ok, you’ll start tomorrow. 8pm sharp.”

The next day I went to the store the manager had recommended to me “The Candy Store”. I scoured the racks full of pint size neon spandex. I couldn’t believe women actually wore this. But I was now playing the game so I had to get the uniform to match. At the end of the clearance rack was a blue and white gingham top, skirt, and matching g-string. It was perfect. Along with the porn star heels and caked on make-up, Dixie was born.