The Lights, The Tips, The Night

My name isn’t important. On stage it was "Chelz." 

I didn’t start dancing because I loved it. I started because rent was due and the club paid cash the same night. The first time I walked onto that stage, the lights were so bright I couldn’t see faces. Just hands. Hands with money. 

The job was simple on paper: dance, perform, talk to the guests after, make them feel seen. Some men came with friends and threw bills just to watch me move. Others came alone. They didn’t want a show. They wanted conversation. They wanted someone to sit with them in the VIP and listen while they paid by the hour for my time. 

“Satisfy them” meant different things. Sometimes it meant dancing close and taking the tip without flinching. Sometimes it meant pouring drinks and laughing at jokes I didn’t find funny. Sometimes it meant going to the back room and holding space while a man who looked powerful all week let himself look tired for 20 minutes. 

The money was good. Too good. On a Friday I could make in one night what my cousin made in a month at his 9-to-5. But the money came with a cost. You learn to switch off. You learn to smile on cue. You learn that being wanted for an hour doesn’t mean being known. 

The hardest part wasn’t the touching or the flirting. It was going home at 4am, washing the cologne and sweat off, and looking at myself in the mirror and wondering which version of me was real. The one on stage, or the one who was too exhausted to eat. 

I did it for 11 months. I paid my fees. I helped my sister. And one night I counted the cash, looked at the door, and decided I didn’t want to sell my time like that anymore. 

I don’t regret it. It kept me afloat. But I also know this: any job where people pay you to be close to them will teach you fast that closeness and intimacy are not the same thing. 

Now I’m out. I still get texts: “You working tonight?”  

I don’t reply.