The Stripping Princess

Growing up in an extremely sheltered environment becomes dangerous when that coddled bunny rabbit is turned loose in the woods and expected to survive. For me, this was my beginning—the start of clinging to life after my divorce. Even my husband had sheltered me from responsibility. Earn the money and hand my check over to him: bills paid, problem solved. Need money? Just ask. That is, until we divorced.

Unaware of how to turn on the utilities in my new apartment, I remember sitting in the corner, knees drawn up, head down, and profusely sobbing in an empty room. With no idea where to start, I knew I needed more money than my preschool teaching job could provide. Then, I found an ad that said all I needed to do was “be pretty.” Nice! And that’s how I became an exotic dancer at a club called Paradise.

The money was fabulous, especially for someone who’d never learned the essence of saving or sensible spending. Shopping with no regard for cost—reckless, but loads of fun—and participating in events I never imagined a poor girl from a huge family would ever experience. Limousines to fancy black-tie parties, seven-course dinners that stretched over four hours, with more utensils at one place setting than I had in my entire silverware drawer; a flashy sports car with T-tops, which I ruined out of sheer ignorance about oil changes; and endless club-hopping on the weekends. I never really got into drinking much, but when I did, tequila was my choice. I was there for the uninhibited dancing, to release my excitement and angst physically. I loved dancing more than anything! This life was like putting a child to work in a candy store—I had it made.

My friends had offered me weed in the past, but it just wasn’t my thing. My overactive imagination could entertain me more than any drug or drink ever could, keeping me in control of both my thoughts and actions. But that was my mistake—thinking drugs were all fun and games. With the right drug, I was offered something far more tempting, something almost everyone seems to complain about not having: extra time.

Now, someone might wonder how that’s even possible. We all get the same twenty-four hours to squeeze in whatever we can, right? But I discovered that by shaving down my sleep and pushing myself harder—both at work and around the house—I could keep everything under tighter control. I was more efficient, checking off tasks faster, making people happier, and watching my bank account grow. I even got promoted to a management role, feeling like I had all the freedom in the world. But it was a dangerous illusion—a horrible misconception!

Apache, Big C, Blonde, Candy, Florida Snow, Icing, Love Affair, Mexican Percocet, Nose Candy, Scottie, White Girl, Zip—and, of course, Cocaine or Coke, the purest I could find. The first time I tried it, everything became so clear. My mind felt like a high-speed camera: I could glance at something and remember it as if I’d studied it for five minutes. My memory was sharper, my senses keener. But soon, instead of sharing with my roommate—the one who’d introduced me to it—I started hiding it from her, stashing it in the toilet tank. She wasn’t taking more than she gave, and I had more than enough. I just no longer felt like sharing.

Then came the sleepless nights, even when I didn’t touch it. A quiet, creeping devastation. Then one day, a commercial hit me. A close-up of a nose, one nostril pinched closed, a tiny straw in the other. A miniature car drove up, and the nose inhaled it through the straw. Next came a cruise ship, then a jetliner. And it finally dawned on me—just how much money I was sucking away. So, I quit cold turkey. Drove to California, got clean, came back, and cut off every friend who used.

My old boss told me how much the company had missed me and asked me to come back. It felt good to be wanted, so I accepted. I kept my distance from the girls I knew were still using, and shared my plans with my best friend. Together, we made a pact: neither of us would ever touch it again.

One night, I was hanging out at my friend’s place, the two of us settled around her dining table with our company’s attorneys and a guy I didn’t recognize. We were deep into a card game, laughter and small talk drifting around the room, when the newcomer leaned back with a sly grin. “Hey, let’s make this fun!” he suggested, his eyes had a devious sparkle to them. He slipped out of the room, returning moments later with a “snow pile” spread across a spotless mirror and a tightly rolled $100 bill.

Dumbfounded by the people around me and the pact my friend and I had made, I was absolutely speechless. It was quickly determined that after each turn, the player would take a line and pass it to the next person. My friend sat to my right, so I expected her to skip her hit and pass it straight to me, and then I’d hand it to the guy who brought it. But when her turn came, she held the bill tightly between her index and ring fingers, her thumb steady, and leaned forward without hesitation. The line disappeared off the mirror, up the straw, and into my best friend’s nose.

I could see her expression as she examined the spot where two lines were gone, leaving faint smudges, while three more lines remained untouched. The powdered lines held her attention completely, absorbing her as if nothing else in the room existed. Instead, when she finished, she pinched her nose with one hand, handed the bill to me with the other, and nudged the mirror across the table. “Your turn,” she announced, a coy smile on her face.

I took my turn in the game, accepting the rolled-up C-note. I paused, rolling the bill between my fingers, and glanced at my friend. “Go ahead,” she grinned, her eyes daring me. “It’s not gonna bite you.”

“No,” I muttered, my voice falling far short of the strength I’d hoped to convey.

She took a breath, then added, “C’mon, I’m not going to tell on you.”

The drug was right there. More than enough of it. I had my “straw” poised between my fingers. She’d given me the green light, promising she wouldn’t tell… I was on the edge, still turning it over in my mind, on the verge of slipping down the rabbit hole, when a voice cut through my inner debate—the one that kept whispering, It’ll be perfectly fine to just do one line. I’ll take a pass the next time it comes around.

Then, the gods intervened with a crass voice cutting in from my left. “Nah, she’s too good for this, aren’t you, princess?” The newcomer snatched the hundred from my fingers, pulling the mirror toward himself. He leaned over without hesitation, inhaling the line meant for me.

“He’s right,” my voice squeaked out, “I am too good for this.” I grabbed my coat from the back of my chair and slipped it on.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” my friend asked, disbelief coloring her tone. “This is prime!”

“I’m too good for this,” I repeated, and this time, I sounded like I meant it—because I did. And then I paused. I suppose I was waiting for her to tell me how right I was and that everyone needed to leave. We’d clean up, make coffee, and hug. That’s what should have happened.

That was the last time I saw my friend for nearly ten years. I quit my job at the club and took on a boring, low-paying job instead while I attended a university.

When I finally looked her up again, out of curiosity, I found out she’d kept using coke until a car accident changed everything. I imagine she’d still be using if she could afford it. Now, she couldn’t feel anything from the waist down and could barely walk, let alone dance. I still have no idea who that guy was, but I wish I could thank him for saving the life of a “princess.”