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227 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 18, 2014















"I ask you something perfectly normal, about your friends or your hometown, and you look like you're about to have a panic attack. You won't tell me why and won't even tell me what not to ask so that I don't stumble over the same thing again after fifteen minutes later."
What I dislike


What I like




Stripping was logical for me. One fall day last year I just bought some cheap high heels and a bra-and-panties set from the discount rack at the lingerie outlet and showed up at my first club. I didn’t get coerced into it, there was no moral dilemma, no lying awake at night being tormented by my downfall. It was, in a way, unavoidable.

I’m supposed to lose myself, to sink into it, to become unaware of anything but what we’re doing—isn’t that how it happens in all the smutty books? I shed everything like a tired old skin, all my past experiences and hangups and insecurities and doubts, and become one hot puddle of pleasure. Being turned on is supposed to wipe my brain till there’s nothing but the burning, insatiable desire.

“And maybe everything you told me about yourself was fake, and you didn’t let the real you slip through even once—I have no trouble believing that, even though I really don’t want to. Just because I enjoyed the persona doesn’t mean I have any claims on the person underneath.”

He kisses me. Our lips don’t meet smooth and choreographed like in movies. The stubble on his cheek grazes the corner of my mouth, leaving behind a burning trail, and then his lips cover mine. Nothing hesitant about them. Assertive, self-assured like I thought his kiss would be, the promise of those strong hands and broad shoulders and arrogant posture made real. But he’s anything but arrogant. He gently nips on my lower lip and his hands caress my neck, my jaw, cup my face. He’s holding me like I’m something fragile and precious. I see the long shadow his eyelashes cast over his cheekbone, the dots of stubble, the slight creases in the corners of his eyes as his eyebrows furrow in concentration.
I’m afraid to close my eyes.
One thing that nobody tells you about stripping is that it’s boring as hell. It’s not this glamorous endless party like in music videos, but it’s also not the slimy, grimy, drug-soaked cesspool of lost souls like in movies. It’s somewhere in the grey in-between, where the only thing that keeps you from falling asleep on your feet is the vinyl strap of your sandal cutting into your baby toe. Where you tilt your head up, showing your neck sensuously to hide a yawn that overtook you mid-lap dance.




Nunca me dices lo que estas pensando, lo que quieres o te hace enojar. Me dejas intentar y descifrar todo. Siento que estoy en un constante navegar por un campo de minas contigo, tratando de encontrar la manera de evitar golpear uno de tus puntos sensibles. Y no se si lo he hecho hasta que es demasiado tarde y estas atacándome.

Enseñas las tetas y la vagina a todo el mundo por uno de veinte, ¿Que esperas? ¿Crees que a la policía le importará que en realidad alguien gaste dinero en ti?