When I was seven I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I wanted to be a fire truck.

Seriously,I wanted to be a fire truck: drive around with lights and sirens with firemen to put out fires.

I have a few of those things still. I get to work with lights, sirens, smoke and I kind of worked with firemen, but not from a fire truck; actually from a stage at a club called “Four Alarm”.

I’m a dancer. I’m very good at what I do and yes, my parents were fine with it...after a few weeks.

I mean, it did pay for college.

“Tonight is going to be a good night. Tonight is going to be a good night”
That chant used to keep my spirits up but, at that moment it made me sick to my stomach as I stood behind a dark velvet curtain.

I had thrown up earlier so I didn’t have to worry about that but, here I was, at an amateur night in another town, away from anyone I knew. Which was a good thing because if I fell to the floor or fainted dead away on stage then it would take at least five minutes before anything would be uploaded onto YouTube, linked to Facebook and then seen by anyone.

If you had asked me what made me think this was a good idea I would have to say: money. Yes, I could tell you that it was to get back at my parents, but, they knew what I was doing.
As I said they weren’t too pleased when I first brought it up:

“Stripping?”
“Dancing. There’s a difference,” I replied as I took a sip of my coffee as mom laid her napkin on the table.
“Like shit and shinola,” Dad replied.
“Yes. There’s a fine line between ass and class.” I said I took another drink. “It pays well. It’s on my terms. I do as much as I want, when I want.”
“Money is not the issue here.”
“Then what is, Dad?”
“You’re not really-”
“I’m not really what?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Never mind,” he replied.
“What your father means, Jamie, is that you’re not, I mean, they take off all of their clothes at those places and you’re still-”
“Still what, mom?” I pushed my coffee cup away and laid my folded my arms onto the table.
Mom motioned with her arms at my chest and then pointed below the table.
“I have that taken care of, mom.”
“Your SRS isn’t until next year.”
“But my ID says all that needs to be said.”
“But the people who watch those shows are a bunch of. Lowlifes,” Dad said with disgust.
“Not really. Congressmen and presidents have gone to clubs and no one thinks anything bad about them.”
“Are you taking history and sociology this fall?”
“Yes.”
“Better double your workload, girl.” Dad said.
“Yes sir,” I replied.

My parents were the ones that you never heard about at PTA meetings or on Facebook. Come to think of it, I don’t think my mom even knows what Pinterest is. We were the type of family that never aired our laundry—clean or dirty—but kept in contact with the rest of the community. Sue, there were days when they were busy with work or each other and I was forced to entertain myself but they were never too caught up with everything else to forget about me.

I was five years old when they bought me a dress I liked in a store and from that point on, they let me wear whatever I wanted to school and allowed me to enroll as a girl. Yes, there was some pushback from a teacher or a parent but my parents fought back.

I had a few clashes with other students, especially when junior high came around, but by then I had an advanced network of friends, associates and people who valued me helping them with their homework, that the haters were kept at bay.

In high school, since my school was so massive, by the time any rumor or flame wt made the rounds it was either debunked, deep-sixed or was slapped with the status of “wgaff”. Yes, I took PE and yes, I was sequestered to change in the coach’s office, especially after my top surgery was completed. I didn’t mind it and I tried to downplay anyone from leading some type of movement in my honor. I preferred they help people who were hurting over things like low grades, bullying or suicide. I didn’t need a knight in shining armor or a fighting sister-in-arm, not for me, at least.

As a sophomore, I joined the Unity Board—also known as the “Unicorn Brigade”—which was an LGTB supportive group of students. There were five us at the first meeting and three at next one until the school officially dissolved the group-and right before that happened we took our horns, glitter and rainbow and Art Deco-ed the Hell out of our high school.
The locker rooms never looked better.

I kept up the UB mantra, to make sure everyone was listed to and no one was shoved into a literal corner to be beaten up by others. Yeah, I took a few hits: some punches to the gut and soul but I stood up to a lot of assholes and gradually gained their respect, along with a few dates, to be honest.
We can touch up on that later.

I wasn’t a cheerleader—although I did try out—but I was on the school dance team, complete with the short skirt and tighter than it really should have been top.

I was center in the group pic for senior year.
No one crossed my face out.
No one petitioned to have my face digitally erased because no one really knew or cared.
And again, the ones who did were quickly “convinced” to leave me alone.

At that night though, I felt like all of the nay-sayers I never met and all of the people who could hate me were on the other side of that curtain. Maybe they wanted such and such and I couldn’t give it to them.

The club was a mix of men and women.
It was loud.
There was a slight smell of beer, but no hard alcohol so it was safe to assume that not everyone would be drunk out of their minds.
Maybe that would be good, or bad.

“You ready?” Cliff, one of the bouncers who protected the dancers asked from the other side of the curtain.

“As I’ll ever be.”
“Try to imagine them all naked.”
“Not too helpful,” I replied with a small laugh.
“Knock ‘em dead, girl.”

Those were the same words the club owner said after I auditioned. She was impressed with my moves but commented that my wardrobe would need work if I was expected to get any tips whatsoever. I only nodded because I was nearly ready to faint.

I was STILL ready to faint.

“Remember the unicorn,” I whispered. “Graceful, mystical. And doesn’t take shit from anyone. Cue it!”

The music track started with a series of staccato beats as the house lights dimmed.

I closed my eyes to try and drown out the screaming in my head that I was going to tie myself up in the curtain ropes or slip on the floor. I had everything working for me and against me. I was forty miles away from home.

As I said, home wasn’t bad. School was great for me but it was best to start out of town—in case I embarrassed myself just by breathing wrong. The manager gave me an area with the others to prepare and I was still terrified, even though everyone either said “hi” or ignored me in their own rush to prepare.

No one knew me.

I was a ghost.
A wrapped ghost in a multi-colored costume of breakaway parts.
A poltergeist who was either going to haunt their dreams or scare the living Hell out of them all.

The curtain parted and I took my step into that spotlight.

Now, depending on the club, the dancers had a time and touch limit. My first night was limited to one song and no touching. The customers were not allowed to lay there hands on me and I wasn’t allowed to touch anyone. Which wasn’t an issue for me that night. I didn’t want to see anyone—naked or clothed—and tried to black the crowd out of mind. I had no idea how many people were actual there due to the lights flashing. It could have been a couple of dozen or maybe the whole freaking house was full.
I didn’t want to think about it—I just wanted to dance.

My routine may have been “over the top” for the crowd. I thought it may have been too much, but I wasn’t just going to go out and twerk my time away. No, I had spent so much time on being “sultry” mixed with “sexy” and with a pinch of silliness. The crowd would either love or hate me. I knew that if my family saw me, they would hate me—or, at least three minutes and forty-five seconds into my routine, they would be grabbing the curtains to cover my upper body, because by then: pretty much everything was out in the open, except for a customized micro-skirt.

So, for one minute, I was pretty much showing off everything I wanted, with precision motion to keep the attention on me. The act ended with a slight curtsy to the audience and everything went to black.

I ran offstage to see Cliff moving his arm back to the stage. “You got tips out there, girl!”
“I do?” I replied now, suddenly feeling naked while not on stage. I grabbed a large towel, threw it over my shoulders and went back out to collect my costume and grab some of money that was on stage. There were a few claps, but I could not tell if it was from one person or a group.

I scrounged up my stuff, ran past Cliff, and ran into the backstage restroom, where I promptly threw up.