The citrus smell of Goo-gone was invading my brain; it smelled good in a sickly sweet way, but it was making me slightly nauseated. My fingers were sticky with adhesive from peeling yellow "New" stickers off books. When new books arrived, the library kept them in a separate section for six months to promote the shiny, hot-off-the-press bestsellers or replacement copies of favorite classics. After that, they returned to the main collection. I tried wiping the glue off with a combination of Goo-gone and Clorox wipes. I couldn't wait to be a full-fledged librarian and never peel off another sticker ever. "What are you going to do this weekend, Ariel?" My coworker, Brianna, asked as she walked by with the "To Shelve" cart.My mind flashed to bare breasts, sweat-slick stages, grimy money, and men's hands. I kept my face blank as I said, "I don't know, probably just work on homework, or read. Binge-watch Star Trek, if I get done with everything." I ignored the sudden uptick in heart rat

I opened the front door to my parents' house without using my key. My family never locked their front door, or the back for that matter. The back yard didn't even have a fence. The reasoning was, nothing ever happened in Azle, Texas. The neighborhood was safewhite, middle-class, and filled with Evangelical Christians. My own bedroom had been built without a lock. "I'm here," I called out. "Sister!" my little sister, Mariah answered from her usual spota brown faux leather recliner chair. She had our mini-dachshund, Penny, clutched tightly in her arms, and a pair of headphones around her neck. I took a deep breath and maneuvered around the piles of junk everywhere: a discarded stationary bike that had never been used, shoeboxes filled with trinkets to send to the starving, heathen children in Africa, plastic garbage bags of old childhood clothes still needing to be taken to Goodwill (and probably never would), mounds of toys for "holiday gifts." My mother was the kind of person to

"What are you?" asked the customer.A woman? A librarian? A stripper?"You're very exotic looking," he continued. "What's your nationality?""American," I replied, having an inside joke with myself. "What?" he asked, confused. I rolled my third eye. Put away your tertiary liberal arts education. Trying to score a table dance is not the time to explain that nationality is the country or nation of origin and ethnicity is a sociocultural heritage. "Native American," I clarified. "My grandfather was half Ottowa""Oh I'm Indian too," interrupted the blond, blue-eyed teeny bopper before me. "I'm like one-sixteenth on my mom's side. Or was it my dad's?"Sure, but you didn't grow up with a Native name, christened with a powwow, didn't grow up learning the circle dance, the fancy dance, or the dance of the 49 Warriors. You don't have hand-sewn shawls that your mother made you or a hand-carved tomahawk.He finally asked for a table dance.I don't think this is what The Great Spirit

"Your unlicensed therapists." The billboard on I-35 promised compassionate listening from scantily-clad women. This portal into the strip-club corridor of Dallas reminded men that there were women waiting to listen to anything you had to say…for a fee of course. Most guys who came to the strip club weren't perverts, sex-obsessed, or total misogynists; they were just lonely or needed a stranger to talk to. In that way, strip clubs are like confessionals: no one is going to judge you, because who are we to judge in a place like this? Most, granted, didn't talk about their problems or issues in the club, because it was a way to escape them, not face them. However, there was one guy who had no qualms talking about his troubles; turns out, he gave me some free advice which would ultimately take me deeper into the rabbit hole. David came in toward the evening, around 5 or 6, looking to drink, avoid traffic, and look at pretty women. I approached him."Hi! My name is Rose." I reached out

Moving to Cabaret Royale felt like a promotion in Strip Club World. I saw the club for what it was: a tacky buffet during lunch, stained and fraying chairs, tables slightly sticky with alcohol and other fluids, a champagne room with no door, and a couch that looked like it had been around since the 80s, and chipped wooden stages.And yet… I firmly placed those rose-colored sunglasses over my eyes. It had three bars, (with at two open most days), two downstairs and one upstairs. A chandelier hung over the entrance hall, and a royal red carpet draped the staircase that enticed visitors to explore hidden depths. There was a huge main stage, with no pole. I was a bit disappointed that this club did not have a pole onstage. The pole was rather like a friend: always there, always reliable, always ready to catch you if you fall. The two other smaller stages which flanked it were carved like miniature pianos. Cabaret Royale charged a higher entrance fee, was three times the size of Lipstick