Brooklyn saved me from at least one broken nose and countless other bad situations. That's the kind of friend you make in a strip club — not the decorative kind, but the kind who's actually paying attention.
Brooklyn grew up experiencing physical abuse from her father and emotional distance from her mother. After graduating high school early with a 4.0 GPA, she briefly attended college before seeking independence. While working at a car dealership, she befriended a stripper and a bouncer, and was drawn into the club environment at seventeen. She describes her older boyfriend at the time as a groomer, though she has always felt she made genuine choices throughout her entry into the profession.
She found the stage transformative. The confidence she lacked in the rest of her life arrived fully formed when she stepped under those lights. She discovered within the strip club community a kindness and support that had been missing from her earlier life — a sense of belonging built among people who looked out for each other because nobody else would.
The work wasn't simple or uniform. About eighty percent of the men she danced for were, in her words, scum. But the other twenty percent were kind and caring and became valued friends. That ratio might sound discouraging. What she did with it — maintaining warmth for the twenty while managing the eighty — required a kind of emotional precision that doesn't get credited in most discussions of the industry.
Brooklyn retired in 2008 and became a successful bartender. She maintains pride in her former work and refuses shame when people attempt to deploy her past against her. She is not interested in their discomfort.
The people who work in strip clubs are people — with their own hopes, dreams, and insecurities. Brooklyn was never the caricature. She was never the cautionary tale. She was a person doing a job, with skill and agency, and she'd like you to know the difference.