Pour Some Sugar On Me: Tales from an Ex-Stripper (Excerpt)

I just joined Scribd and thought I'd share the latest from my manuscript. If you are interested in reading the Scribd version you can read it HERE.

* * *

I chopped my coke into tiny little pieces on the back of the toilet. I smoothed each grain of powder in perfectly straight lines with fine sophistication.

Aaaaaaalright, laaaaaadies and geentleeeemen. . .

I had sixty seconds.

The ceremony of cocaine was as much of a rush as the actual act of snorting it. The sound of chopping, the rolling of the dollar bill, the secrecy of it all was a different kind of intoxication. My breaths grew louder as the burning numbness electrified my nostrils. The inside of my brain was an itch and with every snort, I scratched. It was nirvana laced with beauty, dipped in control.

Put your hands together for the sensaaaational Stephanieeeeeeee

I quickly straddled the white porcelain with my miniskirt hiked up around my waist and pulled my hair to one side while snorting. I tilted my head back and checked my nose for powder before leaving the ladies room and headed for the stage. Trotting up to the stage in my six-inch stilettos, I surveyed the room. One of my customers was standing next to the DJ booth with his hand extended. I took his hand to walk up the four steps to the stage. I smiled; pulling down my spandex making sure my ass was covered. I never wanted to be falling out of my clothes when walking the floor.

I was a lady.

* * *

The first time I did cocaine I was with my friend Leslie and these two guys we met at a posh club in Waikiki.

Earlier that night Leslie and I entered the nightclub and felt like royalty. The bouncers at the front door were dressed in tuxedoes and let us in without paying cover charge or waiting in line. We stepped up the red-carpeted hallway trimmed with gold chandeliers and mirrored walls. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses coming from the room were familiar and welcoming. It sounded like my mother’s parties muffled through the bedroom door when I was five.

We chose a spot next to the dance floor as soon as we picked up our drinks. I was a vodka and cranberry girl. Leslie, always Jack and Coke.

It took a second to realize he wasn’t Rod Stewart, but between the hairstyle and tight jeans, this guy was a dead ringer. I laughed as soon as I heard his voice. Of course he had an English accent. His friend had one too.

A couple of hours and a couple double vodka cocktails later, Leslie and I were in the dynamic duo’s bachelor pad.

“It’s not pink. Coke is white." I was such a snob.
“This is Peruvian, darling." That accent just killed me.

I took the bill in my hand, rolling it up like a little Peruvian rug and snorted. There was no hesitation; no question in my mind of what was right or wrong. I knew it was wrong and felt incredible.

More drinks, more clinking and laughter ensued until the evening ended abruptly. As soon as I told Rod my answer as to why I needed to get home we were shown the front door. “My mom thinks I am baby-sitting."

* * *

Six years later I found myself strutting on stage with a garter on my thigh. When the song started up I looked at the DJ booth and shook my head, smiling. The first song of my set was just too perfect. It was Rod Stewart's Hot Legs.