I arrived for my freshman year at college full of self-assurance. I had been an honor roll student in high school, popular, active in my community, and comfortably well off.
Although I had somehow been unable to save more than $227 from my summer job, my parents had generously supplemented my bank account, bringing it up to $1500, and I was further armed with a major credit card with a $1500 limit. As I was living in a dorm and my meals were paid for by my board contract, it was felt that my resources were sufficient to see me through the first semester at the State University College my parents had selected for its affordability and close proximity to home. This was soon to be revealed as unwarranted optimism.
I had insisted on saying my goodbyes at home and driving myself to campus. Wanting no repetition of my parents' embarrassing behavior during "orientation weekend" two months before, I loaded my belongings into my brand new used X-Terra (a going-away-to-college gift from my grandfather) and drove the 70 miles to school. At eighteen, with a car, $3000 in cash and credit, and a large bag of marijuana (one of the reasons my summer job savings had been so disappointing) I was on my own and on top of the world.
I adapted quickly to campus life. There were a number of kids I had graduated with attending school, and I soon made a flock of new friends as well. I managed to restrict (most of) my partying to the weekends, and at the same time maintain a 3.8 GPA. The only problem I had was money. As I approached the winter holiday break, my checking balance had become alarmingly low. To compound the problem, I had lost track of precisely how low it was, having neglected to balance it for two months running.
As I was afraid of bouncing checks, I began to rely on my credit card perhaps more than was wise, and soon found myself in the awkward position of making a minimum payment on a maxed credit card without any confidence at all that the check would clear. My car had developed a mysterious ailment that caused it to sometimes refuse to start, or even turn over. Then a few minutes later, it would be fine. Two trips to the repair shop had failed to reveal any problem. I dreaded the coming conversation that was sure to take place when I went home for the holidays. On top of it all, my big bag of weed was now a small baggie of crumbs, twigs and seeds.
All of this is by way of explaining how I came to take my first job as a nude dancer. Carrie, one of the RAs in the dorm, had started dancing at a bar nearby, and suddenly seemed to have all the money she needed. I asked her if they needed any more dancers, but she told me they would not hire me because of my age, as they only hired dancers over 21. She did know of another bar that would hire eighteen-year-olds, as they had a "BYOB" (Bring Your Own Bottle) license, and therefore did not sell any liquor. The name of the place was “Benny’s”. I called the number and made an appointment to interview that day. The owner, whose name (unaccountably) was Bill, said he or his manager would be there between 2:00 and 3:00 PM.
I was not nervous about it, having always been something of an exhibitionist. In fact, I had something of a reputation for it in high school, having eagerly participated in drinking games that involved removing clothing, and whatever followed. Nude dancing was perfect for me, since I would be getting paid for doing something I enjoyed.
I tried to dress appropriately for the interview, in a clingy white tank top that emphasized my small (but perky) boobs and an extremely short denim skirt. Looking in the mirror, I was pleased as the outfit emphasized my best feature, my legs. Carrie loaned me a pair of high heels with ankle straps and I was almost ready to go.
She asked me what kind of panties I had on, and when I told her a thong, she made me change into a pair of tiny little red booty shorts. They were silk-screened with "liquor" in front, and "poker" in the back, with arrows pointing downward. She said they would help me establish the “right mood”. My roomate Karen thought I looked incredibly cheap. That was the look I was going for.
Chapter 1- The Interview
“Benny’s” looked rather dingy in the light of day. The front of the building had big plate glass windows but these were completely papered over on the inside, with signs in large letters saying ADULTS ONLY! And LIVE NUDE GIRLS! in huge yellow letters. There was a big sign on a pole in front declaring it was “The One and Only Benny’s Lounge!” The lettering was neon, and there were light bulbs all around the sign. I imagined it attracted quite a bit of attention at night. There was a sign on the locked front door that said “Deliveries in rear”, so I walked around back and in the open back door. As I walked in I noticed an old well-taken-care-of Cadillac and a Harley-Davidson Trike parked in back, the only vehicles in the lot.
The bar smelled of stale beer. Looking around, I saw the walls were decorated with beer signs and posters, even though they did not sell alcohol. The bar was a u-shape around the main room, with a platform in the middle with two shiny poles extending to the ceiling, and multicolored lights aimed down from the top. The back room I had walked through coming in had a half dozen beat-up easy chairs arranged around the outside.
I spotted a door marked “Office” and heard a voice I recognized as Bill’s.
