"So let me get this straight? You've been a stripper for the past eight years and you've never slept with anyone during that entire time?" Blair, my co-worker at the strip club, asked.
"I know, it sounds really weird," I said. "I just haven't. Maybe its guilt from my Italian Catholic upbringing."
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"Kiersten, how is that possible? Come on, that can't be true," Blair replied.
I was embarrassed that at 30 years old I wasn't sleeping with anyone. "It's just that… I've kind of been saving myself for Ryan. Just because I'm a dancer doesn't mean I should give it away to anyone. I mean I've only been with like four guys and they were all serious relationships," I said.
We were sitting around the dressing room on a slow Saturday night, legs wrapped around bar stools, swapping war stories. Almost every steel locker exhibited a bottle of inexpensive champagne or vodka. Blair, a preppy blonde, looked more Park Avenue, then Los Angeles strip joint.
"Ryan's that guy from Malibu?" she asked.
"Yeah, that one," I said. "He says we'll sleep together when the time is right."
"What do you guys do then?" Blair asked.
"We do other things," I replied, as the DJ announced: "Next up we have the lusciooous, gorgeooous Kieeersten!"
It was time to become Kiersten, my alter ego. She could handle anything, she was fearless. I liked Kiersten, because I could turn her into anyone I wanted to be. I took half of a Xanax out of my tiny antique pill box and washed it down with cheap bubbly. As I swayed my hips on stage to Q-Tip's "Vivrant Thing," my thoughts drifted to Ryan. In addition to gorgeous models, he loved racing cars and riding one of his many Harleys. He was raised by his late Hollywood-legend daddy. He was 33, and I was 22 when we met at a hole in the wall gym in Malibu. Sweating it out on the elliptical machine, I noticed this hot guy in Devo sunglasses on the treadmill behind me. He looked like a young, tanned George Clooney crossed with a sexy tattooed surfer. He had ultra white teeth and dark hair cropped close to his head. He oozed bad boy sex appeal.
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"Where did you get that tan?" he asked as he looked me up and down.
"At the beach," I responded.