Two months later, I ran into Ryan at a car show on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. That day, at the auto show, he paid attention to everything I worked so hard on: my tan, my breasts and my body. He said, "I keep thinking of you. Have you been thinking of me?" He was still living with his girlfriend and kids. He said, "If you can handle that, let's hang out. I really want to see you again."

"What does your girlfriend think about you seeing other people?" I asked

"She's okay with it as long as I don't flaunt it in her face. We only stay together for the sake of the kids. So am I gonna see you again?"

"I don't know. I want to, but I don't think it's a good idea," I told him.

"Come on, please, please!" he begged.

When we met the following week at a park in Beverly Hills, he was sitting on the grass stoned out of his mind, unable to string a sentence together. It disgusted me that my savior was completely incoherent. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You can't even get up off the ground!" I stormed off to sit on a near by park bench. My rational side told me to walk away from Ryan that day and never look back. But the abandoned little girl, whose dad died when she was seven, was having a meltdown. She needed to stay more than I wanted to leave.

A few minutes later, Ryan dragged himself over to me, lay his head on my lap and said, "Why are you freaking out on me?"

"I'm not," I answered. All of a sudden he perked up and announced he wanted to go for a drive. It was like someone had given him a shot of adrenaline.

"Can you even drive?" I asked.

He drove his black Mercedes down a Beverly Hills alley and pulled over. In the front seat of his car, in broad daylight, we engaged in our first make-out session.

For the remainder of my eight years as an exotic dancer, Ryan and I would meet up every few months. We would go for a spin in his Benz, park and fool around, but we never slept together. I wanted to. He'd promise to take me to some posh hotel for the weekend, where we would consummate our affair. He never did. But his promises gave me hope that our car dates would evolve into something deeper. I was convinced once I bedded Ryan, I would cast a magic spell over him, and he would leave his girlfriend for me. According to all the psychics I consulted, not only would he make me his main girl, he would marry me. Instead, I was celibate the whole time I was involved with him.

At the same time, I wanted out of my life as an exotic dancer. Because it was how I paid my bills and my family was no support, I felt stuck. After eight years in the adult entertainment industry, I had been so degraded; I didn't believe I was capable of doing anything else. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to make it at a regular job. I was making $1500 a week for my performance as Kiersten, the exotic dancer. Without a college degree, it would be hard to match that salary. All I wanted to do was numb out. As a result I began popping prescription pills to dull the pain. Then I added daily drinking to the mix. One night I stared at the empty Merlot bottles lined in a row on the shelf in my kitchen. It hit me, between the pills, the booze, the stripping and Ryan, I was slowly killing myself. I knew I needed to get out of Los Angeles.