The Arts of Ishtar

After the breakup, Ben’s place became a hollow, unbearable thing. He’d offered me time—I knew it was guilt speaking, but pride wouldn’t let me take it. I severed all ties in one clean cut.

Sarah, his executive assistant, a strange kind of ersatz aunt to me, picked me up in her Mustang, took my few belongings, and dropped me back to my dorm. We’d brunch sometimes, around Chapel Hill, wandering Franklin Street like we belonged to it.

Chapel Hill was home again, no longer Durham with Ben. His world was never mine. His friends weren’t my friends, just faces tied to him, often employees, sycophants trailing behind, tethered by necessity.

One afternoon, Sarah and I sat at a Southern place on Franklin—home cooking with airs. Cobb salads and a shared plate of succotash. I slipped again into the food I shouldn’t have touched, let guilt drive me to it, let failure and a sort of moral culpability twist together, feeding each other like a loop tightening.

"I’m proud of you," Sarah said.

"I feel broken." My eyes were bloodshot. Cheeks tear-stained, snot probably dripping. "What did I do wrong? Am I not good enough? Too young? Why is Sophia better than me?"

"She’s not better," Sarah said. "She just slotted into Ben’s life. Ready for a family. That’s not a compliment. If you were five or six years older, you wouldn’t even look at Ben, and he knows that. That’s why he dumped you."

"That’s hogwash," I blubbered. "He thinks I’m less than him. I wish he’d see that I’d catch up with him. Am I too rough around the edges? Bad optics?"

"Stop. Don’t speak about yourself that way."

"I want to be a femme fatale!"

I immediately felt silly for saying that, but I meant it.

"You were twenty. A baby. Precocious, sure. But still a baby. Ben wanted to feel like a big shot, and you made him feel that way. But he knew it was a sham. He’s a nerd. One day, you’ll be a femme fatale. But not today. And that’s okay."

"Twenty was too young? I get that nineteen could have been too young when we first started out, but I’m an adult and nineteen is legal. I’m twenty-one now," I folded my arms defiantly. "Was I not submissive enough?"

"No. You were too submissive. He walked all over you. You overwatered a plant with your affection," Sarah said, running a finger through her curly blonde hair. "This is a new chapter. You left with relative dignity. Didn’t accept his so-called support. It was disgusting how he set up that meeting. He did it to absolve himself. In the most sterile way possible. At least he didn’t waste another two years of your life."

"I know I didn’t accept his support for ‘dignity’ or whatever, but now I’m scared shitless, Sarah," I said, goosebumps spreading across my arms. "I have scholarship money, but I need cash to survive. I’ll probably be a server again."

"Can’t your parents help?" Sarah asked.

"Nuh-uh," I shook my head. "I’m effectively an orphan, even though I call them once every two weeks, even though they’re sitting on loads of cash. Should I be a server? An escort? Find another rich guy? All I’m good at is rich guys."

"I can’t tell you what to do, but I don’t begrudge any young woman doing what she has to do to survive," Sarah said, smiling her winsome, stained smile.

"Really?"

"Yes, honey. And I’m a gun-toting Republican who loves Trump and married to a cop, but I’m not a prude," she squeezed my hand. "Before Paul, when I was your age, young and beautiful, I did sketchy things to survive. Work smarter, not harder. If you have to do stuff in the interim, shun moralists. Be an earnest sinner."

"I don’t want to be a full-on whore," I confessed. "I respect whores in a perennial sense, but I don’t want to be one. It’s the hardest job— or rather, source of exploitation—imaginable."

"You don’t have to be if you don’t want to," Sarah said. "Ben might be the richest man you’ve been with, but he won’t be the best. Knowing you, you’ll have your pick. Use your femininity and charm wisely."

"I don’t believe you. Besides, I loved him because at first he made me feel cared for. I wanted to return that, to take care of him too. But then it shifted. I started feeling degraded—just not in the way I could accept and not in a way that turned me on."

"You don’t have to, sweetie. I don’t expect you to, not right now."

My eyes drifted to a flyer on the restaurant window. Server jobs.

"I think I’m going to apply," I told Sarah.

"That’s the spirit," she smiled. Lunch was finished. We sipped strawberry lemonade, the pink and white stripes of the booth echoing its sweetness. I fumbled for my pocketbook, offering to split the check, but Sarah waved me off, as usual. Walking past the polished brass rails, I saw her—the manager, I presumed. I approached, nerves masking determination, and told her the food was good, that I had serving experience, and I was looking for work. She gave me a form, asked when I could start. "Tomorrow," I said, filling out the paper right there. She nodded, told me to come in.

Weeks later, Sarah quit on Ben. Said she needed balance, but I knew—it was how he treated me. Or at least, it played a part. We still talk, catching up from time to time. She was one of the few who didn’t make me feel like I’d lost my mind during the Plague.

Back in my dorm, the walls, cinderblock white, pressed in. The showers, damp with cement, flip-flops mandatory if you didn’t want to catch athlete’s foot. I had been a stay-at-home girlfriend, almost a kept thing—young, idle, drifting. Returning to student life was a shock, the mundanity suffocating.

The next day, after class, I went back to the restaurant. The manager handed me a uniform and told me I had two weeks to prove myself. I met the crew—a ragged mix of felons, chain-smokers, potheads, and lost indigent women. We worked hard. They hid tips from us. We had to hound them. By the end of the semester, the place shut down. Rent was always prohibitively expensive there.

I needed something new. Found work bartending further down Franklin. A dive bar, thick with local drunks and frat boys from Gimghoul, pretending they were in Skull and Bones. I hooked them on Modelo Negros—called it "chode beer." Jim Beam shots for horny townies. Fat tips, when the nights were good. But the shifts were erratic. I quit eventually. The owner apologized sometime around Halloween, semesters later, when it no longer mattered.

Shabbat was my anchor, but survival took precedence. I chalked it up to pikuach nefesh. Slowly, I lost my grip on it, my observance slipping away, misaligned and misguided.

Ah, but if you must know, my dearest former friend, A, when I first turned to J-Swipe to dull the edge of my loneliness, it began while I lay, sleepless, on the Katz’s futon. Jonathan and Claire—shul friends from Beth El, though their brand of Judaism was Conservative, egalitarian, up there where they prayed. I, of course, down below, in the Ortho kehillah, surrounded by aging men, and some old black hats. My heart in my throat, always hoping Ben wouldn’t appear. Hoping no one would ask why a young girl, not even halachically Jewish, still came, still clung to ritual post-breakup. Not even post-divorce.

Dorm life—impossible. I wouldn’t pay for the dorm. Wouldn’t pay to suffocate, to be slowly buried by those whitewashed walls. And so Jonathan and Claire took me in. Their home, balanced in that strange liminal space where Chapel Hill spills into Durham. Claire finishing her PhD, clawing her way toward tenure, Jonathan a journalist, an author, their lives entangled in words and work. A couple so impossibly ideal, it made me wince. Claire—another convert, though of the Conservative kind. No children, only a cat, succulents in neat rows, and that perfect arc of a floor lamp, sleek and modern.

They were both in such fine shape, too—CrossFit, probably. The sort of couple who would sweat through a workout, then into the shower, bodies slick, passions ignited, before a quiet game of chess. Afterwards, they’d sit at their desks, editing each other’s sentences, refining thoughts. But I digress. That’s all conjecture, of course. I wouldn’t know what that kind of intimacy feels like, would I?

"So," I asked them one night during Shabbat dinner, "how did you two meet?"

"Haiti," Claire said, dishing salad onto my plate. "Around the time of the food crisis, the riots, the earthquake. I was just starting out. Jonathan was more established, working for the Associated Press. I slept on a mat, camping out. He let me move in with him. I was there collecting oral histories from survivors."

"And I was working on my book," Jonathan added. "We lived in Brooklyn for a while, then came down here for Claire’s PhD at Duke and the Haiti lab."

I could see it clearly, Jonathan, the journalist, offering Claire—brilliant, beautiful, full of promise but not much else—better quarters, a safer berth. It’s the nature of men, isn't it? To rescue, to protect. That paternal instinct, rising unbidden, especially when the woman’s young, vulnerable, teetering on the edge of becoming something. Men hand over safety, shelter, the illusion of stability, and in return, they drink deeply from the well of her gratitude. Her reliance on them feeds their ego, fills their empty corners.

Their relationship—yes, May-December, but not like Ben and me, not the brittle game we played, where power shifted with every move, every word. No, Jonathan and Claire had something real, something you could see in the glances they exchanged, the quiet understanding between them. No keeping score. No barbed compliments or veiled criticisms. They weren’t circling each other like predators waiting for the other to slip. They fit, complemented each other in a way that made sense. Claire, the academic, with her lofty thoughts and papers, and Jonathan, the grounded journalist, hardened, bringing her back to earth just as she lifted him beyond the mundane. There was polarity, not rivalry. They didn’t just share a bed—they shared purpose.

We talked about the big things, at first—the corruption of NGOs, the poisoned IMF loans, the way the Clinton Foundation and France left Haiti in ruins. They told me what it felt like to stand amidst the rubble of an earthquake, to smell cholera. But as the hours stretched, the conversation shifted, became about me, about why I was sleeping on their futon in the first place. They liked me. They told me so. Liked me more than they liked Ben.

"Ben made me so uncomfortable," Claire finally confessed, pushing a loose hair behind her ear. "The way he looked at me during Shabbat dinner at his place. It was inappropriate. Disrespectful—to you, to me, to Jonathan."

"He wanted a ménage à trois," I admitted, ashamed. "And I just… I wanted to make him happy."

"Your first serious relationship?" Claire asked, her eyes softening. "Jonathan and I have an age difference, but Ben—he really exploited that gap."

"Yes," I nodded. I needed a change of subject. "Is this Nina Simone?"

It was obviously Nina Simone.

"Sinnerman," Claire said, smiling. "You should channel that energy. Strong black woman. Untouchable."

I snickered internally. All I could think was how I wasn’t a strong Black woman, or even a Black woman, or strong at all. Barely a woman. Barely holding on. Running, like Nina sang. Fleeing, really. From myself, from the things I’d allowed.

And later that night, my dearest former friend, A, I downloaded J-Swipe. Thought maybe this would help. Maybe this would wash Ben from my bones. But, in the back of my mind, the same thoughts circled: Men. Power. Submission. Jonathan and Claire—they had a good relationship, true—but even in the healthiest dynamics, something unsettling yet utterly beguiling. The way male and female relations play out. To be a woman, to want a man, is to court oblivion. You bleed before the shark, knowing it could shred you apart. And yet—the catch. In a relationship where there’s no power, no danger, no threat—where’s the pull? How can we desire what doesn’t carry the promise of destruction?

So I swiped. I swiped through every face within reach. Faces I knew. Boys from shul, from Hillel, campus types. None of them mattered. I widened my net, stretched it past the edges of my world—New York, Toronto, anywhere. And I swiped, and swiped, and swiped.

I want to say this, A. My dearest former friend. I’ll always appreciate the kindness Jonathan and Claire showed me. I still watch their lives from a distance. They’re good people. Solid. They’ve got kids now. Moved to Charlottesville. Safe and liberal in all the predictable ways. Jonathan especially, so rabidly orthodox in his progressivism. Polished, respectable, institutionally beloved.

But if they found me on the Ahrimanic Lattice? On that one Infinite Scroll where I unspooled my darkest thoughts, ranted polemically? They’d be horrified. By my views on the Plague. On anything that slips from the media's sanctioned narrative.

I think about the paradox of their lives. Their tight grip on certain ideas, while living a life that’s the opposite. Pure will at work. They don’t even see it. Those signs on their lawn, the safe beliefs they wear like armor. They call themselves radical, forward-thinking, but their lives are so carefully conservative. Married. Straight. Children cocooned in comfort. A life measured in straight lines, boundaries marked and respected.

A very idyllic life. The way it should be for most people.

One day, maybe their child will trans itself. By then, the tech will be perfected, streamlined into just another feature of their curated reality.

But Claire and Jonathan? They’d never live by crackheads. Never truly in the hood. No risk unless it’s for a byline, for the sheen of journalistic adventure.

A few days later, I ditched the dorms to rent a room at a Korean exchange student’s place.

No mattress. I began with an air bed, a temporary refuge. Found a discarded mattress down the block—filthy, sure, but beggars can't be choosers. Money was tight.

I’d crawl through the vents at Lenoir, hands scrabbling metal, knees bruising against the cold surface. The fan's vibrations hummed beneath, the air thick with rancid grease. Below, the dining hall sprawled, glass windows enclosing the top floor. Through these, I peered down into the pit: tables strewn with trays, students chattering, lost in their mundane rituals. Aramark's slop, prison fare on their plates.

Workers ladling out pallid pizza slices, pasta drenched in bland sauce, and unidentifiable meat. The salad bar—an oasis for the health-conscious—held no appeal for me. I sought the essentials: bread, fruit, deli meats.

Mestizos, worn out and underpaid, navigating their shift in a trance, a veritable brown study. They washed trays, refilled drink stations, cleaned tables. They noticed me, but they didn’t care and probably didn’t speak English.

Reached the entrance above the kitchen. The clatter of pans, the sizzles. I pushed open the grate, dropped down. They barely reacted. One worker glanced my way, then returned to serving mashed potatoes with the same monotonous efficiency.

Grabbed what I could. Anything that looked edible. In and out.

Sometimes, I’d linger with the anarchists by the flagpole, the sole sanctuary on campus where smoking was permitted. Not your run-of-the-mill protesters, no grandstanding, no shrill cries against every Confederate statue or dead slave owner, though we’re all descendants of slaves and still slaves on some level. They were the real deal, or close enough—a motley crew of wannabe anarcho-primitivists. Corresponding with Ted Kaczynski, plotting midnight raids on Harris Teeter, Trader Joe’s, Food Lion, Whole Foods. We’d scavenge, slipping past cops, hands laden with discarded treasures—perfectly good food, abandoned and forgotten.

When not scavenging, I was high, cooking for friends, ensuring they indulged in their munchies. Scouring their fridges for leftovers, crafting odd but delectable dishes: poor man’s huevos rancheros, white trash cassoulet. They relished it, perhaps discerning the source of my desire to cook for them but wisely silent.

Occasionally, I’d indulge in petty theft—cheese, dense in nutrients, deceptively easy to pilfer. I had no inclination to date men just for a meal.

And Shabbat, of course, led me to Chabad or Moshe House. I recall that night at Moshe House in Durham. On the couch with Susannah, deep in conversation—my job search, looming rent, her disheartening dating woes.

I wasn’t dressed awfully provocatively. Nothing to draw a second glance. But Susannah, with that piercing gaze, suddenly asked, "Are you wearing a bra right now?"

"No," I whispered back.

She leaned closer. "You could honestly just get naked. People would throw money at you."

After that conversation, the idea started to form. How to strip down, quietly. Without fanfare. In control. No gross men penetrating me.

Porn? Absolutely not. Sugar baby? Escort? Not going to work for obvious reasons.

But strip clubs?

I searched. Dug through listings until I found it. Teasers. Right in the heart of gentrified Durham. Next to a tapas bar, a locavore place, and some performance arts center for the overly educated. It felt right. Thought about it all weekend.

Sunday, I made the call.

"Teasers, what’s up?" Gruff, impatient voice.

"I'm interested in dancing. How do I apply?"

"Audition's tomorrow at seven. Bring your ID. You twenty-one?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Show up with that and a decent attitude." Click.

I needed the right gear. Shoes. Lingerie. Sixty bucks in my account, rent due the next day. No clue if I’d even get the job.

I called Tim—a handsome friend, the kind who wanted to fuck me. I knew it. He knew it. We hiked, studied together. I’d catch his hard-on sometimes. We both pretended not to notice. But right now, I was too deep in survival mode. Heartbreak mode. Sex was the last thing on my mind. Besides, he was too WASPy.

"Hey," I said when he picked up, "I’ve got a way for you to make some cash."

"Yeah?"

"I need a driver. A chaffeur, if you will. To a... questionable establishment. I’ll pay you better than Uber."

"What?" His curiosity was piqued.

"Teasers. In Durham."

"Oh, shit," he said, and I could hear the wheels turning in his head. "You could make bank there."

"I don’t know," I said, hesitant. "This isn’t Atlanta or Manhattan or Vegas. It’s fucking Durham."

"Honestly," Tim mused, "I’m just curious. Most girls would hide behind a screen. Not many would be gutsy enough to go and strip down for real."

Tim drove me to Priscilla’s to grab the heels. Stripper heels. Forty bucks gone. I was down to twenty, and the lingerie? I'd wear what I already owned. Agent Provocateur—black. Garter included. I slipped on my Burberry trench over it all.

Now we were driving. En route to Teasers.

I’m not one to bite my nails, but I was close. "How much do you think I’ll make?" I asked, feeling the nerves creep in.

Tim kept his eyes on the road. "Look," he said, doing quick math in his head, "even if you make a hundred-fifty per shift, it’s worth it."

I stared out the window as I entered Teasers. The heels felt less awkward now. I felt powerful, almost regal.

"Hi," I slightly hobbled over to the front desk, where a burly man with a ruddy face and black attire sat. "I’m here for the audition."

"You’re the one from the phone?"

"Yes sir," I replied, attempting a smile.

"Don’t ‘sir’ me," he said with a chuckle. "I’m Chris. Let’s see your ID."

I slid my driver’s license across the counter. He gave it a cursory glance before returning it. "Fill out this form," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the main area. "The stage is over there."

I sank into a velvet chair, the fabric cool against my skin, and began filling out the form. Opposite me, a light-skinned woman with dreads reclined on a chaise, lost in a Harlequin romance. As I scribbled, doubt gnawed at me. Was it wise to divulge my social security number? Was a traditional career even my path? The thought of pole dancing seemed absurd, and even the rudiments of dance seemed to elude me. Anxiety prickled.

Chris interrupted my spiraling thoughts. "What’s your stage name going to be?"

I had been immersed in The Bell Jar recently, a pitiful reflection of my undergrad despair, so I said, "Sylvia."

"Sylvia? Sylvia-May?"

"Just Sylvia."

"Got it. Now, pick two songs."

"Play Led Zeppelin or Bauhaus or Yves Tumor or maybe Dean Blunt," I said.

Chris nodded and took the completed form. I waited, watching as the other women selected Hip-Hop, Trap, and R&B tracks.

I approached the pole. Too big for this thin, metal rod. I strutted around it, clumsy and self-conscious.

"Alright, folks!" The deejay’s voice cut through the room. "Next up, a fresh face in town. Give it up for the sensational Sylvia!"

I couldn’t help but smirk at the theatricality of it all. The stage, the spotlight, the garish hues of red and blue haze, all dim and murky. Above, an old grid of acoustic tiles, stained and sagging. The stage itself—a raised platform, shiny yet worn, scuffed and oily, with a railing that was more a nod to safety than a true boundary.

I tried to summon grace. Fireman’s spin. Hook spin. Chair spin. Managed those with some semblance of skill. But the invert? Nearly cracked my head open. I was adrift, out of my depth. I shrugged off my bra, wandering the stage like a lost lamb, the urge to flee creeping in, almost overpowering.

Until an older man—the Manager— who looked like a caricature of Dallas oil money, bone-white hair—stopped me.

"You’re Sylvia?" he drawled. "Where you going, sweetheart? Planning to come back tomorrow? Tonight?"

I blinked. "You’re hiring me? But I’m terrible."

"Dancing’s not the point. Men don’t care. Welcome. You’re an independent contractor now."

I picked my shifts. Four nights. Slipped back into my coat. Tim was waiting.

"What happened?" he asked.

"They hired me. We’re back tomorrow."

Tim chauffeured me back. Would I make rent in time? Pay Tim? Chris had laid out the financial labyrinth of the club, and I was overwhelmed. Each lap dance was twenty-five bucks, with five siphoned off to the house. In VIP, for every hundred spent, thirty vanished into the house’s coffers. And tips—oh, the deejay’s tip was crucial; he escorted you to your car and chose your music. If anyone crossed a line, Chris or the Manager was my lifeline.

The stage was flanked by small, round tables, each encircled by two or three chairs. The chairs were upholstered in cracked vinyl, blackened with age, their foam stuffing beginning to poke through in patches. They wobbled with the slightest weight, but no one seemed to care. The tables were close enough to the stage for patrons to lean in and throw wrinkled bills, yet shadowed enough to afford discretion. The audience was a mix—a smattering of college kids seeking amusement, solitary older men nursing their drinks, their eyes unwaveringly fixated on the stage. Conversations were sparse.

Behind a black curtain, the dressing room awaited. It was a no-frills, utilitarian space, crammed with lockers along one wall and a few vanity mirrors haloed by bare, flickering bulbs. The mirrors were scratched, the bulbs intermittently sputtering, and the air was thick with the aroma of makeup, sweat, and perfume. Costumes lay in disarray—glittering bikinis, sequined bras, feather boas—and the counter was a cluttered with half-empty hairspray bottles, eyeshadow palettes, and lipsticks with missing caps. The dancers gossiped in the corner, but my focus was singular: preparing for the next set. I was the new girl, visibly out of place.

I had to decipher the arcane etiquette of the strip club. It was all new to me. Famished and desperate, I approached every table, greeted by nods and smiles. But soon, I understood my blunder. Other dancers had staked their claim, their drinks marked with napkins. Destiny, a Puerto Rican with baboon lips, was pissed off.

"This is my table," she said, her tone sharp.

I tried to defuse the tension. "I’m sorry, I didn’t know. This guy invited me to sit."

"Watch it, hoe," she snapped, flicking her acrylic talons.

"I’m new here," I replied, trying to keep my voice calm. "I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to get by."

Destiny’s eyes widened. "I got kids to feed."

"I’m really sorry. I’m autistic. I have Aspergers," I said, genuinely apologetic.

"No bitch, you barely got an ass!"

At that point, Tobias, a regular at Teasers and a well-liked web developer from Durham, intervened. He was a young black professional born and raised in Durham, prior to its gentrification, someone who everyone respected. "Hey, let’s calm down," he said, smoothing things over. "She’s new. Let’s not make a scene."

Tobias’s presence helped. His role as a familiar face in the club made him a friend to all the girls. He wasn’t a big spender though. He gave girls money for their time. He was an island for reprieve. For laughs. For conversation. For drinks. I think he just genuinely liked female company.

I didn’t hang out with Tobias way too much. I was laser-focused. I did not waste my time getting drunk. Each night on that stage, my muscle memory sharpened. The clunky attempts at a fireman’s spin, the awkwardness of a chair spin, became fluid, instinctive. I could even hang upside down. I was no longer thinking about the moves. The pole was no longer a foreign object but an extension of my will.

I liked being gazed at.

It made up for an adolescence where I was largely unnoticed or derided.

But the Manager was right. The dance itself was secondary. The real skill lay elsewhere. My focus was on the professional-managerial class—consultants, investment bankers, professors, attorneys. They were my target audience, my marks. I studied their habits and tastes. Feigning genuine attraction was out of the question, so I only envisioned catering to men I could see myself being with.

I’d lock eyes with these men and eye-o-late them.

Their watches were a dead giveaway—Rolex Submariners with their classic bezels, Omega Seamasters…

Patek Philippe Calatrava — A. Lange & Söhne Saxonia Thin — Jaeger-LeCoultre Master Ultra Thin — Vacheron Constantin Patrimony — Breguet Classique — IWC Portofino — Nomos Glashütte Tangente — Piaget Altiplano — Rolex Oyster Perpetual — Grand Seiko SBGW231 — Blancpain Villeret — Parmigiani Fleurier Tonda 1950 — Glashütte Original Senator — Laurent Ferrier Galet Micro-Rotor — Chopard L.U.C XPS — F.P. Journe Chronomètre Bleu — Cartier Drive de Cartier — H. Moser & Cie Endeavour Centre Seconds — Omega De Ville Trésor — Zenith Elite Classic — Hermès Slim d’Hermès — Tudor Black Bay 36 — Montblanc Heritage Chronométrie — Baume & Mercier Clifton Baumatic — Ulysse Nardin Classico — Longines Master Collection — Oris Big Crown Pointer Date — Breitling Premier B01 Chronograph 42 — TAG Heuer Carrera Calibre 5 — Panerai Radiomir 1940 — Bell & Ross BR V1-92 — Mühle Glashütte Teutonia II — Ressence Type 1 Slim — Habring² Felix — Voutilainen Vingt-8 — Urban Jürgensen Reference 1140.

Their shoes, too—John Lobb Oxfords, Crockett & Jones brogues, or perhaps Loake 1880s or Church’s for a more understated look. For the sneaker enthusiasts, Common Projects Achilles Low in white or grey were common. I even noted lesser-known brands—Berluti’s polished leather, or TLB Mallorca’s. Their business casual attire often included tailored chinos and crisp button-down shirts. Occasional nods to Theory or James Perse. They preferred a tailored, casual style that suggested quality without overt flashiness—like a crisp, white Oxford shirt from Thomas Pink or a soft, navy merino wool sweater from John Smedley, paired with well-fitted dark jeans or chinos.

I looked for signs of their high-profile consultancy roles—McKinsey, BCG, Deloitte. They were often in town for meetings or conferences, sometimes at tech incubators in the Triangle area. The investment bankers, meanwhile, were usually here for client meetings, M&A due diligence, or consulting with local startups.

I played music that wasn’t trap or mumble rap. Dad rock was solid. So was Morrissey and David Bowie. Occasionally, I’d troll people with Pergolesi or Thom Tallis, or play "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes. The Manager liked that; he said it "classed up the joint."

These men carried themselves with a practiced, almost studied indifference. My appeal was in my perceived out-of-place presence. The other girls gravitated toward and made their keep off the hood-rich guys, the redneck tradesmen and construction workers, and the Central Americans.

My sights were set on Igbo doctors or Maronite entrepreneurs or Jewish lawyers.

I scrutinized their backgrounds, catching their accents, tracing their origins with the precision of a cartographer. Their alma maters and preferred vacation spots became part of my repertoire.

Never neon, never trashy—save for those platform heels. My outfits were carefully neutral, the kind a well-heeled girlfriend in PR or a product manager might wear. My makeup was subtle, dewy, never excessive. I carried a book with a creased spine, a soft girl, Oriental enough. La Perla core, a co-ed still in the throes of academia. Not a target school, perhaps, but respectable. My story, though it might have invited skepticism, was true, and clearly had enough plausibility to pass muster.

I barely danced. I’d saunter around the platform, around the pole.

"What’s a girl like you doing here? You shouldn’t be here," they’d query, their eyes roving, gauging. Then, the inevitable, "What’s your number? Can I fuck you? Can I pretend to save you?" after a lap dance or two and a fifteen-minute charade, feigning interest in their work trips while they indulged my pretense of intellect. I’d hand them a fictitious number. My aim was to flatter, to appear inviting in those warped mirror panels on the couches—mirrors that cast reflections into ghostly distortions, far from the clean precision of a gym or studio.

The other girls, even Destiny, were fine. Destiny, sweet but burdened by an exploitative baby daddy. The others soon saw through my veneer, recognizing my harmlessness within the week. Jai, the light-skinned, pretty, yet athletic dyke, became my guardian.

Bubbles was a drag king doing Cirque de Soleil stuff. A traveling stripper.

Kaitlyn was a true Southern girl—almost a Southern belle. She used her real name as her stage name, bold as that was. She had a tattoo on her wrist that read:

אַבָּא

I asked if her father was still in the picture, and she said, "No, he died when I was five, down in Daytona Beach with the woman he cheated on my mom with."

Then there was Charmagne—a big-bootied, bodacious, dark-skinned nurse. A hustler. She also sold front lace wigs and took me under her wing. "Avoid the barflies," she warned me from the start.

Strippers despise barflies—perhaps even more than the grabby, overly handsy types. Dusty, unkempt barflies. Tits McGee, ancient and occasionally a bartender, manned the bar at the club’s center—a circular focal point. Overhead, a glass rack hung, with shelves stocked mostly with mid-tier liquor. The under-shelf lighting made the bottles appear pricier than they were. Tits McGee exchanged cash for diluted drinks.

Any experienced stripper can spot a barfly from a mile away.

Sure, many white strippers might be vegan Portlanders, endlessly advocating for "sex workers' rights." But the real black Republicans aren’t Thomas Sowell—they’re black strippers. Even if they don’t vote. Forget the Chicago School, the Austrian School, Hayek, Friedman, von Mises. Don’t mess with a black stripper’s money. She is Trump. And she’d stab you on Fifth Avenue without hesitation, and the crowd would cheer.

So, my strategy was clear: avoid the barflies, showcase myself, and nail down my target.

I’d play the naïve girl and say, "You know, I don’t understand much about the stock market, but if I ever wanted to invest, I’d want to trade like a congresswoman."

He’d jump at the chance to show off. "Well, there are ETFs for that. KRUZ for Republicans, NANC for Democrats. But you only see their trades thirty to forty-five days later, not in real-time. Want a drink?"

I’d bat my lashes. "Really? That’s fascinating. Okay, I’ll indulge. I’ll have an old-fashioned."

I’d laugh at his jokes, sipping an extremely watered-down old-fashioned, guiding the conversation to keep him engaged. I’d ask about his job, his thoughts on North Carolina, maybe drop a question about his college friends and whether any went to Duke. I’d compliment his cologne, leaning in just enough to catch the scent. "Is that Creed Irish Tweed?"

His eyes would light up, clearly impressed. "Yes, how did you know?"

We’d tap into a discussion about fragrances, and when the time was right, I’d say, "I need to make my rounds for lap dances, but it was a pleasure chatting with you."

This always piqued their interest. They’d wonder why I wasn’t pushing for the dance, making them want it more. "Wait, Sylvia, I’d love a lap dance from you."

I’d gyrate just a bit, then straddle him so he felt like he was the only man in the room. I’d fantasize we were in a relationship, making him Turkish coffee in the mornings. Touch was a conversation—letting him touch my neck and ears, but nothing more. No grazing my breasts on the floor. These men, fastidious with their spreadsheets, would become even more attentive. If he nipped behind my ear and I stayed silent, I’d let him process how my hips flexed of their own volition, how my thighs tensed ever so slightly.

When the moment was right, I’d ask, "What do you think about going upstairs?" An open-ended question, leaving him feeling like he was making the decision.

By then, he’d be hooked. "What’s in VIP?"

"More of me."

VIP was where the bulk of my earnings came. Once a man was in a booth, I had the knack for stretching the minutes, elongating the fantasy. My inaugural night at the club? That was where I amassed nearly all my earnings—shifting from lap dances to VIP, and raking in a thousand dollars. This windfall allowed me to reward Tim handsomely and cover the rent. When Tim was unavailable, Marc, an Ethiopian with alopecia, took on the chauffeur’s role. I steered clear of Ubers, avoiding conservative Muslim drivers—new arrivals, clean-shaven ‘staches but with henna-dyed beards, signaling their Sharia adherence—who might pick up a stripper from such a disreputable place. I also just liked giving my friends money.

When I handed a fat wad of cash to my Korean roommate, she eyed me with puzzlement, inquiring about the cash. I spun some story about operating as a high-end au pair. I’m certain my true occupation remained concealed throughout our cohabitation. The heels, of course, were hidden with particular care.

The VIP booths upstairs, draped in a once-rich crimson, now dulled by grime. Curtains hung with the pretense of privacy—just silhouettes pulled tight, keeping secrets in the half-light. Leather seats, dark and cracked, groaned under the weight of their histories, soft in a way that spoke of too many bodies sinking in. A mirrored table stood between them, catching crumpled notes and stray drinks. The air clung sour to the walls. A place for murmurs, for hands that brushed too close, where the transaction was the intimacy itself.

Whenever I took man upstairs, I realized time and time again that most men weren’t in the strip club for sex. In their weakness, men come to the club seeking affirmation, not of their bodies, but of their souls—that they are still significant in a world that is indifferent to them— it is only cloaked in lust.

Deep down, everyone in this scenario knows that, even when we're telling the truth, we're all lying to each other.

I remember yet another finance bro I’d led into VIP, a director, slick with sweat and gin. After he’d slid ice cubes over my nipples—God, how I hated that, how it felt when it was someone I didn’t care for, touching the parts of me that should mean something—we fell back into conversation. The leather of the booth stuck to my skin, heels off, legs splayed carelessly. He sat slumped forward, tie undone, head in his hands, clearly unraveling internally.

"I just don’t know what to do," he muttered, fingers raking through his hair as if combing out the answer. "I really like this girl. Love her. We’ve been together for three years—on again, off again—but sometimes she’s just too much. She’s Jewish. I’m Jewish. She’s sexy. I dig her. But then she starts hinting about marriage, family, and I just… lose the passion. It’s like this passive-aggressive cloud she throws over everything."

I crossed my arms, leaned back in the booth. Same story. Same indecision. Same waste of time.

"How old are you?" I asked, more out of boredom than real curiosity.

"Thirty-seven."

"And her?"

"Thirty." He shifted, then motioned for me to sit on his lap. I hesitated for a moment, then slid over—a move I’d done a thousand times. His hands settled on my waist like it was nothing. "She wants a family," he continued, "and I do too. But I don’t know if I’m ready. I want to be a managing director first. Be stable. Secure. You know?"

"Do you even have savings?" I asked, eyes narrowing. Stable, huh? Another guy with his priorities screwed up.

"Yeah, I’ve got savings. I could get a place in Williamsburg or DUMBO right now. Hell, I could buy a house in Scarsdale, close to my parents."

"So what’s the issue?" I was already tired of the excuses. "She’s thirty. You’re thirty-seven. She’s probably thinking you’re wasting her time. That maybe you don’t take her seriously."

He grimaced. "I’ve got this trust, but it’s just an unfunded revocable living trust. It’s bullshit. I only get a lump sum when I turn fifty-five. Until then, I get three thousand a month, which is nothing in Manhattan."

Nothing? My mouth twitched into a bitter smile. "Okay, so would you expect her to work? After she has the kids?"

"She’s just a project manager. It’s not like she’s got a career to sacrifice. She can stay home, go back to work when the kids are older. I don’t care. I mean, it’s not like she’s changing the world or anything."

That stung. God, another one. "You ever think that’s kind of fucked up? She probably works hard, and you’re just sitting here downplaying her whole job."

He sighed, leaning back, frustration building. "You don’t get it."

"No, I think I get it just fine." I snapped back, my voice sharper now. "You’re in here, scared out of your mind, because she’s looking for commitment, and you can’t decide if you’re ready. You’ve probably got her thinking she’ll have to trust you, rely on you. And that must be terrifying for her, given how indecisive you are."

His posture stiffened. My words hit home. "Pretty bold coming from someone like you," he spat. "You’re just some floozy stripper from Durham, North Carolina. What the fuck do you know about anything?"

I shrugged. "You came in here for a reason. So why?"

He blinked, thrown off by my calmness. "Because Darren thought it would be funny. Strip clubs. Ha ha."

"Right. To feel better than the strippers? Make yourself feel superior?"

He snorted. "You think you’re better than me because I wear a suit, and you’re this artsy, worldly whore? Well, I’ve got news for you: I’m more self-actualized than you. You’re probably here because you’re a junkie or something."

I let out a short laugh. "No, I’m paying for school. And I’m not a whore. I’m a tease."

"They all say that."

"Sure." I shot him a cold smile. "But you’re still miserable because you make six hundred thousand a year instead of a million."

"That’s not true," he said, but there was a crack in his voice.

"Yeah, it is." I leaned in, my voice dropping. "And all this talk about being ‘self-actualized’—what does that even mean? You’re either self-actualized, or you’re not. It’s a pyramid that doesn’t exist."

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"It’s a hedonic treadmill. Self-actualization is a lie. Maslow was a snake oil salesman. He sold this idea that you could ‘reach your full potential,’ but it’s just an ever-receding horizon. You’re never gonna get there. You’re always chasing. Running."

He stared at me, lost for a moment. Then, he smirked, like I was the one who didn’t get it. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I leaned forward, voice softening, yet still cutting. "Your ancestors survived Younger Dryas, the Abrahamic phase. Abraham went on adventures, started your race. You survived the Babylonians, the Persians, the Medes, Alexander, Rome, the destruction of the Temple. Hell, your people survived the Dark Ages, the Spanish Inquisition, expulsion from a hundred and nine countries, pogroms. They annoyed the shit out of everyone, but they endured. They survived."

"You said all this shit and forgot about the Holocaust."

I paused. "Yeah. Good point. But that’s because it’s everywhere. Holocaust museums on every corner, trauma woven into the fabric of industrialized memory. It's so pervasive, I didn't even think to list it. Like we’ve made a voodoo doll out of Hitler."

His eyes flickered with something. "Do you just say offensive things because your dad didn’t love you enough? Is that why you’re a stripper?"

I didn’t flinch. Just let the words hang in the air between us. I wasn’t done.

"Then your people crossed the Atlantic, baptized by struggle. Your parents met, two souls in a Fed-backed parking lot. Your mother’s Khazar milker Italo-Semitic blood got diluted with Polish Catholic blood. And here you are, working a bugman job in Manhattan, your girlfriend begging for your seed, and you’re like, ‘Nah, I’ll wait. I might end my bloodline.’ You’re going to kill your line because you’re scared?"

He was on his feet now, pacing the small booth like a trapped animal. "You’re insane. Aliens probably messed with our DNA, for all we know."

"Maybe they did. Maybe two hundred thousand years ago, some aliens came down and tweaked us into what we are now. You’re walking around with proto-human DNA in you. Surviving against all odds. And you’re gonna throw all that away because you want to be some managing director before you knock her up?"

He stopped mid-step, glaring at me. "I’m about to leave."

"Wait." I stood, matching his intensity. "You could marry her, have kids, and get on with it. Or you could keep waiting, wasting her time, while you chase some fantasy of what your life should be. But if you do marry her? You could keep it French. Fashionably discrete. Get some milk under the fence if you need to. Just don’t embarrass anyone."

He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight. Then he turned and walked out.

I followed him out of the booth, just in time for Chris, to step in.

"Hey brother," Chris said, arms crossed over his massive chest. "You’ve been in the booth for an hour and ten minutes. You owe us seven hundred dollars."

The guy’s eyes widened. "You take AmEx?"

"No," Chris replied, with the kind of patience that was already wearing thin. "But the ATM does."

Grumbling under his breath, he stalked to the ATM, his fingers stabbing the buttons. A minute later, Chris handed me a thick stack of bills.

I could always tell when men came into the club with that quiet intent—to knock women down a notch. A man climbs and fights for acknowledgment. A young woman just exists, and the world notices. That imbalance, the cosmic joke, eats at men. Fuels their ambition but also their contempt.

And here lies the hypocrisy: if a man, with all his bravado about conquest and achievement, were suddenly placed in a woman’s body, stripped of the necessity to strive for external validation, many would likely turn to the very thing they deride—prostitution or stripping— the arts of Ishtar. The moral high ground men often claim, the derision they direct at women who leverage their beauty, dissolves when faced with the reality that they, too, would abandon their principles.

I’m not kidding, my dearest former friend, A. Honestly, ask most men what they’d do if they found themselves in a desirable, or not-so-desirable woman’s body. They’d likely admit they’d sell themselves without hesitation. They say it’d be effortless. They’d get attention and sex with ease.

I'll give you an example, A, my dearest former friend. There was this one regular, came in every Wednesday like clockwork. A jeweler, Russian descent. Different from the other Russian, Dmitri—the gopnik with greasy yet dry hands that reeked of frozen pizza bagels. Dmitri once told me in VIP that he killed a man. But this jeweler? He never left his table. Never tipped the girls on stage. He had a method. He’d pick his favorite, hand her three hundred dollars upfront, no small talk.

At the time, I was his favorite. He’d slip me the money and say things like, "I like you, Sylvia. That’s why I’m giving you this. But don’t forget, I could take it away anytime."

I’d just smile, take the cash, say thanks.

Then, one day, he leans in and says, "Sylvia sounds like an old woman’s name. You should change it to Shigo."

I kept stuffing the money into my garter and said, "Shigo? Sounds like a dog’s name. Like Fido."

He didn't laugh. Just kept at it, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars right now if you change it to Shigo.”

I thought about it for a second—who wouldn’t? But I shook my head. "No. I’d rather stick my head in an oven."

After that, the jeweler never gave me another dime. I wonder sometimes if I should’ve taken it, but even management agreed—Shigo sounded ridiculous.I saw what others might only sense: beneath the polite exchanges, the rituals of courtship, and the illusion of equality, male interaction with women is rooted in control, possession, extraction. It’s a dynamic stripped bare, where men reveal their disregard, even as they profess desire. Desire becomes transactional, commodified. And I, too, desire—to be desired—but through their lens. I see men as wells of want, resources, as they see women as commodities of exchange.

I encountered this dynamic repeatedly, constantly simmering. Over time, I learned not to take men’s compliments or critiques seriously. I still don’t. Neither is sincere. Men’s words, whether in praise or reproach, are tinted with envy and lust, never pure. Women envy too, but their desire lacks that specific kind of venom. Women possess a different venom. Any comment, from men, I reduce to an essentialist, one-dimensional gesture, not from person to person, but from one symbol to another.

It’s hard to see men as people when they treat me as an object—a functional animal, a commodity. Women are the ultimate good. Yet we aren’t mere animals. We project, mask ourselves, engage in personas animals can’t. We have the theory of mind. And while they see me as an object, I see them as mirrors of their desires.

In these spaces, pretense falls. Men’s wants emerge—crude, clear. They crave attention, but not presence. Bodies, but not voices. Their discomfort arises when I speak, like an animal breaking their silence, disrupting their order. They want the function, not the person.

My writing aggravates this. I reduce them to flat characters, one-dimensional. They feel it. Some tell me to kill myself—"expeditiously." But even that carries desire, displaced. Not death, but the little death— a pathetic sneeze—la petite mort—dressed up as prosaic longing. "I want to die in your arms tonight." To die, to come, to cum, to collapse.

What they don’t understand is that when I write about men, I’m really only speaking to myself. They are plot devices. My actions before writing are id-driven, pure instinct. Writing kills the moment. It’s the death of experience, a closure. I become a death doula to my own life, my memory.

The second I think or write about something, its life ends. The moment is dead. And I? Sometimes I choose to forget, to resist. Amnesia is my refusal to enter history. It clings to the present, desperate to stay alive. Memory, though, is always a kind of death. To remember is to let that past self die, only to be reborn in reflection.

That’s why I must write, even if the writing is bad.

Look, I guess there are great men, somewhere. I mean, management had my back, kept most of the assholes at bay. My horny male friends, sure, they drove me home, and I paid them well. But after a while, I just couldn’t anymore—couldn’t stand men, honestly. Tired of their sob stories, moaning about wives and girlfriends who put up with their shit. Men lurking, trying to film us, trying to follow us home, trying to fuck us. Men I loved to dump cocktails on. Men I kicked in the balls without a second thought. Glee, every time.

Men always rambling about how women waste their time. But time, no—it’s not a cruel mistress like they say. It’s not some "Father Time" either. Time isn’t a father. Time’s a cold, dispassionate man who lulls you into a false sense of stability, cohabitates with you, and wastes years of your life only to repay you in disappointment, atrophy, and death.

Kaitlyn drove me home. One night, we hit the Cookout, late. The Mustang’s green body glowed under sick yellow and burnt rose. The world was dunked in motor oil. I hung out the window, taking in the smell—charred burgers, fryer grease. Kaitlyn couldn’t sit still, already tasting her double burger tray, hushpuppies, Coke. I ordered a banana pudding shake—so thick it’d freeze your jaw just trying to sip.

Then I saw him. Kaitlyn’s client from the club. Bermuda shorts, Oakleys in midnight. He pulled up behind us, staring. Way too long. I nudged Kaitlyn. She didn’t flinch. Just rolled her eyes, slow. Glove box clicked. Glock in her lap, resting easy. Light hit the metal. She looked again. He peeled out. Gone.

Ash’ Lee though, she was my favorite. Skinny, pale, with buck teeth and a butterfly tramp stamp and extensions heavy enough to break her neck. She had three kids, three different black baby daddies. Made more money than most. Right behind me. Only drank Blue Motorcycles, Piedmont twang. We’d tag-team guys, pulling them up to VIP. She was always driving me home, in her Infiniti G37—loud, but not just the exhaust. The whole car was an assault. Electric blue like the Curacao she loved, wrapped in chrome. Widebody kit up front, aggressive lines, blue LEDs bleeding from every corner. Inside, LED strips throbbed with the bass. Blacked-out rims, low to the ground. That spoiler—too big, ridiculous. .

Then one night, she was gone.

Kaitlyn whispered, "She was tricking in one of the booths. Getting fingerblasted by a guy."

Jai chimed in, "Yeah, if one girl tricks, all the guys will expect us to."

I knew it wasn’t the whole story. Dug deeper. Turns out she was screwing Chris. He found out she was still using hard drugs and fucking other guys. That’s what really got her fired.

To be a shomer Shabbos stripper. The job, as twisted as it sounds, let me keep Shabbat. Weeknights and Sundays, I danced under seedy neon lights, but Saturdays remained untouched, a sacred respite. Yet the guilt never left. Night after night, my body moved for tips, but my mind drifted back to Shabbat. The only solace came from the occasional Cookout milkshake or vegan indulgence, which technically wasn’t kosher.

By day, I morphed into someone else entirely—frum-mish??

Chevruta sessions with the Rabbi’s daughter, weekly shul attendance. I’d crash at the Moshe House, ensuring I didn’t break Shabbat and stayed within walking distance of the shul. No carrying items on Shabbat due to the lack of an eruv. Mezuzot lined every doorway except the bathroom. The kitchen? Only dairy and pareve, no fleishig. Yumi, my non-Jewish Korean roommate, constantly tested my boundaries. I got cross with her about cross-contamination, the horrors of mixing milk with meat utensils. She sighed, exasperated, but I remained unmoved. Chumrot piled upon chumrot.

I led two lives. My friends noticed. "You dress like a Stepford wife now," they’d tease, mocking my modesty but also the fact that I couldn’t stand wearing a bra. They had a point. Modesty felt inadequate. I was meant to guard not just my clothing but my guf, yet each night shattered that facade.

In shul and during chevruta, I felt like a fraud, as if they could see through my long skirts and high collars. They didn’t know I’d been dancing half-naked just hours earlier. Sometimes I thought if I dressed just a bit more frum, the guilt might dissipate. The guilt from the club, from everything. I wanted to be shomer negiah, untouched, pure, but this unshakable pull lingered, even though I wasn’t fucking anyone. Ben. The past. Desire tangled with ritual and law. I recited the beit din’s answers: spiritual connection, Jewish neshama, mitzvot. Moses, the commandments, the covenant.

But beneath it all? The unspoken truth. I craved Jewish cock, dressed up as halachic responsibility. "I just don’t want kids who aren’t halachically Jewish," I’d rationalize. It felt like a sin, this horny piety, but why? Women have followed men they desire, adopting their customs. Isn’t that justification enough?

I didn’t just keep kosher; I was obsessively machmir. Our kitchen wasn’t just dairy and pareve. There wasn’t a single fleishig utensil in sight. You’d think I was safeguarding the Beit HaMikdash.

Dairy and pareve were kept strictly apart, though halacha permits mixing. To me, a drop of dairy touching pareve might invoke divine wrath. Separate sponges for everything. Not just one pareve sponge and one dairy sponge—one for dairy mugs, one for dairy plates, one for the pareve cutting board, one for pareve knives. Labeled, though Yumi never understood. It gave me a semblance of safety.

"Don’t even think about touching the blue sponge," I’d warn, blocking the sink. "That’s the chalav one."

Yumi held a glass, eyebrow raised. "How do you remember which is which?"

"This isn’t up for debate," I said, dead serious. "If you touch dairy with a pareve sponge, I have to kasher everything. You know how long that takes?"

She sighed, putting the glass down. "I don’t get it. It’s just soap and water."

"No," I snapped. "It’s not just soap and water. There’s hot water, cold water, timing between meals, whether the surface is ben yomo, the status of the pot, taste transfer—everything matters!"

Dairy forks never touched pareve pans, not even with cold foods. Two sets of benchers—one for dairy, one for pareve—just in case I accidentally transferred something onto them.

"Why can’t you use the same cutting board for both?" Yumi asked, slicing a cucumber.

"Residual moisture," I shot back. "A drop of dairy could transfer. I can’t have that."

"You’ve seriously lost it," she muttered, but moved to the other board like I was handling something sacred.

And the oven? Wrapped in foil, double-lined for dairy dishes. Pareve had its own baking sheets, stored high up, away from dairy. I wouldn’t even heat up pareve food if dairy had been baked in it within twenty-four hours.

Yumi thought I’d gone mad. One night, after finding a spoon in the wrong drawer, I exploded, "Honestly, if you’d grown up in the U.S., you’d be non-binary, not a lesbian to retaliate against the strictures of Koreaness, Lesbians don’t usually exist in nature. They usually understandably fear and dislike men."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you seriously getting worked up over a spoon?"

"No," I said, exasperated. "It’s not just about a spoon. It’s about kedusha, making this kitchen a space for HaShem’s presence."

The fridge was a fortress—two shelves for dairy, tightly sealed. Pareve had its own shelf, wrapped and double-wrapped. The freezer held double-sealed dairy containers, meticulously labeled. Obviously everything, except for tea, alcohol, and produce had a hechsher.

"This religion stuff is stupid," Yumi said.

I found myself in agreement with her, though the reasons were obscured by the fog of my own understanding. Religion, with its rigid frameworks and rituals, provides a deceptive solace. It is a refuge from the ceaseless pursuit of desires, an illusion of control over the uncontrollable. By embracing observance, I imagined I could sculpt order from my life’s disarray, delineate boundaries, and shield myself from the unsettling fluidity of self.

Yet, the strip club was an accelerant to my disintegration. The job was a physical manifestation of my dissociation. Onstage, I embodied the hyper-sexualized fantasy, while in daylight, I cloaked myself in tzniut, modest and concealed, attempting to tether the parts of me that felt adrift. Each world fed into the other: the more I vanished under the gaze of strangers, the more desperately I clung to Shabbat, mezuzot, and the chumrot that defined my existence.

Men were irresistibly drawn to this instability. The oscillation between need and distance. I was both the whitened teeth and the rotting gums, perpetually racing toward death, yet always halting at the brink.

I wished fervently to be an angel, detached from the corporeal desires that consumed me. My hyper-sexuality was not mere performance; it was an all-encompassing hunger, a primal force that I could not suppress.

Ironically, as I sought control through religious observance, I unraveled faster, drawn in every direction by the intensity of the world I had created. Every desire was magnified, every emotion explosive, each new identity felt like an alien skin.

I told Yumi, "At least it’s more real than Korean evangelical Christianity."

What I truly longed to express was...

Korean evangelicalism fixates on the “end times” and Christ’s return, yet it often feels shallow, propelled by emotional fervor rather than theological depth. The focus on apocalyptic prophecies, miraculous signs, and divine retribution tends to overshadow a nuanced understanding of moral and spiritual growth. This faith reduces itself to a spectacle, emphasizing external drama over genuine inner transformation.

There is a weird theory that Koreans are part of the lost tribes of Israel, though tenuous, resonates with those seeking deeper identity. This conspiracy is loosely supported by symbolic connections: the Taegeuk on the Korean flag, similar to the Bagua and I Ching symbols, mirrors ancient Judaic traditions like the Urim and Thummim used by the Kohanim for divination. This symbolic fusion attempts to bridge Korean shamanistic roots with ancient Israelite customs, a quest for profound, divine lineage.

Casting lots, a divination method in Korean shamanistic practice, Jewish tradition, and Jonah’s story, underscores this intersection of mysticism and reality. In Korean divination, casting lots is a means to seek spiritual guidance, to uncover hidden truths. In Jewish tradition, it was employed by the Kohanim for divine insight through the Urim and Thummim and those Urim and Thummim are essentially runes— oracles of stones—and this is how David hunted Saul down.

The I Ching, or Book of Changes, is an ancient Chinese divination text that uses casting lots to reveal insights or truths. Traditionally, fifty yarrow stalks were sorted and counted in a precise, methodical process to produce a hexagram—a six-line figure composed of broken (yin) or unbroken (yang) lines, representing different archetypes or situations. In modern times, the method has been simplified with the use of three coins tossed six times, generating a hexagram based on the result of each throw. There are sixty-four possible hexagrams, each corresponding to a specific interpretation in the I Ching. This process of randomness is thought to connect the diviner with the cosmos or the Dao, allowing hidden patterns to emerge and offer guidance. Like the Jewish Urim and Thummim, which also involved casting lots, the I Ching seeks to bypass human bias by letting fate, or a higher force, speak through the chance outcomes of the casting ritual.

In Jonah’s tale, the casting of lots by sailors served to identify the cause of the storm and, ultimately, Jonah himself. This act was both a quest for truth and a means of assigning blame, revealing the ancient practice’s role in divine revelation and human understanding.

Caught in this confluence, I felt like Jonah in the whale’s belly, evading what was inescapable. Jonah’s flight to Tarshish mirrored my own escape from internal dissonance. Like Jonah, the truth reemerged, exposing me as an imposter. I wore the trappings of religious devotion—Shabbat, Torah, mitzvot—but inside, I felt like a charlatan. I was out of place in both worlds.

Furthermore Korea, in many ways, functions as America’s satrapy, reflecting the capitalist exuberance and spiritual superficiality that defines post-colonial complexities.

Have you been to a Korean megachurch or tried their barbecue or seen their obsession with video games, my dearest former friend, A?

While China stands as the core of East Asian civilization, or at least the Han think they are the font of Eastern civilisation, Korea mirrors its aspirations and anxieties, adopting and adapting, struggling to assert its unique identity. The consumerist and evangelical fervor in Korea, alongside claims to ancient biblical ancestry, seem like desperate attempts to find significance in the shadow of a greater cultural force.

Tradition versus modernity, sacred versus profane. The resolute core of Han Chinese civilization and Korea’s pliable, consumable essence.

But I couldn’t explain any of this to my Korean roommate. She thought I was a high-end au pair gone mad, not a girl tangled in a double life. It all reached a point one weeknight at work. A man walked in—a black kippah, slightly heavyset. I remember hanging upside down from the pole, blood rushing to my head. Our eyes met. He recognized me. I recognized him. He was flat, interchangeable, like most men I danced for. But I knew where I had seen him before. Shul. A Duke PhD candidate. His wedding was the next day. I had been invited by his fiancée, and we used to talk Syrian minhag.

This was humiliating. I hadn’t expected him of all people to enter this sacredly profane place. But I had to stay calm. My cover was blown anyway.

"Hey," I approached him, as if nothing was wrong.

We ended up in VIP. He asked the obvious question: "What on earth are you doing here?"

I answered, "I could ask the same of you."

"Bachelor party. I got dragged here."

"Oh."

He gave me a lot of money. I think he pitied me. And if there’s anything I hate more than being an object, it’s being pitied.

"You’re still invited to the wedding tomorrow," he said.

But I couldn’t face it. I didn’t go to the wedding, and I avoided shul after that. I was terrified he had told someone, especially the Orthodox kehillah downstairs.

I kept davening, kept Shabbat, but I stayed away from the synagogue. I saw the guy at cafes in Chapel Hill tutoring students, but he always bristled when he saw me.

Then, a few weeks later, Chris told me, "Ash’ Lee OD’d on fent."

I thought about her three kids, now orphaned, her butterfly tramp stamp. I saw her as a butterfly—electric blue, or fent blue like M30s or the Curacao she sipped. A butterfly, just a dumb caterpillar with wings.

"Maybe you shouldn’t have fired her," I said.