I had given my phone number out to plenty of guys. I gave out my personal number to strangers, hoping that they would return and be regular customers. I gave my number to the guy who would eventually become my boyfriend, with the same intention as I had with everyone else: entertain him as a customer and shut down any romantic advances. Maybe it was the way he requested me. After I left the stage, I heard my name over the speakers, "Rose! To the VIP area!" I was so excited: no one had ever requested me specifically, simply from watching me dance onstage. I was wearing my black and red corset, black pumps, a long chain of (fake) pearls, and a black fedora. I was surprised to see that the man who requested me was young, black, slightly chubby but with a cute face. He wore a light blue sweater and khaki work pants. We smiled at each other, and there was something, a spark, an instantaneous understanding that he had wanted me and that I was excited that he did. I sat down on his la
We started texting, and I at first didn't even save his name in my phone. I was afraid that Nolan would find it and see that I had been texting some random guy; I always deleted conversations and didn't save anything. I only recognized him by the numeric digits, and at first, I didn't even remember his name. We would occasionally meet up at a relatively country-ish, divey bar near the club after I finished my shift. We were on Glass 2 of House Merlot."Wait, wait, wait, so you also ride a motorcycle? That takes some guts," Tor said."No, you know what takes guts? Dancing when you're on your period," I said. He laughed and shook his head. "I'm serious! You try to dance and shake your ass when you're afraid blood is going to start trickling down your leg or your tampon string is going to swing loose from its tucked-away position. Just try." I swallowed more wine, giving him the feminist test: would he freak out by talk of menstrual blood?It seems he wouldn't. He fielded another q
We would have a glass or two of wine, talk, and goodnight. No kissing, no handholding. Over time, the nightly meetings became morning ones. We would meet for breakfast before work, him to the call center for an insurance company, me to the club. When I told him that I worked in a library, he almost couldn't believe it. I told him that I was currently working on looking up my family tree through a genealogy website and that I could help him do the same. I tried looking for ways to connect him to myself using the library, instead of the club. I asked him questions about his family, did research on the computer while at the reference desk, and presented my findings each week over breakfast. I began to trust him, that he wasn't an ax murderer, that he wasn't someone who was just after me for sex. We continued to talk for about a month without ever broaching the topic. There was still that boundary, that knowledge that outside of the club, we are simply normal people. We aren't dancer a
He came up to the reference desk and asked a question, ostensibly about the microfilm or genealogy or something like that. He didn't present it as a friend coming to see another friend and shoot the breeze; he came as a library patron with a question. I got up, excited, smiling, and trying to hide it from my co-workers, and showed him around the microfiche, babbling about looping the film through the machine and did you know we have the New York Times and Dallas Morning News from all the way back to the 1840s?He didn't stay long; when my co-worker wasn't looking, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and I was slightly aghast that he would do that in public and while I was on shift, but I was elated that he came to see me all the same. My anger led me to justify my actions with Tor, but the justification led to multiplying the base level of anger I started with. It wasn't like I would get angry with Nolan and call Tor to hang out. We just slowly but surely started seeing each other
The night I was betrayed by my friend of seven years was the longest night of my life. Most people think sexual assault is something only perverts do, or strangers in woods who grab unsuspecting women from bushes, or men who go to strip clubs. The truth is that the majority are perpetrated by someone in the victim's close circle: a friend, family member, romantic partner, co-worker. He was more than my sister's boyfriend. He was someone I admired, someone who I wanted to be like: strong in his Christian faith, a good friend, someone who believed in the value of nature; he was funny, nerdy, loved talking about Star Trek and Lord of the Rings. He could state the specific page number of a quote by Gandalf and throw a frisbee in a perfect arc. I hung out with him sometimes, even without my older sister, because he never treated me like something to ignore, like I was just an attachment he had to deal with to be with my sister. I even wrote a high school essay about the time we spent playi
I tried shifting a bit, pretending I was still asleep, praying that he would stop. Although my heart was racing, I tried to keep my breathing deep and even, to make him think that I was still asleep. I was terrified what he would do if I woke up. He could get violent, force me to do things that I didn't even want to contemplate doing. He could get violent despite my best efforts to keep him ignorant. He kept on squeezing.I'm not sure if I'm able to convey the terror of that moment. That sudden helplessness that happens when the person you've trusted for years is violating you in one of the most intimate ways possible. I realize that some women have had much worse things happen to them, but I'm not here to play my-assault-is-worse-than-your-assault. Violence is violence, even if it doesn't make a sound. Eventually, he stopped. My efforts to jostle him away must have worked, or his liquor-addled mind cleared just enough to let the morality kick in. As I lay there on the couch, I tried
"Describe the importance of protection of patron privacy. What are some specific ways you can employ this in the library? Responses must be at least 500 words and you must reply to at least two others."I stared at the prompt. I haven't even read the chapters for this week, I thought. I'll do this tomorrow. Glancing at my class calendar, I noticed the project we had three weeks to complete was due by the end of the week. I hadn't even started. A vague, fuzzy panic gripped my chest. No matter what you do, it's not going to be good enough anyway, whispered Anxiety Voice. After I quit bartending, and returned to stripping, I started to spiral during the winter, twirling around and around Charybdis. I failed both classes I took, mainly because I just didn't do the work or projects. I let deadlines slid by, discussion posts go without responding. Perhaps in an on-the-nose, metaphorical way, one of those classes was "Information Ethics." I also started having problems at work, a
Nolan could sense that something was wrong. He didn't accuse me of lying, but he knew something was deeply off. I tried to explain about my dreams of traveling, but they must have sounded as far-fetched as a librarian who strips. We began fighting more and more, and more than once we thought we might break up. But I held on. I didn't want to let him go, because if I did, it would be like letting a part of myself go. The girl I thought I was. I wanted to still be Ariel, not Rose. I tried talking to Nick about how I felt. I knocked on the door, which was already half open, hearing the sounds of League of Legends."Nick, can I talk to you for a minute?""Yeah, sure." He opened the door a little wider, so I could step in. Candy bar wrappers and Mountain Dew bottles littered the room. The familiar smell of sweet hay and sweat mingled in the cold AC. "Aren't you supposed to be doing homework?" I asked. Nick leaned back in his chair. "Have you done yours?" he rejoined. "Of course." Not fo