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"Don't spike my drink or anything while I'm gone."

It was a joke, really it was. I laughed, I turned away, and I went to talk to the DJ for not even a minute to change my place on the dance rotation. We were having a really good conversation, and he seemed to really like me. I was sure I was going to get at least a couple dances off of him.

I went back to the table, and he was gone.

Bathroom, probably.

I wait... five minutes pass. Where is he?

I walk up to the door girl, "Did you see a while guy with a bald head leave in like the last five minutes?"

"Blue shirt?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah he burned out real quick a couple minutes ago, practically ran out the door."

Well, that was odd. And unfortunate. I sigh, and take my drink he bought me over to the bar to scope out my next victim. I find one, and I take a sip of my drink, though practically finish the whole thing in one gulp. Can't go over to the next guy with a drink, now, can I? He wouldn't buy me another one that way.

I make a face. Ew, that tasted really fucking nasty. Like...

Chemicals.

Oh shit. Seriously, now?

I give the drink to the bar back. "I think someone spiked my drink, it tastes nasty, can you dump it?"

"Shit, are you serious?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured. Famous last words.

I let the DJ know before I go on stage that my drink was possibly spiked, and that if it hits me real hard when I'm on stage I'm going to have to get off and go sit in the back for awhile. The same are you okay questions and concerns ensue. I keep insisting I'm fine.

Stage. First song.

About half way through I started to get lightheaded. I shake it off, and just grab a firm hold on the pole so I don't fall over. I got this, I came to work today, and I'm going to make some money.

Oh shit, the floors starting to move a little.

First song ends, and I go back behind the curtain. I'm breathing heavily, leaning against the wall.

"Faith, are you okay?"

"Water," I gasp out. "Gimme some water, I'll be fine."

He goes to get water while I do my second song. Not even a minute through I know I'm done. I'm about to fall, pass out, something I'm not going to like. I crawl my way back through the curtain.

"I can't do this, tell Bill, I need to go sit down."

And I leave, without even knowing if it's okay that I'm skipping. Fall into the chair, hold my head, curse the mother fucker, cough, light up a cigarette, take a drag, lay my head down for a minute, out cold.

This isn't the first time this has happened. I've had it happen to me three times in Dallas, but all in a low class run down strip club that was my first club. You expect those kinds of things to happen there. It's ghetto prostitution drug central. Hell, I even got drugged once as a customer. Now that's fucked up.

"Faith!" I'm being shaken roughly.

"What? What?" I say incoherently, and raise my head up to look at my managers face.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Some asshole slipped something in my fucking drink," I mumble back.

Now, I knew this was coming. Bill isn't the most compassionate man in the world, and yet while he'll as a whole be nice to my face, I know he calls me a fucked up dope feign behind my back, and tells my friends I just use them. We've had words regarding that shit, but nevermind that.

"That was a stupid fucking thing to do, you don't leave your drinks with customers!"

"I was gone for less than a fucking minute!" I yell back, as best as I can without overworking myself.

"Well sit back here and drink water, then get back to work." Asshole, really. Why I continue to come back to that club, and build the clubs myspace and website for him, is really beyond me.

"I'm not tolerant to downers, I feel really fucked up."

"That's your own fault."

Of course it is, isn't it always though? Jesus.

I pass out a couple times, am woken up a couple times, in my hazed out unconciousness I remember hearing Bill yell about a dope feign, which I come to learn later was about me. Really though, I didn't know it was about me then, otherwise I would've said something back. However, I know so many damn girls in that club that do dope, and because I was half unconcious, I didn't dwell on it.

"Mary, are you okay?" Alex asks as she shakes me to wake me up.

"No, I fucking hate downers, I fucking hate bald headed assholes, and I'm fucking pissed off."

"Maybe you didn't get drugged, are you coming down?"

"NO! This is NOT how I feel when I come down, damnit!" I yell out of exasperation, thankfully it was only me and her in the dressing room.

Plus, I slept the whole night last night. Eight hours. I woke up and did some dope, yes, however I never start to come down for at least 15-20 hours afterwards. And only six or so hours had passed since then.

I think Bill thought I was coming down too, the fucking dick. If I was coming down, I wouldn't fucking come to work, that's just half retarded.

I end up back at home before eleven pm, and pass out for about an hour. Wake up, some more dope. There, now I feel much better.

I'm still mad though. Not for being drugged really, cause hell that shit just happens, but because I was actually in the mood to work and make money last night, even though I already paid off my motel for two weeks and still had $350 left over. I just wanted more money. More more more.

I have a headache right now, I blame the GHB I took to make myself pass out.

See how well that one worked out?

Labels: dancing, date rape drug, drugged, ghb, ice, managers, meth, strip clubs, strippers

"Don't spike my drink or anything while I'm gone."

It was a joke, really it was. I laughed, I turned away, and I went to talk to the DJ for not even a minute to change my place on the dance rotation. We were having a really good conversation, and he seemed to really like me. I was sure I was going to get at least a couple dances off of him.

I went back to the table, and he was gone.

Bathroom, probably.

I wait... five minutes pass. Where is he?

I walk up to the door girl, "Did you see a while guy with a bald head leave in like the last five minutes?"

"Blue shirt?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah he burned out real quick a couple minutes ago, practically ran out the door."

Well, that was odd. And unfortunate. I sigh, and take my drink he bought me over to the bar to scope out my next victim. I find one, and I take a sip of my drink, though practically finish the whole thing in one gulp. Can't go over to the next guy with a drink, now, can I? He wouldn't buy me another one that way.

I make a face. Ew, that tasted really fucking nasty. Like...

Chemicals.

Oh shit. Seriously, now?

I give the drink to the bar back. "I think someone spiked my drink, it tastes nasty, can you dump it?"

"Shit, are you serious?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured. Famous last words.

I let the DJ know before I go on stage that my drink was possibly spiked, and that if it hits me real hard when I'm on stage I'm going to have to get off and go sit in the back for awhile. The same are you okay questions and concerns ensue. I keep insisting I'm fine.

Stage. First song.

About half way through I started to get lightheaded. I shake it off, and just grab a firm hold on the pole so I don't fall over. I got this, I came to work today, and I'm going to make some money.

Oh shit, the floors starting to move a little.

First song ends, and I go back behind the curtain. I'm breathing heavily, leaning against the wall.

"Faith, are you okay?"

"Water," I gasp out. "Gimme some water, I'll be fine."

He goes to get water while I do my second song. Not even a minute through I know I'm done. I'm about to fall, pass out, something I'm not going to like. I crawl my way back through the curtain.

"I can't do this, tell Bill, I need to go sit down."

And I leave, without even knowing if it's okay that I'm skipping. Fall into the chair, hold my head, curse the mother fucker, cough, light up a cigarette, take a drag, lay my head down for a minute, out cold.

This isn't the first time this has happened. I've had it happen to me three times in Dallas, but all in a low class run down strip club that was my first club. You expect those kinds of things to happen there. It's ghetto prostitution drug central. Hell, I even got drugged once as a customer. Now that's fucked up.

"Faith!" I'm being shaken roughly.

"What? What?" I say incoherently, and raise my head up to look at my managers face.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Some asshole slipped something in my fucking drink," I mumble back.

Now, I knew this was coming. Bill isn't the most compassionate man in the world, and yet while he'll as a whole be nice to my face, I know he calls me a fucked up dope feign behind my back, and tells my friends I just use them. We've had words regarding that shit, but nevermind that.

"That was a stupid fucking thing to do, you don't leave your drinks with customers!"

"I was gone for less than a fucking minute!" I yell back, as best as I can without overworking myself.

"Well sit back here and drink water, then get back to work." Asshole, really. Why I continue to come back to that club, and build the clubs myspace and website for him, is really beyond me.

"I'm not tolerant to downers, I feel really fucked up."

"That's your own fault."

Of course it is, isn't it always though? Jesus.

I pass out a couple times, am woken up a couple times, in my hazed out unconciousness I remember hearing Bill yell about a dope feign, which I come to learn later was about me. Really though, I didn't know it was about me then, otherwise I would've said something back. However, I know so many damn girls in that club that do dope, and because I was half unconcious, I didn't dwell on it.

"Mary, are you okay?" Alex asks as she shakes me to wake me up.

"No, I fucking hate downers, I fucking hate bald headed assholes, and I'm fucking pissed off."

"Maybe you didn't get drugged, are you coming down?"

"NO! This is NOT how I feel when I come down, damnit!" I yell out of exasperation, thankfully it was only me and her in the dressing room.

Plus, I slept the whole night last night. Eight hours. I woke up and did some dope, yes, however I never start to come down for at least 15-20 hours afterwards. And only six or so hours had passed since then.

I think Bill thought I was coming down too, the fucking dick. If I was coming down, I wouldn't fucking come to work, that's just half retarded.

I end up back at home before eleven pm, and pass out for about an hour. Wake up, some more dope. There, now I feel much better.

I'm still mad though. Not for being drugged really, cause hell that shit just happens, but because I was actually in the mood to work and make money last night, even though I already paid off my motel for two weeks and still had $350 left over. I just wanted more money. More more more.

I have a headache right now, I blame the GHB I took to make myself pass out.

See how well that one worked out?

Labels: dancing, date rape drug, drugged, ghb, ice, managers, meth, strip clubs, strippers

My name is Mary. I'm a 24 year old creative mess. I like to tell stories in anyway that I can, though mostly through visual artwork. I enjoy film editing, writing, modeling, photography, dancing, and website design. I'm a lesbian. I'm bipolar. I'm stronger than I usually give myself credit for. I'm a recovering drug addict. I'm passionate as all hell. I'm a beautiful disaster. I want to be free. I want to fly.

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