On a Pedestal

“Mama couldn’t never reach her. Brother tried his best to teach her. She thinks she’s ready for the world. Just look at daddy’s little girl.” –J. Cole “Daddy’s Little Girl”



A spot light. A deejay. A pole attached to a stage. A crowd full of lustful men with cash and attention to spare. She loved it.

Her reasons weren’t like many others. She wasn’t sexually abused, molested or neglected when she was little. She wasn’t paying for college tuition—high school was her highest form of education. She didn’t have any daddy issues or anything like that. In fact, her father was very present in her life—treated her like a princess, but even that couldn’t stop her from hitting the pole.

She did it for the glory. An odd reason, but she loved experiencing the power that a woman has. Men spend all of their money on a fantasy—the hopes that the woman on stage will spend the night with them. She loved it. The right type of dance can take a man’s whole paycheck.

In society, she was nothing but an eighteen-year-old, but in the club she was a goddess worthy of praise. She loved seeing the power she had over men. The power was intriguing—addicting. She knew she was a disappointment to her family, her father mainly, but she felt liberated every time she performed. She was a rebel, refusing to conform into what is “acceptable” to society.

She did it for a cause. She knew that her good, sheltered life wasn’t the norm for the other women who stripped, but she wanted to show that there shouldn’t be stereotypes placed on women who stripped. She was confident with her body. She was a good dancer. She loved to entertain. These were the reasons why she stripped. Her life’s background played no part in her decision.

She hated being looked at as a damsel in distress, especially from the guys in the club. They whispered sweet nothings in her ear. They made endless amounts of empty promises—trying to convince her to leave that type of life all the while feeling on her ass. She just rolled her eyes and continued to take their cash.

She didn’t need rescuing. In her eyes, she was the heroine—strong enough to go against the notions of society to satisfy others. She made so many men lives better. She improved their day—saved them even. She was doing some good in the world. She was on a pedestal—women were on a pedestal. Glorified. Worshiped. Women were the weakness to men.



The pedestal proved that.


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