An Open Letter to the Wives of my Regular(s)
I was surprised that you emailed me.
You called me evil. You called me a sick human. You say I am taking money away from your child and self.
I don’t control his finances. I don’t control his actions.
I don’t control your emotions.
I don’t have any selecting in the humans who decide to step foot through the door on the nights that I am scheduled.
If he shows me the bruises on his knuckles, claiming you slammed a door on his hand, That’s on you. Not me.
If he tells me he will again sleep in his car due to the fear of returning home, due to your wrath, That’s on you. Not me.
If he decides to become infatuated with my smile, jokes, body or scent, that is on him. Not me.
You claim I ‘steal’ money from you and your offspring, and yet I plead innocence of any crime:
The hours of dancing nude for dozens of inquiring eyes feels like a decent exchange for paper bills.
The minutes of listening to him discuss his broken marriage feels like a decent exchange for paper bills.
*Pause* *My daughter is handing me an Elmo doll*
I won’t answer your email. But I wish that all the women and men and couples in the world would be honest with themselves and each other.
You don’t know me, but you think I want to steal your husband.
I don’t know you, but I’m pretty sure you married him for the money.
The saddest part? I think he knows this too.
But please, get a divorce. Or a hobby. Or a job. I did.
Your Husband’s Favorite Stripper