Photo by Jeanloup Sieff. Original cover artwork in production.

Pour
Some
Sugar
On
Me:
Tales
from
an
Ex­Stripper
(Excerpt)


By
Christine
Macdonald


Welcome
to
the
Jungle





 1



 I
chopped
my
coke
into
tiny
little
pieces
on
the
back
of
the
toilet.
I


smoothed
each
grain
of
powder
in
perfectly
straight
lines
with
fine


sophistication.



Aaaaaaalright,
laaaaaadies
and
geentleeeemen.
.
.


I
had
sixty
seconds.



The
ceremony
of
cocaine
was
as
much
of
a
rush
as
the
actual
act
of


snorting
it.
The
sound
of
chopping,
the
rolling
of
the
dollar
bill,
the


secrecy
of
it
all
was
a
different
kind
of
intoxication.
My
breaths
grew


louder
as
the
burning
numbness
electrified
my
nostrils.
The
inside
of
my


brain
was
an
itch
and
with
every
snort,
I
scratched.
It
was
nirvana
laced


with
beauty,
dipped
in
control.



Put
your
hands
together
for
the
sensaaaational
Stephanieeeeeeee


I
quickly
straddled
the
white
porcelain
with
my
miniskirt
hiked
up


around
my
waist
and
pulled
my
hair
to
one
side
while
snorting.
I
tilted



 2



my
head
back
and
checked
my
nose
for
powder
before
leaving
the
ladies


room
and
headed
for
the
stage.


Trotting
up
to
the
stage
in
my
six‐inch
stilettos,
I
surveyed
the


room.
One
of
my
customers
was
standing
next
to
the
DJ
booth
with
his


hand
extended.
I
took
his
hand
to
walk
up
the
four
steps
to
the
stage.
I


smiled;
pulling
down
my
spandex
making
sure
my
ass
was
covered.

I


never
wanted
to
be
falling
out
of
my
clothes
when
walking
the
floor.



I
was
a
lady.


*
*
*


The
first
time
I
did
cocaine
I
was
with
my
friend
Leslie
and
these


two
guys
we
met
at
a
posh
nightclub
in
Waikiki.



Earlier
that
night
Leslie
and
I
entered
the
club
and
felt
like
royalty.


The
bouncers
at
the
front
door
were
dressed
in
tuxedoes
and
let
us
in


without
paying
cover
charge
or
waiting
in
line.
We
stepped
up
the
red‐

carpeted
hallway
trimmed
with
gold
chandeliers
and
mirrored
walls.



 3



The
sounds
of
laughter
and
clinking
glasses
coming
from
the
room
were


familiar
and
welcoming.
It
sounded
like
my
mother’s
parties
muffled


through
the
bedroom
door
when
I
was
five.



We
chose
a
spot
next
to
the
dance
floor
as
soon
as
we
picked
up


our
drinks.
I
was
a
vodka
and
cranberry
girl.
Leslie,
always
Jack
and


Coke.



It
took
a
second
to
realize
he
wasn’t
Rod
Stewart,
but
between
the


hairstyle
and
tight
jeans,
this
guy
was
a
dead
ringer.
I
laughed
as
soon
as


I
heard
his
voice.
Of
course
he
had
an
English
accent.
His
friend
had
one


too.



A
couple
of
hours
and
several
cocktails
later,
Leslie
and
I
were
in


the
dynamic
duo’s
bachelor
pad.



“It’s
not
pink.
Coke
is
white.”
I
was
such
a
snob.



“This
is
Peruvian,
darling.”
That
accent
just
killed
me.



 4



 I
took
the
bill
in
my
hand,
rolling
it
up
like
a
little
Peruvian
rug


and
snorted.
There
was
no
hesitation;
no
question
in
my
mind
of
what


was
right
or
wrong.
I
knew
it
was
wrong
and
it
felt
incredible.



More
drinks,
more
clinking
and
laughter
ensued
until
the
evening


ended
abruptly.



As
soon
as
I
told
Rod
my
answer
as
to
why
I
needed
to
get
home


we
were
shown
the
front
door.

“My
mom
thinks
I
am
baby‐sitting.”


*
*
*


Six
years
later
I
found
myself
strutting
on
stage
with
a
garter
on


my
thigh.
When
the
song
started
up
I
looked
at
the
DJ
booth
and
shook


my
head,
smiling.
The
first
song
of
my
set
was
just
too
perfect.
It
was


Rod
Stewart’s
Hot
Legs.









 5