When he ordered shot #8, I gave him the stink eye. "Don't look at me like that, just pour the damn drink."I silently held my tongue. Don't get involved, just let the guy be an asshole. I poured the shots and handed them over with my best Resting Bitch Face. But he weighed about 250 pounds, split between fat and muscle, while Candice, while tall, looked like she weighed no more than 160. Her speech started to slur, even though it was obvious she was trying not to. "Another shot." I started to sweat; I was crossing into moral obligation territory. I didn't care about the guy or what he did to himself, but he was ordering shots for Candice as well. I hadn't spoken much to her, but she had always been nice to me, and I felt like I had the duty to protect her. The memory of the 18-year-old dancer who got so drunk at Lipstick that she had to get her stomach pumped swam in the back of my mind. I knew that Candice was an adult and could make her own decisions, but I didn't want to be

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 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

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

"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