Death of a Dream
I have a confession. I watch American Idol—and what’s more, I like watching this program. I admit, many aspects of the show bother—some even disgust me—but I love seeing the raw, undeveloped talent and corresponding passion of the contestants. I enjoy seeing their budding talent blossom throughout the season and sometimes, we are lucky enough to see birth of real musical genius. I also love the idea that anyone, regardless of connections, money, geographical advantage, or just plain dumb luck, can actually have a real shot at making it in an industry that all too often relies on much more superficial factors as criteria for fame. 
But perhaps what I love most is the contestants’ belief that their dreams can be realized—that the fairy tale ending really can come true. They remind me of "me" many lifetimes ago, a hopeful young actress in San Francisco and New York, who entered each audition with unwavering optimism and the innocent yearning for my fairy tale ending to come true. I believed in my dream.
Looking back on my life’s journey, I realize a time where I was faced with yet another crucial crossroads in my life.
I had just undergone a particularly brutal stretch in my professional acting career. I had enjoyed quite a bit of success while living in San Francisco and had believed this success would translate to New York upon moving there. Whereas San Francisco is a gentle, graceful city—New York is far harsher, including its theater scene. I spent a year in New York, pounding the pavement—going on every audition I could—working as hard as I could to realize my dreams—and it was in that year when hope died and I lost my ability to believe in my dreams.
I’d seen an ad in the entertainment rag, “Backstage” about a casting call for a tall, brunette, with exotic looks. That was me—I was that girl! I was the actress they were looking for—it was my part! I was tall, brunette, with olive skin and striking blue eyes. People always told me I had exotic good looks. Excited, I squeezed into an overcrowded subway, making my way to the theater district. My optimism turned to despair as I saw a line stretched halfway down the block; two hundred brunette actresses lined up—all tall—all with exotic good looks. Even worse, I began a conversation with a woman just ahead of me in line. She told me about the soap operas, Broadway productions, and even movie roles she had done. I looked at her incredulously—why was she in this line? She should be FAMOUS! What. The. Hell.
I didn’t even make the first cut at that casting call—-even though I thought I was exactly what they were looking for. Worse, I didn’t even get to read for the part—the director took one look at me and pronounced “No.” I didn’t even know why. It was at that audition that the harsh realization hit home—there were thousands of actresses, all like me—no, better than me—who probably had more talent—who were likely more beautiful than I was—who would never make it. If they couldn’t make it—why would I? I realized at that moment that I might never make it in the theater.
I made my way ‘home’ that night, which was a flea-infested hotel in Hell’s Kitchen, where I spent cold and lonely nights, reading library books. I didn’t have a television or even a radio—I had thrown out the small portable radio I had when I saw it had become infested with cockroaches. Looking around this dreary room—I wanted something more. Poverty is bearable when dreams of stardom are still within one’s reach but when that hope died—when I lost that optimism—the conditions were simply unbearable. I decided I needed a Plan B.
That came a few nights later when I found myself at the Algonquin Hotel in New York—a place I had read and fantasized about. It was my twentieth birthday and I decided I would celebrate by going to the Algonquin to have a birthday drink. I dressed in my most beautiful outfit, taking great care with my makeup and hair. Giving myself a quick glance in the mirror, I knew I looked good as I walked out the door.
Provocatively, I sat at the bar at the Algonquin, wearing a thigh-baring miniskirt that showed off my long legs, further emphasized by six-inch stiletto heels. Spending the five dollars I had on a White Russian, I savored the drink. I relished every moment in the famed room; my eyes drank it all in, while I smiled at the patrons. I felt temporarily and superficially contented, luxuriating at being in such an amazing establishment. Within a few minutes, a man settled into the barstool next to mine.
“How much do you charge,?” he asked quietly.
“What?” I leaned back in my chair, confused. I honestly had no idea what this man was talking about.
“How much do you charge for an hour?” He replied confidently.Suddenly, it dawned on me. Christ! He thought I was a hooker! I was outraged—and very angry.
“How dare you think I am a prostitute—it is my birthday—I am sitting here having a birthday drink! Can I not do that? I am not a hooker!” All of a sudden, the loss of my hope, coupled with the loneliness of being in a city where I knew practically no one overwhelmed me and I burst into tears.
Immediately, the man started stumbling for words, sweating and apologizing profusely. After a few minutes, I calmed down and in an effort to make amends, he offered me a drink. Over the next few hours, we had a cocktails and interesting conversation. He actually turned out to be a nice man—who honestly thought I was working (I didn’t know it at the time, but the Algonquin bar is a place where call girls frequent to pick up well heeled clientele). And looking back, I was dressed the part. After several drinks, I worked up the courage to ask him how much he would have given me. I was truly curious. Without hesitation, he said, "five hundred dollars." This blew me away—my God, five hundred dollars was an absolute fortune.
As it turned out, I didn’t sleep with him that night—although after several hours (and several more cocktails), I drunkenly asked him if his offer was still good. But he wanted no part of breaking me into the prostitution industry, so he put me in a taxi, giving the driver the fare and tip to drive me to my hotel. As we said goodbye, he pressed a hundred dollar bill into my hand. Again, I was blown away.
Lying in bed that night, a plan started taking shape. If a man was willing to give me a hundred dollars for nothing more than drinks and conversation, what might I make if more were on the table? I stewed over the idea for several days, then decided I would start working in the sex industry—although I would work initially as an exotic dancer and later as a call girl. As my plan evolved, the more comfortable it became. It even made sense. Sex had always been part of my life—I knew it was something men desired of me; this step seemed a natural progression. That night, I decided to move back to San Francisco and as soon as I returned, I began working at The Mitchell Brother’s –the most exclusive strip club in town. Not long after, I started becoming heavily involved with drugs. I tried to make believe I was still a legitimate performer—that I would still be that famous actress—but in my heart, something had changed. I realize now that would have been impossible because the dream had died.
Peace,
Melinda
Played: 2022 | Download | Duration: 00:08:23
Categories: Crossroads,Lost Dreams,Writing the Memoir,Prostitution
Melinda,
What a funny and very sad part of your life. I can totally see it happening and your reasoning. No one can truly live without hope and a dream. For me hopelessness partly is a loss of seeing any dream. Dreams keep our spirits alive. And, it sounded like you died inside that night and in the process threw away your self-respect and delved into your self-hatred. I am so glad that you found a dream again and that you are still here to write and talk about it.
Take care,
CC
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Thank you so much, CC--and as a matter of fact, I think my next post will be "Birth of a New Dream" because during the course of my recovery, I was able to learn to dream and dream big (again). My dreams just took a different direction.
I really do see that night a critical crossroad--and where I made a choice that would affect many other bad choices I would make during the next (nearly ten years).
Take care yourself,
Melinda
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Such a sad post... In 2005 I had my 1st suicide attempt because as I though I lost hope and realized my biggest dream will never ever come true. It was a funny and sad story at the same time.
Now I have a new dream which helps me go on living these hard times. I think everyone should have some goals and dreams in their life because they bring sense into life.
Take care! And I'll look forward to reading your next stories.
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Aluajala,
Thank you so much for stopping by--it means a lot to me. I agree that we should never lose sight of our dreams, hopes, and goals. This story does have a happy ending though (although it wouldn't come for many more years). In the end, I found new dreams--and guess what? They came true!
Thanks again for your comment,
Melinda
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This reminds me of your crossroads post, though it was a very different circumstance. I'm sure the fact that you had been sexually abused had a lot to do with the appeal of the stripping/call girl route (that and the need to make a living). It's all really interconnected, isn't it? What a different world it would be without abuse.
As CC writes, I'm glad you were able to have another dream and to realize that dream (and to keep on striving, too).
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Dear Jennifer,
One of the most interesting things about writing my book has been seeing the many different crossroads in my life--where I made a choice that took my life in a very different direction. Both the previous crossroads post--and this one were such times. I think many people come across those--but most people are smarter than me and make a better choice than I did!
Yes, it was very easy for me to become involved in the sex industry--I had such twisted beliefs about sexuality. I am very confident that I would have never ever become involved in that industry if I had not been sexually abused as a child. In fact, I am more or less a textbook case--and from the many women I knew in the industry, I would say that over 90% were sexually abused as children. It's not easy to go into that industry unless you have some fairly twisted feelings about yourself and your sexual identity.
Thanks as always for stopping by--I appreciate it much.
Melinda
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Relating here to this: "Sex had always been part of my life—I knew it was something men desired of me; this step seemed a natural progression."
Except when I had those same thoughts I was in my 30's and a functioning alcoholic living in Portland, when, one night, I "interviewed" the working girls on the street to find out more about their lives. Who knows what would have happened if a group of sailors on leave hadn't approached the street corner. Something clicked in my drunken state and I asked if any of them would walk me back downtown where I could get a taxi home. Quite a few of them took me seriously and walked away with me.....
The story of your 20th birthday and decisions made afterward are truly fascinating. Again, I can't wait to read your book, Melinda.
p.s. I like American Idol too and loved your impressions of it.
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Lydia,
My "career" in the sex industry finally took me to the lowest point (which I have written about in my book) when I took to the streets--those were some very dark days and right before I finally got the help I needed. Thank goodness those sailors took you to a taxi--the streets are incredibly harsh.
Melinda
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Ouch, that was painful to read. As a man with still big dreams, I hate reading about dreams dying.
ari
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Ari--don't worry--my next post is about the birth of a new dream--which definitely came true. Some dreams die--and others are reborn in their ashes.
Melinda
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Melinda - your blog leaves me .... (speechless)
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Thanks for stopping by, Steve--I appreciate it very much.
Melinda
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What a powerful story, Melinda.
I'm moved by it as always. I'm going to ask you some questions. I hope you don't feel I'm impertinent. It is the last thing I'd ever wish to be. The most amazing part of your intimate personal testimony here is how you overcame the immense difficulties of your past. I'm full of admiration for you.
Some things I can only imagine. The damage to your sexuality and sexual identity from child abuse and particularly, your subsequent involvement in the sex industry must have been immensely damaging of you. Have you been able to recover what one might regard as fully functioning and healthy sexuality? How did you do that? What were the problems and obstacles in doing so? How did you overcome those?
While your journey may have been different, I don't necessarily believe that your difficulties here are that distinct from anyone who has suffered sexual abuse. Many may not have been paid for sex. But I do know it's very common among sexually and emotionally abused people to have used sex as a means of escaping the pain of their abused and damaged selves. In turn this often increases the self-loathing and self-harming that accompanies abuse.
Maybe a comment response might not present a big enough space to talk about this issue. But I'm certain that this it concerns sufferers of childhood abuse everywhere.
Thank you for your love and courage, my dear and precious friend. Take very good care,
Geoffrey
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Dear Geoffrey,
Those are questions I don't mind answering--although I will probably go into more detail with my response in a post I will do. I certainly go into more detail in my book. Just as we are all born with certain propensities for things, I believe I was born with a higher level of sexuality than some people. One of the very most confusing things for me when I was young and being abused was that sometimes what was done to me felt pleasurable--which made the guilt and shame even worse.
But for many years, I was not capable of having a 'normal' sex life. I did things to sabotage relationships before they would get to that point. And in fact, I knew Les for many months before we made love (even after we had met). I don't believe I could have a good sexual relationship with Les without the deep trust that was formed, which took a long time to happen.
Of course, therapy helped me a great deal--but also my own self-analysis. You probably did (do) this also through your training in psychology--but I found it helpful--even therapeutic, to learn more about the reasons for my behavior. It's been a very long road, though--none of this happened overnight. I was single for nearly ten years before I met Les--and by the time I met him, I was much more ready for a relationship (and all that goes with it). Even then, it was not easy--Les and I have had to do a lot of work together on trust, truth, etc.
Thank you so much for stopping by my dear friend--I am going to be in "Geoffreyville" this weekend. I have a good manuscript to curl up with today!
Love,
Melinda
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Here we are again, Melinda... with more in common.
Whilst I never became a prostitute, I did have a brief stint in the sex industry as a lingere waitress and a stripper when I was 18 or 19 (bit hard to remember exactly).
I think there are some similarities. I too, was a highly sexual young person. I had major issues with my self-image, I'd already had my heart broken into a gazillion pieces (the death of a dream in another way) before I'd left my teenage years. And more.
My reasons for doing that were absurd, and whilst I now understand what went on internally to allow me to think it was a good idea to do that work... it was very dangerous. In fact, while I don't have anywhere near the number of bad stories you have, there's a few.
There's one in particular that I've told to maybe a couple of people. But never completely.
All this is one of those things I'm trying to build up the courage to talk about on my blog... and here you are, freely doing so.
In the meanwhile, I'm waiting for both the strength and the words to come.
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Svasti--we have shared many experiences--the theater--the sex industry--no wonder I have always felt such a kinship with you. I have found that we cannot measure 'bad' experiences. I am older than you are--and you have not allowed yourself to be nearly as self-destructive as I was (I believe) but pain is pain--and bad experiences are bad experiences--who's to say who has the corner on which is worse? I often hear from people who were neglected or verbally abused--and they always say, "But mine was not nearly what yours was." But emotional pain and the scars that accompany that pain cannot be measured--we both have felt pain and I have felt that kinship with you many times while reading your blog.
I want you to (also) know how long it has taken me to freely talk about these things. I have been in recovery for heroin for 15 years (on January 18!). It has been a long, long road to get to the point where I am able to write about what happened to me in my life. But I am driven by the knowledge that people like me need to share their stories--because the world needs to know that true recovery can happen.
When the time is right, dear friend--you will also be able to write freely about it. It's a process, after all.
Thank you again for sharing so much of yourself on the Melindaville Blog. You enrich me and my readers.
Melinda
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First off, that account of a how your life took such a turn is very vivid, and it almost shook me that how temptation is alluring and dangerous, and how anybody, including myself, can turn out into anything if we give into temptation.
Next, Your Writing. You really are a compelling writer, and you achieve what most fabled authors don't : You actually made me visualize the entire story.
In fact, I felt myself watching you talk to that guy in the Algonquin hotel, I was almost there, in sort of a metaphysical way. Its your writing.
Excellent, first class writing.
Each time I read a new post on your blog, it makes an impact, been a long time words had such effect on me.
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Praz,
Thank you so much for your kind comments! You made my morning! I am so glad that you enjoyed reading that post.
I do agree that many (if not most) people could be lured by temptation if the situation was one that promoted it. Today, I try very hard to never judge others because I have learned from my own life that we never know what decisions we would make if we were in that person's shoes.
Thank you again,
Melinda
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I really appreciate your sharing this, you have really come a long way since then. I've had several stripper girlfriends. Working as a casino bartender, many of the cocktail waitresses were strippers by night. I fell in love with one and treated her differently than any other man she had known. She rarely kissed me--something to do with her oral complex or fixation. She often claimed she didn't deserve to kiss me, while sex was abundant. She left me for a guy--a really nefarious guy who beat her. She just couldn't associate sex with love--and real love scared her. But I did really love her and she knew it. To this day, I hope and pray she made it out of that life.
We must have dreams and work towards them. I will have dreams to my last day :smile:
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Bobby,
Thank you for coming by. Yes--I really have come a long way since then and it has been a hard fought journey. I could have been that girlfriend you spoke about--at one time, I believed I deserved nothing good in my life so I would shun those who were a positive force in my life to go after the negative. Most women who work in the sex industry have had considerable trauma in their early lives, which is not easy to overcome. I am so fortunate to have made it out--and I really hope your long lost love did as well.
Thanks again for stopping by--
Melinda
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