With that revelation, the nature of my occupation came through loud and clear. Yeah, sure, I'm wearing clothes designed for Mötley Crüe backup dancers (at least for two songs of my three-song sets) and I'm decorated with enough makeup to shame Kiss, but essentially, I'm a magician. I provide a different illusion to everyone that comes through that heavy brown door. To some of my customers, I'm the hard-working gal stripping her way through a college education: "Here's a 5, honey. Take care." To some, I'm a mysterious enchantress: "There's no way you're from Baltimore, and there is no way Summer is your real name. Here's a 10, beautiful." (Beautiful? I must have covered up that zit on the end of my nose pretty well.) Occasionally a good ol' boy sees in me the tattooed bad girl he shied away from, but now, with the safety net of cash in hand, he can comfortably approach: "Here ya go, trouble. . . . Are you gonna kick my ass for tipping a 1?" And yes, sometimes I'm not what they were looking for that night: "Sorry, but I don't like redheads," or, "You would be really hot if you had a C-cup."