Why I Love the Scandalous Women Who Changed My Life

I hid the power of these relationships from others (and myself) for decades

Michele Peters, age 22, with her Alaskan Malamute, Nitro, in the North Cascades Wilderness Area, taken on one leg of a hike to earn a Working Dog Title from the American Kennel Club. Photo by Alexandria Texmo.

Most of my friends aren’t aware I took a job as a stripper right out of high school, or that the women I’d worked in the adult entertainment industry nurtured me back to life.

My relationships with women have forged me into the person I am.

Broken women have scarred me indelibly. From being left on the doorstep of the welfare office by my mother when I was 4 to being kicked out of the house by my step-grandma at 16, the blows of rejection hammered at my self-worth. Their inability to recover continued the cycle of generational maternal abandonment.

Strong women have loved me, from teaching me I had value beyond my body and service to standing by me during my most challenging moments. Their unyielding acceptance provided the surrogate family I’d always needed.

My life experiences kept me walking a tightrope for much of my adolescence. Though I hid the turmoil at home, most of the adults I knew had considered me one of the “good kids” throughout my childhood and teen years. I worked 30 hours a week during high school to buy my own clothes and pay for my entertainment. An honor student throughout my education, I also served on school committees, as a teacher aide, and as class treasurer. I didn’t do drugs and had only lightly experimented with alcohol. Before high school classes, once a week I attended early morning Bible study with other teens.

Everything changed when I was 16. The night I had to leave my home with a black trash bag filled with a few belongings, I lost my connection with my school friends—and myself. Even a “good kid” can’t control everything. That moment marked the end of my childhood and the beginning of years I’ve rarely spoken about—years that would shape me in ways I never expected.

The three-year period I spent taking my clothes off for money behind a peepshow window after high school is an experience I’ve hidden in shame for decades. I locked those memories in a box, fearful of how others would judge me. I hid the truth from my childhood friends, my family, and even myself, choosing to put my energy into being the best wife, mother, co-worker, and friend I could be—leaving no room to dwell on my past. It took years before I could face those memories without my stomach turning, but today, I understand how pivotal they were in shaping the person I’ve become.

My first step inside the doorway of the adult bookstore I worked in remains vivid in my memory. I’d found an ad in the local newspaper: “Exotic Dancers Needed. Make up to $500 a week.” Bells chimed when I stepped in, announcing my entrance. My heart pounding, I moved forward with my printed résumé in hand. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, my ears took notice of the pulsating music emanating from the hallway to my right. Distant moaning echoed from behind a wood-paneled wall toward the rear of the building. My cheeks flushed as I pretended not to hear. The “powder fresh scent” of my Love’s Baby Soft perfume clashed with the incense and cigarette smoke assaulting my senses. A soft fluorescent glow cast a neon haze over the room.

“Can I help ya’ find something?” A tall woman stepped up from behind a glass countertop. Her name tag read, “Harmony.”

I fumbled for my words, acting cool despite my nerves. “Hello, my name is Michele. I’m here about the exotic dancer position. Are you still hiring?” I even extended my hand, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, though my insides were mush.

My gaze darted around, taking in the unfamiliar objects on display. Glossy magazine covers reflected men and women in provocative poses. Glass display cases showcased latex objects of various sizes, shapes, and colors. Colorful bottles of lotions and potions stacked neatly on the shelves featured edible body butters and flavored warming gels in every shade of the rainbow.

In contrast, imposing black leather, spiky chains, and rubber balls filled the case below. Rows of XXX-rated movies lined the wall, their titles like Debbie Does Dallas, Talk Dirty to Me, and Tracy Takes Tokyo competing for attention. Clothing racks held scanty fabrics in red and black lace, while a vintage cigarette machine stood beside a dollar bill changer in the corner. On the cusp of adulthood, I didn’t know all the intimate parts of my body and certainly had never seen male parts as shown in the latex models in the cases before me.

Looking back, I’m surprised by how composed I tried to be in such an unfamiliar place. Despite the pounding in my chest, I resisted the urge to gawk or let my mouth hang open. Stay cool, Michele. Don’t act like a little kid. “Fake it until you make it,” was a mantra that helped me survive all the tumultuous situations I’d experienced in my life so far. Turning my attention to the clerk, I stood tall, took a deep breath, and steadied my voice. “I brought my résumé.”

Harmony didn’t laugh, though I was clearly out of my depth. She led me to the back room to show me the peepshow stage. The mirrors, the dark booths, the $5 deposits for a dance—the setting was nothing like I had imagined. I’d pictured a glamorous Madonna straddling a chair with her fishnet stockings and heels behind a window in her 1986 “Open Your Heart” video and convinced myself I could be as cool as her. That was the first night of many I spent backstage with the other women trying to make ends meet.

Inside that world, I found unexpected connection and support among the women I worked with. Our shared intimacy on the job created a unique environment of belonging and trust, which allowed us to bond over our lives and struggles and dispelled any preconceived notions I had about working with strippers. They shared their costumes, their makeup tips, and even advice on relationships and finances. When I cut my leg on a broken stage mirror, one of them took a risk to use her health insurance for me. When I became a single mom out of wedlock at 19, they threw me a baby shower, providing everything I needed to welcome my child into the world.

Through them, I began to recognize my value. They showed me that nurturing relationships, both giving and receiving care, were essential to happiness and well-being. Acceptance was a ghost I’d spent my life chasing, and with them I found a sense of belonging.

Then there was Alex.

What began as fear for the owner of the adult bookstore eventually transformed into admiration. When I’d first heard of the boss, I felt intimidated. Harmony handed me the shift schedule and warned me about Alex. “Don’t miss your shift or Alex will fine you.” Others had told me she was tough, her rules strict, and she wouldn’t hesitate to fire anyone who broke them. “Alex doesn’t like strippers,” one had stated. “No, Alex doesn’t like bullshit,” another quickly corrected. I worked hard not to bring any bullshit.

As a woman, Alex was a rarity in an industry primarily dominated by men. She owned and managed five different adult bookstores across several states, navigating the politics and purity culture of the 80s and 90s with a steely resolve. Dealing with picketers, death threats, and even a bomb at one of her shops, she persisted and adapted to each situation. The safe working environment she provided for the women in her employment exceeded all expectations.

What I didn’t expect from her was the quiet wisdom and steady guidance she would provide directly to me in the three years I spent in her world. Over time, she recognized something in me I had long lost—my belief in my value and potential. As I gained her trust, she gave me more responsibilities, entrusting me with her cash register and business operations when I accepted a salaried position as a desk clerk. The steady paycheck proved more valuable than the fluctuation of tips on the stage.

When Alex noticed my doodling on the end-of-day cash envelopes, she purchased supplies from a local art store and encouraged me to continue. She sent my art to magazines that featured it on their covers and entered my work into competitions. My framed art hung on the walls of her home. Through her, I learned to believe in my own artistic ability.

An owner and breeder of purebred Alaskan Malamutes, she introduced me to the world of the American Kennel Club. We traveled together to dog shows and dog-sledding events, sharing hours of conversation and building our friendship. She reignited my love for the outdoors when we backpacked together with our dogs. Side-by-side with Nitro, the beloved dog she gifted me, I learned perseverance.

When she purchased a home and rented it to me under the guise of “needing an investment,” she provided my son and me with a safe place to live. If I came up short on rent, she was flexible. When my car stopped running, she offered me one of her extras. Honestly, if I needed anything, she was there. As her friend, I never lacked diapers, food, or shelter.

Her guidance went well beyond giving me things. Her inspiration as a single mother, fiercely protective of her son, showed me how to be a better mother. I didn’t have that example in my family and needed someone to model it for me.

When I could no longer reconcile being a mother with working in the adult entertainment industry, she showed me a way out. Watching her go back to college in her forties inspired me to enroll in parenting and art courses, eventually graduating with honors with three natural resources degrees from a local community college.

Shortly after graduation, I accepted a job with the U.S. Forest Service and moved to Montana with my son to start a new life. The first summer, I worked harder than I ever had, hiking 200 miles on trails, carrying heavy loads that included chainsaws, hand tools, and a backpack filled with supplies. With each drop of sweat I shed, I found my strength, washed away my past, and fashioned a new identity for myself.

But because of my lingering personal shame, I ditched my old life and all the people I’d met during those years. I abandoned my friendship with Alex. Without notice, I moved out of the house I rented from her. With a new phone number and address, she couldn’t contact me. I vanished. Because I perceived that period of my life as a stain on my identity, I stuffed the experiences away in a back closet and moved on, making new friends and reconnecting with those from my childhood who I had lost track of. New life. New me.

The memories never really left me, and sometimes they visited me in dreams. As my children grew and I reflected on my mothering abilities, I remembered all Alex had done for me. 15 years after leaving her behind, I reached out to Alex in a letter—a Mother’s Day acknowledgement and words of gratitude for believing in me in such a powerful way. A few weeks later, she replied with her own letter and caught me up on her life. With no mention of my disappearance, she included old photos of us to remind me of the memories we’d shared. Her forgiving me gave me permission to forgive myself. For all of it.

Now, my life looks very different. At 54, I’m an experienced information technology professional making a good salary. I’m building a community that supports my writing efforts. Married to my best friend, we are empty nesters with a lovely family and an inspiring circle of friends. I’ve served on school and non-profit boards, worked for the government, in education, in healthcare, and in the legal sector. By many measures, I’m successful, much of which I owe to her.

Alex was more than a boss, more than a mentor. She was a mother figure, a friend, and a role model. No single label could encompass the roles she played in my life. Her influence helped me rediscover my worth, set me on a path of growth, and ultimately, my rebirth.

I’m grateful for all the women who shaped me—the broken ones who hurt me out of their own pain, and the strong ones who showed me my worth and lit the path to healing. Each played a part in the forging of my identity.

But I will always hold the deepest gratitude for the woman who saw something in me when I saw nothing in myself—the one who, without obligation, mothered me back to life.

Michele Peters writes from the heart with a goal of bringing light into dark places. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, USA, and discovered the power of her voice and stories when she read live for the nationally syndicated show Listen to Your Mother in Spokane, Washington in 2022. Her work appears in So God Made a Grandma (March 2025) and The Loss of a Lifetime: Grieving Siblings Share Stories of Love, Loss, and Hope (June 2025). Michele is currently writing a coming-of-age memoir and regularly shares nonfiction essays at Light into Dark Places on Substack.