The heavy beat of the music throbbed through my body as I stood in one of the dressing rooms; awaiting my call out to the podium. The thin, plasterboard walls did nothing to muffle the sound of the almost deafening base.

 It had given me a headache the first few shifts but, almost a month on and still employed, I had grown somewhat numb to it. It would always be the same, every night, every show. The movements my body would make to the rhythm had become so automatic I would hardly even hear the music any more as I undulated around the pole in a well rehearsed routine that seemed to go down well with the punters; when you're on to a good thing it is best not to change it up too much. The dance earned me tips, and good ones at that. That's what I was there for so why bother to think about change.

The outfit I wore that night was another chiffon number, in baby pink this time. I had gained quite a collection of them in but a few short weeks, all very much the same in differing colours; paying out of my own wage packet once I'd repaid Beth for her contribution to my wardrobe. I paired it with yet another set of matching bra and knickers, suspender belt and stockings, maybe a garter or two if the occasion seemed to call for it.

 I had found it rather a novelty the first time going out to buy these items, embarrassment factor aside, but it wasn't long before the girls in the lingerie shops knew me by name. They must have known where I worked, either that or they presumed I was a prostitute. Seemed better to hope for the former.

I wasn't ashamed of what I was doing to pay my way, not really, and particularly not when I was paid my weekly tips and wage; it just felt better to not think too much about the mechanics of it all. My body, it seemed, wholeheartedly agreed with this plan. I would fall into an almost daze as soon as I walked through those heavy metal doors into the club, my feet kicking up the stale smell of cigarettes that time had ingrained into the carpet. The sensory experience of it all was almost like a drug, hazing my vision and making my movements automatic and robotic. Just like the dance I had learned by heart. Every move I made on that podium, around that pole, wasn't in any way aided by the active thinking part of my brain. Kick that into gear and I knew I would lose my nerve again.

It had come close to that during the first couple of shifts. First night jitters had been the understatement of the century. I almost died of embarrassment as I stepped up few steep steps that led onto the towering podium; it was a hell of a lot higher up there than it seemed from the floor. I'd felt a total fool standing up there, moments felt like hours as I stood, frozen on the spot, blinded in the glare of the lights. But when the music started I tried to do what Beth had told me 'ignore the crowd and just flow with the music, it'll all come easy.'

 I was, of course, sceptical. But in that moment I had no choice but to trust her; she'd worked there for a while and had survived each night somehow, she must be in on some sort of secret. Plus it was my best option.

 To my supreme surprise, it actually seemed to work. A nail biting moment or two passed when it was all I could to to stand steady and not topple head first off of the podium. But then something just seemed to click, I felt my resolve solidify and my body just seemed to take over; and it was easy. All I had to do was switch off.

Three weeks later and I found the difficulty came in trying to switch back on again. My rent may have been paid up, bills all covered and more than enough food stocked in my cupboards, but my grades were slipping and badly. I just couldn't seem to make myself care enough about my school work.

 I was at Cambridge University, one of my all time ultimate goals in life, and I was letting myself fail; all for a seedy job and easy money. I should have started to think on just how far this would take me. My courses would set me up for a career, long-term security and a good start in the job market, but every night I would blow off essays and reading to go shake my behind around a pole. Money spoke a hell of a lot louder than my textbooks did. But what was I going to do, stripper hardly had longevity as a career choice, and I was throwing away the potential of achieving my degree.

"Sarah, you're due out there. Middle podium's yours tonight, crowds looking good for you," a voice called to me through the closed dressing room door. I wasn't sure exactly who it was, one of the random bar workers most probably, the voices that came to call for me never sounded familiar.

I know, I sighed to myself as I checked my appearance over once more in the mirror. I hated the way my blonde hair looked in the curls I had set it in, going for the 'innocent' sexy look to couple with the baby pink I wore. I looked like an indecent porcelain doll, with the curls and exaggerated make up that stopped me from looking washed out under the harsh spotlights they lit the podiums with; it was a look that went down well with the crowd, but I didn't recognise myself.

I primped my hair once more, scrunching the thick blonde curls between my fingers like it was supposed to do something to improve them, and checked for smudges in my scarlet red lip-stain. It was all as good as it would ever be, I couldn't stall my performance any longer else the bar staff would have a riot on their hands. A crowd of people all cheering and throwing money at me gone to my head? Never.

The music seemed to swallow me as soon as I opened the chipped white door to the dressing room, not even out into the main bar of the club yet and already loud enough to deafen if you were not used to it. Or perhaps my ears had already been irreparably damaged by the beat, which was why it no longer throbbed a pain through my head with every reverberating thump. It was wholly engulfing and, as I strolled down the carpeted hallway, I could already feel my hips begin to sway with the rhythm. Open that metal door and I would be completely in the moment, totally lost to the beat and the movement until my session was over. Sarah was not at home for any of the dance; never before had the phrase 'the lights are on but there's nobody at home' been put into such a realistic context for me. It was as if I had to detach myself from my body in order to perform, put it on autopilot, that way I could almost feel as if it wasn't me out there. Almost

But I knew, of course, that it was me; a part of me I never knew even existed. An aspect of my personality kept so tightly under lock and key by my subconscious will to never humiliate myself. But in that club, up on that podium, the exhibitionist took over and shut everything else down. It wasn't humiliating at all and the crowd seemed to love it.

Their cheers and words of support urged me on, even more so than the thrum of the music; in that moment the tips were just a welcome bonus to the thrill of performing. Inside my head a sensible voice was screaming at me to stop but the body was in control and it didn't want to stop, not until that music died.

My body moved to a crescendo as the music surged to its crashing climax, swirling and spinning faster so that the room was simply a blur of colour. The fragments of my removable clothing lay scattered across the podium, some had even landed on the floor, I think, but I didn't care. A part of me knew I would get it back, the regular punters were too well versed in the rules of the club to try and take it, but really I was just too caught up in the moment to even think of it.

 I was naked from the waist up, skin gleaming from my exertion. My lower half still clad in stockings and underwear; in the public room we were to go topless but no further, in the paid private shows? Well that was something I hadn't discovered yet, but I remembered Beth telling me that 'anything goes'. Little did I know I would soon discover exactly what that ambiguous little phrase meant, and so very much more.