Quiet Moments

Memoir, 2025

She opens her phone and repositions the mic, ready to read an excerpt from her book.

I’m at the Ubud writers festival. I haven’t been to a writing event in years and I love the way it feels to be here, surrounded by ideas and literature.

I’ve managed to find myself at a panel where the featured authors speak about how they’ve written from personal experience. One woman has just mentioned that one of her protagonists works at a hostess club in Japan. I sit, waiting for her to talk, excited to be watching an industry-adjacent woman on stage. Normally when we write our stories, they’re a one-and-done book that becomes available for back-order after a few months. They’re rarely given any real literary credit, or spoken about at events like this.

She clears her throat and begins to read. She describes how the protagonist works at a hostess club in Japan and receives expensive gift after expensive gift from the clients that visit her. She makes sure to emphasise the fact that the hostess doesn’t sleep with any of her clients, no matter how many times they ask.

I slump in my seat, immediately knowing that this isn’t a personal experience. The passage is exactly what an outsider would imagine the industry to be - expensive gifts, exciting experiences, and a sick pride over restraining from sexual activity.

The host smiles. I tap my pen to my notebook, waiting to see what the author says once she finishes reading.

“I haven’t worked at a hostess club, but I am a woman, and I’m sure I can imagine what it would be like to work there.”

I watch as women in the audience nod, thinking they also understand. When the host calls for questions, I want to put my hand up and say something but I know it won’t make a difference. The book has already been written.

♡♡♡

I’m at a party with a friend, and we’re meeting some new people. I have an open beer in my hand, but I stand quietly, trying to figure out if these strangers are allies. I’ve been stripping full-time for about three years. My friend has just started life modelling as an additional income to her regular job.

“What do you do for work?” A stranger asks my friend.

“I get naked for money,” she says, her smile big and proud.

The stranger nods, as though she’s eager to hear more. I look down at my feet, cheeks burning.

‘I get naked for money’ is something I’ve said dozens of times. It’s the easiest way to describe my work to strangers without outright saying ‘I’m a stripper,’ which immediately makes people ask too many questions.

When the stranger turns to me, I just tell her I’m a writer. I don’t have the energy for anything else.

♡♡♡

I walk up to the customer sitting at the bar.

He takes a sip of his drink as I sit down. He pauses, taking his time before he looks at me.

I begin to tell him my name, but he cuts me off mid-sentence.

“I know what it’s like,” he says.

“Do you?” I ask.

“Yes, I used to be a stripper,” he replies.

I look at him. He’s wearing the same shit-eating grin that almost all ‘ex male strippers’ have. He picks up his drink again, and takes a slower sip. He places his glass back on the bar and puffs out his chest. A tattoo half-shows underneath his unbuttoned shirt.

I think of him dancing on a stage in front of screaming women, not knowing what it’s like to walk around a loud room asking different men for dances, hoping you’ll make enough money to cover your rent.

“Oh, great, so you know the etiquette - that you have to tip us and take us for dances?” I ask.

He laughs and looks at me.

“No, I’m just here for a drink,” he says.

I walk away without saying anything else. I watch him for the rest of the night, his eyes on the stage, never moving from the bar.

♡♡♡

I sit alone on a Sunday night, after my best friend has gone to sleep. His mouth is half-open and he snores as the YouTube video he was watching still plays in the background.

We have followed this routine for years: we watch something in his room, he falls asleep, and I stay up for the rest of the evening alone.

I take my laptop to my room and sit on my bed, next to the open window.

All the houses on the other side of the street have their lights turned off. The quiet hums around me. The next few hours will be silent and still.

Sometimes living a life nobody else comprehends is tiring and lonely, but sometimes it’s full of moments that only I can understand. The peace in the air is mine, and it is the most comfortable thing in the world.