I'm a stripper, doesn't mean I'm a slut

Where I'm at

Sometimes I wish that my childhood was seriously messed up.

Now don't get me wrong; I'm not some kind of crazy masochist who gets off at the idea of getting pummelled into a wall by her Dad.

It's just, it would be easier to explain. Why I do this self deprecating job.

I mean, my childhood was picture perfect. Beautiful mother, wealthy father (I'm an only child), in a big white house surrounded by gardens the size of football fields, lavishly decorated with marble statues of fat naked babies with wings and harps, flowers of every colour dotting the lush green grass, and carefully trimmed hedges (all maintained by the gardeners).

I grew up pampered and rich - I had everything I could ever dream of. If I wanted a new doll, I'd get a whole set complete with the Malibu beach house and bright pink convertible. If I wanted a dress, I'd get the whole shop.

I had everything every girl could ever wish for. But I threw it all away.

Because I'm not every girl (cringe-worthy as that cliched phrase may sound). I never asked for all this - for three whole bedrooms to myself filled to the brim with soft toys and dolls, an array of electronic gadgets, for pocket money equivalent to the salary of a small business owner that I got every month, or even my baby - my cat, Ollie (although I probably would have wanted him anyway). I never asked for an empty house full of expensive clothes and toys and broken promises.

I asked for a family.

I remember when I was eight and it was nearing Christmas and the ground was covered in a thick frozen blanket and the trees had grown white icicles along their twisting arms, I had toddled into my father's office while he was on a call.

He shooed me away with one hand, the other in a firm grip around the phone. But I persisted, whining at him to play with me until he put his hand on the receiver of the phone, and told me to go away and make a list of things I wanted "Daddy" to buy me for Christmas.

I eagerly agreed and flounced out of the room, to the relief of my father.

I grabbed a bright pink gel pen and notepad, and got to work. After a lot of thought, and scribbling out of items I knew were unreasonable (a pink helicopter equipped with leopard print seats), I finally skipped my way back to father's office, the notepad clutched in my hand.

He had finished his call and was typing up something on his computer when I came in.

"What's up, sweetie? Daddy's a little busy at the moment." He said, not taking his eyes off the computer screen.

"I finished it." I said proudly, holding out the notepad clutched in my chubby little fists.

"Finished what?"

"The list."

"Huh?"

"Of what I want for Christmas." Silly Daddy, he was always forgetting things like that.

"Oh. Right." Father said, jabbing "enter" on the keyboard then turning around in his spinning office chair (that I sometimes played merry-go-round in when he wasn't home) and held out his hand. "Well, let's see it then."

I thrust it into his hand, and waited, my big blue eyes looking up at him expectantly.

His eyes scanned the paper, widening slightly, a grim expression on his face. We were silent for a few moments.

"So?" I asked finally. "What do you think?"

"What do you mean by this?" He asked, pointing at something on the list. I glanced at it.