Cocaine Culture in Philly

When I first thought about dancing, I assumed that strippers were a bunch of drug-addicted, smudged eyeliner-wearing chicks (a la Brittany Murphy’s character in Spun). However, this isn’t usually the case. In high-end gentleman’s clubs, like the one I used to work for, the management has zero tolerance for dancers that use. Really. There are random drug tests and any girl thought to be snorting/smoking/shooting up will be jobless before they can say "sober." I felt safe knowing that, mainly because I didn’t know anything about drugs.

Do you find this surprising? Well, I did. I thought that strippers sat around and snorted cocaine until their vaginas fell off. (I’m just kidding. I know vaginas can’t fall off.) In college, I had always been aware of the token “coke head” sorority girls and the JAC (Jewish-American coke whores). But, to be honest, I thought people who took drugs were either scummy low-lifes or Kate Moss. Eventually I learned the truth: most people who do drugs are prominent and affluent people. Hell-o, Wall Street.

My junior year of college, I started frequenting the Philadelphia scene, which meant meeting new people, finding new friends and eventually, falling head over heels for cocaine. Seriously, that white powder won my heart over faster than The Notebook. Well, I’m not quite certain I ever cared for the drug itself. But I adored my newfound fashionista friends and the social status that came along with it. I no longer cared for the company of my Greek life sisters and their pink and white letters. I had my own sorority and we pledged to the party.

I remember summer nights in the city, skipping across the roof of Vango to nestle into a bathroom stall where I carefully shook the baggy over my hand, pouring a perfectly-sized bump onto my rolled up fist. I inhaled, embracing the all-too-familiar sharp metallic burn and suddenly, I came back in a happier, almost euphoric, state. My boyfriend (of the moment) licked the remnants of my gluttony from under my nose.

Wandering in slow motion, we managed to find Denim, where the beats were louder and the coke hit you harder. I just stood there, talking in circles with girls I barely knew. After a few minutes, I crammed myself in a tiny stall with a few other girls as we took turns feeding our poor, empty souls with our precious powder. A couple I knew invited my boyfriend and I to brunch, neither of us sure if we obliged.

Before I could finish my drink, I was back in the bathroom, surrounded by girls who talked to me and admired my clothes as if I were a permanent fixture. I felt beautiful, confident, important. The truth was, I was none of those things. I was just standing there; sweating, jaw grinding. I felt like Paris Hilton, but I was just acting like a baby gorilla.

 

On the cab ride home, I vaguely remember trying to ask my boyfriend something, but at a loss for words, was only able to send it out via text. His phone fluttered in his pocket and he leaned in and held my hand. Stumbling to the front door, I remember trying to make sense of the night. My mind went fuzzy. I found myself laying in bed, battered and bruised from constant submission to chemical endorphins. I just gazed; fascinated, my mind racing, trying to fall asleep at 7am.
 

The next afternoon I awoke to a dry, miserable state, a victim of my own abuse. A purgatory of my own doing, eschewing daylight and any human contact. I became a part of the Philadelphia cocaine culture. I can’t believe how stupid I was. I didn’t think I was abusing drugs. I was just recreationally doing cocaine with all of my friends. Right?

Now that I have stepped out of that scene, I can see a different side of things. Cocaine abuse was deemed acceptable. It was somehow considered fashionable and chic. It was the staple that held my friendships together.
 

How pathetic is that? Those people only wanted to hang out where the drugs are. Those people weren’t my friends. Not my real friends. If I were to call any of them for a favor, they’d make up excuses and claim they were too busy. I could never count on them when it mattered. They weren’t loyal unless I was providing them with their next bag.

The truth? Cocaine isn’t fashionable or chic. We’ve all probably seen pictures of Amy Winehouse with white-encrusted nostrils or Kate Moss snorting lines in the tabloids. Even Lily Allen addresses the issue in her song, “Everyone’s At It.” And they are.

I stopped doing cocaine before it became a serious problem. Now that I’m out of the scene, I realize just how many people in Philadelphia dabble in this white romance. It’s more people than you think. Doctors, lawyers, government officials, athletes–even the guy in the corner cubicle.
 

If you ever find me in a bathroom stall cutting up lines, it is because I just can’t help but participate in illicit illegal activity. At least for now, I’m happier on the sober side of life.