I tried different ways to spend my money—online gambling, shopping sprees—but it all felt a bit forced. I didn’t want or need more clothes; the only places I ever went, besides the club, were Trader Joe’s and the YMCA pool. I didn’t need knee-high boots or complicated athleisurewear to shop for chips. My one sartorial outlet was the lingerie I wore for work, the virginal teddies and psychedelic bikinis, schoolgirl skirts and short-lived stockings. There was a boutique in Daly City called Candyland where Dino and I would shop for lingerie together, Dino walking slowly as if in a botanical garden. Using my stripper cash to buy more stripper clothes felt like a mean joke, a glittery ouroboros. So I washed my old stockings in the kitchen sink and filled a coffee tin to the brim with balled ones.