https://www.cleabierman.com/about daily 0.75 2024-11-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/5b848621-543c-4631-8092-91db4c8d0bad/Facetune_05-09-2022-01-36-10.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5ce435d6bea1ed00016ba287/1558964652247-5MWXNMFZVOPGE4TY6U2Q/MHeiderich_ReflexionenZwei-05-copy.jpg About https://www.cleabierman.com/nonfiction daily 0.75 2022-04-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/696c3e1f-1dcc-4d67-a8b4-bc04198ae0d8/spirit-gc75324529_1920.jpg Nonfiction - Bottle Girl By Clea Bierman Originally published in [PANK] At 8am on a Sunday morning I found myself running east on 33rd Street from Madison Avenue. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where exactly I was going. It was July and the New York air was dewy. I could feel the strings of my bikini—tied too tight—digging into the sides of my neck. Why I had a bikini on, I couldn’t be sure. Between the hours of midnight and 4am, I’d finished a gram of cocaine by myself. I worked as a bottle service waitress in Manhattan’s most elite hip hop nightclub, and lost hours and blurry memories had increasingly become the norm. But bursting into a moment of consciousness while mid-sprint fifty blocks away from my apartment was something new. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/1604346200000-3E0DAQ7NO7CNKAUZQFS1/motorcyle+photo+cropped.jpg Nonfiction - Here I am Joanne By Clea Bierman Originally published in Pithead Chapel I’ve signed up to be a Shot Girl for ten days during Bike Week in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I’ve seen people do body shots, mostly in movies and a handful of times at frat parties. The Shot Girl lies on a table, her midriff exposed, lime juiced is squeezed on her stomach and then covered in salt. Tequila is poured into her belly button. The shot taker licks the salt-lime combo off her body and then slurps the tequila from her naval. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/1588995152353-RU4KJ2G3WTKIGKUWIOLM/rolling_clea+bierman.PNG Nonfiction - Rolling By Clea Bierman Originally Published in The Los Angeles Review On New Year’s Eve 2011 I almost killed a friend. I was twenty-three and for the previous three months I’d been helping my boyfriend sell drugs in San Diego. He’d been a college football star who’d fallen just short of the NFL and found himself in identity limbo, selling “Molly”—the street name for MDMA—as he searched for a full-time job. While he handled the cash, I became the pusher: chatting up strangers and even convincing my strait-laced friends of the euphoric effects. I’d also begun using: twirling my fingers through my long, blonde hair every time the tactile joy washed over me, relinquishing control and riding the wave. Rolling. 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I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where exactly I was going. It was July and the New York air was dewy. I could feel the strings of my bikini—tied too tight—digging into the sides of my neck. Why I had a bikini on, I couldn’t be sure. Between the hours of midnight and 4am, I’d finished a gram of cocaine by myself. I worked as a bottle service waitress in Manhattan’s most elite hip hop nightclub, and lost hours and blurry memories had increasingly become the norm. But bursting into a moment of consciousness while mid-sprint fifty blocks away from my apartment was something new.. https://www.cleabierman.com/doses-a-blog-by-clea-bierman daily 0.75 2024-11-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/1627403809110-LJ7175NFKAGH25K8LHUQ/IMG_3020%2B%25283%2529.jpg https://www.cleabierman.com/fiction daily 0.75 2023-11-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/fdfbc229-8ae3-4abf-af5e-0b58d5c3ebf3/pexels-zeeshaan-shabbir-7153627.jpg Fiction - A Pretty Slick Game By Clea Bierman Originally published in Apricity Magazine, pages 30-35 . . . It was time to admit that I was afraid. The connection between buying bottles at The Side Door and getting served with divorce papers had to be obvious by now. Didn’t it? Although, the club visits weren’t always followed by divorce. Sometimes I didn’t know what the wives did with the tapes, what arsenal they created. But, divorce or not, the timing would still align. I was still in the middle of their closed-door drama. What would happen to me if I was found out? Could I be sued? Arrested? Or would someone take a riskier, more violent route? “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” my lawyer said whenever I asked. I appreciated his ‘if.’ But felt more like a ‘when’ to me. Sometimes I’d lay awake at night wondering what I’d have to do when I got caught. Losing my job wasn’t too big a deal. Money wasn’t too big a deal (In case you haven’t done the math, it’s $27K/week x 52 weeks/year. I had the potential to make $1,404,000 in my first year). But the town, New York City. The nightlife scene. I’d be eaten alive. Spit out. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5eb6090f56a8f37f8d49778d/c58dfa02-fa37-4843-b3b5-40958f04079a/Cleabierman_fiction1.jpg Fiction - A Pretty Slick Game By Clea Bierman Originally published in Pink Panther Magazine, pages 30-35 I start making money at midnight. My first reservation is for the Power Forward of the New York Knicks, his minimum spend is $1500, meaning I’ll make an automatic $300 tip. He’ll tip extra because that’s what famous men do in the presence of pretty girls, which I am. I’m a Bottle Girl– a VIP waitress at a New York City night club. 12:17: My second table arrives, stockbrokers eager to be in the same room as professional athletes. An $1100 spend, $220 for me. Another hundred in cash, which I shove into my boot. A tip for the cocaine I bring them . . . 3:47: The manager leaves me alone in the office where I’m organizing my receipts while he ushers out drunk guests. I grab a USB drive from my boot– the other foot, not the one with cash in it. I shove it into a computer which is connected to the security cameras, download the video footage for the night, and copy it onto the drive before putting it back inside my shoe. $9000 for the drive, it’s the only reason I come to work anymore. The tips I make are pocket change, cash I’ll spend that week.