New Beginnings in L.A.: The Path to Independence

And so, I found myself back at the moment when I headed towards the hostel. It was April 26, 2024. I had checked in and continued searching for work, still mulling over my options. Eventually, I made the decision to work in a strip club. The only thing left was to decide which one.

While I was on a shoot with Brazzers, I met a girl who told me she had worked at nearly every strip club in Los Angeles. I decided to reach out to her and ask for advice on where I should go. She recommended two clubs: one topless, the other fully nude. I chose the fully nude club, as I assumed it would offer better earning potential.

I didn’t call ahead, I just showed up. It was a Saturday evening, and the person who conducts auditions wasn’t there. I was told to come back on Monday afternoon.

Monday arrived, and I made my way to the club. All that was needed for the audition was to dance and, of course, to have the necessary documentation allowing me to work in the United States.

I had no doubts about being hired. I look great and I dance excellently on the pole. Naturally, I was hired, and they told me I could start that same evening, for the night shift.

When I stepped out of the club, I walked a little, turned the corner, sat down on the curb, and started crying. I’m not sure what it was—tears of relief or disappointment. Relief because I now had a job, and disappointment because I had to go back to where I started. Having compared it to clubs in Russia and the Czech Republic, it felt like a step backward, but I am so glad I was wrong.

That day, I couldn’t work. I was so stressed that I drank a bottle of wine before heading back to the club. On my way there, I broke down in tears, arriving in a terrible emotional state. Luckily, the club’s manager was very understanding. He sent me home in a taxi and told me to come back the next day. That’s how my work at the strip club began.

Before that, I had danced in a strip club in Russia about eight years ago, and in Prague, I had only worked one night, so I had an eight-year break from dancing on the pole. And when I started again, it was a nightmare. My body ached for about two weeks, and my legs were covered in bruises. It was all part of the adjustment process.

During my time at the hostel, I barely slept. I worked at night, and when others got up, I was still trying to sleep—though it was impossible with the noise, as no one seemed to care that it was still early. I understood that it was a hostel, but it was still tough.

I worked hard, trying not to spend unnecessarily, so I could save up enough money for a place of my own. I needed around $3,000—one month’s rent plus a security deposit. And I also had to find a guarantor since, without a credit history, no one would rent to me.

After a week or two, I decided I needed to relax a bit after the stress I’d been through, so I went to a nightclub to dance, for the first time as a free person, without any ties. I went with a guy I met at the hostel, who was also Russian. The reason I share this part of the story is that, while I was dancing at the club, someone snatched my phone from my pocket. You know what the worst part was? I wasn’t even drunk. I kept checking my pocket. It only took 30 seconds, and my phone was gone. I was devastated, as all the money I had saved up would now go towards buying a new phone. After that, I got completely drunk.

The next day, I went to buy a new iPhone. I was pleasantly surprised that I could purchase it on installment, with just my California driver’s license and SSN. I only had to pay $500 upfront and got a brand new 15Pro, the latest model at the time.

I know this might not seem extraordinary to those who live in the U.S., but for me, just having moved here, everything is new and exciting. I love discovering everything. It’s so different from Russia.

Though I was still staying at the hostel, I decided to collect my belongings that I had left with an acquaintance. I only had a small bag of clothes and had been wearing the same things. I had to buy another suitcase, as half of my things were in small bags.

A little later, I texted Alex, asking him to return some things I had forgotten. He didn’t reply. So, I called a mutual acquaintance who had been bringing me my things from Alex, and asked him to call him. Only then did Alex respond. Here’s what he wrote: “Don't bother me, please, my mom is in the hospital after resuscitation, I'm in the hospital. I can't deal with your damn thermos right now. And don't bother Rostik either.”

It was incredibly hurtful. By the way, it wasn’t just a thermos. I understand that it was rude, but I didn’t care about his mom or his problems. I had never even met his mother—why did I need to know that? He could have just responded in a decent, respectful manner.

When I told my mom about it, she said, “Wow, karma hit him fast.” She meant that the universe had responded to his actions towards me. Until my mom said that, I hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true. While I lived with him, I realized how much he valued his mom. He would always put her first, even above his wife and children. I agree that a mother is an important person, but his attachment to her was beyond normal. I felt like I didn’t matter to him. He never valued or loved me. If you love someone, you don’t throw them out on the street, knowing they have no one else in an entire country. I couldn’t have done that.

Eventually, he agreed to return my things, but only because he wanted to retrieve his cart, the one he had used to give me my belongings. Oh, and after that, we never communicated directly—only through Rostik, the guy who had brought me my things.

Time passed, and eventually, I earned enough to rent an apartment. My friend from Seattle agreed to be my guarantor. He had offered me to stay with him, but I couldn’t leave L.A. since my acting courses were starting, courses I had paid for while still with Alex. And, frankly, I didn’t know what I would have done there.

I looked at a few apartments and settled on a small studio in an old building that used to be a hotel. One of the apartments was actually better and the same price, but I chose this one. It was more of an intuitive feeling, a gut feeling. I always try to listen to myself; my intuition is strong, and when I don’t follow it, things tend to go wrong.

The building had a slightly eerie atmosphere, you know, like something out of a horror movie, which actually drew me in because I’ve loved horror films since childhood.

In the end, I stayed at the hostel for about a month and moved into my very first apartment in the U.S. on May 21, 2024.