Sheila McClear, 30, was a college-educated girl from Michigan who came to New York in 2006, full of ambition. But despite her best efforts, she couldn’t find a job — and drifted into working for the peep shows in Midtown. Now a writer for the New York Post and the author of the forthcoming “The Last of the Live Nude Girls,” McClear tells the story of how she got from there to here.

I grew up in a small town, surrounded by cornfields, in a conservative household 20 miles outside of Flint, Mich. I attended both Catholic and Baptist churches. When I was a senior in high school, I had an 11 p.m. curfew, and my parents only allowed me to date — grudgingly — when I was 17. I was a late bloomer (I didn’t lose my virginity until I was almost 22), terribly uncomfortable with myself and painfully shy.

Astrid Stawiarz

McClear had big dreams, but hard times led her to work at peep shows like Gotham City.

I went to college at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, where I studied costume design. While my fellow students were exploring their newfound freedom by partying, experimenting with drugs and sleeping around, I did none of these things.

Ever since I was a kid, I felt drawn to New York City.

I started reading the New Yorker when I was 12, and in college, I always kept up with what was happening in the city through magazines and media. After I graduated, I wanted to move to the Big Apple, but I couldn’t afford it, so I took a job as a reporter in Detroit until, one day, I read a review of a play in The New Yorker — and wrote a letter to the theater asking for a job.

One day, the costume designer called and offered me a chance to work backstage. I couldn’t believe it was that easy, even if the pay was only $125 a week for a two-month run.

When the play’s run ended, my savings were almost gone and I had to scramble for a new job. I was living in a flophouse on 99th and Broadway, and I could barely pay the $20-a-night rent.

I knew I ultimately wanted to be a writer, but right then it was all about day-to-day survival. I went on at least two dozen interviews to be a waitress or a hostess, but everyone wanted at least two years “New York experience” and a head shot.

I signed up at eight temp agencies, which got me nowhere.

Like many college grads, I actually had very few marketable skills.

I had never properly learned Excel, or PowerPoint, or Photoshop. I applied to make coffee at Starbucks, sell clothes at American Apparel and bake cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. No one called. I worked the door at the Webster Hall nightclub for one night, and one night only, before the manager told me he’d pay me during my next shift but never called to give me another one.