hickville just made me unendingly tired. i’m not tired of stripping, i’m tired of stripping in hickville and the go-get-em to find another club farther away feels awful impossible to muster.

so i’m taking a break and it’ll probably never be the same when i come back.

this blog has lived for over two years and let’s all be honest, it’s got the death rattle, don’t you think?

so.

why don’t you click that little button on the right side to sign up onto email subscription for new posts and maybe i’ll come back as a ghost for visits but mostly we’ll just let thestoryofstory.wordpress.com rest in peace.

and now the sappy part: you know i love the shit out of you readers, right? you were my gaggle of closest friends when i had no one else to talk to and you went everywhere with me. you sat backseat on dark nights and darker parking lots and through big handfuls of states. you joined me for coffee at countless cafes with free wifi. my gratitude to your IP addresses, pseudonyms, real name confessions and upticks on my stats graph is true and deep.

my big heart beats for your big heart.

i’m trying to think now, looking back, why.

saying because i’m in love with love is far too trite though possibly part of the truth.

maybe because in my epic quest to save the world i thought if i made some men fall in love with me they’d do crazy things like be more kind and caring. i imagined them all with a big glowing smile the day after a night in the club with me, donating all their ill-gotten salaries on charity and opening doors for old ladies and giving me lots of money to do my epic-quest driven volunteer work.

maybe because, you know, love makes the world go round and if i could just jump from one love nut to the next, i’d be the happiest girl in the whole world.

maybe because i was lonely and not in a romantic way but in a middle class suburban way.

anyways a customer fell in love with me. i guess.

it was desperate though. and misguided. and didn’t inspire acts of creativity, kindness, or change in either of us. nor did it really have anything to do with me as much as with the aiding and abetting of misery that my customer already abounded in.

in short it wasn’t really love at all. though he said that’s what it was.

he paid me gargantuan sums to listen to him for hours and dance on him for hours and pulled the money back when i didn’t listen, respond, move, dress, think or act as he expected me too.

like the lovelorn who finally gets their prize only to find it wan and undesirable, i would arrive at the club, teeth gritted and smile pasted on to wait for him. greedy folks know it’s the wanting not the getting that’s fun. really i’m as culpable as all the customers who have come in hoping a lapdance would lead to fucking. i was hoping it would lead to loving. had the customers got laid it would never be near their fantasies. as for me, the fire under my ass to make people fall in love with me while getting grips of money at the same time was realized and extinguished within a few months.

there are too many details to recount. random number. four:

1. dean was married to a woman who allegedly hated him. fucked him every day until her debt was paid off and then they moved into separate rooms. he ate fast food or microwave dishes every meal. dean didn’t know how to cook an egg.

2. dean came in drunk every night that i worked and figured out what car i drove and would circle the parking lot looking for me when i wasn’t there. i took to driving my boyfriend’s truck. one time i met some of the girls at the gas station next to the club to stash my car in their lot and hitch a ride with my fellow dancers. while i was waiting in the parking lot a biker drove up to my window and offered me meth. the gas station is right next to the club.

3. dean was pretty sure he was going to die from some mysterious medical condition he was having. the night before the results of one of his tests he came into the club. like normal he spent a lot of cash and like normal i could feel his boner under me when i was giving him a lap dance. then he began crying while i danced for him. his dick stayed hard.

4. dean stormed out of the club one night when i came out dressed in a red fish net dress and danced for another customer. he was sure that i had worn my in-his-words “frumpy” evening gown earlier in the evening because i didn’t like him and saved my sexy outfit for a random gentlemen. he didn’t say goodbye. i knew, from a pure financial standpoint, i should have only danced for dean when he was there. he left angry at me more nights than one. nonetheless, no matter how hard i searched for it, i couldn’t find my strip club monogamy.

all this happened and much more. his dick would dribble. i would use hand sanitizer on my thighs.

finally i went away for a week and visited a friend.

i recognized i was caught in a sugar daddy relationship in the club, more required to fulfill the necessities of his girlfriend experience then be a plain old stripper. a fly by night, love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda gal. i broke up with him. he was sad then bitter then angry. he was too immature to ever arrive at the final stage of “over it”. meanwhile i didn’t make money so i dropped off the face of the stripping planet.

which is why i’ve been so quiet.

i promise more posts soon.

i took the lap dance virginity from a 19 year old boy who i would bet my night’s wages is a sex virgin also. he looked stonily ahead.

one customer said, “i don’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend, what with this you’re wearing…” as he fingered my walmart-fake rhinestone necklace i got for ten dollars and eighty-eight cents before tax. i tell him, like it’s a secret, that it’s fake. he says “yeah, but it’s special, someone gave it to you.” i give him a dance and he bucks and moans under me. he’d be a very bad lay, i think. like a fast selfish rabbit.

at the bar i ask  the guy who serves juice and redbull and soda for a glass of water. “anything you want, heartbreaker,” he says. “ah yeah, who’s heart am i breaking?” i say and look around, look back at him and answer myself, “nobody, that’s who.” “well, dean’s been in, making a fool of himself”. i know dean’s still been coming in even though i officially broke up with him. and by “break up” i mean i ended our in-club pseudo-relationship otherwise known as a regular customer fawning over a stripper. after i said i didn’t want to see him, dean told me i had made the worst decision of my life since he was the best friend i would ever have and wanted nothing in return. i pointed out that he never gave me anything without an expectation of something in return and then i said he wasn’t my best friend. he was my customer and this whole time we’d been exchanging resources not friendship. it’s been weeks and i’ve heard through the rumor mill he’s been getting dances from allison who’s my doppelganger in the club. and by doppelganger i mean she looks the most like me out of anyone in the club even though she doesn’t look like me at all.

anyways, dean came in when i was in the dressing room, before i came out begging a glass of water. he yelled at allison because i was there and then he asked for Manbo and yelled at Manbo because i was there. something about he wont come in if i keep working here. he knows what kind of car i drive. Manbo wont talk to me about it. all he says is “he was irate. i just dealt with an irate guy.” and i am angered because this is my life, my weird ex-customer, my job and i should know what flavor of crazy dean’s spewing. but Manbo’s all quiet.

there’s nothing to be done so i go talk to the young hippy couple. the girl’s teeth are all lined up nice and straight but they all point out at a slight angle so that her smile looks really big. they agree to a couple’s dance. i say i love giving couple’s dances and she says “why?” and i say “because i know you guys are going to go home and fuck tonight and it’s going to be hot and if i’m a little part of that, well, that’s great.” she’s not wearing a bra and i finger her nipples through her shirt.

i shoot the shit with her later and she asks how much i work here. “used to be three or four days a week but now it’s more like two, or one, or none. i’ve been getting burnt out.”she says that’s how it is with all jobs.  i don’t tell her about dean and how, for a couple months, i was less a stripper and more a walmart-fake girlfriend or a sugar baby without the penetrative sex or blow jobs or delicious dinners or shopping sprees. just strings of lap dances that were so mindnumbing i would invite other girls to do doubles with me for the a blink in the long monotony of dean staring up at me. i’m still living off the money from those months. i do tell the little hippie chick with the tilted out smile that regulars happen which she thinks is very funny and strange human behavior. i  explain briefly while pointing at allison, “see my ex-regular is switching over to her.” i don’t know allison but we smile kindly at each other and i tell her “i know you’re having drama with dean. i’m approachable.” she says he can have his hissy fit, neither of us need to leave the club. she just wants his money, she doesn’t know me but she knows herself and she’s not about to fuck another girl over.

i sit by rodney, a guy with a grey handlebar mustache and a tatted chest under his grey tank top. tall jeans. he tells me his excuse for being here right away – his brain wont quit. i tell him we’re snake charmers and that i’m a cherry on top of his night if he’ll take me as dessert. he finally agrees and i dance for him once, he asks for a second, and i like rodney because he’s the guy i started dancing for. the guy who only needs two tablespoons of my lovin’ and says please and thank you.

i want to tell this to rodney but he wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t know dean and he doesn’t know me.

dean really thought of himself as the biggest piece of shit in the universe. but he was the shit that the whole universe revolved around and his money made the planets spin. he picked this shithole of a club to spend his money at because it made him a big deal. he didn’t think he would be a big enough deal in the big city so he stuck to our club. he told me that. and when i didn’t bow and bend proper he’d tell me he gave me more money than any other customer i had and i should do this or that or another thing.

i apologized for things i wasn’t sorry for. for dean’s money.

it’s all over now and in the dressing room, at the end of the night, i ask allison if she wants advice to get money from dean. she sighs and says yes. i tell her he’s jealous, don’t dance for anyone else. and he likes a good sob story. “i’m not that type, you know, i just do my thing and ask for what i’m worth. but he wants you to be a victim so he can save you. you know, have a bill that needs to be paid or some rough life circumstance. i don’t know, i was never really good at it. but if you can do it, make your money, you’ve got my blessings.” “i’m not that way either. i’m really independent. i make my money and leave. there’s enough bigspenders running around who don’t act like children that i don’t take much shit. there’s money elsewhere. i don’t think this will last long with him.” she looks at me,  ”i think we’re a lot alike.”

me: of course. how are you?

him: i’m great. i’ve watched you on the stage and you’re really good.

me: thank you. i saw you watching.

indeed i did. he was sitting with three other friends all night long along the back wall. they never tipped me and refused dances but watched hungrily. some basic, short small chat ensues between me and the youngster, then:

him: just coming out here to kick it with girls like yourself.

me: cool. do you buy lapdances from girls such as myself.

him: i just spent all my money on her. i was hoping you would give me a free one.

me: why would i do that, this is my work?

i ask him this without  incredulous hostility, or a shred of annoyance in my voice. just a really curious wondering.

him: because it would be fun.

me: what do you do for work?

him: i landscape. i push lawnmowers for a living.

me: do you ever push lawnmowers for free?

him: i did twice, by accident when i did the wrong yards.

me: well why would i purposefully give my work away for free?

him: well this is my first time in the strip club. come on my boys tell me this is the spot.

me: yeah, it’s a really great place and welcome to your first strip club – i’ll tell you this. we all are working here. we pay rent and bills with the money we earn.

him: me too.

me: yeah, so why would i give my work away for free.

him: well you could out of the kindness of your heart.

me: and out of the kindness of your heart you could pay me.

him: but i don’t have any money.

me: well, it sounds like you spent it on a lovely lady and had a good time. you paid for a fun experience and now i’m going to go give my time and my work to someone who will pay me.

i pat him lightly on the knee and stalk off.

in april i worked eleven days and earned $1,540. average nightly take home: 140

in may i worked seventeen days and earned $4,071. average nightly take home: 239.47

in june i worked twelve days and earned $4,868. average nightly take home: 405.66

in july i worked seven days and earned $3,266. average nightly take home: 466.57

in april i was really sick and i made less money than i spent for the month. all the other months i have saved money. i worked so few days in june and july partly because it’s summer and i like to be outside playing but also partly because of my distaste for mr. manager. additionally, the increasing nightly take home also means i’m physically working harder. after a seven hundred dollar night i’m pretty wiped out and with more money in my pocket, it’s easier to justify working less.

i know all regulars eventually come to an end. i’m going to write a post soon about regulardom and the particular challenges that come along with it. for right now, though, i think it’s fair to say i’m very very thankful.

i did my best to keep jake and dean visiting on separate nights. jake in particular, with his large tattooed arms and total lack of interest in any other dancer but me, had a jealous streak. of course, one night they both walked in. i took a deep breath, asked them both to stay calm while i explained the other one wanted my full attention, danced for both, made about seven hundred dollars and ended up deeply offending both of them. dean stopped visiting for awhile until he couldn’t resist my wonders anymore and finally returned. jake kept visiting but upped the pressure on me to share my phone number with him and go shopping. i had already told him my fake real name and he persisted in talking about how much he felt a friendship growing between me and my fake real name. truth be told, i did like the guy. he would regale me with stories about his work all night long and we generally spent a lot of time laughing and i liked the way he smelled and the softness of his athletic undershirt he always wore as a gesture to my tender nipples. he never tried to grope me though i’m sure he knew that mr. manager wouldn’t have lifted a finger or a voice to him.

one night he said he couldn’t make it. he’d gotten into some trouble he said. he didn’t want to talk about it over email. he lost a great deal of money in his trouble and over the next couple weeks he stopped visiting me though he frequently would send me emails saying he missed me and he was working on building his bank account up to come back and visit me and mr. manager at the club.

meanwhile, there was really no love lost between mr. manager and the general stripper population at the club. every decision he made seemed ill-timed, misinformed, and questionably intentioned. Manbo has a very strict policy about walking girls out to their cars at the end of the night. even if one drunk customer is still outside in the parking lot waiting for a cab, we all wait for the parking lot to clear out for Manbo to walk us out (this is just one of the reasons i tell Manbo i love him at least once a night). mr. manager on the other hand would walk me out with my customers still in the parking lot, he’d stop and talk to them telling them to come back another night while i stood awkwardly in my shabby street clothes and smeared make-up and then he’d try to walk me straight to my car while they all watched. he would threaten to kick customers out of the club who weren’t spending much money but would let customers who were spending no money stay. he’d spend money fixing up the dressing room when our stage lights are in bad need of repair. he hired and fired bouncers and cocktail waitresses needlessly and would hang around in the corner when Manbo worked, lurking all night until tip out when he’d stand close to the new girls hoping they’d get confused and give him tips instead of Manbo. he talked incessantly about his “start-up companies” in the phillipines and how he planned to retire there.

one night Manbo was working he asked some of the strippers to come do a private show for a notoriously not-nice motorcycle gang at their hotel. he claimed he would be security for his motorcyclist friends and that the girls were guaranteed a $150 show up fee. he didn’t ask me, i assume because he knew i knew it was a bad deal, but not even one homegirl took him up on the offer of spending a night making less cash than they can make at the club with a gang of men who operate by their own laws.

my coworker told a story about getting groped back when we had the small statured dance-counter. she said she had been holding the groper’s hands over his head and yelling at him to stop and he had been struggling against her, continuing to try to grab her. “he just watched!” she said of the dance counter. “yeah,” i responded, “mr. manager told him not to do anything.” “fuck that. i don’t care if it’s your job to protect me or not. as a man watching a woman getting practically molested without her consent he should have done something.”

rumors flew that mr. manager would get fired but it just never quite happened.

then one night while i was at home, ignoring my informal schedule that has me usually working that night, i got an email from jake, “you’re not at the club.” “nope. are you?!?”, i responded, surprised that he’d show up without checking to see i was working. “yeah, i’m working here.” “excuse me? what do you mean?” “i’m working the door for mr. manager” it was 11:30 pm and i was trembling rage. my manager had just hired my regular to be security. had i walked into work that evening, as i very well could have, my bouncer would be the same man who had spent thousands of dollars on my naked companionship. this man who i lied to about my name and where i live is my coworker, working with my other coworkers who do know my real name and real hometown. jesus, did he have access to my application papers?!? why didn’t mr. manager go ahead and just hack my bank account and hand my driver’s license over to my envious and gigantic regular. i didn’t think i could sleep so i, very sweetly mind you, asked jake how it had come to be that mr. manager had hired him. jake told me that mr. manager’s other bouncer had been out of town so mr. manager had called jake, “but,” jake concluded, “you’re not here “ i couldn’t really genuinely sympathize with him on that but i did say it was probably better off i wasn’t there since we couldn’t have that much fun as coworkers. then i sat down and composed a letter to the owner simply so that all my thoughts were down and out in words then fell asleep and dreamt strange dreams.

i woke up the next morning and called another stripper to ask if my outrage was reasonable. “imagine if you walked in and your regular was working the door.” she said my outrage was reasonable. so i called the owner. i introduced myself and i’m pretty sure my name rung a bell in her head because i know she knows i’m pretty good at making money and i don’t play drama. i asked if she had a few minutes to talk and she said she did.

so in clear language i laid it all out. mr. manager hired my regular. financial idiocy, yes, but most importantly a huge breach of my safety. i wont work there anymore when mr. manager is working and will quit the club altogether if my customer stays on as security. furthermore, mr. manager is a smoke blower. yes, we all want the numbers to go up but he’s throwing basic safety precautions out the window. she thanked me for calling and said she would handle it.

and then she fucking fired him.

she called me back to tell me herself. of course it wasn’t because of me, she had already planned to do it, “but,” she said, “you were the straw that broke the camel’s back.” Manbo also called me and we spent about twenty minutes commiserating on the horror that had been mr. manager’s employment at the club. having no nearby companion to truly celebrate with, i called back my stripper friend to announce the good news.

jake emailed me to let me know that mr. manager had “quit” (“but please don’t say anything!” he asked of me) and so he probably wouldn’t be working there anymore. he also told me that dean had been at the club the night before. i thanked god i did not show up the night before to find jake bouncing and watching me with dean while mr. manager verbally wanked off his general douchbaggery management. then i responded that i wasn’t surprised mr. manager had “quit”, i knew there had been upper management tension and mr. manager hadn’t been happy but i would be pleased to see jake for lap dances when he was ready.

it does seem, that at least for this moment of time, in this corner of the world, good has won out over evil.

mr. manager brought in a gaggle of new girls who didn’t know our rules. the club was divided between homegirls and the new girls. the new girls seemed to all think it was totally appropriate to rub their bare pussies on the pole. beyond basic pole hygiene they were not of our little club culture. they left baby wipes everywhere and late-night snack food crusted on the countertops where they put on their make-up. they picked fights with homegirls.

the first day i worked with mr. manager he told me his new rule: hustle the tip rail. hustle it hard. pull customers away from the stage like your coworker’s the worst bitch in the world. “go make your money,” he said nodding at a customer sitting at the rail watching one of my coworker’s dance. “the other girls will be doing it to you.” i smiled at him, nodded back and he walked away and theni didn’t move. from there on out the leagues of homegirls vs. newgirls could be identified by who hustled at the tip rail when a homegirl was on stage. never did one of us hustle a customer from another homegirl. the new girls tried. but when a newgirl was on stage it was free for all at the tiprail and for a couple days of desperation even homegirls would hustle the tiprail when a newgirl was on stage. then all us homegirls just stopped that shit dead. the newgirls still went for it but we stayed true to good stripper etiquette. i’m still proud of us for that.

the vip room was sadder territory than the tiprail. i watched one newgirl take her customer’s hands and lay them palm down on her breasts. she kept her hands over them and rubbed them like she was teaching a man to knead dough. the man, who mr. manager hired to watch us do lapdances was a short statured asian man who kept meticulous count of our dances but seemed much more interested in dust bunnies on the floor when customers started getting grabby. i watch another new girl repeatedly try to stop a customer from grabbing her ass. finally, i got off the lap of my customer, half naked i walked over to the struggling girl, and leaned into her customer’s face “stop touching her!” i said loudly. he said he wasn’t. she said he was. they continued their dance. he touched her again and i hopped up again and hollered, “you touch her one more time, i’ll go get the manager.” my voice sounded strong but in my brain it felt hollow, where was he anyway and who was our bouncer? i watched more girls struggle.

i talked to mr. manager about it. since i kept making money, he kept letting me call him out on shit that he fired other homegirls for. after one night i told him girls were getting groped and he said he’d do something about it. on the next night, when nothing had been done, i asked to speak to him in his office . conversation ensues:

me: “so i want to start out saying i like you and i’m not trying to upset you but with all due respect i’m still seeing girls groped. what’s your understanding of what kind of touching is allowed?”

him: “well let me ask you this…what are you comfortable with?”

this is not the answer i wanted to hear. from there we walked a thin line between a discussion and an argument as i pointed out that i had never seen this amount of gropage taking place under Manbo’s management. he called Manbo a meathead who watched the vip room to the point of making customers feel uncomfortable and he claimed that groping always happens and i just didn’t notice it before. he claimed i was accusing him of allowing higher amounts of groping when in fact nothing had changed. mr. manager claimed he was only trying to make us more money by purposefully hiring a dance counter who didn’t look intimidating and he had told our new dance counter not to do anything if he saw anything going on. “so yeah! things have changed. thanks for noticing.” then, because those two guys who fell in love with me had kept returning and spending lots of dough making me his highest earner he said, “but if you’re upset by what’s going on, just come tell me. i don’t want you to be upset because you’re such a hard worker.i’ll handle it.”

of course groping didn’t stop so one of the homegirls called the owner, a slight woman in her 50’s who had hired mr. manager, and complaints were lodged against him. from there mr. manager’t tenure plateaued into a disagreeable but not altogether horrible style of management. he hired a real bouncer, the newgirls all sort of dropped off when they realized there was no money to be had in this club when they came in droves of ten and twelve girls at a time from the big city. so they all went back to the big city. the homegirls sort of separated into two camps, those who would work on mr. manager’s days and those who only worked when Manbo worked. i was of the former and would tolerate mr. manager because my two guys had work schedules that often allowed them to come visit me only on the days that mr. manager worked. i also didn’t mind working his days because i felt empowered by my earnings to do what mr. manager wouldn’t allow from other girls: saunter into the club an hour or two late, disregard scheduling altogether, hang out in the dressing room as long as i wanted (mr. manager had an annoying habit of busting into the dressing room and hollering at the girls to clear out and work a slow floor though i’d habitually ignore him to finish whatever chapter of my book i was working on) and take free bottles of water.

to be continued…

we talked until i was called on stage. i was wearing my white lace dress which makes me look angelic and he watched me like i was an angel disrobing. i knew better than to put my tits in his face and shake my shoulders so in exchange for his five dollars folded into a heart i picked the move where i slide the length of my body, from shoulder to hip across his face. his nose bumped ever so slowly over my ribs.

when i got off stage and got dressed in the dressing room, i had already decided. as i pushed the curtain aside to get back onto the floor i took a deep breath and prepared myself to say yes if he asked me to dinner. which, of course, he did. he then offered me more money. “save it for taking me out to dinner,” i said. that is about the biggest compliment a stripper like me can give in the club. when i drove home that night i felt electric.

i started out giving him my email and in our first exchange, i told him i lied about where i lived. in fact, i live in the same town he lives in. i asked for total discreteness about my occupation and gave him the chance to walk away. he asked me to call him. i did and told him i wasn’t really called Alexis. we set up a date for a coffee shop where we re-met with my real name. we had so much fun at coffee i called in sick and we went for dinner.

insert romantic montage here. we drove about forty five minutes to another town and a fancy restaurant. we kissed on an overlook and the stars wished they weren’t so far apart and felt lonely considering the universe is still expanding. he had working hands, my favorite, big and calloused. he builds things and the things he builds have curves and he told me all he thinks about all day are curves and he traced the bending line of my waist. insert a couple more dates and some long phone conversations and me being giggly and him talking the kind of talk that assumes a bit of a future together. just enough to go sailing and traveling and start a business together. we had sex in his little cabin that he lights with candles and his penis fit in me so perfect i could cum on the bottom which almost never happens. we drank a lot of wine and smoked a lot of herb together. the air wavered around us.

the only thing that concerned me was that i could never sleep when he slept over. he slept light and so whenever  i turned over to try a new angle, hoping for slumber, he’d wake up. so i’d lay still for very long stretches of time. and the spastic dreams that did come, halfway between daydreams and nightdreams were always uncomfortable and it seemed like all i could see were a pile of photos of elias but i could never string them together. they made no sense. no continuity. like he wasn’t a real person but just a series of snapshots.

oh yeah, and sometimes he would talk about the aliens he saw and how one should prepare for the apocalypse. and sometimes he would just tell me he was sad and couldn’t talk.

soon enough he started acting a little weird with me. y’all know the rundown. he stopped calling. we had circular discussions that lacked logic but were full of blame. he flip flopped on his opinions. including the one where he thought i was strong and sexy for being a stripper and instead wondered if he could ever seriously date someone who danced. naked.

i’ve known for awhile that my stripping would affect my dating life. my ex-boyfriend’s words spoken long before i started danced are seared into my memory, “if i knew you ever had stripped, i would never date you.” when i started stripping i thought long, hard thoughts about who would never love me if they knew.

men are fragile creatures and i’ve always sort of been okay with the idea that i might stop stripping if i fell in love with a man who couldn’t handle it. or even if i thought i could fall in love with them, i might stop. stripping is not integral to me and relationship require compromise. so had elias asked me to stop and done other things like, call me when he said he would and be, generally speaking, interested in a relationship with me, i might have considered it. as it was, he didn’t do any of these things. he did, however, continue acting weird. finally, we had a phone conversation where he asked to just be friends and, in another display of weirdness, told me that he couldn’t have sex with me because he was going through some stuff and needed only “pure” relations. this only annoyed me because i had been so reticent to have sex with him in the beginning and he had claimed that “sex is beautiful” and opined on himself as a “very sexual human being.” now his opinion on sex seemed to be of the evangelical variety but he’s a buddhist so i guess it’s just a general monkish celibacy he was choosing to invoke. then he talked some more and it was all grey and shady and weird.

i agreed to be friends even though i don’t really want or need another friend, especially one whose dick is shaped so nicely and refuses to fuck me for the sake of purity. he was really sure we would stay friends but, of course, he never called. and i surely didn’t call him.

fast forward one month. he asks me to dinner all flirtatiously with big lit up eyes. i say yes (what can i say?! he’s hot). we’re supposed to eat together on sunday – i’m working on saturday. i text him at work to confirm dinner plans. we confirm them. and then,

me: see you then…

him: What do you say to having one of ur counterparts take a photo of Ms. Alexis so’s u can send it to me??

me in my thoughts: really? that’s weird. i thought we agreed to be friends. hmmm.

me in text: I don’t think so. Alexis doesn’t exist.

him: Wha?

me: Well, I mean there is no Alexis. If i sent you a photo of me in lingerie it would be of [Real Name] and last I hear you were wanting only friendship. And anyways, I never have and probably never will send lingerie photos of me over cellular lines…

me in my thoughts: was that harsh? i still sort of want to have sex with him.

me in text: I find it flattering that you asked, though. Just imagine red and lacy

him: Guess I’ll have to come down there.

me in my thoughts: whoah! does he want to be my friend, my lover, or my customer? either way i might get money or sex. hmmm. this is tricky. and intriguing.

me in text: now that could get interesting.

about an hour or so later

him: Guess i lost my head there. Ur right about just friends. Can’t blame a guy can u?

me in my thoughts: actually, yes, you can. i spend all night not blaming guys. in real life, you can definitely blame them.

the next morning i was so bummed on the deal, dinner sounded less than tasty. i knew that if dinner went badly i would be bummed and if dinner went well and we slept together i would feel like an “unpure” booty call and would be bummed (pure booty calls are plenty fine but it never feels good to help someone sin when you don’t believe sex is wrong). plus there was a shift available that night to work. i figured i’d rather make money then probably not get laid and either way feel bummed. so i called him as texting is not really my preferred method of communication for lover-types, ex or otherwise. he didn’t pick up so:

me: Elias, I’m going to have to cancel on dinner. Something came up. Raincheck?

him: Too bad u can’t call n say it like an actual (as opposed to digitalvirtual) friend. Think I’ll take a raincheck (braincheck) on ur raincheck. Cheers.

me in my thoughts: weird.

me in text: I tried calling. You didn’t pick up.

him: Think I’ve learned my lesson. Peace to u.

me in text: For the record, your “digitalvirtual” self tried to get digitalvirtual sexy photos from me last night. Sorry but that made me feel crappy and cheap and dinner didn’t sound so friendly anymore. Sorry you’re embarrassed you your behavior enough to resort to saying shitty things to me today about my supposed lack of integrity.

him: Trying to cover up ur shallow behavior with nonsense is laughable. U don’t have ANY integrity, Alexis.

me: You wish I was Alexis. Then you could pay me to be a dick and feel alright about it.

him: U do it so well and for so many multitudes of lonely old me like me that I figure u’d enjoy. Good luck finding your real self.

at this point i’m crying. i know he’s being a dick and he’s most likely dealing with some mental instability but i’m still crying. and i can’t bite the bait for more fighting.

me: I was always [Real Name] when I was with you. I had sex with you with an open heart. For whatever reasons you may be angry with me (I guess because I reminded you we were friends last night and cancelled dinner tonight) but trying to reduce me to Alexis is incredibly hurtful. I expected more from you on a human to human level. Please don’t contact me anymore. Good luck with your peace.

him: U hurt me by trading me in for someone else. Ur just a little girl tho so I shuld have expected it. Good luck on ur journey.

me in my thoughts: okay, we’re in nutter butter territory. i never saw anyone else while we were casually dating. what is he talking about? and he’s clearly trying to get at me by referencing our age difference but i was never insecure about that anyways. weird.

me in text: What are you talking about? Who or what did I trade you in for?

no answer.

me in my thoughts: i’m going to lay the story out as i know it and be done with it.

me in text: I liked you a lot. You told me you only wanted my friendship. I didn’t trade you in…

him: U didn’t have a problem with anything last nite. “could be interesting” u txt’d me. Sorry i got vicious. I’m comin from some serious hurt, I guess. Lets lose each other’s #’s and forget this ever happened!

me in my thoughts: damn. i should have seen crazy coming last night and not texted him that. i guess i really wanted his dick or his money or his pretty eyes looking at me. oh well. he’s right in pointing that out.

me in text: As for last night, I would have let you be my customer if only to have a face to face conversation about what you were wanting: friendship, lovers, or customer status. When you flip flopped so abruptly I realized you probably didn’t know which made me realize that needed some space to think before I saw you for dinner. Plus, something really did come up.

me in text continued: It’s sort of my worst fear that my job would make me unloveable so having you call me Alexis as a means of making me feel less than human really really makes me sad. As for losing each other’s numbers you have a deal.

and that was that. i never heard from him again. it’s a small town, we’ve driven by each other a half dozen times. neither of us waves. that sunday, i did go into work and the d.j. hugged me and the girls were in unison that you just can’t give a fuck about what someone wants to think about you and your integrity as a stripper. my regular told me i was amazing and whoever got me was a lucky sonofabitch.

worst stripper fear realized. box checked. moving right along in love and sex work.

If you realy want to see me Saturday and can excuse my drunken behavior I would love to oblige. Keep in mind that you and all the other girls, Allison included, would be well within there rights and no offense would be taken if you were to slap me in the face for anything that I say or do. If you say yoy want me there I will be the drunk dunb ass with a black cowboy hat, a dark navy blue shirt with silver buttons, a blak silk skinny tie, once washed wrangler jeans and black boots. If that guy stumbles in on saturday grab him and take him in back. If he is a no show it is because Maria, Patricia and Sofia gave him way too many beers and someone had to drive him home.

drunk guys spend mucho money. i said i coudn’t wait to see him. he said i had first dibs to “cowboy up”.

friday, jeb picked me white roses with streaks of pink in them out of someone’s yard as we walked to the concert. i put them in my shawl and they glowed over my heart and i felt adored in that blooming and fresh and hormonal way that new lovers celebrate the first couple months together. then jeb got drunk, the weaving kind, and while i went to go get him water he hid in the bushes. i did not know he had hid in the bushes and i walked around for an hour looking for him, drunk myself, but not the weaving kind. i got madder and madder. he had my phone so i got quarters from the convenience store and called him on the last payphone in this town. he didn’t pick up. we had decided to hide my car key under the front tire, passenger side and i knelt down trying to find it. but i couldn’t find the key just like i couldn’t find jeb. i walked back and forth between the car and the concert hall we had been drinking at. i had ten dollars in my bra and my shawl was gone. finally, i raked hard enough through the grit and sand next to the passenger side wheel that i found my key and i drove home. i should have found a cab and paid with the stack of ones i have at home, but i was pissed enough to think driving was a good idea.

i called jeb from home. and then again. and again. and there was nothing to do then but go to sleep and pray that he hadn’t died somewhere. i slept and dreamt of men paying me. my easy customers. i know how much their bullshit costs.

at four in the morning jeb called. “where are you?” i answered the phone. “the concert hall” he answered. “i’ll be right there”. we drove home silently until i asked, “where were you?” “i got sick in the bushes and fell asleep.” at home i said “i’m glad you’re okay.” “i’ll sleep on the couch.” “you can sleep in my bed, i’ll sleep upstairs.” upstairs, i told my crunched shoulders to relax. he’s safe, i told them. he’s not dead. go to sleep.

and i dreamt again of men paying me. i held those dream men in hotels and mortuaries and pool sides and always they were slipping me folded up bills. tucking money in my pockets.

i woke. jeb woke and came upstairs. he asked what had happened in the concert. what foolish things he had done. i told him not much. he told me he hid in the bushes thinking he had done foolish things. he said sorry. i said i bet he was. he knows, because i have told him, that i hate to love drunkards. i told him i didn’t have much more to say. he told me he’d leave me alone for a couple days. this sounded like a good idea to me.

i showered and shaved and coiffed. then i sat down and emailed dean my sentiments for saturday evening, “Giddy up.”

i’m going to be quiet for awhile, i think, until the words accumulate enough inside of me to come out. i promise i will come back.

at which point i’ll probably tell you about dating a customer that went horribly horribly bad and actually made me cry

and about telling my 64 year old lady friend about my work and how she called me two days later to exclaim “you are my lady gaga!”

and about how incredibly tender strip club dressing room relationships can become and how incredibly entertaining the conversations can be.

but until then…

hush hush.

go enjoy spring.

BEES: i am currently in a love affair with bees (see also HONEY) and am officially a beekeeper.

COUGHING: i’ve been coughing for over two weeks. big wrecking coughs that have dealt me as a social pariah. i haven’t coughed this bad since i struggled with bronchitis as a tyke. it sucks.

DARK CHOCOLATE: i made a chili recipe that called for beer, dark chocolate and peanut butter. it is awesome. i substituted with almond butter. i am reprinting recipe here. highly suggested:

chocolate beer chili recipe:

soak any beans the night before, i used anasazi.  then when you make the chili cook em up separate.
saute onions till caramelized, then add garlic and saute.
here i added a bunch of beef to fry in the onions.  tvp is a good mimic unless you’re not doing the soy thing.
pour in beer, i used mirror pond pale ale.
let it heat up to boiling, then turn down to simmer.
add a bunch of tomatoes and bell peppers and hot peppers to taste.
add chili powder, cumin, paprika, sea salt, black pepper, and some oregano or thyme.
add a couple tablespoons of peanut butter, and a couple squares of dark chocolate cut up.
once the flavors have melded well, throw the beans in and let them all sit together.
that’s it! enjoy.

i don’t really use exact measurements, but i used about a cup and half of dried beans, a pound of meat, one whole bottle of beer, 1 sweet pepper, a few small tomatoes, and 3 jalapenos.

ELIAS: i was dating a guy named elias. i really can’t believe how much time in my brain dating someone takes up. it’s exhausting. as fun and exciting as the first getting-to-know-you moments are i can’t stop analyzing and replaying and generally being overtaken by boycrazy feelings. it’s so silly to have to feel silly about crushes. at this point in the crush-saga with elias, we seem to be speaking two different languages and coming out of conversations with two extremely different conclusions.

FALSE EYELASHES: i save them. it’s a weird tic. when they become unwearable, i throw them in a little cup and now i have a whole pile of false eyelashes with little crusts of old glue and dots of glimmer eyeshadow.

GOOD BOOKS: currently reading sand county almanac by aldo leopold. love it. last great book i read before that was called the florist’s daughter. and the one before that was the diving bell and the butterfly.

HONEY: honey is amazing. it’s an amazing food. do you know it is also a super useful substance for packing wounds to keep them clean and healing properly? also, back in the day honey was such a sacred food that it could not be sold but only given as a gift. perhaps i will hold a contest for my honey on this blog come honeycomb time.

INDIA: i am saving up money to go to india. indian food is my favorite food in the whole world and it is the only redeeming thing about the candlelight club city. there are chainstores and starbucks galore in this city and there are also two of the most fabulous and delicious indian food restaurants i may have ever been.

JAPAN: i wonder if the triple fiasco in japan will change international and national opinion on nuclear power significantly. or are we all just going to watch these reactors unravel and carry on as usual.

KITTEN: i’m thinking about getting a cat. i worry about getting a cat mostly because what if i freak out and need to travel again and/or what if i use pets to fill the empty home i should keep open and free from potential allergens for a potentially allergic lover.

LARS: lars is my regular who used to be Rain Drop’s regular. he is my only super committed regular. he comes in almost every time i work and buys exactly two lap dances. on really shitty nights at the candlelight club this means i can pay my stage fee and have gas money and so i cherish his commitment to me. he really believes that some day i will be overcome by lust for his gigantic penis and will sleep with him. i am absolutely sure that this will never happen. i told him from the get-go i wouldn’t see him outside of work but he does not believe me.

MENAGE-A-TOIS: a friend of mine has gotten the okay from his girlfriend to have a menage-a-tois with her and another female. he is unsure how to find the third lady. suggestions from readers accepted.

NEWS: the new york times is my homepage and yet i still don’t pay enough attention and what i do pay attention to bums me out enough to make me not want to pay attention again. lately i’ve been really enjoying getting the weekly sexworker news from tits and sass, i usually read at least an article or two from there.

ORGASM: during my travels and on particularly long drives (i.e. texas) i would talk into a voice recorder. i did this very rarely but was delighted to listen to them the other day. on one particularly long haul (i.e. texas) i had recorded this about my opinions on self-created orgasms, “i was also thinking for sex ed in schools we should really really really encourage kids to masturbate more rather than less so they’ll love themselves and not love each other and have babies, when they’re babies. okay. that’s some of what i was thinking in the desert tonight.” and then i started giggling into the recorder.

PAN: i got a cast iron pan at the thrift store for ten dollars. that is a really good deal. i love cast iron cookware.

QUEER: i had a really interesting conversation the other day with my friend about queer loving. she said something about queer loving as having less, or maybe equal of an emphasis on who you get to know and more, or equal, of an emphasis on how you get to know people. i blurted out “it’s like loving someone outside of gender” which could be a really stupid thing to say. it’s sort of like saying “race doesn’t matter. we’re all the same. i’m beyond race” which is a stupid thing to say. nonetheless, i do think there’s worth in trying to know someone outside and inside gender, especially since how we know our own gender or race or class is so individual. my version of “being a girl” is very different than another girl’s. and my experience of “being white” is different from another white person’s. and my specific relationship to “being a stripper” is different than another stripper’s. hence why categorization and stereotypes will always fail. and maybe it’s not realistic to believe there is a part of me that is beyond gender to love, maybe that’s something that girls say. white girls in particular. but lately i’ve been of the belief that there is a tiny slice of something that lies outside of culture that has an essence and a loveability in everybody. in my gender studies class we learned everything is culture and i did a good amount of arguing with my friends of faith that even god came from culture. but now i’m not so sure.

RELIGIOUS FOLKS: some religious ladies from the local church came in to the club and brought us all gift bags with hand knitted scarves and a little tube of lipgloss or bottle of body spray. included was also violet tissue paper and a card that said “you are cared for, just the way you are”. i thought it was sweet and i wore my scarf around the club. the other girls were less impressed but took the lipgloss. i do think the goodie-bags would be more well suited for the wal-mart employees down the road but despite the somewhat misguided gifting, i can appreciate the intention and all the hours of knitting.

SUNSET: with longer days my commute to the candlelight club is one of the most epic sunset viewing drives ever. i am literally flabbergasted every colorful evening at what a splendid fucking vista i get to gorge on while making my way to work.

TRUCK: i’m selling my truck. my rosanante. it’s just not right anymore. so the beast that took me so many miles and was my protective turtle shell against the elements of weather and sanity will be exchanged for cash money. i will probably buy another truck with this cash money that will be more right for where i am.

URGENCY: i’ve been feeling lately the beginnings of a certain urgency to get pregnant. i guess this is what the clock feels like when it’s getting wound up. it’s a slightly disturbing feeling despite the fact that i’ve decoupled babymaking from marriage. if need be i can always 1)buy a baby 2)buy some sperm and make one myself 3) trick one of my male friends 4)ask one of my male friends to help me out.

VAGINAS: my posts about vaginas have almost doubled my traffic to the site. it used to be that “stomata” was one of the most searched for terms that brought people to this corner of the net but “vagina” is giving “stomata” a run for its money. if you don’t remember i wrote about spring and stomatas opening up and how they look like little vaginas. speaking of how vaginas look i was thinking about how old-style feminists are fully supportive of girls shaving their heads and fully not supportive of girls shaving their vaginas. i’ve done both in my lifetime and i’ve decided there’s really no place for passing judgement on hair length anywhere.

WINE: i drank too much wine last night with the guy i was dating (see ELIAS) and at some point along the way must have said something upsetting because by the end of the night he had officially rejected me. really though, i’m pretty sure he’s the prick in the equation.

XAVIER: at my other job this snoopy guy came in and said his name was xavier and asked a bunch of questions and i do believe he was lying about his name.

YEAR ANNIVERSARY: the anniversary of my dad dying passed a couple weeks ago. it feels a bit like i’ve been released.

ZODIAC: my zodiac sign is scorpio. make of that whatever you wish. i needed a Z.

The question that I ask looking at your numbers is “When do you decide that dancing is no loonger a financially viable option?” $2.9K is not bad for what looks like a part time job, assuming that you do not include the time needed to prepare and train, shop etc. Also, what are your expenses associated with earning the $2.9K including outfits, make-up, waxings and nails if done professionally etc. Those have to be subtracted from income to do a real after cost estimate of the net income from the job.

Also It is not clear if the $2.9k includes witholding of self employment and other taxes to get a full cost as well as any benefits you may want to buy for yourself such as health and disability insurance. I think that dancers should be buying disability insurance as they have risks of injuries that could put them out for weeks or longer.

correct 2.9k is not bad for a part time job. it allows me to do two other jobs that i really love, one of which i get paid (not much) cash money for and another that i get paid no cash money but work in exchange for food. seriously. i’m an unpaid farm hand one day a week.

let me get something straight right away. i spend very little money on stripper stuff. i don’t wax, i shave. i don’t get manicures and pedicures. i don’t go to tanning salons. i don’t spray on tan. i don’t have a gym membership. i don’t have hair extentions. i have probably seven or eight outfits that i rotate and three pairs of thong underwear. i wear one and wash it that night and wear the other the next night. i didn’t spend very much money on the outfits. shoes are priceyish, i have three pairs total (red, black, and white – gasp! not one clear pair!) and when they break i will have to get more. i get my hair done about once every three or four months. makeup can get pricey because i like nice foundation for my skin but i would buy it for my regular life anyways, i just go through it faster. my make up bag is about a quarter of the size of what everyone else carries.

here’s the thing, i don’t think much of the waxing, tanning, training stripper regimen matters all that much. if i could lose ten pounds it would probably help my income but it’s not going to happen at a gym because i never have the self discipline to go. i could tell you that i don’t care about manicures because 1. i’m country and 2. my club is country but every girl in my club tans and gets their nails done. i just don’t think having a manicure is going to make me any more dollars a night. i keep my nails clean and usually polished red except when i’m farming. i could probably benefit financially from a tan and hair extensions but i refuse to risk skin cancer for the cause and i’m just turned off by the fifteen dollar spray bottles of tan that require a whole extra 15-20 minute application time. maybe some day i’ll get hair extensions.

i spend about twenty bucks a month on false eyelashes. my eyeshadow and pencils seem to last forever (though i am currently running out of black eyeliner – any good suggestions for non-runny easily applied product?).

let’s remember it’s dark in the club. the girl who makes some of the most money in my club wears the same outfit every single day. i really, truly believe that attitude affects your income more than anything else and attitude is free.

the 2.9k does not reflect my tax withholding and considering i do plan on paying taxes this year, this does make a rather sizeable dent in my earnings. i’m currently in the market and applying for health insurance after being denied several months ago for having been in a bicycle accident within the prior six months. so wish me luck on that, i completely agree with you that strippers (and everyone) should, if possible, have medical coverage. the job can be extremely physically taxing, the dressing rooms a breeding ground for sharing illness between all the girls in contact with all those customers. so strippers are definitely at a risk for job related medical issues and considering we don’t get sick pay or disability leave, at least having some medical costs defrayed by insurance could be important. really, though, the medical coverage available to individuals is all bullshit and gauging by corporate vampires but that’s a topic for another time. at the end of the day, in the world we live in, you should get medical insurance if you can.

so, the clincher, when do i decide dancing is no longer financially viable?

i live thrifty. i have low rent. my goal with my income is to be able to save. i am saving up for a new bike, an international travel stint sometime in the next two years. and i’m trying to stuff a cushion of cash into my savings account for the day when my computer breaks, my car breaks, or i get sick. actually, i’m sick now, coughing my ass into oblivion and i can’t work. i tried and it wrecked me for twenty four hours. so i’m really glad that last month i was able to save $566 dollars. and for some reason in february, i spent no money at all and saved about $1500. in january i saved like seventy bucks.

i have bigger, more expensive goals too. like, you know, a house. a soft place for children to grow some day. and probably a tractor. these bigger things would take a very long time to save for at my current income levels. however, i have a chunk of inheritance that is buried in the farthest reaches of my financial landscape that i can access someday to begin building these things. in other words i don’t use this money, i pretend i don’t have it, but it’s there. it’s my dad dying early. it’s privilege. it’s a certain amount of freedom and grief. it’s not an outrageous amount and it has a long and sorry story that i’m not going to bother telling.

so for me, i expect my income level to allow me to pay for every day costs and save for rainy days, sick days, bicycles, pets, a new bed, a roundtrip ticket to asia next year, and community college classes. so, the answer to when to stop stripping has to do with when i can’t make enough to save anymore. if i was just covering costs, i would be feeling pretty nervous. but the tricky part to this, is that i can’t think of another job i could get right now where i could make what i’m making now. i got offered a job recently working for the government that would have had me bringing in approximately $1600 a month and working forty hour weeks. farming isn’t going to pay the bills. and neither is my other little job i love. so, that leaves me sticking with stripping until i find a better option or drastically downsize my expenses so that i can continue saving on a lower budget. as of now, i still like stripping and my flexible time too much to take exploring other options seriously. someday, i’m sure i will feel different.

now, let me tell you about ace budget. it’s an app for iphone. i’ve never written down and watched every dollar that i spent in relation to every dollar that i earn. now i do. it was my new years resolution. and ace budget shows me graphs and pictures of the whole scene so that i know what i’m spending my money on by categories that i determine. for instance this last month i spent a ridiculously large amount of money on my new bee project and only twelve dollars and fifty cents on entertainment ( i don’t go out to movies or shows much).

March

Tuesday $300

Wednesday $126

Friday $278

Saturday $414

Tuesday $202

Wednesday $120

Friday $149

Saturday $258

Tuesday $85

Thursday $56

Friday $148

Saturday $358

Tuesday $96

Wednesday $103

Friday $235

Wednesday $31

Total: $2,959 Days Worked: 16  Daily Average: $184  Hours Worked: 94 Dollars per hour: $31.48

also, as referenced on my last post about income, erudite dancer and piper took up my suggestion to share numbers. since then ava even made a new tumblr just to track her income and outcome. it’s fascinating stuff. click here: strippermath

The Great Wall of Vagina project.

this body sculptor made a Great Wall of Vagina to show just how special all different vaginas are. there’s a great video on his website, also. these are all so different and yet you don’t even get the added qualities of color and hair. imagine all white faces without hair on their heads and that’s the extent to which these vaginas, as awesome as they are, still don’t show the whole gamut of vagina awesomeness.

If you want actual photos of real life vaginas in all their colorful and sometimes hairy glory, you can check

here

from http://www.vulvavelvet.org/pictures2.html

and here

from http://1001vaginas.com/

more accurately, your vulva is normal, your outer lips are normal and your inner lips are normal. your clit is most definitely normal.

before stripping, i really hadn’t seen that many vaginas. now i have. and wow, they are all unique and as different as the human face. there are skinny and fat vaginas, hanging vaginas and ones with the outer lips pulled back. most everybody has asymmetrical labia and the way they fold together or apart is always particular and perfect.

so,take a good look at your vagina or your lovers’ vagina and get to know its contours like you know your shoulders, your feet, and your chin. if you don’t already, decide to love it simply because it’s your sexual fingerprint – all yours and beautiful.

before the night ramped up properly though, i sat down by one of those shockingly attractive types. think gap model with artsy black rimmed glasses and a collared shirt. he was sitting in the corner and i sat down next to him, and wished him a “happy saturday!” “it is saturday, isn’t it?” “yeah. we’ve made it.” “what is it, the 6th?” “i’m not sure, i’ve lost track. i think it might be the fifth. let’s check…” and i go to pull out my phone. “how about if i win you show me your tits” “then if i win you buy a lap dance” “but i can’t afford a lap dance” “well it’s the 5th so you lose and what’s this not being able to afford a lap dance. i don’t believe you. why are you here if not for a lap dance?”

and this, my friends, is where our conversation gets interesting…

“well, i’m a masseuse and my client later is…well, let’s say…not so young. and i came here to check out some eye candy to help me do what i have to do later.”

“okay. so you’re telling me that you’re using us for visualization material for later so you can do your job, which is, not so different from my job.”

“right”

i pushed for details as someone who named herself “story” is likely to do. mr. good lookin’ is a certified massage therapist who gives your basic swedish rub down but, when his clients pull back the sheet or quiver when he gets to their thighs, he obliges their interest and, in his own words, “does the deed”.

“wow. that is really interesting. in fact, that’s a first for me in the club. i mean, of course, i’ve heard about people who do your work but i’ve never met someone who comes in the club to get turned on so they can do their work. actually, considering that you’re not paying me for lap dances, the only reason i’m sitting here is for novelty points.”

“ah yes. the american gigolo is still alive. here you are talking to a real male prostitute.”

“so it seems. i think that’s great.”

“well i’m glad i found you then because when i told mandy she got up and walked away.”

i asked a lot of questions and he answered. he told me about how pubic hair goes gray. how his eighty year old client said every woman should have a lover like him at least once in their life. and how one of his clients cried during her release. he talked about the awkward after bit, “if i was a regular prostitute, i’d do the deed and be out of there, but i have to break down the table and pack up my massage things. it’s pretty awkward.” he kept referring to his g rated massages as “good massages” and his sexual massages as “bad”. finally i just told him i didn’t think there was anything bad at all about his work, though i was sorry that he didn’t think his work was great. he seemed unreconciled and told me he went to sex, love anonymous meetings twice weekly to make up for his “bad boy massages” and i asked if he thought he was a sex addict or love addict and by the way when did they add the “love” to sex addiction. love addicts? what’s that? and really? love addict meetings. count me in, i guess. he explained love addicts are folks who use relationships and the novelty of falling in love like a drug and then he said he figured he must have some sort of sex addiction problem because of his job. “maybe you just really like money and you found a way to get it”. “hmmmm. greed. maybe.” i shrugged. he told me he would make good money. “so why don’t you pay us to turn you on with a lap dance.” “well, i don’t have my money yet.”

i didn’t know whether to be annoyed that another sexworker was being cheap or celebrate our comraderie. either way i did a good show on stage for him and then asked him to massage me for a song which turned into three. i felt like a bag of marbles underneath him. “you should let me give you a massage for free sometime. i’ll do whatever you want, swedish, sensual, or sexual.” i laughed, “we could do an exchange of services. i was thinking that. lapdances for massages. i would want swedish with a little sensual.” “and what about sexual?” “no, i don’t want that”. after he felt the knots in my back he said “you don’t even need sensual, you need to de-stress this back with some swedish. damn, you are tight” “well, i just learned to hang upside down on the pole.”

he watched me dance again and then said, “you’re giving me your number and i’m going to give you a massage next time i’m in town to visit this client.” “i don’t usually do this,” i said as i looked for a pen. “i know you don’t,” he said. “i probably wont even meet you. you might not ever see me again actually.” “i’ll call you.”

a little mexican gangsta kid who called me “bonita” and “precioso” and “chula” wanted dances. he was hyper and tiny and agreed easily to go get dances with me. i asked for my money upfront which i only sometimes do because his excitability made me nervous. he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and asked for change so i told him to hang on to it so we could see how many dances he wanted. as soon as the song started he had his hands on me. “no toca” i told him. he tried kissing me. “no besos” i told him. he was still jumpy and as i stood up, a leg on either side of him, he leaned forward voraciously and licked my leg. “no!” i yelled stern as a school teacher. “listen. no toca. no beso. no lengua. just sit. just lean back and sit. sientate”. i don’t really speak spanish but i vaguely remember spanish teachers yelling “sientate” in school so i went with it.

i thought my harsh tone would ruin his mood and cut our dances short but instead he bought three and made staccato kissing noises at me and squealed excitedly when ever i slapped my ass or put my boobs in his face. when i stood over him again he leaned his head between my thighs and banged his head back and forth from one to the other as fast as is humanly possible, making more squealing sounds. i thought this was a wonderful and hilarious way to pass our lap dance time since it followed the rules and required nothing from me but to stand over him. Manbo, standing at the vip entrance kept looking over at us in a concerned way while i laughed hysterically and the little guy laughed hysterically and then resumed the back-and-forth head bopping between my legs. when i lowered myself, this comical little man did the same thing with my boobs. i would call it motorboating but titty motorboating has a much more vibrational quality. this guy just shook his head in an epileptic fashion while hooting and hollering and looking so pleased with himself. he kept hollering out “precioso” and “bonita” and i went back and forth between air dancing and letting him head bang my body parts. during one particularly aggressive seeming boob nuzzling when i was laughing in what might have seemed a cry for help, Manbo thought things were getting out of control and came to save me, but i waved him off and said “it’s okay”. “eess ok?” yelled my little guy thinking that i was encouraging him to shake his face faster and i tried to explain that he was about to get in trouble actually but i don’t think he understood me.

great fun.

from there i fluttered around getting dances from a bunch of characters who were not nearly as noteworthy as the previous two. i danced for the guy who i’ve already danced for twice and who is always so drunk he forgets the previous time. i danced for a guy with a long ponytail who kept his eyes shut almost the entire time and his friend who wore a pinstrip tuxedo into our little club and winked at me on stage. i danced for a guy who spent the entire dance telling me how he had lost $30,000 that day and he had plans to shoot the two guys’ whose fault it was the next day. i asked him to please not. i danced for this guy who i guess is now my regular even though he used to be Rain Drop’s regular and who sincerely believes i’m turned on when i dance for him even though i’m not at all. and that’s all i can remember. butterflies have short memories. we just dance around looking pretty.

the second reason i find the ambiguity around income annoying is because, as a collective stripper workforce, i don’t think it serves us to hide the value of our income. in fact, i think it hurts us. by speaking plainly about what we make, new individuals can learn how they are doing in relation to their coworkers and in relation to different clubs across the country. if we have a collective idea about what we should earn we are more likely to demand it, refusing to settle for less and leaving a club when/if it doesn’t reach income standards. the girls i work with are actually quite forthright about their earnings and i deeply appreciate knowing what they make. if everyone or most everyone in the club makes less than $150 on a night when i can’t break $100 then i don’t have the sense that i personally am lacking. if everyone makes over $300 and i barely break one hundred then it would be high time for me to start reflecting on my hustle technique, lap dance quality or stage performance.

finally, not speaking plainly about money is not specific to strippers. one of my close friends has a psychiatrist father who said, “people in america are more likely to talk about their sexual perversions than they are about their yearly salary” and it’s absolutely true. because of the incorrect idea that our individual worth can be measured by our income people keep mum on their earnings, using instead the less verbal but still blatant conspicuous consumption to communicate their “value”. considering the debt load of our nation’s people, a nice car or house doesn’t actually translate to a person’s earnings or liquid assets. and it DEFINITELY doesn’t speak to their character as a human being. while this country continues to be mired in recession, people continue to reflect lack of “success” on individual performance. i see so many people self-judging and judged for not having a job or not having the right job these days and it’s about time we start seeing our national inequality as a collective problem rather than any individual’s shortcomings.

rich folks suffer from this silence also. there are those who make loads of money and flaunt it loudly, but there are those who make a high salary and tip-toe around with a sense of guilt or fear. as money accumulates, it’s not uncommon that under the shroud of silence the notion of scarcity increases also and money becomes more guarded and even more secret.

so with all that said, i’m trying to be more honest about money. both with myself and others. so here’s the breakdown of my earnings from the candlelight club. things to consider:

i would say that i’m considered an above average earner at the club.

january was super slow. february picked up a bit. and with only a week of march under my belt, i’m expecting it will be better than february.

shifts at the candlelight club are short relative to the 8, 10 and 12 hour shifts i worked around the country. with that in mind, instead of depending on a nightly average, i also broke down income into average dollars per hour.

from the numbers, you should also see that learning to roll with the highs and lows is one of the greatest challenges at the candlelight club. keeping my attitude and feelings of self-worth at an even keel despite the ups and downs is one of my favorite stripper lessons for life.

*JANUARY*

Saturday $128

Sunday  $48

Wednesday $124

Thursday $88

Friday $173

Sunday $60

Tuesday $12

Wednesday $209

Friday $177

Sunday $146

Tuesday $220

Wednesday $65

Thursday $75

Saturday $80

Wednesday $105

Thursday $32

Friday $415

Sunday $80

Total: 2237.00 Days Worked: 18 Daily Average: $124.00 Hours Worked: 96 Dollars per hour: $23

*FEBRUARY*

Tuesday $124

Wednesday $87

Thursday $6

Friday $238

Thursday $30

Saturday $479

Friday $330

Tuesday $32

Wednesday $173

Friday $109

Tuesday $320

Wednesday $20

Saturday $450

Total: $2398 Days Worked: 13 Daily Average: $184 Hours Worked: 75 Dollars per hour: $32

*MARCH*

Tuesday $300

Wednesday $125

Friday $278

Saturday $414

finally, for all other blogging strippers, would you be willing to post your earnings? i understand that people who are out on the internet about where they work might not feel comfortable posting actual numbers. but for those of you who are willing, if you post your earnings and let me know, i’ll update this post with a link  to your site and your wages.

UPDATE:

so gypsy (who you might remember i danced with during my travels) posted her numbers here and several reasons i didn’t think of about why it may not be the best idea to share numbers with coworkers.

strippr posted her numbers here and included some very interesting personal reflection on why she fibs about her income.

another dancer out of houston, texas took the challenge and posted her numbers and lots of details about her hustle, her appearance and her style. love it. click here.

i took dance classes off and on through most of my youth and though i have a certain sense of grace once in a while, i have little knack for rhythm or body memory. where most people seem to have that strange superpower of being able to simply watch someone else do something with their body and then recreate it in their own, i need a half dozen times of watching and then a step by step reenactment. and then the next day, it seems my limbs in their short term memory have walked me right back to square one. even simple clapping/stomping games are a challenge for me. shit, when people clap to music i’m always the one who claps in the middle, on the offbeat of my own dislocated physical intelligence.

and i’m not strong. in the muscular way that is. i just don’t feel the same sense of capability in my body that it seems most folks are naturally endowed with. i’m sure this weakness was part of what motivated me to tackle stripping. i started in the thick of my academic life – a learning style that i excel at. i felt competent in college, but at the same time, the succession of A’s tired me out. i wanted a tough challenge and a break from the bubble of muli-syllabic self-congratulatory critique where bodies are so often allowed to wilt and libidos tend to stultify or become twisted and scandalous in their search for expression.

anyways, what i’m trying to say, is that stripping has, and continues to be, for me, a looooooooooooonnnnnggggg learning curve.

and i just had a breakthrough.

i hung upside down from the pole.

now i know a lot of strippers learn this trick a couple weeks after dancing but, for me, this is a BIG deal.

here’s how it went down, or more accurately, how i went down. so there i was clinging on to the pole and i moved myself to be sitting on it kind of cross leggedly. i’ve been practicing this for awhile and i’m pretty decent at making it look relaxed. the trick to sitting on the pole is simply the trick of learning to bare pain with grace as the tissue-paper thin skin of the soft inner thigh in a feat of adhesion and gripped thighs, supports the entire weight of your body. still though, Rain Drop hollered “PUSSY! PUT IT ON YOUR PUSSY!!! HOLD IT WITH YOUR PUSSY!” so i dropped down, and while Rain Drop and Eliza watched on, i re-climbed, really wedged the pole up to my crotch and re-fastened my legs so that i rested myself again on the most fragile petals of myself.

i leaned back. i grabbed the pole below my butt so basically i’m laying in a sort of not-quite-flat board position with my knees crossed. “LOCK IT. COME ON, LOCK IT!” Rain Drop is referring to the position needed to hand upside down where the legs basically crossed over form a sort of head lock with the pole and allow the rest of the body to hang. this would require letting go completely with my hands. i’m thinking about my neck and how i kinda like it, you know, not broken. i’m thinking about how i don’t have health insurance. my weight is still balanced foward and, like looking down from a really fantastic jumping rock i can feel the swinging electric pulse of gravity just a couple inches away from where i am.

“TRUST YOURSELF!!!!” yells Rain Drop in a voice that moved, slow motion across the stage.

with an inner shrug to the fear goblin and a breath later, i had arced back into gravity’s embrace and my legs had magically locked and there i was…hanging. and smiling. my smile was actually radiating through me.

okay, so getting down was less than lovely as i sort of dropped in a limp and wormlike way to the ground but, hey, baby steps.

“now that’s a stripper kodak moment” said Eliza.

as i grapple with this, i don’t necessarily find great companionship or support from my coworkers. they’re great. i love them a lot but we approach stripping differently and for now that’s all i want to say about that. instead, i want to turn towards the great blogosphere that has acted as my stripper support system from the get-go. it kind of blows my mind to think about how a small town gal can find the friendly advice she needs on just about any subject these days through the world wide interwebs.

as always, please refer to the column on the right for links to some of my favorite writing strippers. today i wanted to highlight a special few that i’ve been feeling particularly appreciative for lately:

1. kat from katstories is the funniest stripper in the blogosphere and recently i got tell her this in person at a little pizzeria in portland. i visited portland for what felt like my first real vacation – no working, no driving, no sleeping in parking lots – i just hopped on a plane and went to visit my friend. the sweet, wise and sexy bubbles encouraged me to meet up with kat and as it happened i was having a sandwich one block away from where she was going to shop so we met up. i bought this kinda lame-cute little pink zebra striped baby doll dress and kat got a ridiculously awesome leather leotard with a low v-neck and fringe.

2. then i found out that kat and bubbles paired up with someone named betty and are rocking this blog called tits and sass. and let me tell you, it’s got the funny, the hot, the political commentary and the sharp thinking of some women who make me really really proud to count myself in the same line of work.

3. miss holly whose baring it all in san francisco and on the sticking pole is a true lover of literature and her writing gleams with her adoration of words. i am completely envious of her ability to so precisely turn feelings into clear, radiant sentences that speak to the human experience.

4. and then there is stripper mommy. holy moly, does this woman evoke some admiration. not only is she a stripper and a blogger but she’s also a mom and a wonderful writer. as she walks the line between blogging about motherhood and blogging about stripping, i’m amazed at her honesty and humor (she even describes a terribly vivid scene of leaking milk on stage!). her little baby daughter doesn’t yet know what an awesome and brilliant mom she got blessed with but by reading her words, i sure do.

thank you, ladies for affirming the strength and pride in this work.

i was feeling really blah and i called my manager and told him i didn’t want to come in. and then about an hour later, i called him again and told him i was going to come in. i was feeling so blah – it felt productive to haul my ass into work just to do something.

i brought scrabble.

the other day dj2 and i were talking. i asked him some personal and inappropriate question which he answered frankly and i said “thank you for answering that” and he said “well, it’s not like you’re going home and blogging about it.”

i nodded while a great wave of guilt crashed head on over my shoulders. so i’ve decided i can’t write anymore personal stuff about how i have a crush on dj2 or his answers to my inappropriate questions. and i can’t write about the ladies i work with who are the lifebreath of slow hours and keep my heart beating through crappy nights and shitty tips. sorry. suffice it to say, you’ll have to buy my book when it comes out.

anyways, i brought scrabble. it’s a road scrabble board where the little letters click into the board and there are little cases for your personal tiles. i held it up to dj2 and exclaimed “so i can just put my letters in my purse and walk around with them. how cool is that?” “that is pretty cool”. no one else wanted to play with us even though Manbo said he’d surely beat us because he would use make words like “hypothesis”.

let me say, definitively, that scrabble in the strip club is the shit. while the break song was playing out i would spell out “felt” or place my “n” in a strategic way so that i got a triple word score for a horizontal “on” and a verticle “on”. and even though dj2 got “sever” and “diverse”, i still won by three points.

in between the scrabble plays i danced for a construction worker who used to be married to a stripper and was not the type of ex-husband of a stripper who then thinks we’re best friends and he should get the “insider’s treatment” (no such thing) but instead was super polite, told me upfront i wasn’t wasting my time and he’d buy dances from me and loved the first so much he bought three.

in the first hour i made more than i had made the whole night before when i only sold two dances (and sadly, more than any other girl), one to a guy who told me that in his past life he was a stripper and the other to a guy who i can’t even remember. i also danced for one of Rain Drop’s regulars because she wasn’t there. i’ve danced for him before and i’m pretty sure he prefers her because she excels at dirty talk and well…i don’t. anyways, i told him how horny i was and how big his dick was and how i’m sure it would really fill me up because my pussy is so tight. he’s actually a really sweet guy and we had a good warm hug goodbye.

then i danced for this guy named peanut butter. his friend told me that was his name and he confirmed it and then while his friends were watching in a really wannabe gangsta way said, “so you wanna be my chocolate tonight and make some reese’s peanutbutter cups, girrrl” and i laughed and lead him to the lapdance room. he was pure sugar and gentle quietness when his friends weren’t watching. he watched me like a child watches the world awed by shapes and colors and movements of ecstatic light . then as we went to leave, he said some silly gangsta thing like “you know how i do, baby” and i said “aight. aight. i can feel that” so that we could both pretend he’s not just a total sweet heart.

there was another group of wannabe gangstas who were youngins and taking turns at the stage and doling their dollars out like they were on a five dollar allowance. they were all strip club newbies and i had patiently sat with them and explained how things worked around here so when another young girl, who definitely is not a wannabe gangsta joined them, they called me over to explain things to her. she wanted to understand what it would mean for her to buy a lapdance for her boyfriend because it was her birthday. i explained what we do in the back room and how he can’t touch his dancer but the dancer can touch him. “where do you touch him?!” she asked nervously and i quickly explained we rub up against the man’s body but we don’t grab his dick or anything. she kept nodding unsmiling and finally i said “you don’t seem to happy to be here” and she shook her head. i continued, “yeah, you don’t really seem to want to get your boyfriend a lapdance.” with that, her sweet little face cracked and tears started running down her face, “i don’t” she said. i smiled, “then don’t do it.” her friend explained that the young girl thought it was cheating but felt torn because it was her boyfriend’s birthday and she thought she owed it to him to get a lapdance. i told her it was up to her, if she picked me i wouldn’t grind on him too hard, but that my advice was not to do it if she felt uncomfortable. she picked me and it kind of broke my heart on one hand because i hate to see women bent by their obligation to be a perfect girlfriend. on the other hand, her life might be full of less suffering if she can loosen up about a lapdance. i waved at her and smiled as graciously as i could while i lead her boyfriend away from her and then i didn’t grind too hard on him per our promise.

her boyfriend visited me on stage later and i asked if i should refrain from putting my boobs in his face while she was watching, he said, “no, i want her to see it all. she needs to understand that stripclubs aren’t that big of a deal.” before i knew it the friends had waved her on stage and were throwing singles in front of her and telling me to rub up on her while she glanced nervously around trying to figure out where to look and how to not run out the front door. “nope,” i shook my head, “i’ve learned not to do things girls don’t want.” so i twirled around while she watched until, after shaking hands with her boyfriend, it was agreed that she was okay with me putting my boobs in her face. she still looked doubtful so we decided they were going to do it as a team. they leaned their heads together and i put one boob on each of their faces and shook my shoulders. and the jig was up. the little lady didn’t cry again and we had one last conversation at their table. she confirmed she’d never felt a breast before and i said “pretty soft, huh?” and i told her lots of couples come into clubs together for date night.

a man with downright luminous eyes came into the club and paid me for a conversation which i enjoyed as much as he did and then he put a folded up five dollar heart on my stage while some other real gangstas crooned softly into my ear and some women who aren’t afraid of boobs put one dollar bills in their mouths for me to retrieve. the man with moonlight eyes told me he lived in my hometown and gave me his email and then i drove home past the owl and the coyote, waving hello friends, hello.

lately the candlelight club has been looking up. last weekend a beautiful tall black man found me on friday and returned saturday to squeeze in three more lap dances and extended nerd talk. my railworker who refuses to ride on trains came in drunk and hit the atm machine twice for me and told me his tales of humanity between our twelve dances.

a female manager who is younger and smaller than me takes my driver license and points me to the restroom to change. in the metal rectangle squeezed up against the toilet i cram my elbows and knees into my sequin skirt that was designed to be a top and my feet into the tallest shoes i own. i powder the shaving rash bumps on my pussy and talk to one of the girls who came in to pee.

“do you like it here?” i ask. “it’s okay but the 40% they take from you sucks”. “40%! jesus. really?” “yea, but once you sell six ladies’ drinks you get a dollar day where they only take a dollar for every dance. on dollar day you call up your best regulars. girls can leave with three thousand dollars on their dollar day. it’s happened.”

i don’t know, really, what she’s talking about but it sounds like some convoluted set of lame rules that one might expect from a corporate national chain strip club – which this is. i’ve never tried to work at a strip club conglomerate. they require me to bring my social security card to try out and apparently have strange rules that mean girls must use sly cunning to not fork over 40% of their earnings.

i get on stage and the dj watches me and the manager watches me and the dozen girls on shift watch me and the four customers watch me and nobody comes to the stage and nobody smiles when i smile at them. i feel faltering. when i get off stage the dj calls all the dozen girls on stage. the young manager is seated at her desk and without turning around tells me to go get dressed and as i walk towards the bathroom the dj is calling out to the club:

“six dances for forty dollars. four at the price of ten dollars and two free dances.”

i do the math, that’s barely seven bucks a dance. and then take away forty percent and that’s about four dollars a dance.

after dressing i head to the managers office but the dj stops me and says, “hey, listen, i think we’re going to pass. sorry”. “okay” then the dj asks where he knows me from but i don’t know him and i just want to be gone, outside this club. i have never been denied before and i need to decide how that feels. i go park in a big box parking lot and ravenously eat a bowl of rice and vegetables i had brought in my car. i decide it doesn’t matter to be denied.

there are other clubs in the big city and i might go there again one of these days and try again. for now i’m still in the candlelight club.

an indian guy in a soft zippered up cardigan over a striped shirt approaches me. he is young, twenty four, and a little pudgy but i judge people more on the fabric comfort of their garments as i plan to wipe my skin across their laps and chests. he is tottery on his feet, drunk, and i don’t wast time conversating. i ask if he wants a lap dance and he agrees. i walk, he weaves to Manbo, hands him the entrance fee to the vip room  and we plop on a couch and wait for the next song to begin. we learn we both studied at the same college and he tells me he’s drunk.

i begin my dance and he bites his lip when i bite mine and all is going swimmingly. i start to notice his eyes glaze and my intuition, honed sometime in my early teenage years when i couldn’t hold my alcohol, perks up. i keep dancing and watching closely. with a tiny twitch of a dry heave, i hop off and ask him if he’s going to puke, while he leans forward and vomits a splash of yellow between his knees on the carpet. i pray my shoes and purse are far enough to the side to have avoided getting doused, hop up barefoot and topless and yelling for Manbo, scaring everyone in the club that i’ve been molested. Manbo comes running from the bar and i excitedly tell him a guy just puked. i turn around and the puker is standing behind me. “sorry” he says and pushes a twenty dollar bill into my hand. i am in wonder at the drunk’s ability to remember to pay for our exchange of services while at the same time have no control over when and where he lets his chunks fly.

i grab up my shoes and purse, not a drop on them, pull on my dress and find that dude puked twice more in the very small entrance on his way out the door. Manbo is pissed. Dakota is laughing. Jenna’s customer is laughing. the bartender is getting cleaning supplies ready.

Rain Drop walks out with her hands over her mouth, looking like she will gag and then waving air at her face.  she turns to me, puts up her pointer finger on each hand and crosses them in a hex at me. “i didn’t do anything,” i say smiling. she shakes her head. “that’s a bad omen…in a strip club”.

in the last couple weeks i’ve had some of the grossest customers. there was the old white pee guy who reeks so bad of urine from a leaky catheter and lack of showering because both his knees are busted, that i couldn’t bear to get too close during our lap dances. i have more tolerance than most for body odor but the smell paired with his damp money and moist pants inspired a very dull and distant air dance. despite the fact that i didn’t grind either my tits or ass into his lap, he kept buying dances so i spent five songs wagging my butt in front of him and standing over him rubbing my legs across his face.

then there was the old white halitosis guy. i always thought bad breath was limited to about a six inch radius from an individual’s mouth and usually only as foul as their last meal. this guy’s breath could easily be noticed two feet away from his face. several of his teeth were rotted out, probably disintegrated in the scent, and he wondered aloud how people remembered who he was.

then there was the woman who came in, pretty and heavy set with high heels just a fraction less ridiculous than stripper heels and a playboy bunny head tattooed on the top of each breast. in a black halter with her swinger husband and neighbor in tow who told me he would be filming them later, she brought money to spend and didn’t bring panties. as i danced over her, i imagined her hairy cooch dripping on the lap dance couch and used my knee to keep the hem of her dress over the V of her spread legs.

i can only be resentful later. at the time, during our dances, i smile and muster a sense of adventure or compassion as i throw myself at these odd and dirty strangers. but later, rubbing myself down with baby wipes i curse the man who can’t shower, the man who wont brush his teeth, the woman who thinks that because she shares my gender it is fair game to expose her genitalia.

by the time i’m dancing for a puker, i barely break stride. i laugh with the other girls directly after the episode but within minutes i’ve forgotten. only hours later, in my bed, safely tucked in and away from the customer crazies, i can watch from the outside lookin in and am able to laugh myself to sleep.