Monday, November 7, 2011

Two girls.

She’s laying underneath me on the back seat of the bus. The men are lined up on either side of us, mostly sitting, expectant. We’ve already placed our toys and props on the sticky shelf behind us. On the wall, muted porn spills blue light onto their faces. I wonder if porn comes standard when you book a party bus for a bachelor party. I almost ask.

Her body is pale and smooth and startlingly bright in the dim light. Bambi’s chestnut hair fans against the white sheet we’d spread out under our bodies, her brown eyes opened up to me. I kneel over her, waiting for the boys to quiet before I go over our rules.

* * *

At ten, I was the shy bony girl with a lisp, wispy blonde bangs always in my eyes. I preferred to be hidden. My best friend had a bodacious laugh and hugging her felt like sinking into a beanbag chair; she was warm and soft and solid in her embrace.

Sarah and I would steal away at parties, preteen romance novels behind our backs. We’d take each book and skim through the worn pages, seeking out any hint of sex. Our bodies buzzing, we’d read the passages aloud to each other in whispers. Every innuendo brought us closer to understanding our longing, the low rush that rippled under our skin. Closer to teenagedom.

* * *

“Is everyone ready?” I’m absentmindedly running my left thumb up the inside of Bambi’s thigh. Several men hoot their assents, and I continue, “Rule number one - Be quiet!” I snap my hands to my hips in mock reproach as my declaration interrupts the two drunkest men of the group. Everyone laughs.

“In all seriousness, I recommend that you guys stay as quiet as you can. How else will you be able to hear the noises I get out of this pretty girl?” On cue, Bambi squirms a little and smiles.

“Which brings me to the second rule: No doubt, you fellas are fabulous in bed, and at least one of you might have some suggestions as to what we should be doing to each other. Rule number two is that you keep these thoughts to yourself.” I thumb the outside of Bambi’s thong and giggle. “I promise Bambi and I know exactly what the other likes, so you’ll have to trust us.

“Rule number three: This sheet is our island, and you are not allowed to come on the island. I realize it’s more like a peninsula, since we’re on a bus, but this means that you guys need to give us space to do what we do. You can move around for a better view, and you can show your appreciation with tips, but please don’t touch us or throw money at our bodies. The last thing you want to do is fuck with our mojo.”

“Amen to that,” someone hoots out from the back, and the bus erupts in laughter.

“Our last rule is one of the most important. I almost feel like I don’t even have to mention it since I haven’t seen a single camera tonight. But if anyone photographs us during the show, we will stop immediately and leave, no questions. This is a deal-breaker for us, and it’s only fair that I let you know. But really, you guys have been so good!” I lean up and stroke the chest of the nearest guy then settle back down onto my heels. “Okay, is everyone ready? Music please!”

* * *

Sarah’s mom didn’t work, and mine did, so we spent a lot of time at her house. As many times as I visited, her home always unnerved me. Her mom was nice, but her hair was suspiciously unkempt. The house was clean, but cold and damp, especially in the basement where we played. The rec room we spent most of our time in doubled as a guest room; sometimes we’d strip the blankets off the bed and make forts.

One day, bored, Sarah asked me if I wanted to play a new game. She closed the door of the room then went to the spare dresser. She pulled out several balls of exercise socks.

Sarah held one out to me out to me and said, “You can be the boy, and I’ll be the girl.” She demonstrated how, pushing two balls of socks up under her shirt. I followed suit, fitting a balled pair into the crotch of my pants. We lay down on the bed, considering. We fumbled around until I, being the small one, was on top of her. Our breath was shallow as we started to grind, to imitate our vague idea of sex.

“It’s sexier if you moan” She posited, and so we moaned. She was right. Her sock breasts rubbed against the sensitive skin of my flat chest. The knot of socks between my legs was awkward yet smoldering. I felt a tingling thrill mixed with the understanding that we were doing something wrong. If I’d known the word perverted, I’d have used it.

“Like this” She said, and pressed the back of her open palm to her pursed mouth, moving her head in circles to mimic a passionate kiss. I did the same, and we put our hands together. We grabbed each other. We held on.

* * *

A two-girl show on the back of a bus is not ideal. We’d had no chance to clean up, to lift baby wipes to our salty bodies, sticky with whipped cream and coke residue. No chance to check in one more time with her boundaries, to explain what we were going to do, how we were going to do it. Just follow my lead, I’d told her in the car on the way here. I’ll tell you what to do, I promise. I told her how we usually fake giving head, but that the insertion is real. I told her about breathing heavy and making out and faking orgasms at certain moments.

That was only two hours ago, but I can tell she is unsure and nervous. I can see the whites of her eyes. She’s never fucked a girl before, let alone for hire in front of a busful of coked-out, drunken 30-something professionals.

Massive Attack comes on over the stereo. I breathe deeply. I drop my eyelids halfway and let my exhale be audible, husky. I bring my hands to Bambi’s body and she’s lying there, still. She’s looking at me and waiting and I brush my fingers down her torso and then up to her breasts. I touch them and moan and realize that my performance is turning me on.

I’m obviously in charge. It’s role I relish, and it makes Bambi feel safe. I’m pulling her hair and telling her what to do in a sultry voice, but really I’m asking her, is this okay? How about this?

I pull off her clothes and then mine and I press my body against hers. I kiss the inside of her thigh. I present her pussy to the crowd then tongue around her clit, blond hair falling over my face. For effect, I wet my lips and moan again. She gets the idea, writhing under my touch.

We use a variety of toys on each other, my commands a steady murmur. Come here and use this on my clit. Not too hard. Yes. More. Like that. Good girl. Now turn around. You want this one? Like this? Harder? You’re such a good girl. She doesn’t say a word.

I remember those few times Sarah and I played our secret game.

I remember feeling warm and blurry, my body smudged with desire.

I remember the thrill of pretend.

I remember Sarah instructing me, showing me what to do, how to play.

I turn and grab our showstopper, a translucent pink double–headed dildo. I hand her a chocolate-flavored condom and hold the toy as she rolls it down the end with her lips. My little cockslut. Just like that. I do the same, showing her how to interlace her legs with mine as I fit the dildo between us. Within moments, we’re moving back and forth together. Appreciative gasps come from the crowd. Bambi follows my thrusts as I take her through a variety of positions, sometimes holding onto her hips, sometimes slapping her pale ass.

In a complicated but precise maneuver, we come to our hands and knees, and the men yell out, awed. I had told her in the car this was it, our finale. Slow down. Really slow. Perfect. Just like that, you sweet girl. Faster. My hand is on my clit and my head is bowed as we fuck, the smack of our skin loud and fast. Faster. Yes. Yes. And then I scream, grunt, buck, the dildo still sliding in and out of both of us. I can hear her slight noise underneath my own, feel the quake of her thighs. We slow. I reach back and ease the toy out of me, out of her. Here, like this, I say. And everyone claps as we put the toy into our mouths, tasting ourselves and the tangy remnants of chocolate flavoring.

After the last tips are showered onto our sweaty bodies, the men depart the bus to smoke. “Thank you,” Bambi says as we hunt for our clothes. I reach out. I touch her arm.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

That's what you get.

Yesterday my car battery decided to crap out in a strip mall parking lot. I was just stopping by, Gramma in tow, on my way home. Where was I? At the friendly, neighborhood porn shop. Of course.

I was plum out of fishnet thigh highs, and I had a party scheduled for early evening. So I thought I'd make a quick stop, grab the desired hosiery (plus some flavored condoms and a new vibrator, since I was there, and hey, I was low), then be on my way.

Nope. Two hours later, the tow truck finally arrived and was actually able to jump my car into life. Thank christ.

Before calling AAAA, I'd solicited the help of a dude with a big-ass truck and a fine set of tools but, as the tow truck dude explained, even a a big-ass truck's alternator isn't necessarily powerful enough to charge a battery as completely kaput as mine was.

Thank you, tow truck man. I was able to successful drop my gramma off with my sister in time to make a late yet successful appearance at the bachelor party I had scheduled.

Also, thanks to the dude with the large truck. I'm grateful for the help, even if it didn't work, and especially considering how you were recovering from the 'bomb-ass' mushroom trip you'd taken the day before. Plus the quote of the day, said chuckling as you scrubbed my car battery's knobby things with a wire brush, "That's what you get for taking your gramma to the porn shop. That's some kinky shit".

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Blink blink blink.

I have these new shoes that I can't get enough of. They're corny black stripper heels with little pink motion-sensor-activated LED lights inside of them that flash and blink.

Best response to them yet as I was rolling around on the floor at a bachelor party last weekend:

"Oh my god. It's like a light show with boobs."

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Happy Anniversary to Me.

It's been 9 years this months since I started taking off my clothes for money. Hot damn.

Sorry for the long absences, folks. I started this blog when I began my forray into working bachelor parties a little over two years ago (I'm too lazy to look up the date of my first post, sorry). My main reason for wanting to write here was because I didn't immediately feel like I had a place to process the new experiences I was having, especially given the bizarre contrast they had with the other ways I was spending my time.

Honestly, my shyness around my primarily non-sex-industry friends lasted all of five seconds, and I was quickly able to talk (read: ramble) to them about the parties and shows I worked; this has been the primary way I mentally ground myself and integrate what I do into my life. This translated to my initial craving to carve out an anonymous space for myself to write about this stuff pretty much evaporating.

That said, I've truly enjoyed sharing my stories and creating bonds with other sex workers, writers, and random folks through this blog.

I know I'm a bad, bad blogger, and it totally sounds like I'm about to shut this puppy down, but I'm not. I'm just giving y'all a heads up that, even though my visits are extrememly infrequent, I'm still around.

I fantasize about spending more time writing down the things I do or see, but I'm easily distracted by the many other things going on in my life. Don't give up on me yet.

Now: Since you've sat through a boring blog update, I'll reward you with a few sentences about a party I worked this last Saturday.

First of all, I left my glasses there. Lame. It was in the back room of a restaurant in a nearby working-class suburb (a block from Ikea, of all places), and a short mostly-aggravating experience that ending when my partner and I got a last minute booking and when the handjob requests turned to blowjob requests (stay classy, fellas).

Despite being what I would call a more unsucessful show overall, there were some good moments. My favorite, in its absurdity and because of how much it made my partner laugh, was when I was doing a trick on the bachelor I call 'Feed the Kitty'. Not for the faint of heart, 'Feed the Kitty' involves the bachelor laying on the floor face up with a 20 dollar bill creased lengthwise and sitting, tented, on his nose. I stand with my stiletto-clad feet planted on either side of his head, and then squat down to retrieve the bill with my 'kitty'. This involves a good thirty seconds of wriggling around on the bachelor's face to ensure said bill will actually come back up with me when I stand.

Yes, this looks and sounds pretty obscene, but let me assure you that it looks/sounds worse than it is, and in the moments where I am, for all intents and purposes, sitting on the guy's face, my legs are closed, and the only thing a misbehaving, tongue-waggling recipient of this game has access to are the backs of my legs. In reality, the dirtiest part of this trick is the filthy, filthy money touching the outside of my vulva. I deal with this with hefty doses of denial.

It's usally a win-win. The bachelor (or whoever else decides to purchase this for himself) loves it, the crowd loves it, it looks good, and it's a quick way of making 20 bucks.

On saturday, however, the bachelor couldn't keep the twenty on his nose (it does take a peck of concentration, something drunk boys usually lack), so my cohort snatched the bill off his face and spritzed a dollop of whip cream into the center of it before slapping it back down on his nose. So I try again, and am five seconds into my showy hip-wriggling when the bachelor throws me off of him, heaves himself up, and promptly vomits into a pint glass.

So. Whipped cream up drunk bachelor's nose + my girl bits in his face = puke.

Don't worry, I'm not taking it personally.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Sweet Sixteen

I'm already sweating. I breathe, and adjust the bows on my side-tie g-string. I’m listening through the door for my music to start, and I can hear the kids grumbling about wanting to play their own music on the stereo I brought. The mom is surprisingly convincing, claiming she just picked it up at the store and wants to try to out herself first. I think I can hear the first few measures of ‘Rock Steady.’

I knock, loudly, three times.

There’s muttering and shuffling and then the birthday boy opens the door. I stand grinning in the doorway, school-girl skirt and white button-down shirt over shiny black boots and red fishnets.

His mouth opens. Success. The kid is surprised.

“Oh my god, is that a stripper?” is just one of the exclamations I catch from the poker table of highschoolers as I saunter inside, trying not to trip on my boots. The guest of honor is dazed, all freckles and too-long hair and over-large shirt. Jesus, he looks like a baby.

He might as well be. It’s his 16th birthday. I’m ushering him towards the empty chair near couch and trying to figure out how I got talked into working a stripper-gram for a 16-year-old kid, bought and paid for by none other than his mom. Likely a combination horror and intense curiosity. Plus it’s work, and in this economy, I try not to turn down a booking.

I plop him into the seat and introduce myself. The mother is in the corner, frenetically snapping away with her digital point and shoot. The rest of the crowd includes 5 or 6 high school sophomores, and I can’t really tell them apart. I vamp and dance a little and spin. I climb into the kid’s lap, press his face into my sternum. Sorry kid, I’m thinking.

I’m pretty sure I’m not doing anything illegal. My bra stays on for the whole twenty-five minutes that I’m dancing. And just to be safe, I’m wearing two pairs of underwear. I’d considered stripping down to my g-string before the show started, tying it around my hips before pulling my slinky red bootyshorts up over it, but one look at the phones immediately glued to the guests’ hands and I decide I don’t need the whole of my ass plastered over their Myspace pages.

The entirety of my brief performance, I’m worried I’m going to do something that crosses the line. He’s a virgin, after all. At least that’s what his mom had said to me on the phone when discussing the details of the surprise. My first reaction was, “Well, that’s what she thinks”, but after I meet him I don’t disagree with her assessment. Except. Watching him watch me and my body, I can’t help but think he’s incredibly self-possessed. Many men in the position he’s in now – the center of attention, a strange, nearly-naked girl in and out of his lap – are at least a little embarrassed. Some are downright uncomfortable. This boy is surprisingly unfazed.

I lay him on the ground and strip off his shirt. I straddle him and pull out a blue marker. “Draw a penis!” one of his friends goads. Um, not with his mom watching. Instead I write a happy birthday message and leave a lip-gloss imprint of my mouth in the small his back. Then I spank him with the belt I’d collected before I laid him down. The crowd goes nuts, of course. Even though it’s mostly light thwacks across his clothed butt, it still makes an impressive sound when I bring the belt down on his young backside. Everyone, including his mom, loves it.

I send him back to the chair and do my dance, back and forth, ass to face, boobs to face, body to floor. Open my legs, slap the inside of my thigh, repeat. I’m trying to keep it light, so every time I straddle him I remember not to grind or lean in too close and breath into his ear, the way that I’ve learned. Instead I’m comical, bouncing up and down on his lap in an exaggerated display of sexuality. I’m trying to make it clear that I don’t really mean it, that I would not actually get it on with this kid at little too close to being half my age.

* * *

I’m finally down to my bra and bootyshorts and I run out of things to do. I’ve gone through my routine once, and I’m pretty sure I’m expected to provide at least 1 or 2 more songs of naughty entertainment.

So I draw a large flower on his bare chest. I lay him on the ground and spank him with my hands. I flip him over so he’s lying face up and ease the length of my body down the length of his. I back up, my knees on either side of his head, my ass now hovering above his face. I shake it gingerly, still trying to not go too far, aware that we are in a classic ‘69’ position. I try like hell to keep my head away from his crotch while I place his hands on my ass and the crowd hoots and hollers. The sophomore sitting directly behind us yodels his appreciation, and I hear the electronic ‘shutter’ of his cameraphone go off 5 or 6 times, my ass--I’m sure--pre-eminent in the frame.

In fact, throughout the show, every time I turn to face the crowd, I’m confronted by a gaggle of greasy teens watching my show through the screens of their cell phones. They take as many pictures as their phones will hold. One or two of them are taking video.

“Crap,” One of them mutters, “The memory’s all full.”

And I overhear a brief discussion comparing the merits of each of their electronic devices as I move from the birthday boy’s lap to a brief floor show.

My lingering impressions are of the cameras, and of the mother talking as I dance for her son. Ever-encouraging, she yells out advice in between the flashes of her camera:

“Put your face in her boobs!”

“She has a great butt, doesn’t she? Spank her again!”

“Grab her more, take advantage of it!”

I think we’re both trying to ignore her.

* * *

The last song on my playlist is halfway over, so it’s time to break out my finale. Unfortunately, I did my last trick 10 minutes early, before repeating my whole routine. No matter. I’ll do it again.

I set him up for what I call the stripper flip (a.k.a lap headstand). I pull his butt to the edge of the chair. I open his legs and position his feet so they make sturdy contact with the ground. I lean in and draw his torso into a stable upright position, campily smooshing his face into my chest as I do so. “Ready?” I grin. He’s ready. After all, we just did this.

I face him. I plant my hands on his knees and bend at the waist to put my head down between his legs. I wiggle. And then I kick up, momentum throwing my legs and core upside down, my pantied crotch landing directly under his chin as my legs move into an open v. Exactly as I had before. This time, however, I next wrap my legs around his head and buck violently. The small crowd explodes into noise. I hold my pose for a moment while the final pictures are taken, then I gracefully tumble back to the ground, tossing my hair as I stand.

They clap, I curtsy. Then it’s hugs all around before the mom walks me back to the upstairs bathroom where she’d originally snuck me in to change.

One thing she says to me as I’m leaving: “I’m glad you were a sweet girl and not a yucky girl.”

And, after I make a comment about it being an experience for this kid to remember, she launches into, “Yeah, especially thanks to his friends and their phones. By Monday, I expect those clips to be all over their high school.”

I can’t hide my startled look. “That was the whole point,” she laughs. I recover with a smile, shake her hand, and am on my way, chuckling the whole car ride home.

* * *


I’m going to leave this story here, the way it is, but I want to say that it’s more complicated than I originally wrote. I made a decision in that split second when I walked into the room and saw what the gig really was (mugging for those kids’ phones, for this mother’s chintzy digital point and shoot); I made the decision that it didn’t matter. That I not only accepted being photographed but endorsed it. It feels dishonest to let you think that it was this was easy thing. I’m not saying I regret it either, because I don’t. It’s just not as clear as all that. But I don’t really have the words to talk about it right now. Maybe soon?

Thursday, May 14, 2009


There is a pause in the sound like a breath. I scan the crowd innocently, poised and waiting.

And I crack the belt down on his body.

A blast of cheers.

He struggles beneath me and I pull back with the belt.

Again, it flies through the air to scream like a shot against his skin.

The noise from the crowd makes the walls shake.

Unlike private shows, bachelor parties are usually a light-hearted affair. The nudity is entertaining and fun and distanced from any deeply repressed feelings about sexuality. We play games and tell jokes and above all it’s a party. An opportunity for a group of friends to reminisce and high-five and buy each other lapdances in celebration of one particular man’s good fortune.

My first few shows, I watched my stripper cohorts with an open mouth, trying to absorb the power of their performances. While I admired my coworkers’ dancing, it was the way a crowd of men would hang on a single word or a gesture that was most humbling. I’ve always been a good performer one-on-one, but this new rowdy, rough-and-tumble environment scared me to death. When it came my turn to dance, I quietly held on to whatever was close and tried my best not to fall down.

Now I can hold myself steady before a show, stepping out of my nerves and into my shiny black boots. I relax by rolling thigh highs over my knees. I’ve learned to trust the grace of the lines I create with my body, to thrust my small voice out into the room with enough confidence that they’ll have to listen to me.

During the show, I’m a cartoon version of myself, donning miniature lycra garments and then shedding them one at a time. I take refuge in the characters I play, and it becomes an easy thing to adapt to the crowd. I can chirp or giggle or shriek in delight. I can pout and persuade. When called for, I negotiate. I navigate unwanted hands or cranky asides and guide these men back into having a jolly time. For a fee.

It’s all in the script, this loose outline my coworkers and I have planned out in advance that makes it a comfortable thing to walk into a house full of strangers and be naked for money. We tailor our show to each crowd, and do our best to ensure the bachelor and his friends have the most fun and give us the most money in the shortest amount of time.

It can be a sweaty, grueling endeavor. Wet and pulse-quickening. My knees and lower back are often sore at the end of a long night, my skin sticky with remnants of whipped cream or booze. I ache from the constant attention and my persistent, exaggerated posture.

Honestly, I can take or leave the hustle. It’s not really my skill or my preference, though I’m better at it than I used to be. This is a job, and I do it for the money. For the tired, quick, satisfied sorting of cash after a show. We dig through bags of crumpled bills and deftly unfold and sort them face-up into piles. The satisfaction a stack of money brings after a good show is undeniable.

And yet.

It’s the moment with the belt that thrills me. While it’s just another recited line from our script, it’s in those few seconds when I hold their attention with the most authority.

I’ll straddle the guest of honor, belt thick and eager in my hands.

I'll cast my doe-eyed faux hesitation around the room and they'll scream for more. The crowd roars and guffaws as red welts start to emerge on the bachelor’s backside.

And again, one last stinging crack of the belt against his skin.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Cranky stripper.

Seriously guys? I love my job. In so many different ways.

But a lame night is still a lame night.

The party I worked tonight probably would have made me a little cranky no matter what happened. While they were mostly cute, late-20's professionals, there were far too many of them. As in a fuckton of them. And mostly drunk, mostly not tipping us more than one dollar bills the whole time we were there. Plus, because of the sheer number of them crammed into such a small space, we were pretty much grabbed, pinched, spanked, and motor-boated everytime we turned around. Sure, it's kind of the name of the game, but we expect to get paid better. Usually we do.

And in this case, becuase of how long the show was (it was a three hour minimun booking because of a poker tournament that we were dealing), it was freaking exhausting.

But whatever, it was fine. It was maybe a little annoying in the way that big, long, poorly-tipping parties can be, but it was fine.

Except that someone stole some of my clothes. As in went into the room where we were keeping our stuff and randomly took out several pieces of my stripper costumes from my bag. And from my partner's bag too.

I never, ever leave my stuff in the room I change in. As a rule, I always keep my bag in my sightline while I perform. Just like I always put the door fee into one of the boots that I'm wearing. They're just smart habits I picked up from some pros when I first started, and I've never had a problem with either my stuff or my money getting fucked with.

Until tonight. I'm totally aggravated at myself for trusting the guy who lived there when he said that he was going to lock our stuff in his room for us so we didn't have to worry about it. But he was insistent and we didn't have anything of 'real' value in our bags - no wallet, phones, money, etc, so we figured it'd be easier. And really, it wasn't as feasible to keep our bags with us as it usually is.

We confronted both him and the actual host (who was really nice and rightfully mortified that someone would have the nerve to take some of our stuff) about it, but no luck. They supposedly asked around, but whoever did it - I'm guessing either as a drunk joke (look! stripper clothes! hilarious!), or - more likely - as a pervy, fetish-y thing, didn't fess up. Honestly, I'm pretty certain it was the guy whose room it was, the one who 'locked up' for us, who randomly filched my two favorite stripper outfits (why my favorites?? Why couldn't you have taken the other two in the bag???) while we were dealing poker.

So yeah. I'm fucking cranky. And if anyone has any advice on the best online place to get an awesome replacement schoolgirl skirt, let me know. I'd appreciate it.