Sunday, December 30, 2007


I am burned out.

People talk a lot about sex worker burnout.

You may have read all about it, just like me. How to recognize it, what to do about it, and how to prevent it from happening to you in the first place; those kinds of things. I won’t rehash it right now, I’m just saying that I hear that. Really.

And over the years I’ve had touches of stripper burnout, and I’ve made adjustments in my schedule and customer base accordingly. But for the most part, I’ve mangagd to steer clear of it. There are many reasons for this.

For one, I (on a whole) like my job.

It’s a fascinating thing, to be exposed to people’s desires. I enjoy these men and their secrets, their vulnerability. I enjoy the acting, the role play, the power dynamics. I enjoy the movement. The dance. The relationship I have with my body. I get to revel in my own sex and skin. Plus I’m privy to that warm and elusive place, that community of strong, smart, sexy, mouthy women that is The Dressing Room. Practically speaking, the schedule is flexible and under my control.

Add that I get paid to play dress up (I love sparkly shit, but I my own life does not call for such extravagance), and man, no wonder I’m hooked.

Oh, and did I mention the money?

So, job satisfaction aside, I’ve also been very careful to always have a backup straight job my entire career as a stripper. This is a handy thing (no holes in my resume, for one). If and when I’ve ever needed to take a break or cut back on my stripping hours, I’m not completely without a way of supporting myself. Not only that, but these jobs -- mostly customer service, mostly low paying -- make me appreciate stripping even more. I find retail and food service work to be much more demeaning than taking my clothes off has ever been.

That’s huge. I do this by choice, not because I feel financially trapped or desperate. Don’t get me wrong – there are things about being a stripper that can drive me crazy. But for the most part, I feel lucky that I was born into this female body and blessed with a certain amount of moral flexibility, patience, and nerve. That and a genuine interest in people. I’m grateful. When I take long breaks from stripping, I miss it. I’ll be sad when I hang up my plastic platforms for good.

But I was talking about burnout.

I should clarify. I’m not burned out on stripping, per say. I’m burned out on taking care of people.

A friend of mine observed that all of my jobs (actual or dream) are about taking care of people. Stripper, Caregiver, Firefighter. You may think that’s a stretch, but I understand how she’d come to this conclusion. Especially lately.


To be fair, what I’m really burned out on is taking care of my Gramma.

I spent 11 hours with her today. And in less than seven hours, I’ll be on my two hour commute to pick her up for church.

I love my Gramma. That’s one of the reasons I hate feeling like this. But spending so much time with her is not only a lot of work (cleaning, feeding her, planning activities) but it’s just emotionally exhausting. And sad. Sometimes I think she’s doing alright, but then she’ll ask the same question 15 times in 30 minutes. Or I’ll find used depends stashed in her dresser, puddles of urine on the floor.

Lately I’ve been feeling lonely.

It’s a hard thing to spend so much time with someone yet feel completely isolated. I think it’s the repetition that’s getting to me. My patience is wearing thin, and I hate that I’m not doing a better job. I hate that I’m starting to dread going there. And I really, really don’t want to go to church tomorrow.

Shit. Which reminds me. I was supposed to fill her pillbox today. That just means I have to get there even earlier. And that I should really go to bed right now.

Don’t feel sorry for me.

In less than a week, I’ll be in Maui. My little sister and I are taking our first adult vacation together. It's been months and months since I've had a real break. I can't freaking wait.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

A present.

Even I have moments where I think my job is weird.

The white cotton underwear I've got on under my jeans is what I'm giving Ben for Christmas. When I called him today to confirm our appointment for tomorrow, he told me a long story about his dentist and the size of his gums and an expensive surgery to clean them that he apparently doesn't need.

He beams at me over the phone. "Your Christmas present is going to be even better that you thought!"

Hell. I figure a pair of worn panties is the least I can do.


From the second week of October: My second private show with Ben.

The same glass of water he pulls out of the freezer for me. The same just-cleaned apartment with too many vanilla candles. Same high-strung, sweet, repetitive Ben.

It was the same deal: A one hour ‘show’, then one hour of pictures. Give or take. Just my luck, at the end of the show, post nipple-rubbing, post orgasm. After he tells me stories about the whores in Singapore when he was on leave from Vietnam. After the head rub I give him as he's lying on the floor with his feet up. In fact, I’m trying on different outfits so he can decide what he wants to photograph me in when -

I start to feel sick.

I mean hit by a truck with the flu sick. Chills, aches, fever (101.5 when I got home) sick. Oh, and I started to be completely unintelligible, thanks to whatever God there may be filling my nasal passages with cement.

But hell, I was halfway done, and he’d already paid me. And, really, who am I to complain (okay, I mean to a customer)?

So I spent the next hour I fighting the urge to cover myself with the heavy wool blankets sitting on his couch and smiled prettily, pulling my white cotton underwear to the side while he struggled with his digital point and shoot.

Man, that sucked. I remember one night of waiting tables sick as a dog when the owner wouldn’t let me go home. Who knows why not. Serving people food when you’re ill is flat out disgusting. If I hadn’t been cracked out with fever, I probably would’ve quit. Anyway.

Working while sick sucks. Working with little to no clothes on and smiling continuously while sick sucks balls. It became extremely difficult for me to maintain the ever-encouraging and sweet persona he’s so taken with. You know, Ben actually told me he loved me as I was leaving. But in such a way as to not freak me out. He knows this is a business transaction for me. Yes, I may be fond of him, but it’s still about getting paid. And he knows it and apparently values my services enough to drops wads of cash into my hand. Damn.

Now I’m laying miserably in bed, ansty from the medication so that, despite my exhaustion, I can’t sleep. It’s not so bad, I’m just letting my crankiness get the best of me. I should be excited – I made a fuckload of money for two and half hours of work. Go me.

I suppose things could be worse. My cat seems to sense my distress and has spent most of the evening wedged up against my leg, purring. Plus I still have an appetite, which means that I won’t necessarily lose all that preciously cultivated weight (last night: 137lbs – progress!).

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The first couple of months.

“I live here now?”

I nod, slipping a hanger into one of her turtlenecks.

“Because the doctor says I can’t live alone?” She is, as ever, uncertain.

I nod again. We’ve had this conversation three times already today.

I don’t know if she understands me when I tell her about Alzheimer’s. About her memory not being as good as it used to be. I’m smiling and light but I can see the defeat in her face.

I tell her it’s okay. She accepts this and helps me fold.

It’s okay, Gramma. Because I’m here and I love you and I can be your memory.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Taking Gramma to work.

From the first week of October, part 1.

So this is what I mean when I say that sometimes the roles I've taken on can get confusing.

Without really going into how it happened, I'll just say that today I had a scheduling conflict. I was on my peepshow's schedule to work a short private booth in the late morning. And last night, I got a call putting me in charge of Gramma all day today. Normally when I get double booked like this, it's pretty easy for me to sacrifice my dancing shift and find someone else who will work it for me. Unfortunately, it was too last minute this time. After an hour of phone calls, I couldn't find anyone to work my private booth.

Oh crap.

Something I want to explain, since I realize a lot of clubs and peepshows have different ways of scheduling performers, and varied levels of accountability that managers hold them to. At the peepshow I'm currently working at, the schedule is highly precise, and the consequences for lateness, let alone not showing up, are severe. This is job that I value, so I am never late, and always find someone to take my shift if necessary. I would like to add that the schedule is also exceptionally flexible. Dancers have control over their availability, and can give away or trade shifts as much as they’d like. And of course, managers make exceptions for emergencies or illness, and help people cover their shifts if asked. In my case, it wasn't truly an emergency. Especially when I realized that if the timing worked out, I could do both.

Which leads me to my morning.

As I might have mentioned before, my Gramma lives about an hour outside the city, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. The peepshow and my home are both located in the city (actually only about 15 minutes away from each other.). So I book it out to the woods, get Gramma up, in and out of the shower, and dressed, then feed her breakfast and her pills in the car on the way back to the city. Feeling guilty the entire time. Thank god I didn’t have to explain my absurd rush to A., because she left for a meeting as soon as I got to the house. She works from home, so that was beyond lucky.

After an extremely stressful drive and the subsequent hunt for parking, I leave Gramma sitting in the car with the doors locked, happily listening to Frank Sinatra and drinking vitamin water.

I realize that this sounds awful, but my shift was only an hour long, and Gramma isn’t a wanderer. She actually prefers sitting in the car and people-watching to doing errands with me. Plus D. has made a weekly habit of leaving her in the car with NPR and a book of large print crosswords while he goes on bike rides. I know, still kind of awful. But I was desperate.

Anyway, as I’m running through the peepshow’s front door, stripper gear in hand, I remember that I forgot to pay for parking.

Shit, shit, shit.

I look at the clock as I dash past the front desk and down the hall. I have four minutes. Not enough time to change and primp, let alone run back to the car. Fuck it. If I get a ticket, so be it. At least I’m on time.

* * * *

The customers.

Ben. First time I’ve seen him since his private show. He brings flowers for the front desk. Just wants to tell me how great it had been. We chat about yoga, massage, my recent training. Every time he comes in, Ben can’t help but talk the whole time, getting distracted now and then by my hands moving up and down my body, my slow undulations. I place my face near the hand he lays flat against the glass and his fingers stretch out, reaching for me. He wants another private show next week. No pictures, but I think the other things. Less money but still worth my while. I tell him I'll call him on Friday to schedule it. I can't think of a reason not to do it.

Next, the tall British slightly pedophiliac man who keeps asking me if I've been naughty or if I want to be spanked. Eyes slightly hazy with desire. He thinks I’m 18. I lie and say 22, thinking I should tell him I’m 30. I like the idea of disappointing them, but don't do it very often. Saying I'm younger than I am is a reflex. Only a couple of my customers know my real age.

One of them comes in next. I’ll call him the Hippie, even though he’s not. He’s dubbed me his Aquarian love goddess and talks about taking me to India. I’m not sure what he does, though I gather it’s hard work from the boots and plaster stains. I also feel like he has money, so what – construction? Maybe stone masonry? He has a good energy, crooked teeth but an easy smile.

“Oh, baby, honey, baby. You are so hot. I am so happy to see you. Yum. I’d just take those legs and split you open. Hold down your arms, tongue your clit, pull that sweet hair of yours. Oh baby. Oh honey. Let’s get a little bit of that Chi going.”

He’s been asking me for at least a year to do a private show, and because I genuinely like him, I entertain the idea. I used to worry about expectations and boundaries and, until I started working bachelor parties, had no idea how to go about private shows in the first place. Today, I give him my company’s website, though I play shy, say that I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing a one-on-one show just yet. He seems to sense my concerns. I know he wants to just fuck the hell out of me. While I enjoy the way he talks about it, I’m wary of how his desires would translate to reality, to me standing naked in his living room.

“I know what I’d like. I’d like to just put my hands on your legs and split you open. But I understand. Boundaries.”

And I realize that he does and that if I decide to do a private show for him in the future, it would be okay.

“Hell, I’d pay you just to have dinner with me Just to be seen with you. We could run into a couple of my friends. You’re so good-looking, that’d be enough.”

We’re both laughing.

I wonder about these compliments later on.

There were other customers that I've already forgotten. One was named Bruce, but who knows what he looked like or what he wanted.

I think I ended up faking 4 orgasms. Busy damn shift. $125 take-home for a full yet easy hour of work. For some perspective, my average is around $60/hr, with the company average being closer to $35/hr.

If only getting there on time, Gramma in tow, hadn’t been so stressful. Or if I’d remembered to put money in the meter. My whole booth, I was filled with anxiety over the possibility of parking enforcement getting Gramma to roll down the window and realizing that she didn’t know where she was or when I would be back. I had visions of the accusation ‘abandonment,’ of CFPS getting called in to take her away. Of them not letting her go. Jesus.

Of course, Gramma was fine. After I rushed back to the car, she waved, happily bobbing along to Fly Me to the Moon. I didn’t even get a ticket.

Even though it all worked out, I feel slightly sordid about the whole thing. After I described my morning to him, my friend N. told me I'm going straight to hell. It's hard to disagree on this one.

So help me.

Starting yesterday, I moved up to my Gramma's house for ten days while D. and A. are vacationing in the tropics.

Ten days.

Ten days out in the woods with an Alzheimer's patient. I can't even think about how long that's going to feel.

At least it'll give me time to reflect on all of my recent booth shifts and bachelor parties. That and my social life. Lots of stories there. I imagine I'll be doing some of that 'recap' stuff I was planning on getting done over Thanksgiving weekend. Maybe I'll even crochet a scarf or something.

I love my Gramma, so I'm going to try really hard not to complain. Plus it's not that bad. Tomorrow I have a work party of sorts, and M. has generously offered to hang out with Gramma for most of the day so I can participate.

Nothing like being around a bunch of naked chicks in lucite shoes to make me feel more normal.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Funny story, the end.

No show tonight.

Probably for the best, since I still can't walk.

Funny story.

So I'm watching Project Runway and editing some writing when I get a text from my stripper boss that she has a last minute birthday party for me to work tonight. Money is always good, so yay for that.

The thing is, before heading out for the family feast on Thursday, I busted out my weight vest and climbed stairs for 35 minutes. I haven't done this in a while.

I, uh, kind of overdid it.

Two days later, I can barely walk, let alone go up and down stairs. Or, jesus, wear heels. But, fuck me, I already said yes.

Not knowing what else to do, I just threw back some advil, pluggged in a heating pad, and what else? Grabbed my vibrator and set to work. I think it's actually helping. It should be -- I've already worn out two batteries digging it into my left calf.

It's not like climbing stairs does this to me often. Put me on a stepmill (those machines that have rotating stairs -- much better than a stairmaster) and I can climb and climb. Those are the machines they use in the fire department physical, so those are what I work out on. The thing is, my gym was closed on Thanksgiving. So I just used my 20 front steps, up and down about 60 times.

Like I said -- going up is no problem. You're using big muscles like your ass and your quads. But going down? It's all calf, baby. Poor, tiny, underworked calf. Ouch.

To add to the absurdity, I did just spend the last two days eating two enormous traditional Thanksgiving dinners. And today? I've been primarily eating goldfish crackers and raw cookie dough. I know. Gross. My roommates are all out of town, so there was nobody to stop me. I consider myself brave for choosing to be naked in front of strangers after all of that gorging. Oh, and did I mention I'm menstrual and crampy? Man, I'm hot tonight.

The show hasn't been confirmed yet, so there's always a chance they'll cancel and I won't have to smile through the pain. I'll let you know.

Recent events.

Hypothetically, let’s say I spent an evening with a nice fellow. Someone I’ve known for a while, someone I’ve slept with before. I’d call him a friend, though our friendship is primarily based on the fact that we used to have really fantastic casual sex together, and we probably only keep in touch in case we’re ever both single again, and interested. Perhaps not surprisingly, I have a couple of these kinds of friendships.

So, we’re both single. He’s interested. I’m undecided. But we make plans to hang out. I tell myself it’s not automatically a booty call, it’s only a booty call if I want it to be.

We go out for drinks and catch up. We run into some of his friends; this is, after all, his local hangout. We buy each other vodka tonics and trade stories about bachelor parties. I’m curious about a party he attended – what is that like as boy? As a clothed person shoving bills into a strange girl’s g-string? He’s curious about what it’s like for me.

Easy conversation. We’re relaxed. I’m still deciding.

After two or three drinks each, we meander back to his apartment. At some point I make the decision to leave. I’m trying out different ways of letting him down easy in my head when he touches my shoulder, digs his thumb into the muscle. Just like that, I let go.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone touch me outside of work (or outside of my affectionately abusive roommate.). Running through my head: This is safe, this is real, this comfortable, this is okay.

This is safe. This is real. This is comfortable. This is okay.

And yet.

* * * *

I fake an orgasm. For no reason. Not even halfway through. I can’t stop myself.

And afterwards. I’m lying next to him and I can’t enjoy the feeling of his skin. Am I numb?

I wait as long as I think I have to before leaving.

He’s disappointed.

He wants me to stay the night, align his body with mine and hold onto me while we’re sleeping.

I tell him I need to feed my cat. I'm still smiling, speaking in low, husky tones. I have sex in my eyes but it's all for show. I don't want to hurt his feelings.

* * * *

I’m not sure why I changed my mind, if you can call it that. This wasn’t my first offer in the last couple of months, and I always said no before. You wonder, why say no? Because it wasn’t important enough. Something’s changed in the way I approach casual sex. Maybe it’s because the last person I dated ruined me for it -- my standards and expectations are now too high. Maybe it’s because of work. The obvious answer. Now that people touch me for money, I’m more protective of who I let in. And yet. I realize that I need sex to stay grounded. I need recognition. I need someone to touch me who is not clapping or covering me with money. Someone who sees me.

So I gave in to his thumb on my shoulder, his sweet breath on my neck. But it wasn’t good enough, and I have to wonder why.

It’s been a month, and I haven’t figured out how to tell him that I don’t want to sleep with him again. So we talk on the phone and I put off making plans. He accepts that my life is full and that my schedule is difficult. But I know it would be easier to just tell him. Is saying no difficult because I’m a stripper? Because I make a living off of seeming sexually available? Or is it hard because it’s hard for anyone?

Something else I put off is thinking about why I never got out of work mode when I was with him. It’s embarrassing, and would be worrisome if I thought about it.

Which I don’t.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Holiday goals: Pie and Posting.

Something I’ve realized.

The time I allot for myself to blog I usually spend reading other stripper blogs that I love. Or looking at shoes online (that’s my sister’s fault). This is why I have a dozen half finished posts that I never get around to, well, finishing.

So. I plan on using the sluggishness of Thanksgiving weekend to get ‘em posted. This may put a wrench in the continuity of this thing, but I feel like that’s okay. I already obscure the details of my life to a degree, as necessary. And really, what do you care if the timeline gets a little fucked up.

One other thing I want to say about Thanksgiving. I freaking love pie. Plus, do to the nature of having divorced parents, I’ll be attending two feasts: One all day Thursday, in the city, and one on Friday, out in the woods. At least I’m not trying to cram them all into one day. Last year, between my two parents and my boyfriend’s family, I went to three dinners in row. The four hours of driving kind of sucked, but the plate-loads of pie made it worthwhile.

Monday, November 19, 2007

The waiting is difficult.


Note to readers:

This post used to be an explanation of the fire department application process I'm going through. I recently realized a whole lot of people were reading this blog, thanks to all the nifty people that have been tagging me lately. Simultaneously, I realized that it's pretty easy to figure out what city I'm in based on the information I had in this post (well, it is if you're familiar with the different fire departments of mid-sized to large west coast cities.).

So: To preserve my anonymity and my chances of getting hired on . . .

Delete, delete, delete.

You're not missing out - It wasn't that interesting a post. I was just bitching about the application process, how long it takes, how competitive it is, etc. That and how it's an easy thing for me to lose focus and start fantasizing about other jobs. Like being a stripper as an actual career path. Anyway.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Worn out.

So I've been working a lot. As in probably too fucking much. It wouldn't be as much of a problem if I got enough sleep or ate enough food (or didn't keep postponing my training), but the thing about bachelor parties is that they usually go late. And gramma-sitting happens early. This is probably why I'm completely exhausted. And why I keep losing my voice.

I have some great stories from over the last week, but I seriously almost drove off the road a couple of times on my way out here after that party I worked tonight. Oh, did I mention I'm dog-sitting for a family member? Out in the sticks?

My life primarily seems to operate outside of the city these days. That's where my Gramma lives, in the middle of nowhere. And that's where most of the bachelor/birthday parties I work take place. Unfortunately, these places are also competely remote from each other. The inside of my car looks like an exploded suitcase. Well, an exploded suitcase ownded by a stripper/caregiver/wannabe firefighter. Think red patent leather platforms and extra depends and protein bar wrappers. And thongs and weights and my Gramma's half-empty vitamin waters. Times a thousand. Yes, that's what happens when I spend so much of my time in my car driving from one completely out of the way job to another.

Anyway, like I said, if I weren't so tired, I'd tell some stories. Plus I know my last post must've left y'all tingling with suspense: What was so interesting about that private show I did? Whatever happened with Mr. X? Did I fall asleep in church??

Yeah, okay, maybe not as thrilling as I thought. But still -- compelling or not, these questions and more will be answered. Just not now.

I will say that tonight I used a strap-on for the first time, and I've gotta say - I'm a fan. It didn't hurt that the girl I was fucking had a perfectly formed handprint (mine) on her perfectly formed ass. Pretty sweet.

Saturday, November 3, 2007


Last night I did my first private show for someone I hadn't met before, booked through my agency. One of my coworkers had seen him before and vouched for him, so I felt safe enough to try it. Interesting. And bizarre. And I can't wait to tell y'all about it, but you'll have to wait until after my crazy weekend.

Coming up in the next two days, I have a full and fairly schizophrenic schedule:

Tomorrow I start with 8+ hours of gramma-sitting before I rush home, shower, trim the kitty, stripperfy myself, then run off to my first bachelor party off in the sticks. That finished, I rush back home and, if there's time, rinse off, touch up the stripper affect, then get picked up for another bachelor party downtown. After that it's home for as much sleep as I can manage before getting up way too early to pick my gramma up and bring her back into the city for church (the two hour drive is only worth it because Gramma has an enormous crush on the pastor, and going to church -- this church in particular -- is one of the only things she looks forward to.). After which I'll spend the rest of the day with her in the city before D. picks her up when he gets off work. I'm thinking of taking her to a movie, something I can daydream through once we've finished the popcorn. At least it'll be daylight savings - that extra hour will come in handy.

Have I ever mentioned the inevitable hangover I experience the morning after a bachelor party, particularly if I work two in one night? It's a strange thing, because I make it a point to be as sober as possible at these things. I pretend to drink, and then pretend to be a little drunk, which allows me to yell a little bit more if the boys get rowdy. But really, the most I'll imbibe is half a beer (that I see opened in front of me) throughout a two hour show. I'd almost call it an emotional hangover, though it's really a combination of that and just plain exhaustion.

I bring this up because I'm actually planning on drinking at the second party tomorrow night, which will probably transform the usual psuedo-hangover experience into actual hangover hell. This prospect is making me dread my two hour pre-church drive all the more. Not drinking would be a simple solution, but, you see, it's unavoidable. Let me explain.

The second party tomorrow night is being organized not through my agency, but through Jade, a girl I work with (at the agency) who did this non-agency party for a bunch of fine burning man folk a couple of years ago. I heard stories about this party from a couple of dancers I know at the peepshow who also worked at it with my friend. I also heard about it from my big sister. Because these burning man folk happened to be made up mostly of people from the camp that she and her boyfriend are strong participants in, and they were both there. It sounded crazy and hot and financial worthwhile and fun. There were girls and drugs and something along the lines of a giant orgy after the show my friends put on was finished. Or so I heard.

In any case, one of the fellows from this party called Jade and booked her (and I and Desire) for a party tomorrow night. Before I said yes, I called my big sis and made sure she and her boyfriend weren't going to be there. Maybe there are strippers in the world who don't mind giving lapdances and pulling sex kitten faces in front of their siblings, but I am not one of them. She called me back and told me she hadn't heard anything about it, she had other plans this weekend, etc etc. So good, I confirmed with Jade and told her to go ahead and send me the contact information.

I open up the email and fuck if the contact for the party isn't one of my big sister's best friends, a guy I've known probably 8 years. Of course it is. Again, let me say: Fuck.

He's not a man I know well, but I like what I know of him. He has the reputation of being a bit of a man-whore, at least the way my sister tells it. When I called her to let her know that it was his party - hell, let's give him a code name. How about Mr. X - she agreed that he'd probably be chill about me working the party, as long as I was comfortable with it. Then she warned me away from him.

"I love Mr. X to pieces, but stay away from him. Seriously. I'm having lunch with him tomorrow and I'm going to let him know that he's not allowed to fuck around with you. And that if I hear he's come anywhere near my little sister I'm going to punch him in the nuts five times really hard."

She sounded a lot more like a badass than that. We were both laughing, but I think she was fairly serious.

Anyway, I've decided that he's cool and I'm cool and that the money might be decent, so I might as well do the party. It sounds like it'll be fun -- I freaking love working with Jade, she is sexy, smart, and snarky. She really knows how to control a room, and it's awesome to watch her in action. I figure that all I need for it not to be weird is alcohol. Not a ton, but enough that I can do a three girl live sex show in front of Mr. X and not feel completely retarded. As most strippers I know will agree, trying to project your stripper persona in front of people who actually know you can be really difficult, bordering on absurd and impossible. My answer? Vodka, most likely drunk from a glass nestled in Desire's bosom.

Details to follow. And wish me luck on not falling asleep during church.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Pet Peeves

Do I have a stamp on my forehead that says I want to indulge in your incest fantasies? Hmmm?

A couple of my friends at the peeps (girls who’ve been there as long as me, if not longer) have observed that I seem to get a disproportionately high number of pedophiles and incest perverts in my private booth. In fact, just today, after complaining in the dressing about seeing an old incest-happy regular in my neighborhood, I got another one.

He was an excitable middle-aged white man (Gary? Larry?) who seemed perfectly pleasant at first. Until I realized he was just using me as an audience to listen to his ‘I want to diddle my mom’ fantasy. To be fair, it was first a fantasy about him as a lustful teenager watching his mom get plowed by a heavily muscled man while he hid, watching and masturbating. Only hours later did he fuck her himself after she’d sucked on his huge throbbing cock. He actually pointed at his dick when he said that part, which I suppose was as ‘huge’ and ‘throbbing’ as he could achieve. Anyway. I suffered through, smiling and posing in the nude, asking him sultry-voiced questions about what happened next (like it wasn’t freaking obvious).

Really, though, I was annoyed.

I consider myself a pretty open-minded person, particularly when it comes to sex and desire. Like any seasoned sex worker, I’m been exposed to (pun intended) gobs of fantasies, ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. And while I might not share your particular preference, that doesn’t mean I’m going to judge you for it. That said, there are certain sexual preferences that I find more challenging to deal with, professionally speaking. And a few with which I’ve lost my patience.

Incest fantasies fall into the latter category. ESPECIALLY pedophile incest. I used to have a whole slew of incest and pedophile customers, some more creepy and awful than others, that came into my private booth on a regular basis. Side note: My thoughts on the effects of indulging in pedophiles’ fantasies (on them, on me, on the communities these men live in) will have to wait for another day.

In any case, over the last couple of years, I’ve slowly been cutting them off. When I started to recognize that I didn’t want to deal with them anymore, I began telling them one by one that I would no longer be able to provide them with their standard show. Calm, smiling, professional – the picture of excellent customer service. Of course, if they came back to see me after I’d already (politely) told them to fuck off, I was not nice. At all. This has happened twice.

Yet today I was caught off guard, and let this bald, jittery customer tell his story until he popped. The inevitable question is: When I realized where he was going with his fantasy, and that it bothered me, why didn’t I just stop him? Well, good question. Mostly because it can be hard to break character. Plus, as far as incest fantasies go, this was pretty benign. He was the youth, not the older aggressor. He was telling the story as though it had happened years ago, which makes it even more of an unreality (I don’t have to worry about him trying to feed his senior citizen mother his throbbing teenaged dick, if that makes sense). Plus, in the story, she was very sexually powerful and aware. It’s actually kind of intriguing, which is why I’m only annoyed and not pissed off.

One of the reasons I’m so irritated is that I feel like I rewarded bad behavior. Like giving my cat frosting after watching her piss on the bathmat. I’m regretting that I didn’t do one of two things. A) After he’d shot his wad, between smiling and telling him to have a nice day, I could have informed him that, while I obviously had let it slide this time, for future reference it’s impolite to spring an incest fantasy on a peepshow worker without warning. And that if you want the performer to go along with it, I’d suggest you tip well. That would have been the professional way of dealing with it. What I would’ve done if I were better able to harness my inner bitch is B) stop him as soon as I realized where his fantasy was going and let him know that bringing incest into a fantasy without first asking the performer’s permission is rude bordering on violating and unacceptable. And that he better freaking tip. And that I personally didn’t want to deal with his fucked up Oedipal bullshit. And get the fuck out of my booth, thank you very much.

If he comes back in to see me (I doubt he will – he wasn’t there to see me as much as to have a naked girl listen to him) I’ll probably bust out option A as soon as I recognize him. Even though bitching him out would be so much more satisfying.

This little rant leads me to a great post by Grace Undressed, a favorite blog that I read a lot of last week when I was all woozy with cold medicine. It’s a ‘Dear John’ letter, politely instructing strip club customers on how not to behave like complete dumbshits in a club. In that same vein, and after some colorful dressing room venting at the peepshow today, I thought I’d write a quick addendum to her thoughtful advice.

Things not to do in a peepshow:

You do not get to engage in pedophile or incest fantasies without asking first. Or without tipping. Seriously.

The same can be said for anything having to do with your asshole. This includes (but is not limited to): showing it to me. Putting something inside of it. Pulling something out of it. Or eating your own shit. NOT COOL.

Let me be clear – I’m not saying that I (or others) would never want to participate in an incest fantasy or watch you pull a cucumber out of your butt. But these things should be negotiated.

While those are my biggest complaints, as they seem to happen to me more often, asking permission about the following is also mandatory: Fantasies about violence. About gang bangs or rape. About degradation or humiliation. Etc. The rest of these I’d expect to be obvious, but then again, I never thought I’d have to tell someone to stop eating shit in front of me.

Again, I want to emphasize that asking does not mean we’ll say no. It’s just a sign of respect, and will get you a better show. As will putting in more money. I guarantee it.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I want an ocelot.

I was goofing around online when I discovered that my most recent stripping persona/pseudonym has a history.

Turns out Honey West is the name of a heroine featured in a series by G.G.Fickling.

And she's a private eye.

A totally hot (presumbably) ass-kicking blonde bombshell private eye.

The books are from the late 50's and 60's, and in 1965, Honey West was the first female detective to be featured in a weekly American television series.

Apparently, the love of her life was an ocelot named Bruce.

I can't believe how awesomely slutty these covers are.

Fucking cool.

Sunday, October 14, 2007


At long last, I’m posting about the private show I did with Ben, a six year regular of mine from the peepshow. I’d like to describe him a little more before I go any further.

Ben is sweet and wholesome and high strung. He hails from a buttoned-down, conservative upbringing in the Midwest, and one of the things he loves about me is how comfortable I am in my own skin. He’s a widower with two grown daughters a year or two older than me, and sometimes tells me stories about what they were like growing up.

He rarely masturbates in my private booth, instead talking to me while I move around in front of him, taking off clothes, makes sexy faces. As shy as he is, I’ve never talked dirty to him. Never pretended to give him a blowjob through the glass (a popular request). Instead, I’ll pretend to kiss his mouth, his hands. I look into his eyes and breathe and put my fingers in my mouth. We talk and talk. He’s shared a lot of his life with me, coming to see me after the death of each of his parents. After his first grandson was born. The day he had to put his dog to sleep. That day, he walked in, his face red and raw and he told me and we both cried for a long time.

And yet with all this, Ben has always respected the boundary of the glass. If he knows more about my real life than he should, or probably even wants to, it’s my fault, not his. I’ve blurred the lines of my character and my own personality. I guess that's what happens when someone repeatedly tells you how his favorite thing about you is how real you are.

So, the private show. The things I remember.

It’s a sunny day. It’s a quaint apartment building in an out of the way part of the city. It also happens to be three blocks from the fire station one of my relatives works at. I enjoy the oddity of driving the same route, stripper hair and makeup in full force. I call Ben after I park so that he can meet me out front. It’s weird to catch sight of him hovering under the wisteria by the gate. As dolled up as I am, I’m wearing street clothes. Ben, as anxious a fellow as he is, (repeatedly) expressed worry about his octogenarian landlady catching on to what we were up to. So I saunter up to him in jeans and a t-shirt, my bike-bag slung over my shoulder and a paper grocery bag full of stripper gear on my hip.

We hug. He’s nervous and warm and smells like a little too much aftershave.

He escorts me through the door and into the ancient elevator. During the slow ride up to the second floor, I recognize my nerves and work on smoothing them out. I need to feel in control.

His apartment is like him, scented and fussed over. He’s obviously taken care to have it as clean and inviting as possible. He is ready. The never-been-used soap in the bathroom. The vanilla candle. The glass of water he pulls out of the freezer for me. The soft, laundered blanket folded on the back of the wraparound couch.

How much stranger it is to be in his house than in the homes of men who host bachelor parties. I know him, but I don’t know him. And while he's seen every inch of my body (including my pink), hee’s never seen me outside of the red lights and mirrors of the peepshow. Yet here we are, admiring his view.

Before the show starts, we sit on the couch a couple feet apart and finish negotiating the terms of the show. I should mention that when Ben first asked me if I would be willing to do a private show with him, a couple weeks before, part of his request was to take pictures of me.* After careful thought, I agreed.

This probably seems foolish, especially for someone who is concerned with her potential employer finding out she takes her clothes off for money. Here’s the thing: I trust this man. I actually have a lot to say about photographs and me and this industry, but I’ll get into that later, before I get too off topic.

Anyway, we agree to roughly two hours of work: a one hour ‘show’ (whatever that means), and one hour of picture taking. He then counts out a ridiculous amount of cash from a folded bank envelope and has me put it in my bag.

Yikes. In situations like these, you just have to pretend that you’re used to that kind of compensation. Plus, I mentally remind myself, he’s paying for pictures. Calm the fuck down.

I change in the freshly cleaned bathroom while he plays me Beatles songs on his guitar from the other room. Things go easily from here. The ‘show’ is basically one long strip-tease/lapdance/conversation. Also. We take turns rubbing cucumber-mint lotion into each other’s shoulders. I don’t know if he asks or I voluntarily put his nipples between my fingers. This leads where I thought it might, to him masturbating as I hover primly over his lap, me breathing deeply and looking as lustily as I can muster into his eyes. It doesn’t take very long, but while this is happening, I notice things about his body. The one long hair on his right eyebrow that I immediately think about photographing. The redness of his aureoles. The way his eyes look through me as he comes. I spend the rest of the hour keeping him relaxed with head rubs and dancing before we move on to the pictures.

I have moments of feeling tired and sad. It's hard to keep up my encouraging demeanor -- I'm unused to spending so much time or energy on one person, and it's starts to get draining. However, the pictures go quickly and well. I'm in my element here, helping him understand his camera (a digital point and shoot he bought just for this purpose) and set up shots. He doesn’t require much of me, and is as happy as a clam with the resulting photographs. I, for one, am impressed with how the flash on his camera accentuates my muscle tone.

One of the things I remember is the way that he spells outs words that make him uncomfortable. He’s done this at the peepshow for years, and I always thought it had to do with his fear of someone overhearing him. To stand with him in his kitchen while he spells out words like money or nipples is faintly hilarious.

I also want to say that the physical contact in those two, two and a half hours, is pretty limited. After asking permission, he touches me on my wrists and ankles. At one point I place his hands around my waist (I was showing off. I was particularly hard-bodied that week) but he doesn't keep them there. Other than that, it is standard, on the side of ‘clean,’ lap-dancing kind of touching.

Before I leave, he plays me more songs on the guitar (he’s really very good) and shows me pictures of his daughters. They’re youthful and blond and eerily close to me in appearance, something I don’t think he’s realized. After I finish changing back into my university student attire, he tips me and gives me a present. When I see what it is I burst out laughing.

It’s a canister of pepper spray.

I apologize for laughing, because I can tell I hurt his feelings, but it’s such a thoughtful, useful, and, ahem, fatherly gift that I couldn’t help but laugh. Since telling Ben about trying out bachelor parties, he started to worry about me. Hence the gift. It is also funny because of the concern my roommate had shown when I told him I’d be doing a private show. Ben’s present is a good example of why he had nothing to worry about.

It’s been a while now since this actually happened, and the feelings that overwhelmed me the day afterwards have mostly passed. I think what made me react so strongly was how much freaking money I made for that two-ish hours of work. Especially considering how tame it was.

Now, if anything, I feel guilty. He’s not a wealthy man, and part of me hesitates to take what, to him (to anyone?), is a substantial amount of money. On the other hand, I realize two things. One, he has pictures of me. ‘Nuff said. And two, he is trying to show me to what a strong degree he values me and my services. I know it’s a sign of respect, so I try not to second-guess myself or call myself names. And fuck. What's so wrong about being a slut anyways.

* Ben only asked me about doing a private show after I started talking to him about working bachelor parties, even giving him the company's website. If I hadn't, I'm sure it never would have come up.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

It's a body thing. Part One.

I'm going to address the private show I mentioned in my last couple of posts next time. For now, I wanted to start getting some of how I've been feeling about my training etc into words. I've been preoccupied with the fact that in the next couple of weeks, I'll be finding out whether or not I'm moving on in the fire department's hiring process. Waiting for that phone call has got me thinking pretty heavily about whether or not I'd even make it through recruit school if I got in.

For over a year and a half, I have been beating my body into some semblance of an athlete, pretty much starting from scratch. I've weight-trained, canoed, rowed, stretched, done yoga, jumped rope, and struggled up climbing walls. I bike and (try to) run, indoors and out, climb stairs wearing a weight vest I can only imagine is that uncomfortable because it was designed for male bodies, and did I mention weights?

And in that time I've realized that I am not fucking built for this.

I'm 5'8", and right now, holding steady at 135lbs. I've been more or less trying to gain weight (lean muslce mass is the idea) since I started training, and I've gained 5 lbs and lost a pants size for my efforts. I'm still too freaking small. My bones are narrow, my joints a little delicate. Which leads me to the injuries. Right shoulder (weights), left knee (running), right wrist (rockclimbing). I'm leaving out the damage years of dancing has done to my body, and I'm sure that's not helping. Are any of my injuries completely healed yet? Hell no. Probably because, in between the icing and ibuprofen and PT exercises, I'm still training. If I stop long enough to heal, I'll have lost the strength that I've gained by hurting my body in the first place. Fuck.

Whiny, huh? I just want to admit that I recognize that what I'm trying to accomplish goes against my natural biology to an insane degree. That more than half the time I remain unconvinced that being a firefighter is a realistic goal for myself. Believe me, I realize that my mental block is just as much of a problem as my lack of the appropriate endurance and strength. I'm working on it.

Sure, I passed my recent fire department physical test. That's great. It shows a lot of progress on my part, considering that a year ago, I wouldn't have come close. Well done me. But really? It's embarrassing that passing it was such a joyous thing, such a relief.

That test is nothing compared to the rigors of any decent fire academy. And if I'm hurting now, how will my body hold up through three and a half months (40+ hours a week) of intense physical training? Climbing stairs and lugging hose and throwing 26 ft. ladders and dragging rescue dummies. All while wearing full firefighter gear (stars at around 50 lbs, but goes up to 75 depending on what you're doing). Bascially -- that ten minute test I passed, but over and over and over again. And again. And probably again. I think you're getting the idea.

Obviously, being physically able to perform the tasks of the job is, uh, kind of important. I'd say it's probably the number one requirement. With excellent reason (pulling people out of burning buildings, anyone?). So -- I guess it's just a question of whether or not I can do it.

A lieutenant in the department I'm applying to was talking about the only woman who made it through his recruit class. I guess she was even smaller than me. Her trick?

"Well," he said, grinning, "She just refused to be denied."

Friday, September 28, 2007

The day after.


So yesterday I did my first (likely only?) one-on-one private show. I don’t know if I have the energy to really go into it, but I will say two things. One - as I expected, there was less contact that at the bachelor parties, but it still felt a great deal more intimate. And two - immediately afterwards, I felt exactly the same as after the first bachelor party I worked.

As in:

That was so easy.
I can’t believe I made that much money in that short amount of time.
How completely surreal.
And I don’t even feel weird about it.
I feel like I ought to feel like a tramp, but I don’t.

Like I said, those were my thoughts immediately after the show was over. On the drive home. Sitting on the couch after I got there. During dinner. And then it starts to sink in.

And identical to the day after my first party is the inner dialogue I’m having today:

You Slut.
I can’t believe you did that.
Easy, huh? Aren’t you a little horrified by how easy it was?
Is this something you actually want to be comfortable with?
What the hell are you doing?

I usually don't give the word ‘slut’ such a negative connotation. At different points in my life, I’ve been happily and openly on the prowl. I'm also surprised by how much I've been judging myself today. Which leads me to a related topic, before I sign off for the night: How these new stripping experiences are affecting my sex life.

Something I realized tonight, after turning down what would have been a good lay -- I can handle feeling like a slut because I’m figuring out my work boundaries, and I can handle feeling like a slut because I’m having fun, casual sex or dating around or whatever. But I cannot deal with both simultaneously. The thought of having casual sex right now makes me want to vomit. Seriously.

And on that note, I’m going to bed.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Seven years this month.

Last night I had dreams of dancing on a stage in my shiny black boots. I was naked and arching my back, sticking out my ass and swaying slowly around. I traveled up and down the pole, patent leather gripping the metal. A few men sat quietly in chairs around the small stage. My hands touched the pole, my hair, different parts of my body. I don’t remember lights or music or any other women. At some point a man stood and slipped bills next to my skin while I moved in front of him.

Most stripping dreams I have are full of anxiety. The exaggerated faces of customers, tongues wagging, teeth bared. I’ll dream that I’m at the peepshow and the glass will suddenly be absent. Hands and bodies start pushing in through the windows as I frantically gyrate around the room. In my dream last night, I felt completely at ease. In control. Those men were transfixed by each movement I made. And also unlike most dreams I’ve had about sex work, this one was hot as hell.

I bring this up because I usually dream about work when I’m nervous about something (though the dreams generally reflect how I’m feeling). I’m pretty nervous today. When I first started working bachelor parties two months ago, I was ridiculously nervous. I’d be twitchy and anxious a whole day before. I even lost weight because I was too nervous to eat. I’ve calmed down with some experience. Today is a different story. In a couple of hours, I’m doing my first private show. As in a one-on-one show with a customer at his apartment.

I’m not in any kind of way interested in having sex for money. The only reason I’m doing this private show is because it’s with Ben, my longest regular from the peepshow. I’ve built up a relationship (albeit a strange one) with him over the last six years, and I trust him. He’s shy and polite and completely respects my boundaries. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do when I get to his house. At the bachelor parties, we pretty much work off a script: Bachelor in the middle of the room. Striptease. Games. Embarrass the groom-to-be. Flirt. Maybe some lapdances. Hopefully a two-girl show. It’s all choreographed, with adjustments made for the kind of crowd we’re performing for and how much money we think they have. From what I’ve heard about private shows from the other girls who work them regularly, it sounds more like a booth show at the peeps. Except that you’re in someone’s living room.

Anyway, I suppose I’m also curious (apprehensive?) about how it’s going to change the way he and I relate to each other. Is he still going to come into my private booth now that I’ve been in his kitchen? And finally, here’s my big concern that I’m pretty much choosing to not acknowledge: what’s going on with my boundaries, and how do I feel about it?

I’ve been stripping for seven years this month. But up until recently, my experiences were limited to performing behind glass. Working the bachelor parties has already meant a huge shift in my mental boundaries. What does it mean that I’m now going to someone’s house and performing a private show? Well. I suppose I’ll know in a couple of hours.

And with that, it’s time for some exercise and food.

Friday, September 21, 2007


I'll be brief, since I'm about to go celebrate.

Today, I finally passed the fire department physical exam. I'm in a little bit of shock. I've been training for this (and, well, for fire academy, which is so much harder) for over a year and half. And I actually did it. When I called my dad to tell him, I was crying so hard he thought I'd failed it. I think the most amazing part of it is how completely supportive my friends and family have been. I got at least ten text messages, emails, and phone calls today either from people wanting to wish me luck (beforehand) or congratulating me (afterwards). That's pretty freaking wonderful.

I'm so happy. Holy crap.

In other news. I'm on day three of a five day stay at my Gramma's house. D. and A. are out of town, so I moved out here for the week. To elucidate: I've been working as a primary caregiver to my grandmother for the last year. She has Alzheimer's, and, while she's still in the early stages, she can't be left alone. I really wasn't looking forward to this stay - in part because of my test, and nerves (which got bigger because I had to bring Gramma with me to the testing facility). But mostly because it's hard enough taking care of her a couple days a week. She has limited to no short term memory, which means that time spent with her takes on a surreal, circular quality. Five days in a row of being around someone who constantly repeats herself is exceptionally draining.

I'll go into detail about time with her when I'm not distracted by the awesome-ness that is me having passed my test. Plus I think Gramma's ready to go. A couple of my friends are meeting us at a restaurant/bar halfway between my city and Gramma's house (which is pretty much in the middle of nowhere. At least the trees smell good.). I promised Gramma she could have a glass of wine, so I better get moving.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Last night.

Yesterday I had kind of a long night. Started out well enough, with a quick shift at the peepshow. I normally avoid Friday nights, but it was early enough that I eluded the frat boys and swarms of drunks. Ben, my favorite regular, gave himself a 60th birthday treat by dropping $120 for a long, chatty show where he alternately talked about his week and admired the old white cotton underwear that I model especially for him. In the last couple of months, he’s become even more consistent and generous, and with that, more infatuated. At least he’s stopped murmuring ‘I love you’ as he comes.

Next up: Well, let me preface this by saying that I don’t get called on to do many humiliation shows or dominatrix fantasies. School-girl skirts and pigtails, baby blues or powder pinks – these are costumes I employ to look as un-dominant as possible. This has less do with my personal sexual preferences and more with not wanting to spend the energy for the money I’ll make. Plus, I’ve got better things to do with my time than tell someone how small his dick is as he beats away. Bo-ring. I will, however, make exceptions, and one of these customers came in tonight, after Ben floated away.

I don’t know his name -- I think he’s only been into my private booth four times in the last six years -- but I remember his shows vividly. As many years as I’ve been a peepshow worker, and as many fantasies or fetishes that I’ve been exposed to, this is unique in my experiences:

You’re a sexist, egotistical, hypocritical, bigoted jew boy. Bad jew. A bad, dirty jew, with an ugly dirty jewish cock. A wart on the nose of humanity that I’m going to scrape off. You make me sick.

These are the main phrases he has me repeat over and over, particularly that first string of insults. And, like many pervs with specific fantasies, he needs it to be word for word. If he can’t mouth along with me, it doesn’t turn him on in the same way. Of course, there’s at least a vague storyline. Something along the lines of a scene from Nine to Five, a movie I’m only familiar with in the context of this man masturbating in front of me. In between hurling him anti-Semitic slurs, I praise the purity of my white Aryan pussy. I eventually mime paralyzing him by sneaking my pure Aryan breast milk into his coffee, then sliding his would be office chair up to the plate glass window of the tall office building he imagines we’re in. Dancing my cunt in front of his face, I simultaneously taunt him and threaten him, showing him the pure white pussy he’s too filthy to ever touch. Bad jew. Sexist, egotistical, hypocritical, bigoted jew boy. Bad, dirty jew. And. So. On.

Like most role-playing that I’ve participated in professionally, it’s quite repetitive; you just say the same things again and again (hopefully in different ways) until the customer finally gets off. This customer is twitchier than most, constantly interrupting the roleplay to, out of character, ask me questions: What do I actually think about sex with Jewish men. What do I and my coworkers really want in a customer. How do I feel about what he’s doing. I answer his questions as genuinely and supportively as possible, moving back and forth from white-supremacist blond bitch goddess to cheerful and encouraging sexworker-slash-therapist. The latter, not surprisingly, is by no means an unusual role to play.

On top of his usual skittish-ness, last night he was paranoid as all get out, fretting that the janitor mopping the booths would ‘out’ him as a pervert at his workplace. I very gently explained to him that a top reason that our business survives is because of our discretion (a point I had to make three of four times in different ways over the length of his show. Jesus.) What I should’ve said: he wasn’t worth the time or the trouble that would’ve taken. Nobody cares. Seriously. Plus, unless the performers explicitly point out a specific customer and elaborate on what turns them on, the janitors don’t know one guy from them next. And what’s so interesting about another man who pays money to watch naked girls. My calm reassurances unfortunately didn’t stop him from abruptly pulling up his pants, opening the door that leads into the hallway, and scowling up and down it to make sure nobody was listening in (three separate times). He also made several nervous jokes about looking for the microphones or cameras. His paranoia might be more understandable if I didn’t know he’s been a regular to this establishment for years and years. Then again, I am writing out the details of his fantasy and posting them on the web. Anonymously, sure. But still – they’re out there.

The rest of last night is too exhausting to describe. Last minute, I got called to work a bachelor party in the suburbs. I almost didn’t take it, and if I didn’t feel like I’d learned some important things about crowd control and payment negotiation with drunk assholes, I’d say that I regretted saying yes. I don’t like to complain. But these guys were pretty obnoxious. Only 8 or 9 men to begin with (and had I known that, I’d have said no. Fewer people usually equal less money. Especially if it’s last minute.), most of them drunk/stoned to the point of comatose. The other three – the bachelor, the host who set it up, and the best man – were waaaay too excitable. Still drunk, just louder and friskier. I had to reiterate what was and wasn’t okay way too many times. Good thing I’m strong, and that I don’t drink at these things. Haven’t come across a grabbier, more single-minded bachelor. Or a host who was so controlling and petulant. Jared (the host) kept trying to ‘negotiate’ the price of the two-girl show in such an offensive, drawn out way. I’ve been trying to figure out why he was driving me so nuts, and I think it was his bratty, manic demeanor, the fact that he was drunk and would not listen to us, just repeat himself over and over, finally accusing us of not liking him when we didn’t agree to his proposals. He tried to make out with me twice – easily deflected, but still irritating that I’d even have to bother. Hard not to belt him in the mouth. Plus, there was almost something sinister about his attitude – I could’ve readily imagined him losing his cool if we weren’t so sweet and reassuring. Ah, the customer service skills we learn. The patience. The ability to maneuver our way out of uncomfortable situations. Eight of them, two of us. Odds are usually even less in our favor, but both of us would pack a mean right hook. I’m strong enough, and Tess can probably kick my ass one handed.

I did appreciate the auctioneering voice example (he pretended to sell me the lamp in the corner) he gave me while Tess was trying to rally more money for the two girl live sex show (they didn’t have it, we were sick of arguing, we took off.). I took extreme satisfaction in turning down the money they were offering, which after a length of time was actually up to what we originally asked, and getting the fuck out of the there. Making out with and fucking Tess wouldn’t have been fun by that point anyway (and that’s a hard thing to make unfun)– they ruined the energy by haggling for so long. To be honest, we probably should’ve left earlier, but an extra possible $100 plus is a hard thing to walk away from. I am impressed with both Tess’s and my ability to maintain such a high level of professionalism throughout. It’s amazing what kind of people handling skills this job teaches you.

I meant to finish this posting before the bachelor party I was scheduled to work this evening (something I wasn’t looking forward to after last night) but they called to cancel at the last minute and I got sucked into watching America’s Next Top Model reruns. I’m actually happy I had the night off, mostly because my knee has been acting up and those heels just make it so much worse. Plus, they sounded like real pricks. They cancelled because the other girl they wanted wasn’t available, and they had their hearts set on two skinny white girls in their earlier 20s (if they only knew). The other girls who could take Rio’s place were either Tess – older, robust, and totally hot - or Envy, a lithe, seductive black woman with an amazing figure. Nope, not good enough for them. As far as I’m concerned, they didn’t deserve our services anyways. Especially since they were rude to Tess on the phone. No strippers for you, assholes. Too bad they waited until the last minute to cancel the show -- I’d already slutted myself out, hairspray and all.

So I'll sign off for now. For the record: my intention here isn’t to focus solely on stories about sexwork, though it’s tempting. A lot more glamorous than talking about taking care of the elderly or applying to the fire department. We’ll see what happens. Tomorrow brings a day and a half of gramma-sitting (thankfully, however, no church). Plus, as ever, training and more training. Stay tuned.

Here's a picture my friend N. took. I'm calling it 'Periscapular'.