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

Private.

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.