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.