Monday, November 3, 2008

Have you voted yet?

I'm home, and so happy to be here.

Being gone is great because it's an adventure, because you're unsure and out of place and you get to miss where you're from.

I like leaving so I can come back.

I have stories of Philly, of working six shifts at a club called Oasis. Of champagne courts and tiger-striped carpet and so many Souf-Philly slash New York slash Jersey accents. Of being this girl in glasses with my not-tan and no accent and the white thigh highs that I didn't realize would get so freaking dirty from being on stage.

It's not that I didn't do well - I used my difference to my advantage, telling cute stories about how I had just moved to Philly from my West Coast hometown (yeah, I was totally lying. I'm an asshole. I was afraid management wouldn't hire me if I'd told them it was only for a week. Which meant that I had to keep the charade up for my six shifts, just in case. Talk about exhausting. Lying sucks.). It's just that I was so out of place, so obviously new and trying to navigate this foreign environment while making some money and not pissing anyone off. Success, I think.

It was fascinating. Exhuasting. I hated it and loved it. And now I'm home, wondering for the first time since I started stripping eight years ago if I should try working at one of my local clubs. In fact, I'm dragging a skeptical friend to one of said clubs tonight. If we both approve (which is perhaps unlikely) I'm going to give it a shot.

I've never considered working here before because they all have such lousy reputations. Rumor has it all the clubs are mobbed up or full of drugs or girls doing extras out in the open for very little money. One club in particular gets raided by the local PD on a regular basis, which means either arrests or hefty tickets. And let's not forget the standard complaints about stripclubs which seem to be more often repeated here: too many girls, a dwindling customer base, exorbitant stage fees... Et cetera.

So why now?

Because working in Philly was challenging, and yet I could handle it. Even thrive on it a little. And having just recently compared notes with peepshow friends who've tried the local scene, I'm starting to realize that the clubs here might not be nearly as bad as what I experienced in Philly. Yes, the stage fees are high, but it's a lump sum, as opposed to the common Philly practice of taking a large chunk out of whatever you sell.

Customer pays $190 for a half hour in the Champagne courts? House takes $90. Seriously. Best case scenario there, without tipping, you can make up to $200 an hour. Coming from a bachelor party background, that seems looow. Especially since the majority of customers I encountered not only expected to feel up your breasts in a $20 lap dance (of which you keep $15, less if you're paid in the club's funny money), but that they could put them in their mouths. Um, yeah. Lame. Not only that, but at least half of the people I spent time with also had a strong expectation that they would be allowed/encouraged to come in their fucking pants during a string of lapdances, especially in the champagne courts.

What. The fuck.

Anyway, it sounds like my west coast city is not nearly as skeezy on the whole as I thought it was, as least comparatively. I hate to get too excited, but here's hoping the club tonight doesn't suck. I know it's sometimes hard to tell as a customer, but maybe some of the girls won't mind giving me the lowdown if I buy some lapdances.

I'll elaborate more on the club I check out tonight and on working in Philly when I'm not totally and COMPLETELY distracted by the fucking election. I've been obsessively reading political blogs for months and now it's almost tomorrow. I'm only posting at all so I can stop obsessively refreshing all of those blogs, so I can take a breath and not think about it. Obviously it's not working.

So, anyway, if you haven't done it yet. GO VOTE. Unless you're one of those people who doesn't use an absentee ballot, in which case, come tomorrow, GO VOTE.

If I could, I'd give you all free lapdances as a reward for voting, because I want to encourage it was much as possible.

So, like I said. GO VOTE.

Saturday, October 4, 2008



I can't believe how exhausted I am. How exhausting that was.

I just worked my first shift at a real strip club. I got hired yesterday morning at the first club I auditioned at, and let's just say it's been an interesting two days. But now I'm tired enough that I'm trying not to cry, so I'm going to hold off on talking more about it. Plus, in case any of my stripclub cohorts (managers, customers, other strippers) keep up with dancer blogs, I've decided that I'm going to save the juicy details until after I get back to the West Coast.

I will say that working this one shift makes me really fucking appreciate bachelor parties. Tonight I worked my ass off for 5 hours and made what I would consider mediocre to medium money if I had made it at a 1-2 hour long bachelor party. Dude. And I only took one break, to pee and scarf a banana so I didn't pass out. Plus I was the last girl in the couch dance area, and the last girl on stage.

I can't remember if I mentioned that I'm going out of town with my very best friend tomorrow (the one who I'm visiting), but I am (Just checked, and yes I did mention it. Okay then.). To a place with a beach. We're very excited. I foresee a great many embarrassingly large drinks with umbrellas in my future.

More stripclub experiences are to be had after we get back, since I'm staying in Philly for an extra week for the sole purpose of working. Maybe a week off after this one night will lead to a hustling revelation and when I get back the customers will chase after me, fistfuls of 20s and 100s in their hands, begging to gently glide the bills into my g-string. One can always hope.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Out and About.

So I'm in Philadelphia.

I'm on vacation for a few weeks visiting my most awesome best friend. We're going on this random trip to Jamaica on Saturday (!!!) for a few days, and then I'm going to hang out in Philly for a week or so and try to work.

I actually have my first honest-to-goodness real strip club audition tomorrow morning.

I'm scared out of my mind. Maybe nervous is a better word for it. However you would describe that feeling you get when you're talking in front of people (and you have a soul-sucking fear of public speaking) and your body shakes and your cheeks are hot and you can't hear what you're even saying - that's kind of what I'm battling when I think about auditioning/working at a real strip club. Um, so yeah. No biggie.

My original plan was to audition somewhere today, try to pick up a few shifts before leaving on Saturday. In fact, I still may try to do that. But I don't have any gowns (what is this whole gown club the girls on stripperweb speak of? Seriously? Gowns?) and I'm pretty sure most of the Philly clubs I'm interested in require a freaking gown.

My new plan for this evening: Attempting to quelch this whole-body panic thing by going to the gym. Nothing like some major sweat time to steady my nerves (and wake my body up after my 10 hour travel day yesterday, 13 if you count the time change).

About tomorrow (or, you know, maybe tonight) - Wish me luck!

Monday, September 15, 2008


Something I never thought I'd want to do: Be a cop.

So it's pretty funny that today, on a whim, I signed up to take the next written exam for my local police department.

I don't know much about cops or police departments other than what I've gleaned from Law and Order: SVU, or from my firefighter relative's anecdotal comments about working with the local PD at fires or medical responses. I imagine that my ideas about what it means to be an anesthesiologist or a farrier or an astronaut are less fraught with stereotypes and misconceptions, and I know absolutely nothing about what having those jobs mean to one's life experience.

I have never, ever, ever been interested in being a cop. Or holding a gun or getting yelled at or shot at or whatever. Particularly as a child, I was easily spooked, and I still have issues with suspenseful movies. As much as I'd like to watch a scary scene, the impulse to cover my ears and hide behind a pillow is still, at the age of 28, pretty overwhelming.

Not to mention the ludicrous notion of a stripper-turned-cop. That idea keeps making me laugh, for some reason. Maybe just because it's me, and the whole pillow over the face thing is so prominent in my mind when I think of guns.

Therefore, It's highly unlikely that I'll actually become a police officer. But hell - I figured going through their (mercifully brief) exam process might be interesting. It goes to illustrate the vast disparity in career popularity that, while the fire department's application process takes from 12 to 18+ months long, with thousands of applicants each year, the local PD does the bulk of their testing in two days. The written and physical tests are on the same day, with the oral boards taking place the following day. Cake, comparatively. Not only that, but aside from the fairly massive local advertising campaign designed to drum up qualified police department applicants, I hear the local PD is advertising pretty heavily in all of the major east coast cities as well.

The tests aren't for a month and half, but I'll be sure to let you know how they go. In any case, I've got to get down to the peeps for my shift. I have a new regular that has been in every private booth I've had for the last two months. I'm working on a post about him, though I'm not sure I can put it up. He's well known to most of my coworkers (some of whom read this) and I want to respect his privacy. We'll see.


Q: What do police officers and firefighters have in common?

A: They all want to be firefighters.

- old firefighter joke that I first heard from a cop who is going through the fire department application process.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Working it out.

So I'm feeling some upheaval brewing, folks. Maybe it's just that my fucking cat is still missing (we've had two more calls about her, but people don't seem to notice my posters until a day or two after they saw her. Not helpful. Hopeful, yes, but not actually getting her back to me. Christ). Maybe I need to rearrange the furniture in my room. Or have some great sex. Or make some art. Maybe it's that firefighting is losing some of its gleam as a fantasy career for me.

Check it: I haven't lifted weights in over two weeks.

I haven't not lifted weights in that long since I started training almost three years ago. I even managed to find a big gay camp with a big gay gym at Burning Man that I lifted at in 95+ degree weather. But since I've been home?

Can't. Make. Myself. Go.

It's not that I'm a slug. I've gone to my weekly spin class twice, gone on several bike rides, runs, have even done my dreaded stairs-with-a-weight-vest workout that makes my calves quake with fear at the thought of it. Other than that, all I've managed to do is toy with my standard core workout once or twice, slog through some pullups at my house, and half-heartedly attempt some pushups. That's it.

I see this as a sign of my enthusiasm waning. While in the past, I may not have been in love with the idea of working out as a whole, I always enjoyed lifting weights and paying particular attention to strengthening my upper body and core. Being strong and fit is a pretty big source of pride, even if I'm not nearly as strong and fit as I'd need to be if I were going through, say, a fire acadmey.

I hesitate to theorize as to why I'm suddenly not passionate and eager to pursue my dream, so to speak.

Instead, how about I post some pictures of me from Burning Man? I'd call these a reward for y'all after having to read my griping and missing kitty pleas, but I think in reality it's more that I'm showing off. Think of it as proof to myself that I am strong, and that continuing my training is a worthwhile endeavor. Because, seriously, those back muscles were not easily achieved (ahem - props, anyone?), yet could be very easily lost.

I thought you guys would appreciate that complete color shift between my desert-tanned upper half, and my desert-tanned-yet-dust-covered lower half. These pictures were taken in the midst of a dust storm. My campmate and I were actually fairly dust-free, given we were loitering and playing around in this rad free-standing wood structure that some Oregon strippers built, complete with a pole and stage, and a bar. One of the saucy ladies even gave me a short lesson on the pole. I may be a natural, as graceless as I am. Fun stuff despite the massive bruising, blisters, and soreness.

This picture on the right is a good example of how much dust is constantly in the air.

Any time your camera's flash goes off, it reflects the colossal amount of particulate matter suspended in the air all the time, with or without a dust storm.

Here's one more. One of my work outfits that doubled well as a BM day costume

Anyway, I think that's it for now. I'll be less grumpy tomorrow. I'm going on a hike. It's been beautiful in my city for weeks. I'm soaking it up. As for tonight, I have a bachelor party way out in the stix, almost two hours away. Unfortunately, I've done a show for these people before. Smoking, penny-pinching pet-owners who refuse to keep their large dogs out of the room while we're doing our show. Not like it matters - the floor was so thick with animal hair, it almost made the wood floor bearable to kneel on. To be honest, if I'd been told who they were when asked if I wanted to book the show, I'd have turned it down. That's not to say I won't go in with my game face and a good, friendly attitude; I'm just not expecting it to go that well, financially or otherwise. But hey - money is money, and at least I won't be disappointed.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Possibly excellent.

In the face of two particularly obnoxious bachelor parties last night (if I have the energy, I'll bitch about them later, but really - as my roommates can attest to - you probably don't want to listen to me complain about them), I did not wake up in the best of moods.  Until, that is, I got a message from someone who is 99% certain they saw my cat last night, stumpy/fluffy tail and all, a good 20 blocks from where I live.  I just spent the morning and afternoon roaming around on my bike, flyering and yodeling my cat's name.  

I had given up, and now there's at least a chance.  Goodness.

As Ms. Wayward has pointed out in a recent post, hearing about other people's pets is about as interesting as hearing about their dreams (i.e. not very), so I do apologize.  If the flyers do their job, I'll only have to post one more four-worded sentence on the subject.

Let's hope.

I can't help myself.

I'll probably be posting these for a little while.  Sorry.

Saturday, September 6, 2008


So out of the blue, I went to Burning Man, that arts festival in the desert with all the of the naked hippies (as one of my friends would say).  

It was pretty great.  Fantastic, actually.  Pretty fucking intense, but completely worth each physical and emotional discomfort that I faced .  I'll post pictures, perhaps, in a while.  I have some of me learning how to pole-dance in the middle of a dust storm, clad in goggles and mask. I bruised the shit out of my left hip learning how to do that one flip dancers do, but success was eventually mine

This is all beside the point.  

My cat is missing, and I'm a disaster.

I got back from the desert late on Monday night/Tuesday morning.  No cat to be found. Everyone saw her around Monday afternoon/evening, but she has since disappeared.  Getting back to the default world, as the burners say, is hard enough without coming back to a changed and catless one.

My cat, my lovely Z., is a diminutive 5.5 lbs of orange tortoise shell fur and bones.  The distracted Pound employee told me her coat is referred to as a 'tourby'.  Who knew.  She's old (14) and cranky and smells better than any animal I've ever come in contact with.  When my boyfriend died four and a half years ago, she's really the only thing that got me through it.  Not to dismiss all of your amazing support, my most excellent friends and family members, but Z. was the only one there every single time I came home to my otherwise empty apartment.  She slept on my hip every night and the weight of her distracted from my otherwise empty bed.
She purrs and drools as animals are inclined to do, and lately has been bringing me rats.  Small rats, but rats none-the-less.  I took this as a good sign, seeing as how she's old and too-small and sick with both renal failure (she was actually snapping out of this one, thanks to months of steady sub-cutaneous saline injections.  Basically me sticking a large needle into the skin above her ribs and filling it with water so she'd stay hydrated. Something she just loved.) and, more recently, thyroid disease.  The disease is a metabolic one that makes her heart beat too fast, blood zooming through her tiny body, keeping her hungry as hell, yet a good pound lighter than she should be.  I'm afraid it might be responsible for her disappearance, that she wandered off and had a little kitty-heart attack, and that no-one's found her.

Oh, Z-kitty, where are you?  
Being home is now difficult - hell, just being in the neighborhood sucks.  I look for her and she's not there.  As it is with grief, I'm finding it hard to motivate or focus on anything.  I realize she's just a cat, but the idea of her dead in a ditch, picked at by crows and raccoons (what I recognize to be the most likely scenario) fucking kills me.  I suppose it's a better thought than that of her hurt or trapped or in pain or wondering where the hell I am.  I used to be afraid someone would kitty-nap her, because even though she's kind of a bitch (in the best way possible), she's also an attention slut who loves to show off for strangers.  She's the softess cat I've met, and I've seen the people who walk up and down my street just go bananas over her.  The small part of me that thinks she's still alive also thinks that someone thought I was neglecting her (she's literally skin and bones because of her age and metabolic disorder) and took her away.  In which case I hope she's being fed and doted on and is as high as a kite on as much catnip as she can handle.  

The grey cat in the pictures is also going nuts without her.  The grey cat is a fat, slow, dumb, dirty animal (I'm not being mean, it's actually part of her charm.  And also not her fault - she was a brain-damaged rescue kitten) who kind of relied on Z. to take care of her.  Z. kept her in line, which the grey cat found reassuring. Z. even cleaned her ears on a daily basis.  I'm sure as hell not doing that, especially not with my tongue.

I miss my cat.  

Monday, August 18, 2008


I just wanted to give a quick shout-out to strippers everywhere, both working and retired, who have ever successfully instructed their friends on how to treat other strippers when engaging their services. 

Getting treated with respect, appreciation, and more than ample compensation is pretty fantastic, especially when you know it's largely due to one party attendant's ex-stripper best friend taking the time to make sure these boys were prepped with good attitudes and lots of cash.

Seriously, thanks.

Thursday, August 14, 2008


Man, I feel like kind of an asshole.

Writing that last fucked up and dramatic post about getting drugged and then not following up...

Sorry, guys.  

Also fucked up of me is to forget that I have real-life friends and family whom I don't necessarily speak to on a day-to-day basis who read this little blog.  So now imagine finding out that your sister who strips (or high school girlfriend, or buddy, etc) was drugged while at a private show in some cretin's apartment by reading about it on her goddamned blog.  Again, my extreme apologies.  While I understandably wasn't thinking that clearly at the time, that was still pretty tacky. 

In case y'all are still wondering, I'm more than fine.  I just had a rough couple of days while I processed what did and didn't happen.  I even worked a bachelor party the day after, which, I'll admit, was slightly surreal, given the anger/vulnerability stuff that I was working through. Thank god they were cheerful and paunchy middle-aged white men with manners. What I remember most about that night now is how the girl I was working with was hot and friendly and extremely fun to flirt with.  And that watching a long-legged lady in a g-string do the splits while sending fuck-me eyes in your direction can sure cheer a girl up.   Especially if you later get to dominate the hell out of her in your two-girl live lesbian sex show.  No kidding. 

And now, if you'll allow me one final over-reaching apology...  

I'm so sorry I never post! 
I don't want to promise that I'll start again, mostly because I've said it before and then, well, not done it.  But let me say this: I intend to post.  I intend to write because writing gets me a little closer to some degree of clarity about all of my mixed adventures and how they may translate into the rest of my life.  At the moment, I've been concentrating the bulk of my creative energies on preparing for an art show next month (awesome but exhausting), so if and when I do start putting stuff up here again on a regular basis, it'll probably be after my show goes up.  

I'd love to tell you guys about the art I make, even dazzle you with a sampling, but that would pretty much defeat the purpose of staying anonymous.  So, sorry.  You'll have to take my word for it that it's rad and worth making.

Hope you're all enjoying your summer, and I promise that I'll at least try to stay in touch.  Cross my heart.

Saturday, May 31, 2008


I would normally apologize for being so absent, here, in this little space of mine. I'd catch you up on my goings-on, maybe actually post those old writings I promised forever ago. But I can't tonight.

In fact I can't really write much of anything. I've been trying all afternoon and night to figure out how to articulate what happened today, but I'm at a loss. It's important that I put this down on paper, so to speak; important that my fellow dancers hear this thing that happened, or didn't, or whatever it was.

So, as plainly as I can: I got drugged today.

Most likely GHB. I want to say immediately that I made it out of there, that I'm safe, that nothing happened. I was not raped or left for dead.

I don't have the energy tonight to explain the exact circumstances. Maybe I will tomorrow, when I'm hanging out with Gramma, helping her make birthday cards for my cousins. I'll try. I know putting words to how I feel might make it less scary. Because that's how it feels right now. Like I was in a really horrifying situation, and I got out of it and it's almost like it didn't happen. But it did and now I feel angry and vulnerable and honestly I don't even know what I'm feeling other than exhausted and by myself. God, I could really use someone to tell me I'm okay, that it's not my fault, even though it might have been. And really. Of course I'm okay. Nothing happened. 

It's the 'almost' that's fucking with my head.  It's knowing how easily my life could now be unrecognizable.

I really do need to try to get some sleep. 

Fellow dancer-blogger friends of mine: I know I'm not writing, but I read you all often, and I think about the different ways you inhabit the world. Be safe and happy.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Computer Update.

I got my computer back, fully functional and without the complete loss of data that I was expecting. So hooray!

I'm wrecked from a long day in the sun photographing bike races (boys in spandex = hot. Perhaps an acquired taste...), so this is just a brief note. But before I sign off, there are two things my roommate requested I blog about that happened today.


When I get busy, I tend to be less organized than is desirable. Which is a charming way of saying that my room can get pretty messy. So messy, in fact, that I lost my wallet in my room.

A week and a half ago.

It's an exceptionally long time to lose one's wallet, but my early, hurried efforts to find it didn't work, and hell - mine is a cash business, so money wasn't a problem. And I found my passport within 30 seconds of looking for it, so I had ID. This morning I finally had a couple hours to devote to cleaning/organizing aka searching my room inch by inch until I found it. In the damnest place.

Wrapped in a towel, nestled snugly against my double-headed dildo.

Freaking hysterical, if only the wallet didn't now smell like the cheap latex dong it's been pressed against for over a week. That's why I keep the thing in a towel - to minimize the gag-me-strong smell rubbing off onto my stripper clothes (something I learned the hard way.). Difficult to see how my wallet ended up there in the first place, though I imagine it fell off my dresser into my work bag, which I later shoved aside. From there it somehow managed to sneak into the towel then rewrap itself back into a tidy little package. Where I never ever would've thought to look for it. So it goes.


Shortly after I found my wallet, my cat - a scrawny, cranky, oldish but very beautiful little 6 pounder of an animal - brought me a present. A mouse. A very large mouse. She deposited it on the floor of my room while I was folding laundry, something I might not have noticed if a boy I'll call The Cyclist hadn't dashed up the stairs after her to warn me. We're looking at her looking at the mouse and I wonder out loud if it's dead. The cat looks at me.

And the mouse makes a run for it, right into the least organized corner of my room.

That was fun. I don't think the mouse was injured in the least, having seen him complete some pretty impressive jumps. I was trying to deal with it on my own, not wanting to fall into the stereotype of a hysterical female standing on a table with a broom screaming 'Kill it! Kill it!', but after the little bugger jumped for the second time I gave up and called on my roommate's and The Cyclist's assistance. The three of us prevailed, and my room is once again mouse-free. Thank god.

Now I'm off to bed, where a boy, and some good ol' fashioned platonic snuggling, await.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

A note from the webmaster.

And by webmaster I suppose I mean myself.

My computer chose this week to implode on me, so it may be a couple days before the post I was working on gets up. I'm waiting to hear what they have to do to it before it'll work again.

In the meantime, let me recommend getting your geek on and watching Battlestar Galactica's season premiere. I used to make fun of people who watch it, but let me warn you -- it's addictive. Hot young actors trapped in space ships with awkward uniforms and their own swear words.

Oh, the drama.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Happy Spring. A couple days late.

It was a long winter, let me tell you. I lost track of how many times I was sick. The last time I wrote, I was on the verge of getting over a flu. And then it got worse and I threw up for a couple days and lost about 8 pounds of hard-earned muscle. Lame. Even now, I'm two weeks into dealing with a head cold. Nothing bad enough to keep me from working, training, or hanging out with Gramma. Just enough of a pain in the ass to make me cranky.

And before my roommate calls me on it, I will again admit that it's my own damn fault. I work too much, don't sleep enough, and work out my body to the point of breaking on a regular basis. Oops.

It's been a crazy month and a half. Forgive my absence. I swear I'll start posting again soon. Pinkie swear.

For now, however, I'm going to drag my tired, congested ass to bed. I just wanted to say hi, and that I haven't forgotten about you.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Lent Rebellion: Bad Timing

It's possible that I have the world's worst immune system.*

Yup, I'm down with a gnarly bug. I'll spare you the grusome details, though I'm happy to report that I was finally able to eat a piece of toast and a small amount of chicken soup.

This is of course a big ol' pain the patoot as far as my Lenten goal is concerned. Because really - who wants to masturbate (or, jesus, have sex) when every movement brings on a wave a naseau?

Day Four and Day Five:

In bed. Solo. Cheap-ass vibrator. Again. And it took a lot of freaking determination on my part, being sick and all. Which leads me to...

Day Six:

Unless something changes in the next five minutes, I'm officially begging off for today. I feel like total crap. And I'm cracked out on sudafed to boot.

Having just updated you in unnecessary detail on the state of my orgasm-having, I hereby declare that from now on, I'll only write about my orgasm(s) of the day if they're interesting or non-existent. Unless, of course, you LIKE my redundant descriptions...

Night night.

*I'm going to take this opportunity to accept full responsibility for my immune system's collapse. This last week, already worn down because of the cold my roommates kept passing around, I stressed my body out by working out too much, put myself in some harsh environmental conditions, and then, sick enough to know better, worked a bachelor party Saturday night. It is completely my fault that I feel like butt. No need to gloat about how you told me so.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

Lent Rebellion: Volume One

So, it's harder than I thought it'd be. And, sadly for you, less interesting to blog.

**If you're new here, I'll start by saying that I've just begun my own little anti-Lent, which involves me pledging to have at least one orgasm a day for forty days.**

Just so you know, I'm defining one 'day' as the time from when I wake up until when I go to bed. I'd originally been planning a stricter approach, counting a 'day' from midnight to midnight, that kind of thing. But nah. So, without further explanation...

Day One:

I'll just get this out of the way and say it was a bust.

Yeah, and on the first day. How the fuck did that happen? I'd actually rubbed one out (can girls say that?) the night before, 1am-ish, back when I considered defining a 'day' more literally. But now it doesn't count. What about the whole rest of Wednesday, you may wonder. Ah. Well. Good question. I even had a date, albeit a somewhat malfunctioning, not-really-a-date-date. Which kind of explains my complete failure in a nutshell. I suppose I could've snuck one in between peeing and brushing my teeth with his toothbrush (slight malfunction aside, I stayed over) but my head wasn't really in the right space.

Day Two (and soon to be Day Three):

Right before bed, solo, assisted by my trusty cheap-ass vibrator that I bought for doing toy shows at parties. A nice, lazy little orgasm that sent me right to sleep. I'm gonna guess this is going to be a common theme in the next month and a half. Sorry to disappoint, my horny male readers. Strippers' sex lives aren't always that interesting. In my own defense, I'm dealing with stuff. And I'm fighting the cold that three of my roommates still have or are getting over.

Soon to be posted: My thoughts on orgasms and Lent. In time, this will all make sense. Promise.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Starting tomorrow.

It's settled.

I'm having at least one orgasm a day for forty days as my little Lent rebellion.

I'd been planning on writing more about it, but back to back work gigs today (plus the Super Tuesday-ness of it all) have distracted me. Stay tuned.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

I'm open to suggestions...

I'm going to get into the logistics of this later today or tomorrow, but for the moment, I want to pose a question:

If I were to take on a daily goal/ritual/whathaveyou for the length of Lent, what should it be?

The briefest of explanations:

I take my Gramma to church, though I am neither a Christian nor religious. I understand from the cheerful Lutheran service I attended this morning that this Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent. Something about Moses and the mountain and 40 days of going without. Like I said, I'll be filling in the blanks later on (though most of you are probably far more familiar with these traditions than I.).

In any case, I've decided that I'm going to have my own little Lent. Or is it a Lent rebellion? I'm not sure yet, but what I intend to do is to choose something - some 'vice' or behavior or delicious food that people may usually deprive themselves of - and do that, eat that, participate in that every day until Easter.

So help me figure out what I should do.

I'm toying with the idea of having an orgasm every day. Maybe some of y'all do this already, but I don't. What can I say. I'm generally single, busy, and have a handful of roommates. Plus sometimes I get so worn out faking them at work that I don't have the energy to get off, with or without a lover.

So that's one idea. If you have any others, I'm all ears...

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Something I never need to do again...

is strip at a frat party with 60+ drunk nineteen year olds.

(…flashback to last November…)

It was like trying to communicate with puking kindergartners.

You know how when you were little and your teacher wanted everyone's attention and he or she would raise their hand, maybe making a designated hand symbol that means 'it's time to be quiet and listen?' And every kid who saw would immediately mimic the teacher, until the whole room was quiet with their hands in the air? Yeah, that's what they do at this frat. But instead of a peace sign or something, they put their fingers into the 'silent shocker'. Hand open and flat, fingers together, then take your ring finger and touch it to your thumb. You know: 'Two in the pink, one in the stink.' Seriously.

The party wasn't actually that bad. When I had first heard how many people the two of us would be dancing for, I immediately assumed we'd have to bring security. But when I talked to the contact, he assured me that there would be at least five ‘sober brothers’ to control the party and watch out for us. On the phone he was articulate and respectful, so I relaxed.

I can't say I've spent much time at frat houses, but this one fit the stereotype. The event was held in the basement, where they obviously threw all of their parties. A large drafty room with concrete floors (hell on our knees, man) that smelled oh so much like old vomit. Ugh. Lace, a sultry black woman in her thirties, and I were a 'surprise' for all of the freshman pledges, all of whom were upstairs in their rooms getting drunk with their upperclassmen big brothers when we arrived. I don't get frats, so I don't really know much more about it than that. Thank god there were no sorority girls at this party. The last thing we wanted to deal with was a shit-ton of drunk catty bitches making fun of us while we worked.

I have personally never been naked for that many people at once. Or had such a screaming and enthusiastic response to taking my clothes off. Fucking intense, but Lace and I held our own. To be honest, I’ve learned that I’m a far superior performer in a one-on-one environment. In fact, up until (and halfway through) my first bachelor party, the thought of dancing solo in front of even a small roomful of people made me ill. It appears I’ve come a long way.

We both enjoyed how young and attractive most of them were. And while they had the advantage of being a loud, drunken mob, we had the advantage of being naked women who knew better. I think we kind of scared the crap out of them. Whenever it started to get a little overwhelming, I just reminded myself I could crush any one of these little boys with my left thumb. Whatever works, right?

A couple of funny things:

One, this frat belongs to the university I attended. I still volunteer in my department once a week. Incidentally, I worked a shift there the morning after the party. I love the way that feels, the strange way these roles I play cross-over and intersect. I love that if any of those frat boys take the right class, they'd have me helping them with their equipment and most likely not even realize I'd been naked and in their lap.

Two, I totally did something completely out of character. I hit on one of the frat boys. As in went back to the frat house after we left and gave him my number, told him to call me. I'm slapping my forhead and rolling my eyes at myself as I write this. Lace was out front, waiting in the car. I could blame her, since she was totally egging me on, but . . .

Why did I do that? Well, first of all, he was one of the upperclassmen, so he’s at least 21. He might even be 22 (I know, I know.). He was one of the sober brothers making sure the party was under control, so in contrast to the rest of the drunken, drooling jackasses, he came across as quite a gentleman. With really nice arms. Anyway, I also gave him my stripper email, which he has since used.

We’ve actually been sending notes back and forth every week or two since the party happened last November. Both of us have other things going on, but I think one of these days we’ll meet for a drink. I haven’t told him my real name or age, and I’m not sure if I’m going to. I kind of like the idea of hanging out just long enough for me to feel him up and give him a great story to bring back to the ol’ frat house. Speaking of, I realize how this probably looks to his friends, but at the same time, this boy is short, polite, didn’t look at me with lust for even a split second when I was naked, and has a ridiculous name. In other words, the anti-frat-boy. So if a stripper hitting on him in front of some of his brothers boosts his cred, s’alright with me.

Monday, January 28, 2008

To rephrase.

Today's my birthday.

I'm 28.

Let's leave it at that, shall we?