Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Happy Anniversary to Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Sweet Sixteen

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

I knock, loudly, three times.

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

His mouth opens. Success. The kid is surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Put your face in her boobs!”

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

“Grab her more, take advantage of it!”

I think we’re both trying to ignore her.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *

Addendum:

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

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Showtime.

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

And I crack the belt down on his body.

A blast of cheers.

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

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

The noise from the crowd makes the walls shake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Cranky stripper.

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

But a lame night is still a lame night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Neighborly.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. I mention this because the last few days have not been so nice in my fair city, and, as anyone knows, a beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon following a good number of dark and rainy days is the recipe for people to be outside and congenial with each other.

So I went for a run. I warmed up by walking down to one of my favorite urban trails through a couple of pleasant, mostly residential neighborhoods. Tons of people were gardening or cleaning their garages or just hanging around outside smiling at the people who walked by. It was lovely. I returned a greeting from the man weeding on the corner. I said hello to the woman pulling grocery sacks out of her trunk. I grinned at people as they smiled at me.

I was a block away from where I like to start my run. I looked at the man on his stoop as he laced up his shoes. Almost imprectibly, I smiled.

"FUCK YOU, bitch. FUCK YOU." He screamed at me. He kept screaming at me as I continued past him. I could hear him as I walked by a mother and her two children walking in the opposite direction on the sidewalk. We exchanged a shared look of 'Ah. Well, what can you do.' as we passed each other. Her two young daughters were distracted and oblivious, happily tuning him out as they debated the flowers in each other's hair.

The only reason I bring this up is because I remember when a random (sane-looking) person yelling obscentities at me would have really hurt my feelings. Even if I'd rationally understood that it wasn't personal (how could it be?), that knowledge wouldn't have mattered. I probably would've been haunted by the experience. Or at least genuinely preoccupied and concerned about what I might have done that caused that man's reaction.

I think I've just been a stripper a long time. Or maybe I'm just older. Either way, I appreciate my ability to let things roll of my back. I appreciate my growing understanding of people, and my ability to step back and be objective.

Just wanted to share. My next post will in acknowledgement of a blogger award I got from one of my favorite stripper-blogger friends (thanks Sakura!) Since all of the blogs I read regularly have already been tagged, I'm trying to cull different blogs that I enjoy so that I can share their goodness with you. Should be soon, but no promises.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Looking.

I’ve been preoccupied, lately, by the pieces of a man’s body.

For example. The three moles not exactly on his right side, on the soft hairless skin that shows over his ribs when he lifts his arms. They’re nearly equidistant, an inch apart, lined up from smallest to largest. The moles are just three out of many, but they’re my favorite.

Which makes me remember --

It’s after work, a long night of dancing, one bachelor party, one private show, and I come home to him naked on my bed. I stand there and just look at him.

It’s clear without saying anything that I want to stay clothed, to remain off display. I am done, at this moment, with people looking at me. So he concentrates on my eyes while I look at the whole of him. We are quiet and I just look. And I touch his side. I find those moles.

The next night. At the end of a first date with a different man. I bring him home and up to my room, despite the fatigue. At first I barely touch him. But I take off his coat, and then his soft collared shirt. And I look at him. I spend an hour, two hours, looking at him. Maybe turning him around in my hands. Maybe moving him toward and away from the light.

Again, I don’t reveal myself. First I need to investigate, to search his body for clues.

I’m not a shy person. I’ve been taking my clothes off for a living for over eight years. But even as this moment is happening, I recognize shyness in myself, a temporary need for privacy.

Maybe it’s spurred by an observation this man makes while laying supine on my bed, propped on his elbows. I’m kneeling next to him - knees apart, back arched, ass jutted, face inclined – automatic gestures of my sex-kitten self, and he frowns at me, “I feel like you’re performing.”

And so I am. I don’t want to be, so I un-arch my back, draw in my knees. And I remove the rest of his clothing and look at him, learn his shape and the turn of his body with my fingers.

I look at him until I’ve mapped the jagged scar on his left arm and the birthmark on his thigh. Until I’ve seen each of the curling blond hairs that blanket his warm skin. I keep looking until I am no longer afraid of falling into character.

After spending much of my work life with people looking at me, going over the details of my lovers’ bodies pulls me away from a hyperawareness of my own body. Their markings and scars are immediate and real, and exist in stark contrast to my role as a fantasy girl. Looking at them is one way I differentiate between the fantasies I’m paid to construct and the genuine intimacy of being with a person I choose. Looking anchors me back into reality, one where I’m not always on display. I can relax, and unfasten myself from the parts I play, and just. Look.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

44 dollars. Part two.

I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to dwell on this story.

The night I was writing about, there were never more than 10 or 12 customers in the club at once, and there were, count 'em, 25 performers. On a Thursday night.

Maybe this is normal around here. I kind of got that impression. The men weren't buying, and the women were working pretty dang hard. There were more than a few women who left owing house that night. Sheesh. I can't think of many things that will fuck up your sense of self-worth more than working as hard as you can for 5, 6, 8 hours, and then actually owing money at the end of the night. And that's not even taking into account the constant rejection that you're dealing with while you're working. Fuck that.

I worked the next day as well, a Friday, from 2pm until around 11pm, and it was better because a peepshow regular came in to check it out. We had a lovely time together, and he paid me well enough to make my experiment in local clubs worthwhile. That said, after he left I stuck around for another 5 hours, seeing if I'd do any better than the evening before. I sold two dances. I left when I realized that there were 25 girls clocked on, and another 8-10 in the dressing room still getting ready. No thanks.

Anyway, let's just say I've figured out that the club scene here and my skill set don't mix. Maybe if I had more patience, I could learn to adapt. But my time is valuable, and I'm not interested in wasting it if I can help it.

So. Bachelor parties, private shows, the peeps. That's what work means for me at the moment. That's fine. I'm busy, and wasn't relishing the idea of keeping a 24/hr a week schedule at the club anyway. Too much commitment.

Say my name.

Oh honey, oh baby. Oh honey.

Oh sweetie.

Sugar.

Baby.

Honey.

* * * *

When I first started working as a stripper, I spent a week figuring out what I would call myself.

I made lists. I wrote down the names of family pets, alive and dead. I skimmed over baby books. I flipped through fairytales and my favorites books for inspiration. I asked my friends for advice, and gauged their reactions as I slowly sounded out each choice from my list. I tried names on like hats while I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing how they fit.

At the end of the week, through some complicated and now indecipherable process of elimination, I chose a name.

There came a point in those first few months of stripping when I started to realize that I used this new name far more than I used my own. Because how many times a day do you say your own name? When you’re a stripper, it can be almost constantly. Some days, I introduce myself 20 times in one hour. Of course, some days I only have to say it once.

That first year, it was confusing. I was still unpracticed at compartmentalizing between one identity and another. At parties, people would catch me off balance by asking me what my name was and I’d pause, blink, consider.

Now, eight years and several stage names later, I can slip like a cat in and out of different characters. I’m myself at school or the gym or taking my gramma to church. In between I’m [stage name], emailing a customer or dancing naked on stage. I’m [other stage name] on the phone with a bachelor party contact, or laughing with a coworker. And so on.

Still, I shouldn’t be surprised at the pleasure I take in hearing my real name spoken out loud.

Today, I was reminded of one of my bike-racer conquests (I have a thing for men in spandex). What I remember most about him is how he said my real name over and over again in hushed and awestruck tones while I moved over him in bed. Those whisperings, almost more than the act itself, drove me deeper and faster, desire catching on my breath.

How evocative, how intimate, it is when a person looks at you and says your name.

Say it to me and I feel seen, recognized. And if there’s something that I crave - as a person who works in an industry that demands disguise, in a job that requires I project someone who is not quite myself into the crowd – it is to be seen, to be recognized.

* * * *

My name is Honey. What’s your name?

I chose Honey for a reason. It’s absurd and stereotypical. It’s fake hair and nails and tits and all the things I’m not. It’s what you call me automatically when you forget my name.

You aren’t meant to believe me, and you often don’t. You’ll ask me again and again, “Tell me your name. Your real name,” And I’ll laugh or smile or bend closer to your ear and say my stage name again. “It’s a childhood nickname,” I’ll lie. “It’s for the color of my hair, the only blond in my family.” Not a lie, but close to it.

Or maybe you’ll hold my hand for a lingering second after I introduce myself, waiting for an explanation. “Honey, like honeysuckle,” I purr and laugh, and you’ll know that I’m not taking myself too seriously.

I understand why you want to know. As the naked one in the room, I already have an advantage. It’s not fair that you sit there exposed, the longing plain on your face, while I get to slink away anonymously.

A name is a powerful thing.

Your name in my mouth is like a promise. I’ll use it on you like a spell while I dance or move or twist in my chair. Whereas my name is my costume, yours is another revelation, another part of you laid bare.

So go ahead. Trust me. Tell me your name. Listen as I breathe it into your ear. If you’re patient, if you can wait, maybe I’ll even tell you mine.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Ah yes.

I'm trying out some new looks. If you like it or hate it, let me know.

Red is my favorite color, fyi.

44 dollars. Part One.

First.

Months ago, I checked out the club. I brought my friend and made nice with a couple of the girls who gave me the skinny. We went on a Monday and boy, was it dead.

Even though there weren't more than four or five single men dwarfed by the emptiness of the club, I looked at each one and thought, yes, you would give me money.

I imagined them smiling at me as I sauntered up, could feel the bills they would press into my palm, eyes focused and longing. Not easy like pie, I thought, but possible.

Second.

I considered and reconsidered.

Every state, every city has different legal requirements of their strippers, and mine had enough to give me pause. I paused. After two months of consideration, I decided to go ahead.

Like many clubs, the one I chose to try gives new dancers a number of free days, or days where one is not required to pay 'stage rent.' I figured I'd go through my free days and re-evaulate.

If I made money, I would continue this new thing, working at a club in my city. If not, I would stop. Bachelor parties and private shows are infinitely preferable, though unfortunately inconsistant. Plus there's always the peepshow.

Third.

Last Thursday. My first shift. I decided to go in at the last minute, clocked in by 9:30 after going over a lengthy contract with the night manager. I had stripperfied before leaving my house, my make-up and hair pretty much as hot as I could manage. I felt good and powerful and ready to try my game at this new place. Just five days earlier, I'd worked three (relatively short) shows in one night, earning 6 dollars shy of a grand. Nothing like the memory of a good night at work to bolster yourself for the one you're about to start.

I stayed for 4 and a half hours. I went into the dressing room twice. Once to pee and re-gloss my lips, and once to scarf a banana.

I talked to every single customer who came in. I did my thing. I flirted, teased, made cute small talk and asked interested questions.

After I realized that most girls were climbing into the laps of the people they were talking to, I started climbing into laps. After I realized that most (like 95%) of the girls were walking around the club in string bikini tops and thongs, I took off my school-girl skirt and the tiny white stomach-bearing shirt I was wearing over my bra.

I worked my ass off, as best as I know how, putting my 8 years of stripping experience to use.

I made 44 dollars.


* * *

It makes me tired just thinking about it. There's more to tell, but sleep and homework call.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.