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.