I still have no idea why people pay me. For a start, I’m a Disney stripper. I don’t do spreads without underwear on, I don’t touch people and I don’t shove my boobs in their face. I don’t find the nudity sexual. It is what it is. Body of Eve before the apple was eaten.
Germs. Sweaty, sticky alcohol hands. Bleh. Oily faces. Scratchy faces. Ugly faces with tongues lolling out and eyeballs rolling back in heads. Disgusting. Syrupy Jack Daniels and coke breath with the heavy cloud of cigarette stench on top. Rancid. The occasional specimen who has remembered to brush their teeth this year and spray perfume before they left the house. Heavenly.
These days I try not to remember people. Good or Bad. But of course, pictures, sounds, conversations, phrases, smells, feeling, operate on a level beyond my control, and memories are made. My own experiences and those of others that slip through the filter are the ones I’ll be passing on here.
There is no one way to answer the question “Why do people pay us?”. There are way too many variables to put it down to any number of things. Each to their own and all that.
Lonely? Got a fetish? Bored? Undersexed and overpaid? Sadistic? Curious? Wanna realise and release your alter ego? Unfaithful? Hedonistic? Artistic? Do girls avoid you when you go out? Stupid? Smug? Horny? Looking for love in all the wrong places? Well, this is the blog for you.