Xmas Cheer

Feeling sorry for self. Day time.

It’s a beautiful sunny day outside and I’m indoors with a nose that’s running clear snot like a tap, man voice, explosive headache, no company and no food. There’s nothing quite like a bad cold on a hot summer’s day to make you feel ripped off. No wait, add – day 8 of period, bad skin and day 3 with no poo and you get a bit closer. Above all, it’s the no food that really hurts. Some comforting confectionary, an early xmas pudding with custard, would possibly maybe make me feel a little bit better. Preferrably gluten free and home delivered by one of my delightful friends, complete with gossip about famous people I don’t care about. Gossip about people I know but don’t care about would be even better.

Feeling sorry for self. Night time.

Most of my friends are at work right now. Shaking ass, drinking, hustling and skilfully multitasking i.e. making money and having a good time simultaneously. My boyfriend is at an Xmas party with other friends. They will also be shaking ass – but to better music, drinking, and there may be some multitasking going on there too i.e. left hand holding ciggie and drink, mouth chewing doritoes while talking, right hand sweeping fragments of spat dorito from laptop screen before selecting next dirty rnb track.

I’m home alone. Blogging.

How the hell did this happen?

Consolations

The sudafed I bought and trialled this afternoon appears to be working, although I’m a little disappointed. I expected more from something that requires a driver’s license to purchase.  I have pooed – possibly due to sudafed? I am optimistic about being able to work tomorrow.  I am two sleeps away from being joyfully reunited with my dog, my cuter than a baby bunny niece, and my sister – who is actually the best sister in the whole wide world.

So, despite missing two of the biggest nights of the year on the Stripper Calendar, I’m trying not to let the gaping financial hole piss all over my xmas cheer. I am reminding myself that the good thing about money, is that there is always more to be made. I am thankful for my friends and family, my boyfriend, my home and the opportunities that have presented themselves to me. It’s been a challenging fucker of a year but I’m glad to be feeling positive at the end of it and ready to move forward.

I’m over half-way through “The Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills” Season 2, so I could quote my way into Deepak Chopra’s private dinner party with inspirational, motivational and positive sentiments. But I won’t. All I will say is that – “I’ve found my voice. And I’m not afraid to use it.”

Seriously though, if you’re reading a stripper blog, then it’s safe to say you like a bit of scandal, drama, and artificially buxom women with botox and hair extensions, bitch slapping the shit out of each other. You should really watch Housewives BH. It’s amazing.

Happy Xmas everyone and good luck making your millions girls xX

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Jamless Donut

Sometimes I get home from work and feel completely demoralised. Tonight is one of those.  I guess 3 quiet nights in a row is enough to take the jam outta your donut. I’m also still trying to get my mojo back after having some time away with my family. Knowing that my mother is ashamed of what I do, knowing that it upsets her and that she’ll never accept it, is something that I bring back to Melbourne with me. I can feel myself carrying it around at work. This disappointment. And the judgement. Making me feel like her love is conditional. Bringing to the forefront my own conditioning.

I feel judged by all of them. As if my mother’s eyes and heart are everywhere, blanketing the club. With each dance I can feel myself hurting her. My guilt has stripped me of my confidence. I feel exposed. I feel awkward. I walk around the bar and I feel like crying but I have to smile. I smoke cigarettes regularly for the first time since May 15 2010. I can hear my own forced laughter and it sounds like breaking glass. Hard and sharp. These men can sense weakness, they really can, and it doesn’t make them nicer. My Catholic education and upbringing are ghosting me and I’d really, really, really just like them to fuck off.

It took me a long time to feel ok about what I do. It wasn’t until I fell in love with my boyfriend that I learnt to feel that there was nothing wrong with it, and nothing wrong with me. He is least judgemental person I’ve ever known. A blessing. I need to spend more time with him, so he can condition me in the other direction.

I have to snap out of it. Turn it all around for myself. Be ok with myself again. Stop thinking about donuts. Especially jam donuts. I can’t eat them. I should forget all about the donuts.

With Time, The Unexpected

I have a regular customer who is more of a friend these days. I’ve known him for five and a half years and I never would have thought that I could develop a relationship like this with someone I met at work. We aren’t particularly close but I have a real soft spot for him. We easily go six months without speaking but I truly care for this guy. I don’t know when his birthday is or if he has brothers and sisters. The small stuff doesn’t matter.

The first night we met, I remember seeing him go for a few dances. So I asked, and he accepted. Man, I thought he was the biggest weirdo. He was SO into the dance. Like, holding-onto-the-bar-grunting-and-groaning into it. His would push out his chest, and his eyes would literally roll back into his head. I’m thinking, ‘Is he taking the piss out of me?‘, ‘Does he need help? Should I be checking his wallet for some kind of epilepsy card and calling an emergency contact?‘, ‘Did he just cream his pants?

Granted, my lappies did used to be more graphic. For the first year there were spreads and boobs in faces willy nilly. By the time I got home from London in mid 2007, I’d switched channels from XXX to Disney. And so it was that as my dances became less centrefold, he became less strange. He would come in occasionally and spend up to $100-200. Never any more than that.

My ex-boyfriend was just the kind of guy that people imagine a stripper would be with. Charismatic though rough, extremely intelligent but very lazy, incredibly abusive, manipulative and riddled with drug and alcohol addictions. Made me feel like dirt about my job, but more than happy to be jobless for 6 months at a time while I supported him, or on the odd occasion that he helped himself to my cash savings. In 2008, on my first night back at work after breaking up with him, this particular regular came in to see me.

He sat next to me in the back room, on a sunken old chesterfield with his arm draped over my fully clothed shoulder. He paid $700 to sit there and listen to me while I told him my sorrows and cried my face clean for 3 hours. It was beyond raccoon eyes. That much salt water flowed down my face, that there was not a spot of makeup left on it. I was such an emotionally battered and withered person, that I wanted to move back to my home town and make it work somehow. I wanted to quit dancing because my ex told me ‘You’re nothing but a piece of pussy. You’ll never be happy and you’ll never make anyone happy. How could you? So many guys have seen your cunt it may as well be your face. Look at you. Who the fuck would wanna be with you? I don’t fucking want you. You’re a fucking piece of shit bitch.’

To this day, I remember these words. Verbatim.

I thought if I quit dancing, that it would fix everything and he would love me. My customer listened to me tell him all of this. Every single word of it. I could see he was so sad for me. His brow was furrowed with worry as he said, ‘I don’t know that he’s right for you. But if you really want to go home and stop dancing, I’ll lend you $10,000 so that you can afford to take time off, and get better, and work things out. I know you’re good for it. I know you’ll pay me back when you can.’

His offer was not accepted. But has always been appreciated. I will never, ever forget his kindness. When I think about him my heart swells a little with a mixture of warmth, sadness and affection. I still dance for him, once or twice a year. We’ve been out for dinner. I think he just comes in so I don’t feel discarded. We know each other well now. I still dance for about the first 2 minutes but I know he’s not into it. Gone are the groans, the eyes no longer roll. I always end up sitting and talking. We are both indifferent to the dancing, but we respect the tradition of where and how we met. It’s almost a homage. It was the beginnings of our unexpected friendship.

If you’re reading this blog, please follow the link and “like” the page. I’ll soon be sending all my updates through the page rather than my actual facebook. Thanks!

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Planet Penis Strikes Again!

Working at strip clubs, it never ceases to amaze me what can be construed as an invitation. Leaning forward and looking into a guy’s eyes is obviously asking for a kiss. To me, it’s trying to engage with my customer.

Holding onto your own g-string and snapping it against your own thigh is a beacon for a guy to grab it and try and pull it down.  To me, that just means I’m 7 minutes and 49 seconds in my 10 minute routine.

Bending over can only be sign language for ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl, please old man, discipline me and slap my arse.’

Apparently merely walking past a man – particularly those of Indian descent here in Melbourne – out on the floor can be a request to have his hand gently cup your ass and slide up towards your cha cha. No, no, sorry you fucking idiot. I’m just making my way from the toilet to the bar. Hopefully you caught some residual urine and faecal matter when you tried to casually violate me while I was passing through.

Is behaviour like this really acceptable on Planet Penis? I guess it must be very confusing. This having a penis business. When you’re being sent messages from two places at the same time there will, no doubt, be mix ups. Culture, manners, empathy, compassion, upbringing all seem to get flicked to the wayside on Planet Penis.

They just don’t understand the concept of a service that has been purchased. Melbourne is also rife with illiteracy as few men seem able to decipher the letters that spell out “Touching is illegal in Victoria”, or “Do Not Touch or Harrass the Dancers.”

Having said all that, the men aren’t all to blame. Personally I’m not into letting guys touch me past my calves. There are some girls that don’t mind it, and that’s fine. As for the girls who don’t even seek the privacy of a room when they are letting men grope them, grinding on cocks, biting and licking ears (thank you to that special lady dancing across from me on Monday night) for an extra how-ever-many-dollars, can all you please change clubs and move to Kittens. You know, the strip club with the brothel license?

We need to help each other AND help those poor stupid people from Planet Penis. They don’t really know any better. It’s us ladies that need to set them straight. Bring back the strip tease and down with the strip would you like a side of my saliva and a hand job with that?

The F Word

As offensive as the word ‘fat’ is to the average girl, so too is the word ‘free’ to a stripper.

Upon offering one’s services as a tres exoticus perfectus dancer to a guy, there is almost nothing more annoying than any one of the following replies in which the ‘f’ word is used; ‘Is it free?’, ‘Only if it’s free’, ‘Do I get it for free cause I’m young and good looking?’, ‘It should be free for girls though….’. Like hell.

Are you fucking serious?

When I go to work, I like to get paid. And as I’ve never, in my whole 6 years of dancing met anyone who works in a charity, I’m pretty sure you all do too. And I don’t care if it’s your birthday. What the hell did you get me for mine? They often have some weird, smug expression on their face, as though pleased to have thought of it first. Except the girls. They usually mean it.

‘Is it free?’, as a response to the offer of a lapdance, can only be surpassed in annoyingness by ‘Where’s the dance floor?’, or maybe ‘Why don’t you pay me, and I’ll give you a lapdance?’

Would it be asking too much to have the ‘f’ word outlawed in the club?

Credit where credit is due though, over the years I have met a few people who work for/with charities in some way, shape or form. They have ALL been dancers, none of them customers! It’s possible that this is a reflection of the demographic we see, or it could just be that there are lot’s of kind hearted ladies of the night out there.

Pepperoni Pizza Face

One night when I was working at Stringfellows in London, I was chatting with an Aussie suit and all of a sudden he told me that I was fat. Too fat to be a dancer.

I was chubsome, about 9kg heavier than I am now, but not fat. Having said that I have always been prone to eating my feelings, so it was only natural for me to console myself by instantly ordering a big bowl of hot chips with a blood bath worth of tomato sauce from the kitchen. Even in my anguish, I could appreciate that they were depressingly derishuss.

My dear friend and colleague Misty was horrified at his unabashed and unprovoked maliciousness. We had all been standing around having a nice old chat prior to his dropping the fatty. In between strawberry daquiris, she went over to him and asked if he had had terrible acne growing up. He was taken aback and asked ‘Why?’ She then pointed her finger at his face, twirled it around in circles a couple of times, squinting her eyes as she moved her face closer to his and gently said “Mmmm, it’s just that even from across the room I could see these cratering scars pokking all over your face.” He was pretty upset. I think he got the picture, “Do unto others…”, and all that.

He really did have a pepperoni pizza face. I’d say he still has one but suck shit asshole, I dropped my extra kg’s years ago. Perhaps if you’d asked nicely I would have let you use my third arse for a skin graft.