THE GRUDGE

I work with a girl whom we call The Grudge. She really was just like the girl in the horror movie. Her demeanor, her glide, her face slightly downturned to one side so that when she spoke to men she would have to gaze upward through one half of the long straight black curtain of her hair. The effect was both incredibly eerie and mesmerizing. I’d watch her from across the room wondering what the hell she could possibly be saying to get guys into the rooms? Did she speak at all? She would literally seem to just appear next to a man and one hand would lightly move, with such fluidity and grace, to place itself on the edge of his shoulder or arm. She wasn’t a crotch grabber, or an ear licker when she hustled. She didn’t press herself up on, or drape herself all over the boys. She actively avoided contact with most of the girls she worked with, and as a result, who she was as a person just added to the mystery of The Grudge. The club lights never seemed to find her in full. She was luminescent and somehow the light seemed to refract as if passing through her, creating a hologram effect. She would breeze by cold and pale, receding into the dark shadowy pockets of the club. Lingering there, glowing as a ghost would. Existing. Watching. Then, spotting a man, she would get going for a glide. First she was here, and then, she was over there! As if by magic.

thegrudge

Once I was with a customer and I left him at the bar so I could check my podium times on the roster backstage. I was gone for no more than 2 minutes and when I came back The Grudge had one pale frosty hand on the shoulder of my guy. At my home club, us girls will just let each other know if a customer has been waiting for us so that the intercepting girl doesn’t waste her time. It’s accepted and appreciated for us to do things this way. As I was midway through extending this one liner courtesy to The Grudge, her downturned head sharply clicked upward by only a 22 degree angle, so for the first time ever, I saw her gaze lock straight forward, burning into my eyeballs. A strand or two of her perfectly straight, beautiful long, glossy Asian hair became dislodged. All of a sudden she looked distressed, derailed, deranged, as she began screaming into my face. A blood curdling scream. Over reactive, hysterical, guttural, horrific…. I don’t know if I could use enough adjectives to describe how much over kill was laser beamed into this moment, searing a firey hole into the fabric of the universe directly in front of the male toilets.

“I’M SPEAKING TO HIM NOW YOU CAN’T COME OVER HERE UNTIL I’M FINIIIIIIIIIIIISHED!!!!! YOU SHOULD NOT DO THIIIIIIIIIS!!!!!”

In this moment, I realized that I am not particularly good when it comes to confrontations of a higher decible. My glib vocabulary and tinkling laughter evacuated the building and I was left with two raised eyebrows and an open gaping mouth, staring of its own accord at the spectacle. My freshly botoxed eyebrows were actually incapable of raising themselves. My brain was sending furious messages to my eyebrows to move, and my paralyzed eyebrows were scrambling these messages to my nostrils, which, due to the scrambled directive and their own unique set of raising limitations, then flared out to their full capacity creating a generous circumference that had to be seen to be believed. Like a peacock fanning tail, it was probably the most impressive nostril flare of my life. Her widened eyes and my widened nostrils were engaged in a face off. In the end my nostrils won by default as my customer finally regained his composure, lightly placed his hand on my shoulder and led me away, gliding across the floor in a state of shock.

 

The Big O

  
People often feel a little guilty about objectifying us girls when they visit a strip club. I guess that’s one thing to feel bad about if you’re an asshole about it. But it’s also condescending to think of strippers as victims of objectification. I mean really, no one seems to feel sorry for the 14 year old Kate Moss in that Calvin Klein campaign. It’s the very thought that turns it from an appreciation to an objectification.

It’s what a lot of women like to think so they can feel sorry for us and be safe because obviously we are all fucked in the head, which therefore makes us less appealing, and therefore less likely to steal the husbands or boyfriends of theirs that we have absolutely no interest in stealing. These concerned girlfriends and wives obviously haven’t heard that thing about how crazy girls are the best fucks in the forest because if they had they’d be increasing their benzodiazepine intake to allay their fears of members of orthodox or born again church groups; women living in isolation on self sustaining farms in bum-fuck-no-town-no-where bunking on mattresses stuffed with sustainably farmed organic straw in shipping crates collecting the hair shed from their bodies to reverently stuff the pillow of their long haired guru; and of course girls in mental hospitals who can be unpredictable and on all kinds of meds. And they certainly would not see the correlation between the benzo use of themselves and the latter. No need to worry so much about the strippers or the crazies. The kind of bitch who will go after your hapless man, powerless like a deer in tit lights, will not be contained to just one industry. That kind of bitch, is that kind of bitch, no matter how she makes her money.

It’s what a lot of men like to think so they can feel like nice guys when they ask you “What are you doing in a place like this? Doing a job like this? You’re such a nice girl. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. Sweet…” As though they are really, no I mean really seeing us as humans. As if you can’t be all of those things and take your clothes off for money. As if you can only be all those things if you star in Disney kids shows (ja cause Britney and Lindsay are such awesome idols for your children), or work with special needs kids, or work behind the counter at Baker’s Delight getting paid $12 an hour and stuffing your face with samples of sundried tomato pull apart bread all day long – I only say this because that’s what I’d be doing…. No offence intended for anyone who actually does work at Baker’s Delight. OMG and shit quality custard tarts!!! I would smash those all day every day til I was sweating sweet gooey custard that I could collect from my arm pits and scrape back into empty pie shells I bought from Woollies on a Saturday morning, refrigerate and then eat all over again in the afternoon.

On the nights that my humour is still in tact and guys ask me what I really do for a living, what income in a respectable trade I need to subsidise, I often tell them I work with people with special needs. People who dribble and sometimes even vomit on themselves, don’t understand social etiquette, have addiction issues, anger management problems, mental retardation coupled with sexual perversions, autistics from across the entire spectrum and people with Aspergers disease who don’t understand emotions and how their words and actions effect others.

“Wow! Really?? That’s so saaaaad. Those poor people. How long have you been doing that for?” Sometimes they get it. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I let them in on the joke. Sometimes I don’t.

“Yes, I really do work in community services…..in a way. Yes, sometimes it really does bring me down. It can be pretty intense. Yeaaaaaah.”

Sometimes nasty ladies of the 9-5 circuit come in and objectify us too. They sit at our podiums specifically to snarl and snigger at us and talk about our cellulite, or how their bff 4 eva sitting next to them is waaaaaay hotter than that girl on the stage, or how she has been going to Pole Divas for nearly 2 years now and is totally so much better at that descending angel inversion than that girl is…oh, and waaaaay hotter too. I imagine this last type of girl actually ends up demonstrating this inversion on a pole at 1 Oak in New York’s west side, or any which one of Melbourne CBD’s unsuspecting sign posts in the wee drunken hours of her “later that night” montage. Unashamedly displaying her g-banger and the half of her butt cheeks that drew the short straw and didn’t get to hang out the bottom of her skirt that night. This epidemic of pole rape is sweeping its way across many nations like wildfire. And it’s not due to globalization or climate change. I hope it never stops because it’s insanely entertaining and hopefully therapeutic cause these girls obviously have something they need to express that isn’t seeing the light of day or the dark of night frequently enough.

On the flip side of that female market there are also many feminists out there defending our rights as real people with real feelings and to them I’d like to say thanks for the sentiment of care but without delving into a muff that I don’t know that much about having never done that myself, us kids are alright! And if we aren’t, it’s not due to being objectified by strangers. If this were the case I’m pretty sure every girl who walks the street out there in pretty much every country, fat or thin, short or tall, would also be in a high risk category and worthy of an armed defence force and pamphlet literature containing A LOT OF UPPER CASE BOLD text.

To be honest, sometimes it’s a relief to be the object of my own heart’s desire. To just be a shell of a girl. Shiny and bright. Under lights that erase the imperfections of my body that I notice daily. Languid limbs dancing slowly to my own song on a pole in the middle of a snow globe. Suspended in time with glitter falling all around until the floor is covered in a life that seems brighter than the shit day you just had, the Aunty you visited in a hospice last week who’s skull is the most prominent feature of a face that once had a sparkle you’ll never forget. It can be your 20 minutes of peace that set, or your one accumulated one hour of happiness that day. Unless they play top 40 Katy Perry, Skrillex or any one of the empowering Pink ballads on the system. In which case your day is still fucked and the soundtrack to your nightmares has been decided for you by the DJ who is too busy getting a blowjob in the booth to care what kind of ear violation he is subjecting you to.

Objectification is in the eye of the beholder. Hold onto it, or let it go but please don’t spoof into my sparkle globe with your condescending cunt or cock confetti.

   

Ride on the Peace Train

I’m trying not to think about work too much at the moment, which is why I haven’t been writing much.

I moved back to my old club a few months ago cause my old injury just wasn’t coping very well with the 12 hour shifts and numerous trips up and down stairs in stupid heels to check podium rosters, not to mention actually doing the podiums through the night. My spirit wasn’t coping very well with bitchy, venomous girls talking trash about each other. And I really was just missing my ladies at my old club house. It took an anxiety attack and some serious pain in my old injury to actually push me back into the arms of my first club love.

But, unfortunately, as is often the case, I was in love with what once was. Not what now is. And when I say that, I just mean that the money isn’t as good there anymore. Thankfully the bikies and bottom feeder gangsta wannabes have moved on, but so too has the phenomenal money.

It seems inevitable that I will soon be back up the road. I have made my mind up that if I am to survive there, I will have to seriously adjust my behaviour. I can no longer afford to humour people by listening to them relay their drama with other girls. I need to keep my head in the clouds, high up above the whining tornado of cut throat narcissism. I need to keep my head phones in to block out the penetrating, high pitched sound of bitch.

Obviously I take no credit for the clip shown above.

I only ever had one beef up there, and it wasn’t even my beef. So inconsequential it’s not worth mentioning in detail. Suffice to say, the girl’s quarrel with me was laughable and her only accomplishment was to make herself look even more stupid, which was no mean feat.

I’m not the type to fight with my co-workers. In almost 7 years, I’ve had one proper fight. I am now friends with that lady. Fighting wasn’t really a significant part of the club culture where I was sprouted as a fresh little bean. Although there has always been a hierarchy, we had, and still do have, a sisterhood that many girls from any walk of life might envy. We watch each other’s backs and stand up for each other. I once had a couple of girls catch me crying backstage after an encounter with a particularly nasty Irishman. They asked me to point out who he was and then made their way over to casually spill a glass of red wine on his crisp, mean shirt. At my club house we don’t have any fear of other girls “stealing” our regulars, or cutting our grass, because it never really happens. And the girls who try to work that way are told to their face that their behaviour will not  be tolerated. They don’t last very long. It’s the girls who keep each other in line. Not management. And to be fair, it shouldn’t be the responsibility of management to tell their staff how to be good people.

Up the road things are different. I’ve never in my life seen and heard women treat each other so poorly. It was really awful to be around. Drama, drama, drama ALL the time. This girl is fighting with that girl, she meets up with customers after work to fuck them for money, she has diseases, she doesn’t have diseases that she says she has, they used to be friends but then that girl stole her regular, she was sleeping with the manager, she’s lying about this or that, she thinks she’s a fucking model, that girl has ‘stolen’ the moves from that other showgirl’s routine, blah blah blah who gives a shit blah blah blah.

But at the same time, there are a few girls that I really do miss. A couple of cheeky monkeys from behind the bar. Some locker room banter. And the money. It was ridiculous. The management are less inclined to treat you like a human being which has its pros and cons. Pros are that I worked really hard, I learnt not to be flaky cause I’m half Asian, therefore pretty stingy, and it would kill me to hand over a $120 penalty for cancelling my shift. Cons are, that when you really aren’t coping, and really and truly have a valid reason for cancelling a shift, they don’t care. And you know that you are just a number. Just another set of boobs and a vagina strapped into a pair of platform stilettos. That doesn’t feel very nice. It’s why I hated working in offices for big corporations. But at the end of the day, we might have off days, sad days, hormonal crazy lady days, our kids might be sick, our granny might die, but they are a business and their cogs keep turning. It’s not the way I hope to run my business, but it’s their way of doing business and I need to accept that and learn not to take it to heart.

If and when I do try again there, assuming I’m allowed back, I hope I don’t hear a bad word breathed about anyone, and I hope I can stay out of it all and don’t diminish myself myself as a person by partaking in any form of useless negative behaviour. I know I let myself get tangled up in nonsense. I want to be OUT of the loop. I want sunshine, lollipops and I want everyone to ride on the fucking peace train.

Not me. Not my photo. I was not alive in the 70s…

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