Chocolate, Vanilla or Strawberry?

I was dating a guy in NYC a couple of years ago whom I suspected, might be obsessed with anal sex. I suspected this because he used to fumble around my downstairs with his penis, like someone making their way through somebody elses house during a blackout wielding nothing but a broken torch to guide them. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, naively wondering if he was having trouble finding the correct hole. You know, the one that naturally lubricates itself, is directly adjacent to the clitoris and stretches in an accommodating manner. This fumbling business happened a lot. The next clue, was the off handed comments he would frequently make referring to anal sex.  Months later, when I was back in Australia continuing a relationship with him, he sent me a dick pic. It was awful on so many levels.

Two things stood out the most, the pubes that had been given the haircut of a Gregorian monk, and the anal porn captured in a freeze frame in the background. Both things, disturbing in equal measures. One of my girlfriends was crashing at mine during this period and I showed her the picture. She gasped. Then laughed. Then turned the lights on for me, illuminating the fact that yes, this manchild was obsessed with anal sex. Just as I’d suspected! Ding!! She pieced the puzzle of the photograph together with a conversation I’d had with her once about being bored with the sex because he always had to finish by flipping me over, pushing my face down in a pillow and pounding one out.

“BABE! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW?!?!?! SERIOUSLY? IT’S SO OBVIOUS.”

To this day, she still cannot believe that I can be so dense. So unquestioning. So simultaneously inexperienced but experienced. It wasn’t obvious to me. I’d been in relationships for the better part of twelve and a half years since I was a teenager and had been terrorised by a small number of shit dicks in between (the trauma caused by weird ass, marshmallow, enoki mushroom, mini winni dicks was so real that Shit Dick is #1 on my Deal Breaker List).

I’ve had anal sex before. When I was 19. It hurt like Hades and the experience can only be likened to having a sword shoved up my arse. I told him so. I also asked him if he actually really wanted to have anal sex or was he just joking, to which he replied….

“No! I’ve done it a few times before. But I wasn’t that into it…you know….sometimes you pull out and get a whiff….”

Thereby eliminating ANY chance that he had of me exploring the option again. Deny, deny, deny. All that attempted anal probing. For nothing. What an idiot. If he weren’t such a closet anal prober, he would be able to plan in advance and be with someone who keeps a bathroom cabinet shelf full of spare douches. Denying himself his best chances of world class whiffless butthole surfing.

Like a small child who had tried to sneak his spoon into the neapolitan icecream tub and steal aaaaaall the chocolate flavour and having the lid slammed down on him. Cutting the spoon off in the nick of time as it blindly wandered the stripes, pretending it wasn’t sure if it was the strawberry, vanilla or chocolate flavour that he was attempting to lodge his spoon in. He would’ve got further if he’d been honest about it. I told him this as we remained friends for a couple of years after the demise of our vanilla dating experience.  Until I visited NYC again in October last year. I was supposed to stay at his place in the East Village for five nights. I had expressed several times before hand that there would be no spooning, no kissing, no sexing for it was neither my vanilla, strawberry nor my chocolate stripe that enjoyed the aggressive, porn computed tappings of his spoon. I drew the lines of clear platonic borders and I expressed this several times, but his ego was beyond borders. Total waste of a good spoon. Strong. Rock solid. Upstanding. I warned him, the lid to my tub of icecream closed to him in 2013 and was not about to open any time soon aka ever.

I ran away after two nights. So stressed out by this pathetic prober that I was on the verge of insanity. First I ran to a bar to see girlfriends Fat Percy and Dolly who were able to assist me in the drowning of sorrows in my favourite sorrow drowning joint in the East Village. Then to where my  girlfriends Lolly and Kimba were staying a few blocks away where I was able to rest my weary head and give my fight or flight instincts a much needed safe house. Lids to all of my flavours safely sealed, without danger of intruders. Since returning to Melbourne, there’s been only two fumblings. Both with inflatable spoons that just haven’t quite had enough in them to make it smoothly into even the vanilla tub, let alone work its way over to chocolate. I consider myself as in the midst of a drought. Waiting patiently for a solid, unwavering, good looking spoon to come along and hang with my forkables. A spoon that isn’t attached to a lying misogynist with anal shame and mummy issues would be great.

 

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Vagina Face

  

There’s this thing that men, women and everyone do where they like to make unsolicited comments on your personal appearance. I was prey to this at an early age. While my sister had nicknames like Pretzel and Sticks, my relatives thought to cleverly offset these with my nicknames of Pork Chop and Garfield. Then somehow they are genuinely surprised that I had a weird relationship with food and had a brief love, hate, vomit affair with an eating disorder in my mid 20s.

In much the same way, it’s common for men in the club to pass judgement on our appearance. “It’s just so nice to see a woman with real curves these days.” Note to such men, no matter how you phrase it, few Australian women like to be told they have put on weight, are curvy, or voluptuous. Down here on lonely island we run behind the booty loving times of the USA and UK. It’s hard to keep up with the rest of the world when you’re clutching onto a snack pack of celery sticks, sprinting on minimal calories with bow legs cause you’re trying to maintain your box gap at a pace.

Back in the day when I would allow the men to speak their minds, I’d have bets placed on what the status of my pubic hair would be. Bald like a prepubescent girl? Landing strip? Untrimmed? Some creative topiary perhaps? The latter would always be the witticism of the group imbecile with a laugh like the stupid hyena from The Lion King. Not knowing the term “topiary” it would usually be expressed more along the lines of, “Yeah! I bet fifty bucks she has her bush cut into the shape of a fucking rooster or something. Cock on ‘er box! LOL. Like on Edward Scissorhands. ROFL. Edward VAGINAhands. LOL. Why was that faggot crying if he got to trim bushes all the time?? (more LOLing and ROFLing)”  Yes, yes. We get it dickhead. Excellent use of a double entendre “bushes”. Clever. This is what we, as dancers deal with on a regular basis. Some girls are so professional that they can even make themselves giggle with conviction. I cannot.

To turn the tables, I’d like to address the not so recent trend of the fluffy beard. The beard so big, long, puffy and lustrous that it has the consistency of freshly spun fairy floss at a state fair. Untrimmed. Requiring the launch of beard oil products into the Anglo world. Caressing the space around it as it drifts in the breeze, seemingly with a body and mind of its own. Enjoying the tickling sensation of sweat gathering at the tip of the tuft, dripping to the ground below. Every time I see one, I can only think of a hairy armpit in my face at a festival, and a vagina on someone’s face. An untrimmed, 1980’s vagina coat.

Before I ever kissed someone with a big, bushy beard, I’d always imagined what that would feel like. Then I did kiss someone with a big, bushy beard and I found that I’d imagined with great accuracy, how gross it would be. The beard part. Not the mouth, lips, tongue part. Just the fluffy face pubes, like a million flies on my face, grazing their little wings just inside my nostrils. The man was beautiful, gentle charisma, funny as fuck, was my hero with a perfect nose, blue eyes bursting like sunbeams, sweetest soul and built like a tattoo covered giant in a cowboy hat…with a vagina face. I’d like to say that I’m patiently waiting for the trend to shrivel up and die, as patiently as a mother who hopes it’s just a craze as she observes her 13 year old son has just started smoking weed and listening to limp bizkit…. But I’m not. Patient that is. I’m so bloody over it. I am a single woman dealing with the stark reality that 95% of men fall into at least one of the following categories: boring, couldn’t handle a dinner party with me and my friends, can’t handle my job even though they say they have “no judgement”, have beards, have dad bods. Seeing a potentially cute face trying to claw it’s way to stardom through the obstructive curtains of a fluffy beard is such a waste. Makes me feel like a guy at a peep show who’s gold coins never up the game. In so many cases I can see the cute eyes poking out over the puff of vagina face, the suggestion of plump kissable lips, a cheeky smile (dimples perhaps???), but unlike many women considering a labiaplasty, the lips of the man never quite protrude from the bush with 100% transparency out into the open air.

Every time I notice myself having these hateful thoughts, maliciously imagining myself taking to this or that face with a can of shaving cream and a razor, I feel slightly ashamed. I’m embarrassed because years later, I have discovered common ground between myself and the hyena from the Lion King pissing his pants laughing over the Cock on a Box. Schlepping my way around judging this and that, minus laughter, add forlorn whimper. Fingers crossed it’s only a few months before you all look back at your beards in photographs and wonder “What was I thinking? My strong jawline is hidden. My perfect cheekbones…hidden. My eyes….look promising but overshadowed by the ramshackle garden of pubes on my face.”

This is my Christmas wish. That all beards be reduced to rough stubble or shaved entirely. It’s shallow and selfish I know. But I can’t help it.

 

Dreams Come True!

Last night I was on the club Catwalk. Front centre pole, otherwise referred to as “Cellulite City”. It makes girls who have no cellulite, look like they do, and girls who do have cellulite, look like they need to fast. Forever. I’m in the latter category. But whatevs. I work my angles and find the shadows to keep me safe. Can’t remember if I was working my angles last night though. I’d had 3 tequilas, a hideous glass of cheap Australian sparkling and 2 vodkas in the 1.5 hours I spent with my regular customer. Effectively rendered myself entirely ineffective. SMASHED. He came and went so I was left to populate cellulite city with my thighs and ass alone. We did ok, not quite a metropolis. The music was good. Better than usual and I vaguely remember moving really slowly. Mostly so that I wouldn’t fall over or hit my forehead on the pole. I have a bad track record with stationary objects.

I looked up and saw a little Indian man coming toward the stage, his shiny bald head catching the light as he emerged out of the darkness. I beamed a big, happy, drunk smile at him. He beamed a happy little smile back.

“Hello, how are you going?” I said.

“I’m good. How are you?” He replied.

“I’m great! What’s your name?” I said.

“Blah Blah. What’s your name?” He replied.

Standard mind blowing opening conversation.

“Billie. Would you like a dance?” I asked.

He held out a little wad of $5 and $10 notes and gave them a little waggle up and down. Not in an offensive carrot dangling way, just in a wad of money waggling way.

“No, no. I don’t want you to dance. I want you to lie down.”

I’ve never been asked to do this on stage before so I made an effort. I lay down on the stage with my back arched and my legs elongated toward the ceiling, my ankles crossed lightly, making beautiful iridescent shapes with my body by catching the light just so.

“Open your dress.” He instructed.

It’s not a dress. It’s a playsuit but I didn’t think it was the appropriate time to correct him on the specifics of my garment.  I let it slide and pulled aside the two pieces of black fabric that drape over my breasts so they were exposed and peaking toward the ceiling. He stood there smiling at me from the shadows and then extended his arms, reaching his hands forward into the light. His wad of cash was sitting atop of his left palm, and with his right hand, he began to flick each note over the top of me. Slowly and deliberately at first, then with the reckless abandon of a small Indian man who is living his African American hip hop hunny DREAM, while also making a dream come true for an extremely drunk  stripper who had only moments ago been schlepping her way up and down and around a pole in cellulite city. Maybe the lights aren’t as bad as I thought…. No. They really are.

Fast forward 25 minutes to the smoking room where I was dressed and ready to go home. Lipstick wiped off. Fag in hand, slurring my way through a rubbish conversation with one of the other girls. A dancer walked in and asked to have a drag of my cigarette because her customer had just tried to stick his finger up her butt hole. Turned out it was my little Indian friend with the shiny head, ticking yet another one of his dreams off the list.

Black Dress 2_2

LOLITA

  

One of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen or could hope to see in real life. The actual unicorn of mine, and many other’s dancing careers.

I remember the very first time I saw Lolita in the locker room. Accompanied by the first of her string of egotistical, maniacal, narcissistic BFF’s. She was awkward at only 19 and I remember detesting her hair. It framed her face like a big boofy triangle, the contained frizz creating waves like a logo for a product designed specifically to control this issue that could really ruin a girl’s day. She didn’t say much but annoyed me just through her association with the mad queen who had the most shatteringly loud voice, laugh and presence in the room. The Queen of Hearts once tried to behead a friend and me for a transgression that existed in her crown alone. As the Queen flounced loudly from the Red Room, Lolly slipped us a shy smile and for about a millisecond her beautiful soul made contact with mine before she lowered the lids of her blue eyes and was swallowed up in the charged crimson wake of the Queen.

A couple of years later we became friends and 4 months after that I watched her marry her man in the country. A small affair of around 30 people. It was a blast. Their family and friends were an incredible testament to them. Funny, wild, intelligent. Drunk as fuck. Still intelligent. Drunker as fucker. Less intelligible.

Together we speak the same dialects of ridiculousness. Her skills are unsurpassed, well framed but never contained within the knowledge of a couple of languages and a library of literature who’s pages have been thumbed and folded in rapturous flips and turns.

Exhibit A

Billie: My petit bon oui citron chi chi. So sorree for tres over slumber incident. Was tres bien to google you bon bon shakie bon bon xX

Lolly: Spankyou muchlies le bonbon! C’est not un problem for le sleep-in, I like to catch le rays in my le car. Und sankyou for de presents in de bag, you are such an un le rockstar rock le roll schnazzle le dazzle******* X

Exhibit B

Billie: For the love of SERGIO!

Lolly: He doesn’t like George Michael…BOOOOOOOO!!!!

Billie: He is above the law.

Lolly: He is ALL man…he is like the perfect love child of Don Juan and Jesus…

Billie: …and a little bit of Johnny Depp for good measure. A measure I treasure. A sax in his dax. A song in the schlong?

Lolly: …a careless whisper in my hairless crisper…

Billie: …heart beat skipples, skyward thy nipples.

At first she may appear as quiet and awkward as she is beautiful but the layers go further and further to reveal something worth waiting for. It’s like holding a beautiful wilting ballerina peonie in your hands. So you peel off the outer layers of the wilted petals, with each layer the petals become more f-f-fresh. When you finally gain access to the heart of the flower you find a gigantic cartoon cock and hairy balls with confetti spoofing out of it right into your face. When Lolly is drunk the layers are dispensed of. She’s not shy or quiet when she’s tipsed. And in the case of full retard drunk, the gigantic cartoon cock with all of its confetti spoof goodness spritzes away indiscriminately like one of those hard core sprinklers on a high school oval.

Lolita is a professional. She rarely lets life outside the office get in the way of her paperwork. It’s rare to see her effected by negativity, or to witness her reacting aggressively to any one of the million awful things people say to us. She is die hard loyal to the club. She is die hard loyal to her friends. I once walked out the backstage door and saw her holding a friend of ours as her chest heaved with tears. Lolita had both her arms draped around the girl’s shoulders, her face downturned to the crown of the sobbing mop of hair as she gently said, “Don’t cry Sandy…. Please don’t cry.” The simplicity and sweetness of her was enough to melt anyone’s heart. She was like a child pleading with the mother and a mother comforting her child all rolled up into one big ball of love and compassion.

Recently our home club changed its rules as a non-touching club. A meeting was held on the Monday, to announce the new rules would commence on Thursday of the same week. I didn’t have the heart to attend the meeting. I was barely working anymore and I couldn’t match the outrage of my friends. It felt fucked up and awful but at the end of the day a business decision for an evolving industry that, as one of my dancer friends put so well, will probably be nothing but a burlesque feature show in 20 years time. I was just so sad to see a solid group of strong women break. I’m glad I didn’t go. Lolly was so upset. I was told that her tears poured out of her and that seeing her lose it “was like watching a unicorn cry.” A lot of girls quit. They felt violated and betrayed. Because it’s not just where we work, it’s our home. And these girls that we work with are our Ya Ya StripperHood. They give us the acceptance that some of us haven’t received from our families and a few of our friends. Together we giggle at how the narrow world beyond our magical kingdom would misconstrue our experiences. How much fun and laughter they miss out on just because they have a hive of bees in their bonnets about things they will never understand, at how they miss so much because the bees buzz too loud for them to hear the songs we sing. The tears of our unicorn seemed to mark the end of an era of enchantment. The golden years for the golden girls. Everything seemed altered. But our unicorn is still there, glimmering brightly in the darkness, heart still in tact and laugh still carrying over the bass of shit ass techno.

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.

   

The Rise And Fall of the Vertically Challenged – Hitting Below The Belt

Ouwwwwch! My fucking vagina!
I stay cool. I make my face light while inside I battle my reflex to fold over
myself.
What the fucking fuck just torpedoed MY VAGINA?
I take stock of the people. Scan for signs of a smug expression, someone
trying too hard to act natural…
Did I walk into the corner of the pool table? A bar stool?
I look down and what the hell am I looking at, but a midget, or do I say dwarf?
Dwarf.
I look down at the dwarf.
“Did you just punch me in the vagina?”
He looks up at me, shrugs his shoulders and raises one eyebrow,
“Meh.”
Fucker.
I take dignified strides to the elevated DJ booth and climb the steps to his eye
level,
“Andy!”
Thrusting my arm behind me in the direction of my assailant.
“That dwarf just punched me in the vagina!”
When I turn my head my rigid index finger points at an empty space. The
dwarf now stands at the foot of the steps taking a long swig of beer and a hard stare
directly up into my butt cheeks. A snort and a ripple of laughter from the DJ booth
override the music blaring in the club.
The dwarf shrugs his shoulders, his eyes drill a hole through the fabric of my
outfit and into the center of my ass-universe.
“Ew!” I say, “Gross.”
“Meh.”
He walks a few steps to discard his empty beer.
I turn toward him until I feel my ass rest upon the booth door. Smirking, his
gaze settles on my chest. My tits have fallen out of my playsuit.
Oh yes, here I stand, righteously perched on the highest platform in the club,
beaming my breasts to an audience of 300 or more.
“Andy,” I hiss at the DJ, “That man punched me INTHEVAGINA. Aren’t you
gonna get security?”
“Can I have security to the DJ booth? Securityyy.” He croons.
Minutes pass until a tall lurch with a Viking beard and a shaved head ambles
over to Andy. They lean in toward one another, covering their mouths in the
exchange. Security straightens up and while he walks toward my assailant I consider
what response would best prop up the remains of my dignity as the dwarf is
escorted from the venue? A flood of breathless relief; a triumphant fist pump; or,
shall I hold myself above it all with dignity and refuse to acknowledge him at all?
The Viking bends over the dwarf, pats him on the back and laughs.
“This is a fucking joke!” Even as I clamber down from my perch I’m annoyed
by my poor choice of words. I push my way through the backstage door,
A dwarf, a DJ, and a stripper walk into a bar….
I imagine the trio swaying with laughter as they finish the joke I started.

Two flights down, sixteen steps each, four landings, five doorways to reach a
safe place. In the filthy cubicle of almost privacy I flick the toilet lid down with my
stiletto, furiously pull reams of z-grade toilet paper to cover a space big enough for
my butt and sit. Alone, weeping in a toilet stall at a strip club on a Saturday night.

How is this my life?

At 4.45a.m, I have to move my car and get back to the club before the car park closes
in fifteen minutes. The sky is still black but the street is lit with headlights and neon
signs. The summer city air thickened further by layers of noise, cars, drunkards, and
the echo of bass from the clubs. A roll of hot wind stirs trash and a confetti of debris
falls from the trees. It is the busiest time of night as the streets overflow with
clammy revelers hailing taxis back out to the suburbs or on the 24 hour clubs
outside the city.
Please night, end.
I don’t look much better. A puffy after-cry face full of reapplied makeup, my
track pants sagging off my ass, and a wife beater singlet with no bra. On my way
back to the club there is a commotion outside the kebab shop. The area is roped off
by police tape and a paddy wagon parked by the curb with flashing lights but no
siren. People stumble by underwhelmed. I crane my neck and I see him…
The Vagina Dwarf.
His hands are in cuffs behind his back. The police are hoisting him from the
ground into the back of the wagon.
Across the wide expanse of the intersection I hear myself yelling,
“SUCK IIIIT MIDGEHHHHT!”
People turn their heads to me, to him, back to me. Scrunching their faces at
the nasty shrew screaming with such abandon. I don’t care.

 

 

 

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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.

Stripper Babies

This year I’ve had heaps of friends have babies. In March alone I had 9 friends pop them out, including my sister, who’s little baby girl is heartbreakingly cute. My boyfriend’s sister had her baby with the apple cheeks in March also. Before Apples was born, I watched her mum-to-be research a potential name. She gave me the list of Melbourne’s Hottest 100 baby names for 2010 and gone were the names like “Katy”, “Gemma”, “Jess”, and “Anna” that had occurred so frequently when I was growing up. This list took me on a journey. A journey through the archive of “Strippers I Have Known”.

Layla, Milla, Scarlett, Bella, Lara, Annabelle, Trinity, Eva, Mia, Stella, Madison, Samantha, Alexis, Faith, Lily, Victoria, Abbey, Portia, Gabrielle, Maya, Taylor, Charlotte, Riley, Chloe, Savannah, Madison,  Destiny, Lucy, Bailey, Paige, Natalia. It goes on…

It’s a bit unfortunate really. It was difficult enough picking a stripper name that wasn’t taken. How the hell am I going to think of a name for a baby girl that doesn’t bring on a memory montage from a dancer that I’ve known? Some of these montages are very, very alarming.

Some of these girls have become my closest friends. Most of them I would say I respect and many I call good friends of mine. We all get together when we can, have dinner, exchange stories from the past and the present. It is NEVER a dull time.

Recently I caught up with some of the girls I worked with when I first started 6 years ago. We were at a first birthday party for one of their daughters. Almost all of them had moved on to other things. A couple of us are still dancing or working in some capacity in the industry. We had a blast. The tales these girls can tell! With such humour and compassion. Sitting in a room with them, I felt really, really lucky. Most people don’t get to hear stories like ours. And if they do, they can’t ever really understand unless they’ve worked that stage. There was a warm, fuzzy, ya ya sisterhood feeling in the room that would have been capable of sending the oestrogen levels soaring at a Doherty’s gym.

In the future, I hope I come across little sprockets that take me back to the days. Cause the Annabelle’s, Lisa’s, Taylor’s, Lara’s and Electra’s are well worth the trip in ridiculous stilettos down a cobblestone memory lane.

“I bet I must be the only guy who’s ever just wanted to look into your eyes”

Don’t be so sure Buddy!

Lot’s of guys just want to stare into your eyes. Drown themselves in some kind of connection that doesn’t actually exist. Then they do that thing where they applaud themselves for not being a dirty bastard who only wants to check out your cooch. Cause they’re there for more than a pussy show. Whatevs.

Alot of girls can’t stand the intensity of having some guy stare into their eyes. For me, these ones are a blessing! Not being one to willfully show my bits these days, it helps me if they actually choose not to notice that they didn’t ever get to view the honey pot. Instead of me having to control my angles, make sure the lighting only hits the right spots, concentrate on distracting conversation etc.

Every now and then it does get a little intense. If they’re staring in that super sexual gross out way. Or when their eyes say that they know, that you know, that they know that you totally wanna fuck them. When really, you just want to punch them in the face and tattoo ‘delusional’ across their forehead. One of my girlfriends says that she grits her teeth and doesn’t say a word. Apparently she looks like she’s smiling when she does this, cause she never gets negative feedback. In fact, this one customer in particular speaks for her, like this, “You really want me don’t you? I can tell by the way you’re smiling at me. Why don’t you speak….? No! It’s ok, you don’t have to. I can see it all in your face.”

At times like this I maintain the eye contact, but blur my vision so that I can’t really see them anymore. I’ve been told by one of my fellow dancers that this makes me slightly cross eyed, but I only ever get comments about my “amazing” and “deep” eyes, crossed or not!