This is my only Tumblr blog. I am not any of these users, who have stolen content from YouTube and posted my posts without a reblog or credit. I suggest you block these users, lest you become the object of their twisted, violent, moronic fantasies. The user takes great pride in writing lengthy tales of sexual violence, inappropriate student-teacher relationships, and letters to me, personally. This user creates blogs frequently under various names, and here’s a sampling:
(Or “Stripprpiper” on YouTube or Google+)
If you find more blogs that seem to have similar content to this site, I suggest you block them.
I miss you, Tumblr. I miss posting. I feel like the record of my thoughts has been interrupted. I feel like my fucking life got fucking interrupted by this stalker bullshit.
In other news, yep, I’m doing just fine, on the other side of the screen. Healthy, happy, sane, and satisfied with life. Just missing my poor blog, is all.
Because it’s been asked/recommended so many times,
YES, my goal is to “someday” write a book including all of my adventures here and those too private for a free blog. It will happen, but not any time soon.
I have many more adventures to have before my stripping career is over.
If Tumblr still exists if/when this way-in-the-future possible book happens, I’ll post it, yes. Until then, boys and girls, tip your favorite local strippers and say nice things to them, okay?
I’m fine and dandy. Life is good. I’m still dancing, with no plans to quit. Running, happily. Healthy. Even the weather is pretty nice for now.
But this blog, unfortunately, is over.
First and foremost, after many sleepless nights, I’m no longer willing to further my risk of stalkers and creeps latching on to me here. My real life offers plenty of risk, and little kids being stupid online are indistinguishable from real threats. My sleep suffered, my Thanksgiving wasn’t fun, and I spent far too many hours with cops and weapons-shopping. This is, yes, directly related to the absolute ridiculousness and creepster mess of the copycat Tumblr user “Stripprpiper.” I decided that keeping an online blog simply wasn’t worth it anymore. You’re welcome to thank that user yourselves in whatever way you see fit.
I’ve enjoyed the people I’ve met through Tumblr, and the lovely messages and comments and bits of advice. Thank you for that, all this time.
What I set out to do was help others understand where I’m coming from, what my job is like, the particulars of the rest of my life because of my job. I didn’t feel like there were enough voices out there on the topic. Now I see that are so many awesome, eloquent strippers blogging here and on other sites! I’m happy I’ve stumbled on those blogs/sites, and I hope you’ll do some digging and find more to read for yourself.
I took comfort in the heartfelt writings of other strippers here, and knew I wasn’t alone in feeling the ways I did at times. My thoughts on various sex-industry topics were changed and grew. I grew, really, as a person and dancer, here, while I wrote. Thank you for being a part of a community that helped me.
I’ll be lurking, reading, keeping an eye on my favorite blogs, of course, but I won’t be writing. I’ll leave my inbox open for awhile and occasionally reply privately to some messages, but don’t expect much.
Soon, this blog will start to disappear post-by-post, as I start the long process of keeping it for myself. It will take awhile. But it’s happening.
Thanks for the good years, fellow bloggers and readers.
I wish you all the best hedgehog pictures in the world.
I do NOT write at/post at/use/want anything to do with/have control over users:
stripprpiper or xoxopiperxoxo on Tumblr
stripprpiper on YouTube
stripprpiper on Google+
These blogs are pathetic, and they may follow you because you follow me. The user wants to be me, or wants me as some part of a sick and violent fantasy, and is desperately, pathetically, and obsessively trying to do this on Tumblr. Much of the information on those pages is FALSE and part of the user’s sick fantasy, but the user has retyped many of my posts and added photos and videos of mine.
DO NOT GIVE ANY PERSONAL OR PRIVATE INFORMATION TO THE BLOGS/SITES/USERS LISTED. DO NOT MAKE CONTACT WITH THESE SITES.
Use your “block” feature liberally.
Posts are currently being deleted from this user’s site, especially the more creepy/violent/stalker ones. You may not see it in its full glory of stalkerness, but be assured it’s being taken care of.
DO NOT CONTACT THE USER TO HARASS/THREATEN/OTHERWISE “MESSAGE.” It is not necessary and it only serves to encourage the vile creepster.
I won’t be responding to messages or posting for awhile. I’ll get back to all of your lovely notes and questions soon!
Dear Newly-Christened, Babydancer Piper,
Now that you’ve set your tiny backpack down in the dressing room, you’re about to start stripping. Life’s about to change. You shaved your butt! You watched your friend shave her pussy in her studio apartment before work! All around you, there are women who seem perfectly at ease, naked in a room with those school-type ceiling tiles, trading makeup and chatting under those bright lights. Shit’s about to get real. Take one last look in the mirror. Just one. You’ll wish you would have.
Listen, I know you’re music-stupid and have no idea what the radio is playing these days, but if you tell the big-headed DJ you’re into, um, like, well, uh, rock, I guess, you’re going to get some putrid combination of overplayed Nickelback and Buckcherry. And seriously? I know you don’t know any better yet, but there’s much better music out there. Just because you know the song, doesn’t make it “good,” kiddo. And it almost never makes it “sexy.” Please, for the love of gawd, don’t spend the next six months dancing to “Crazy Bitch” and “Get Stoned” for the first set of your night. I know it’s comfortable and familiar, but just trust that the enormous library of songs is worth exploring.
You’re a train wreck on stage. Yes. I said it. A train wreck. Please put yourself in pole dancing classes way before you’ve been dancing for nine months. Please? And stop holding your breath on stage. It will just make you dizzier than the beer will.
Speaking of beer, you’re drinking too much of the stuff. Give me that. It isn’t helping you. It’s just making you drunker and more awkward. Sit your ass down and watch a few of the girls for awhile. Say “thank you” when someone helps you. Listen ALL of the time. Wash your hands more frequently. Fucking smile, already. With your eyes, yeah, not like you’re gritting your teeth — people can tell.
Your legs will hold you up a lot longer than you think they will; I promise. You’ll stop getting those baseball-sized hip bruises after six months, but the ones on your knees are permanent. Start taking better care of your feet and teeth, right now. This instant.
You’ll be prone to crying for the first few months, when you’re still figuring it out and sometimes not making money, but don’t compare yourself to the other girls. It’s not that they’re prettier or skinnier, girl, snap out of it. It’s that you’re crying in the dressing room instead of talking to every person you can. It’s that they have so much more practice, more regular customers they’ve acquired over long years, so many more hours of learning to sell the fantasy, than you do. You don’t even know who Piper is yet. Give it time. Get to know Piper. Let Piper grow.
You aren’t Piper, and you don’t have to be. Always remember that Piper is a ruse, a shell of a girl who exists only to fund your real life outside of the place. Always remember that your real life outside of the club is what’s real, not Piper and the club and the fantasy. I’m fucking serious. You’ll spend some time being only a Stripper, being Piper on and off the clock, and it’s miserable. Don’t forget about Maddox, your horse, the last thing grounding you to who you used to be. Don’t sell him when things get rough one summer; summers are always difficult. You’ll miss him when you stuff all of those saddle pads in the closet. You’ll miss him forever.
While you’re figuring out how to live life not panicked about finances, don’t forget about the extra cash you should be stashing away and putting on your student loans and taxes. Because it’s all fun and games until you’re two years behind on your taxes, or you finally open your student loan statement and find that you’ll be paying them until October 16, 2029. It’s all fun and games until you get swine flu for two weeks from kissing a customer (and getting caught, embarrassingly, by another dancer) and have to call your dad for money.
When a customer pins you down and assaults you in VIP about a year and a half from now, don’t just scream. Hit the motherfucker. Stop being sorry. Stop feeling bad. Stop listening to your kindergarten teacher about not hitting people. Stop wondering if you should or can hurt another human being. Stop debating about your next move. Stop shutting down. Stop feeling bad that you might leave a mark on him. Stop wondering if this is a part of the job. Stop feeling like you owe it to him because he’s paying you. Fucking stop already, and rip him to fucking pieces. In fact, any time someone crosses your boundaries twice, use your fists or your shoes. That’s what the pointy heel is for, you know. You’re not going to get in trouble for this.
While you’re standing here, make a mental note of the women around you. In the coming years, they’ll be your teachers, your confidants, your worst enemies, your best friends, your dealers, your co-conspirators for trouble, your hustlin’ buddies in double-dances, your key to navigating everything you’re about to experience. They’ll be the most proud of you for mastering that new trick or dumping that guy or running really fucking far (yeah, running, you’ll take that shit up when you finally get your shit together and quit smoking — no joke). They’ll show you absolute and unconditional love through every thread of your life in the coming years. Accept them for the wonderful women they are, right now.
Get used to conditional love from the outside world, right now, this very moment, before you take your drunk ass on stage for the first time.
And yes, your pussy is normal. They really do all look very different.
You’ll see “theirs” and they’ll see “yours” and it really will, in time, be no big deal to have a pussy inches from your face. You might even find you like it and it gives you butterflies on occasion. What, you thought you were totally straight? You’ll learn soon, grasshopper, just how fluid and fascinating sexuality is. It’s half of why you’ll stay. You’ll even start a blog about it, still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed (but VERY OPINIONATED), to recount your adventures.
In the coming months, you will become happier. More vibrant. You’ll finally have a stable place to live, a little pocket cash. You’ll finally get some fucking sleep for once. Stick this out for more than tonight, Piper, and stick it out for more than the two weeks you promised yourself. You really will learn to dance, and it will make you feel alive.
The woman you’ll become.
PS: Stop eating garbage.
Things to do with excess cash: get poked and prodded in ways I hate.
Dentist, whom I especially loathe and dread. Eye doctor for more contacts. Gynecologist, ugh, but it’s been too long, I hope they don’t steal a piece of my cervix this time. Chiropractor to put all of the twisty parts back where they belong. Maybe a shady tax man appointment to relieve me of all that remains.
And a massage to work on a torn-up shoulder as a reward?
Bodies are expensive. And doing the right things sucks and is painful or uncomfortable. Humph. Why, body, must you start falling apart at 24?
I could use some of the recent cash inflow to get some properly fitting and stylin’ clothes, of course.
But then there’s the part where I’m scared of the mall and shopping stresses me out to near panic.
Everywhere I go, I look endearingly homely and kinda broke, despite a full wallet. Today’s creation: a faded, oversized navy DC Shoe Co hoodie circa 2002, a black t-shirt with a horse and “Texas” circa 1996 (I was 8 when I got that…), jeans at least one size too big, children’s grey shoes.
Why can’t clothes that fit just appear in my closet? Or why can’t clothing stores be entirely empty of people, with pesky clerks contained by registers and no weirdo customers staring at me?
I was too tired and still in disbelief to write about Monday night. But Monday night, I had my “best night ever.” It gets harder and harder to have those as the years go on — there’s a finite amount of work I’m capable of physically doing, of course — but I was happy to have a new record amount of cash in one night. It was two-for-ones. Imagine how I’d have done if I was being paid for each dance instead of half of them.
Again tonight, the new regular that magically dropped from a money tree in heaven came in. He turned up at the club last Friday, and asked me to rub his neck. I asked him to take it to the VIP room with me, and surprisingly, he did. We did a ton of dances, and I asked him to come back Monday. He came back, and I rubbed his neck in VIP for two hours. Two hours in a VIP room ain’t cheap, even at half price. He turned up tonight, immediately took me back to VIP around 8:30, and we didn’t come out until almost 11:00. Thirty-three songs. Thirty-fucking-three songs.
I rubbed his neck until and beyond the point where my thumb went numb and my wrist was screaming. Eventually, he just asked to be choked and dominated. No dancing, just choking. I missed two rounds on stage. When I came out of VIP, one of my coworkers exclaimed that she thought I’d died back there.
Welp. At least I know what would happen if I did actually die in VIP: no fanfare.
I took a few minutes to wolf down a Snickers, two bottles of water, put my feet up, and zone out. I headed towards the stage and did my obligatory six-fucking-song stage set. One customer followed me through all three stages, and I did the dollar dances but didn’t have the energy to go hustle him for the one or two dances I figured he’d give me. I was done hustling for money and the night was dragging on. My muscles hurt. I hung around on the floor, waiting for dances to come to me, for money to magically just fall into my lap.
And then it fucking did. What the fuck?
Eleven dances with a loveable teddy-bear of a Korean man headed towards Chicago. Thirteen more with the out-of-towner who tipped me at each stage.
In total, I somehow wound up doing 57 VIP dances (and one private dance). If I had hustled up eight more dances, I would have tied the club’s record for most dances done in one night. I paid the club their cut, and ended up paying out $345 in dance fees and tip-outs.
I walked away from the night with two stacks, another “best night ever” for me. Two “best nights ever” in one week? Fuck yeah. Almost four stacks in seventeen hours this week? Boom.
I also realized: I have no fucking idea what to do with that much money. None. I’ve done well enough lately that my entire month’s bills are paid in advance, the propane tank was filled, I already took a vacation this month and put a stack on my student loans, and…now what?
I mean, I’m sure I’ll think of something. But this is fucking ridiculous. In a good way. My dog just licked a $100 bill and I’m not that mad about it; that kind of ridiculous.