When you look at all the criminal stuff happening around you, is the money still worth it? Especially if you’re just trying to do your job but could get hurt by other people you can’t even report because of fear of retaliation.
The money isn’t the only reason I do my job, although it’s a large part.
I’m also enormously satisfied with my job. I like all but a few of my coworkers. Management treats us well—and not just compared to other clubs, but compared to other fields of work, too. I find my job rewarding. It’s entertaining. It often offers me a new perspective on life. I’ve learned much. I’ve grown, physically and emotionally. I’m physically stronger than I’ve ever been. I’m much more confident, happy, and have better self-esteem. I can provide for myself. I have job security. I mostly like my customers. I like the freedom I have with my work and my schedule. I like a lot of things about my job. I care about my job.
The job I have isn’t void of all order or sense of structure. But it isn’t the same structure that the rest of the world tends to operate by, either.
In case you hadn’t realized…there’s criminal stuff happening in every place you go too, with tons of people you know. Your church pastor might be embezzling, your boss might do opiates, half your coworkers probably smoke marijuana, you probably drive too fast or forget your turn signals on occasion, your friend’s boyfriend hired a prostitute once, a third of the women you know were victims of sexual assault, and the bakery down the street from you is a money-laundering front. Are you seeing it yet? Crime is everywhere. It’s just very, very quiet in the rest of the world.
I’m not saying that crime is okay. I’m saying, it exists everywhere, not just in strip clubs.
Can’t you rally a couple girls together and go as a group to management? Then the blame wouldn’t fall directly on you… Good luck!
Actually, the more people that know, the more likely it is that I’d have to deal with the consequences. What if a girl that I approach about it lets C* in on it? She has a few drug buddiespals there, too. ;)
Poisoning, Traps, Pollen, and Other Reasons I Don't Want to Work Tonight
Spring is in full swing, headed at a full gallop for summer, shortly, here. Which means a fantastic dose of allergens in the air, once more. I get a bit of seasonal allergy drippy-face every year. I just feel sort of pathetic with drippy-face. I’m not sick, or overly tired, I just feel silly snuffling my nose every few minutes and downing allergy pills like they’re in style.
Despite this and unseasonably humid and warm weather, I’m back in full swing with running again, training for another half-marathon in mid-April. A few weeks off seemed to fully heal the tendon in my foot that was bothering me, despite feeling like a caged animal. I still managed to run a fast four-miler last night. I feel like I’m back at it.
Pole class on Tuesday really tore up my left shoulder. Since I can do the tricks taught in this level easily, I’m learning them on my off-side. Turns out I over-did it. My “traps” (heh, see? I can write catchy titles) are killing me, along with both triceps and pecs, and some other muscles that make my shoulders work whose names I can’t remember.
It’s painful to open my car door; I don’t think lifting myself off the ground at work is an option. My arm strength is more important than I give it credit for, I guess. I thought it was useful on stage and relatively unimportant elsewhere in the club, but as I’m running through the night ahead of me, I’m dreading opening doors, holding a flat iron or hair dryer up, reaching above rib-height for anything, reaching across my body…oh man. Yeah, I fucked up my shoulder and my neck hurts a bit.
Uh, so a coke-dealing, mouthy, “invincible” twenty-year-old co-worker (call her *C) apparently put something in another girl’s drink for “having C*’s name in her mouth.” No, I’m not kidding. Mind you, C* is the kind of girl who’s flippantly talking about getting high, being high, selling drugs, and everything about it, in the dressing room, on camera, in front of as many as a half-dozen girls at a time. It’s well-known. And she thinks she’s hot shit, queen of all the land, invincible.
Heh. It seems more like she’s trying really hard to be whatever she thinks strippers are supposed to be. Stupid girl.
In the meantime, I’m a little freaked out that a girl thinks it’s okay to dose another girl’s drink with whatever she put in it to make her sick. I want to talk to my manager about it, but if the girl thinks it’s me that squealed or whatever, I could bring some consequences my way that I really don’t want. Small(ish) club. Small(ish) city.
I want this girl fired. She’s a fucking train headed straight for disaster that’s trying to take the rest of the club with her. She’s overtly dealing coke (uh, thanks, but I don’t want to deal with a drug bust, even if I’m not doing it), she’stelling people she fucking dosed another girl’s drink, she’s mouthy as fuck, she’s dumping blow all over that club, and she’s kind of giving our club a bad image. How long until it’s bad press? How long until it’s arrests? Sure, she’s hot as hell…but she’s a bull with “LIABILITY” written all over her, running around a china shop, so to speak.
Drugs, in my club, aren’t a secret. But girls go to their cars or sneak off to a locked bathroom to consume them. They’re quiet. They don’t talk about it on camera. I don’t know how she missed the memo.
I don’t want to work. I want to snuggle up with Raven in my bed and nap on and off all afternoon.
I’m feeling a little defensive about my work lately—for a variety of reasons that I haven’t quite pinned down. I’m not going to answer ask box questions right now…but keep sending them. I’ll get to them soon, I promise.
I'm sure it changes as the mood or music strikes, but can you describe your lapdance? Do you do anything to encourage another song?
I will not describe a lapdance for you. People pay me for my private dances. And, this blog isn’t spank bank material; it’s my own thoughts and experiences.
Each dancer has their own style, sure. But there are common movements across the board, and I utilize those, too. If you want to experience a variety of private dances and get a general idea of how it goes, please visit the nearest strip club. I’m certain the ladies there can take care of you.
I do encourage more songs, verbally and non-verbally. Beyond that, you’ll have to use your imagination.
I hope this doesn’t sound too bitchy, but truly, you’ll have to experience private dances on your own.
Fought with myself about going to work. Decided I’d go to work if—and only if—there was room available on the sign-up list (therefore granting me the privilege of no house fee for the night). There was. Great [/sarcasm]. By finding out, I was then signed up. Ran 3.5 miles, fought with the humidity and “heat” (running in 65-75 degree weather is much different than in 20-40 degrees). Stretched, bathed, shaved, washed hair, dried, dressed, and on the road: 45 minutes. World record? Or missed a few spots shaving and forgot to wear a bra to work?
Straightened my hair, makeup, less than thirty minutes. Two shots of rum, didn’t settle well, had the choice of risking puking on stage or puking it up myself: made myself puke, felt fine. Onward. Didn’t put any effort into my first stage set. Weirdos at the stage. My knees already hurt. I quit drinking caffeine, so I was feeling a little…slow.
One guy sitting alone, and I figured if the plan was to leave by midnight with just a couple hundred extra bucks, I might as well hop to it. Talked for a minute, asked him for dances, he went with VIP dances. He started talking about a dancer from Saturday night that he went back with (I was there, and knew the girl, and the girl wasn’t working tonight), and I remembered that the girl made around $600 off of him. Onward. We did 18 VIPs, mostly talking. Some hugging, a little dancing. Mysterious guy; not a regular of the club or any of the girls. After we were done, he promptly disappeared. Odd guy.
Then a drunk dude from Vegas called me over to dance for him. Fine. Their laws are stricter than ours, and I figured it’d be fine. Wound up threatening to break fingers again (it really, really, really IS a great threat!), and being a complete bitch to him. Whatever. I knew he only had two dances in him, and he was being a douchebag.
Figured I’d make one more lap to see what was around, and lo and behold, a club regular appears. An easy 10 VIPs, all talking and no dancing, and I was done for the night.
I managed to sneak out one song before I was supposed to have another crappy stage set in front of cheap kids wanting a free show.
$4.43/minute, every minute I was there. Four hours. Fuck yeah.
It is a substance whose existence is inimically tied to a job or person. It springs into being unbidden, and persists after the place of its birth has been left behind.
She does have this little dress thing with tiny red sequins; I woke up one morning with one stuck to my dick that had been left in my bed (it had been a couple of days since she’d been over last I think). Those things are made out of fucking razor blades, I swear.”
True. That dress rocks, but I shed razor-blade sequins for hours after I take it off. I find them in my hair all. the. fucking. time.
does your bf mind getting your titty glitter on him?
Haha. Was this meant as an insult, or am I being moody? You’re always welcome to ask under your username, too.
I’ll ask him. My guess is no.
I don’t wear glitter at work (I do what I can to protect my customers from suspicious significant others), but glitter is inevitable. It’s on everything—my outfits, in my makeup bag, in my shoes, in my hair, and yes, on my boobs. By the time I get home, it’s in my car, on my street clothes, and on pretty much anything I brought with me.
My dog pretty consistently has glitter in her fur. I don’t actually own any glitter. That’s how far the glittersplosion of the dressing room reaches.
I doubt the boyfriend minds or has really seen me coated in glitter (it’s just small amounts that I drag around with me). It’s just glitter.
I have a motherfucking boyfriend who fucking brings me fucking tea in my motherfucking bed and brings me motherfucking snacks and keeps heating up a warming pad for my sore neck/headache and even ices my fucking knees in the aftermath of work.
This, after having cooked me dinner and rubbed my feet after work, in the middle of the night.
"The short version, is no, it wouldn’t really make a difference. Like Piper said though, there’s a lot more to it than that.
For reference, Piper and I had known each other as bar buddies and casual friends for several years before we became a thing. We met through mutual friends outside of the club; a club which I have been enough of a regular at since before she started working there that the staff recognizes me even if it’s been a few months since I’ve been around (aside: I never spent more than a couple of hundred bucks, but one night I got hammered and wore an empty PBR case on my head as a helmet all night, so I think I made an impression).
We hit it off and had some fun, but neither of us was looking for a relationship, nor would either of us have been in a position emotionally to get into one successfully. I had been in the club and seen her working on numerous occasions in the years before we started dating. We’d bullshit and catch up while she sought solace from a thousand grasping, sweaty palms, so the nature of her work was not something that caught me by surprise coming into our relationship.
Now here we are, a blue collar schmuck and a ravishing stripper/escort making a go of things. The cornerstone of any healthy relationship is trust; Piper’s work has, in a lot of ways, been essential in the development of that trust. I have to be able to trust that her work is exactly what she says it is; although I have no moral or ethical qualms with prostitution, it isn’t something that I can co-exist with within the framework of our relationship. Nor would anything more than a professional relationship with her escort clients be able to exist in my relationship with her. I give her that trust freely, because we both know that no lie stays buried forever, and she has never shown me any reason to believe that she would lie to me.
Our ability to compartmentalize is equally important. Her work and our personal lives are two seperate things. She doesn’t dance for me at home or in the club, which is exactly how we both want it. She’s in the business of selling the illusion of desire; being a stone-cold stunner, fantastically gifted on stage, and adept at ferreting out a stranger’s trust and fantasies makes her a natural at what she does. I love watching her work for the same reasons. But the girl that I sleep next to isn’t selling anything. She eats omelettes and burps and farts while I rub her worn out feet. She offers color commentary on Deadliest Warrior, and grouches at me when I wake her up in the morning. She kicks me in the shins when I snore too loud, and I love it all. In a lot of ways, Piper and my girlfriend are distinct; there’s parts of both in either, but only one of them is cackling maniacally while farting on my dick.
The glue that holds it all together is communication. We share freely, and neither of us minds asking the other for clarification or elucidation on any topic. We talk about our jobs because shop talk and the idiot requests from the slack-jawed buffoons that pay our wages are funny. We talk about our hopes and our fears, our dreams and our nightmares, because they’re what make us tick, and let us tick together. I think that dancing was the impetus for catharsis that Piper needed, and helped her develop the self-awareness to communicate as effectively as she does.
But one day, Piper will be too old, too fat, or too pregnant to dance. It doesn’t matter if it’s months or decades away. Because I’ll be right next to her, as always, trying to figure out what to make for dinner.”
The boyfriend has offered to post his response to one of my recent posts regarding whether our relationship would be different if I wasn’t naked in front of other people on a regular basis. We had a long talk about it last night (he even reads my wee blog!), and I think his insight would be pretty neat posted here.
I’m crossing my fingers that he weighs in on a regular basis around here. Ya’all better like his post, or I’ll cut your heads off in your sleep. Cool?
I was just too shy to go to your table and say hello. I was the guy in the stripes under the TVs. I've been a longtime reader of your blog. I was getting ready to leave and I was hoping to just say hello before I left. Next I know, you and L were heading for the door. To be honest, I was a little star struck. And, I didn't want to seem creepy. I probably shouldn't have written this, but I feel like I missed the opportunity to let you know your writing is beautiful, and you have a fan.
I know it’s been two months since you left this note. But I came back to read it several times, privately, before I was willing to post it. Your note made me feel like a bit of an Internet celebrity for a few days. Thank you.
We were on a tour-de-strip-clubs of that city, which we like to do while meandering around in unfamiliar towns.
It’s not creepy. If you do see me again, please come say hello. Quietly, discreetly, mention where you recognize me from before anything else. When random men approach me, I get fairly snarky and defensive. But if a reader were to approach me? Man. I’d feel like a million dollars.
I was looking for something to do yesterday, and opened my email to find a new pole class posted that started last night. I figured, well, fuck it, and signed up after a confirmation from the instructor that I was capable of participating by skipping a few levels. Ran a little two-miler to test out my legs (I’ve been sorta injured), and headed to class.
I know most of what will be taught, anyway, but I needed to add some deliberate, regular cross-training to my workouts, and I haven’t poled for fun in AGES. My stage performance is boring for me (between having shitty, stripped 50mm x 9ft poles at work and being stuck on the same string of moves I always do, it’s the same-shit-different-day). So instead of learning the moves, I’m learning them on my off-side. I even managed flag-pole on my off-side and came away from it without bruises, and surprised myself by being able to lift myself nearly into a flag-pole mount on my strong side. And instead of learning a handstand, I’m aiming to be able to lift into it instead of kick into it. So far. More tricks to come in class, and I’m sure I’ll have more fun with my off-side.
I’m sore. When I sneeze, I cringe because my abs hurt…good things are in progress.
Spring has officially arrived, and I’m loaded with pent-up winter energy and happy to see the sun again.
So in my soreness, I decided working in the yard was a great idea on a beautiful day. For five hours.
I raked my burn pit, measured it for a stone border (using pi, of course, to find the circumference), and removed “unburnables.” Repaired a fence, killed a few wasps until I ran out of wasp-killer, pulled dead weeds from the perimeter of the house and raked up dead stuff, poisoned some groundhogs, let the doggies lay in the sun on the back porch, picked up branches and sticks, got the lawnmower ready and rode around on it to test it out (in circles, for pi day, grinning like an idiot about it), measured the outdoor patio for mulch and fencing (it’s square, though), clipped back bushes and trees, ventured towards a fox den to remove brush…and on and on. I was quite productive.
I found an old bed in the barn that’s rusted and useless, and I think I’m going to find a nice spot in the yard or on the patio for it, stand it up and bury the legs, and plant flowers between it. A flower bed. Ha. (I’m stealing the idea from a stable I used to work for…I’m not actually clever enough to come up with that on my own.)
I fucking love my house. It’s a personal paradise. At least, when there aren’t small mammals and stinging insects trying to get into it, or when there isn’t heat trying to escape from it, anyway.
And, I’m down about two pounds. It’s not much, but it’s something, at least.
Ughhhhh. I’ve gained so. much. weight. How in the fuck did I let this happen? I just sold some dance clothes because there’s little chance of dropping back to a fucking reasonable weight again. I fucking hate being this fucking fat.
I'm a prostitute/escort who's trying to figure out how to expand her clientele base in the real world, as opposed to only soliciting online. Would strippers be offended or feel disrespected if I went to a strip club to look for clients? I don't have the temperament or luscious body to be a stripper myself, but I'm good at what I do, and I'm sure I could find clients at a club. However, I don't want to invade anyone else's territory or mess with their income. Can you advise me?
Strippers would be absolutely offended, yes. It’s the equivalent of one of us posting an ad for ourselves right on top of yours, or on your personal site, or on your turf. It’s not cool, it hurts our incomes, and even MORE so, causes a lot of peripheral problems.
Directly, you would literally be taking money out of my pockets and food off of my table.
Indirectly, you’re upping the ante for what I have to do in order to stay competitive and earn money. You’re upping the ante from being able to earn money by dancing, to instead, making dancing seem silly when I can get XYZ instead from this other girl. That makes my job hard. Personally, I’m not interested in crossing that boundary, so for you to come to my place of work and make that seem like the only option? Yeah, I’m going to be mad.
And, you’re potentially increasing the amount of harm that could come to me. If customers begin to expect that I will do these things, and I take them to VIP, and I don’t? Yeah, they’re going to be mad. And to be really frank about it, I think this is the cause behind some of the recent sexual violence at the club I actually work for.
I don’t have a problem with prostitution/escorting. Not at all. I do hope that you can find safe places to work and advertise, and that you stay safe. But I really, really, really hope you take it seriously when I tell you that I recommend you find somewhere else to obtain more business, and that my club is not the space for this.
Edited to add:
Lydia just informed me that this has been a popular Tumblr-stripper question/comment sort of thing this week. I am so behind the times in the Strippersphere on Tumblr. But amusingly enough, I guess my answer was very similar to what was posted by everyone else. I didn’t even peek! :)
The photographer was in last night, on Thursday. I bribed him to film me on stage and burn it, out of curiosity. Personal evaluation.
So now I’ve got this video, and I’m unsure how ethical it would be to post a short clip (say, 15-30 seconds) on Tumblr. And, I’m unsure about how I feel about it.
People pay to see it. It could give away where I work. It’s personal and I’m not into having it reblogged or nasty comments being left. The photographer didn’t give me permission. I should keep it private, right?
Except I’m sorta proud of myself. I actually look fairly hot though most of it. Amazing what those black lights can do!
In the meantime, you’ll just have to sweat it while I think about it.
It makes me feel like a fucking show pony or exotic orchid or some shit, being photographed constantly for a half hour or more, videotaped, reviewed, burned to a disc, kept on a flash drive, put into a magazine. It’s bizarre. The men in the club seem to flock after seeing the flash, thinking I’m important. I make more money, which is the point in the first place.
It’s a free mag, guys. Available at your local strip club, usually in a dark corner, having been picked up by about 1000 other guys that night and put back, discreetly, in that dark corner, or discarded underneath chairs.
Busy for a Thursday. Looked a bit more like the intro to a hefty Friday, before the crowd died off completely around 1:30. Thirteen girls. A curse, even though I hate superstition.
Started getting ready, and by the time I was nearly done, C* and I were alone in the dressing room. She refers to something that happened on Tuesday, which I had no idea about; I wasn’t there. I ask. She tells me one of the girls was raped in VIP. She doesn’t say which girl, but she describes the customer and gives his first name, and assures me that parking-lot style justice was had.
C* is fairly reliable about stuff that goes on in the club: she’s there six days a week, week in and week out. We get along well, passing critical details like this back and forth, keeping ourselves up to date on happenings and ranting about things that some girls have little clue go on. We’re both a little nosy, and I like C*—all twenty years and hundred pounds and New Jersey accent of her—most of the time. She’s feisty, but sweet, and sassy, if young, and foul-mouthed, and silly. She reminds me a little of myself, younger even than she is now. She makes me glad that I leveled out. I think she will one day, after the blow clears her system and she gets tired of her own antics.
I start my night with my “Indian Guy” (the common name for him at the club as a regular face, but he’s actually Iraqi, he says, staring at his sweaty and nervous, familiar palms, once) and he dodges out, as usual, after chastising me about being “late,” as usual, even though I am not, as usual. Patience is monetarily rewarded here.
I dance a few sets, having a blast on stage. The club’s photographer comes in, who I attempt to dodge for several hours, successfully, mostly.
One of Lydia’s regulars stops in to chat, and sees that she’s not on the roster. He knows that we are friends, and asks for VIP dances. We spend eight VIPs (about a half hour), discussing Lydia. He doesn’t want me to dance for him; he’s pretty much in love with her now. He mentions this and that. I feign ignorance about most of it and give vague answers to the rest, and this satisfies him enough. I’m plenty okay with taking a multi-gazillionaire’s money to let him talk about my friend. I think it’s sort of funny, actually. And he made sure to have me pass along the message that she work tonight, so he can tell her something important. Yep, I say, I will, for sure, tell her.
A few flips of my fingers on my phone, and the message is passed along. I imagine her sitting in the tub reading them, and sort of giggle about it to myself. I am far more privileged than these men.
I do more dances with nameless and faceless men I’ve already forgotten.
One pinstriped-pants-nice-watch type who shows me his business card, which I don’t bother looking at.
An eighteen-year-old kid who’s there with his dad that gets one VIP song, drunk, and tells me I should come home with him. I feel like the biggest perv ever for dancing with a kid, who might still be at the tail-end of his high school years. I guess he either doesn’t know how old I am (old enough to feel like a perv; young enough to take the money despite that), or thinks it’s cool and that I actually like him. He thinks I’m cool enough that he asks me for a drink of my beer, anyway. I promptly refuse, point to the gigantic “M”s written in Sharpie on each hand and the flaming-pink wristband that indicates he’s a minor. Hell no, kiddo. He trots off to meet his dad at the ATM, where another beer awaits him.
"M" is for Minor. A kid between the ages of 18 and 20 whose legally old enough to see boobies live but almost always makes my job more difficult for much less pay than it’s worth.
[Sidenote: I should really do the whole alphabet this way. “A” is for…”B” is for… I’ll save it for another post.]
We need signs, like the kind that they put at ponds to ward off well-intentioned citypeople not to feed stale bread to the ducks: PLEASE DON’T GIVE ALCOHOL TO THE MINORS! Subheading: The dancers appreciate your cooperation.
Back to the dressing room for a break. Rolling a golf ball on a swollen tendon in my foot, taking a little Me Time in the middle of a shift to care for my body and brains. It’s already been an eventful night. A dancer is on her phone, yelling at someone about shitty text messages they sent her while at work, presumably a boyfriend. She’s flying high as a kite and the forbidden bottle’s hidden beneath a tiny bag of tangled tendrils of bikinis, thongs, leg warmers.
She runs into the door-less bathroom, phone-less, crying, I follow, she melts to the floor into an anxiety-and-anger-filled puddle, on my shoulder. Mascara on me. Mascara on her. Baby wipe in my garter; I was going to pee but wiped the mess off of us both. She and C* run off to talk and, presumably, do more blow in the bathroom next door that does have a door. She walks out of the bathroom and straight to the stage. I peek. She’s dancing her heart out on autopilot.
Shortly after, R* comes into the dressing room, and we’re alone. I’m back to pushing the golf ball around with my foot, relieving pain. Calming down after the shitstorm that just flew through the dressing room. R* mentions something that happened on Tuesday.
Oh. Tuesday. What happened?
I guess R* was the one raped. She’s nonchalant in tone and manner, but her eyes say she’s a little shaken. Tough cookie. All five feet of her, all ninety-or-so pounds of her. I ask her if she’s okay. She shrugs me off; yes. I ask her if she’s okay in her head. She says she is. She’s lying.
And she says what I’ve already, unfortunately, quietly, concluded: there’s nothing that can be done about it. No evidence, no witness, no camera footage. And even if there was a bit of evidence, he’s a former cop. And even if that still stood, any lawyer on a first case could easily dismiss her as a prostitute. The jokes would never end about “theft or rape?” It could be public, for her and for the club, and any upstanding citizen like himself wouldn’t have done such thing. There’s nothing more to be done about it.
And she tells me that he just paid and fled afterwards. That he’s banned from the club, for whatever that’s worth, if anyone can remember except her, later. No parking lot justice was even had.
The frequency of these things is rising. Just this year: Me. E*. R*. And anyone else who’s not saying, who’s dealing with it alone, who stopped caring, who stopped believing that it couldn’t happen.
And yet, people fear us and hate us. We, somehow, are the bad ones, the marks of lust and sin in a community.
Gained another pound and a half. Not entirely sure how. For the past week, with the exception of race day and the day after (which, I ate fairly responsibly for, but may have been a little high in fat…but after 15 miles, I didn’t feel like eating fat-free everything), I’ve eaten around 1200-1500 calories/day. At minimum, for my current weight, I need 1500-1600 calories just to function as a daily human, not lose or gain weight, and it doesn’t include athletic activity. Once you factor in the whopping 16-19 HOURS per week I spend running, dancing, playing outside or doing some other miscellaneous activity, and stretching/strengthening, I need around 2200/day (average), bare minimum, only to maintain my weight.
So eating 700-1000 calories less every day? That should pull off around 1-2lbs/week (which is within realistic/healthy weight loss goals). I’m fucking hungry, I’ve ditched all of my favorite foods until the end of time, and I’m STILL gaining weight (and not losing inches, and possibly still gaining in inches).
I have no idea what the hell is wrong. Diet. Exercise. Diet….Exercise….I am not being unreasonable in demanding that my body at least TRY to fucking cooperate.
Had you ever felt so expressive as the first time you busted it out on stage?
"Expressive" is not the first adjective that comes to mind. These are some of the words/phrases that do, though:
Drunk, OUCH THREE INCH HEELS OMG WTF IS WRONG WITH THESE GIRLS, heightened senses, blinded by lights, fear, awkwardness x1000, thong too far up my buttcrack, THREE MINUTE SONGS LAST FOREVER, silly pride, holding my breath the whole time, awareness of my total nudity, focusing on not falling in my heels in front of everyone, being scared of the other dancers watching, wanting more alcohol IMMEDIATELY, where’s my friend?, OMG I have to do this again and again all night long?!, and vague senses of pain in my entire body that had a hard time registering because of the alcohol and adrenaline.
Nope. Expressive wasn’t really one of the things I was feeling!
How long have you been with your bf & how does he feel about you stripping? My bf wants me to stop, but I really want to keep doing it so I can save for things I want and need. (I have a day job now, but the money is shitty) Any advice on what to do?
Dump your boyfriend. If he doesn’t want to be supportive of YOUR choice, ditch him. Not worth it.
I’ve only been with the guy I’m dating about six weeks or so. But he rubs my feet after work, makes me something to eat, and we talk about my job all the time. Last night, we discussed some of the deeper moral, legal, and semantics questions as they pertain to dancing. He doesn’t feel entitled to what I make, and acts like a gentleman.
I am honest about what I do, both in dancing and in escorting, and in return, I get trust, compassion, and understanding. If his feelings should change, we’ll talk about them, just like with anything else.
But I won’t quit my job for a man. That’s ridiculous of him to ask of you! Your man is either willing to take the dancer as she is (until SHE decides that dancing is not for her anymore), or not.