Strippr

Ask me whatever you'd like. I'm not shy.
...But flaming, trolling, and blatant ignorance will be disregarded and left unanswered. There is no need to be an asshole, I'm a generally friendly chick.

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CONSIDER THIS TUMBLR TO BE NSFW:
This blog should not be viewed at work or school, is not suitable for those under eighteen, those that are minors in their jurisdictions, or those viewing from a prohibited area.

PLEASE NOTE:
This blog contains NUDITY, discussion of SEX and SEXUALITY, discussion of VIOLENCE (including sexual violence), discussion of DRUGS, discussion of EATING DISORDERS (including behaviors and thoughts), and discussion of ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES (including prostitution and drug use).


People on Sniffers' Row

*I said this to a guy in a private dance tonight, regarding the guys that walk in and tuck their crucifix necklaces under their shirts, and we both laughed quite a bit. And it is true — most cell phones are worthless inside of the club I work for, save for those that have US Cellular.

*I also don’t believe in god, so I find it all amusing.

It’s dawn already, 4:40am, just an hour and a half after work. I never caught the sunset, because it happened long after I walked into the dark, bassy box. It’s odd being on this side of the clock, sometimes. During the winter, I miss the sun altogether for days on end, and during the summer, it’s like I can’t outrun the sun fast enough to get some sleep before it gets hot and bright in my house.

My night was…fucking awesome, and there’s no better way to describe it.

Pre-game dinner with a customer, enjoying taunting the (amenable) bartender over mahi mahi.

As soon as I walked in to work, covered in last night’s makeup, I already looked and felt tired. And weak. I wiped the old makeup off, put on a new coat, and voila: Piper. It took me awhile to wake up, but the smell of money and the thrill of making it certainly outdoes caffeine. I hit the floor, I tripped a little on tired legs…and then couldn’t stop making money all night.

Everywhere I turned, there was someone wanting a dance or a stage set full of bigger-denomination bills waiting for me.

Two dances from my Indian regular.

Seven from my pre-game customer, punctuated by witty exchanges and the offer to buy the diamond/emerald navel jewelry I saw online the other day. (Dude. Real jewels for my fucking belly button?! I’m beyond excited! I feel like this has got to earn me a Stripper Badge.) Then three more dances from him.

A real, live Texas cattleman (the boots are frequently used but polished, like a gentleman, of course).

An infrequent customer who enjoys sobering up after bowling league. Unlike most customers, he gets more sober the longer he stays.

Two dances with an infrequent customer who always looks familiar and I always peg as the Guy On The Couch that never does dances. I wonder how long before I’ll remember him.

Three dances with my autistic customer, who was really engaging in conversation tonight. I like him. I enjoy dancing for him. I have a terrible feeling that not many people know what a neat person he is (and if the ladies knew about what he’s rockin’ under there, I doubt he’d have time to come to the club). I was totally wet after our dances. No shame was felt. It’s a rare day and usually an unexpected person when it happens.

Two-for-ones. I did 46 dances tonight. 46 songs, 3 minutes each: two hours and eighteen minutes that my poor quads and glutes had to spend making up for two weeks of vacation (and I mostly spent my vacation running).

And stage was unusually good, for a week night. It probably didn’t hurt that I actually smiled at people tonight, ey?

A new door girl, bouncy and full of happiness. It struck me as odd. She’s sweet. I don’t know how I feel about her yet.

Before the sun gets too far off the horizon, I still have three miles to run. Onward.

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