Predators

I feel like my personality has changed since I started working as a stripper.

It's not any better, or worse, just different. I try so hard to compartmentalize my feelings. Keeping my stripper self separate from my everyday self is easier in theory than in practice. I have to be a drastically different person at work, and that identity is starting to seep into my 'real' life.

I feel more predatory. More experienced. Older. I feel like any innocence I still had has been devoured by my work. By those hungry-eyed men who try to grope and lick me behind the curtains. By the strung out girls who offer me ever-lasting white powdery energy. By the messy dressing room stocked with body spray and makeup to keep us looking and smelling like every man's fantasy. Vacuous over-sexualized dolls, wobbling around in our 6-inch heels, our taught bodies barely covered by over-priced attention grabbing outfits.

I'm a predator, all the girls are. The customers are predators. The bouncers, managers, DJs and housemoms are predators. All of us engaged in a dance. All trying to out-smart and out-scheme one another. All plastered with fake smiles and fake pleasantries.

People my own age seem younger, unrelatable.

I don't know what to do with my life. College seems distant, I can't even imagine having a real job.

I feel trapped.

Blow

Coke heads are the best customers ever. It's pretty easy to spot them, especially after talking to them. I can't even really explain the behaviors that give them away, but you just know.

Anyways, they are very easy to coherce into VIP, especially because it gives them a chance to snort their shit in private.

They'll almost always offer you some, but it's easy enough to turn down. If they're really insistent, you can just exhale instead of inhale and they never notice.

Once they're sufficiently high they usually just talk talk talk. And play with hair. Hair must feel really cool when under the influence of coke, because they all just want to play with your hair.

I wish all my customers were so easy.

Friends

Friends are just commodities. This isn't a bad thing, I really enjoy hanging out with my friends. Fuck, I usually keep friends for ages. But I also realize that friends are just people. People whose lives change, people who will eventually go their separate ways. This is just life. Friends are great when you have them, but when they (or you) move on, that's ok too. I try not to take friendships too seriously; hang out, have fun, but remember, the only person you can ever truly rely on is yourself.

slump

I've been in a slump lately... Maybe I'm burnt out. I get to work and I just want to hide in the dressing room. The thought of interacting with those men makes me sick to my stomach. I don't hate them, I just don't want to deal with them. I've barely covered my expenses this month, and that's what worries me about this job. What happens when I just decide I can't do it any more. I have nothing to fall back on. That instantaneous cash flow just stops. It's such a trap.

A trashy whore in love

How does one fall in love with someone who they've only spent two hours with? If anyone knows, please enlighten me.

I'm feeling so trashy lately. Not like there's anything wrong with trashy, but there's ' some what self-aware stripper who makes more than she should so she lounges around all day and smokes, drinks and parties all night' trashy, and then there's 'just not very bright raised in hickville sincerely sweet but dumb as a brick trashy. So what's worse, deliberately being a trashy whore or being too fucking stupid to realize you're a trashy whore?

In the end we're both just trashy whores.

Chuck Liddell

My night started out fantastically...there were about 4 girls working, and VIP offers were coming from every direction. I ended up with Chuck Liddell's best friend! I'm not really into UFC fighting or anything, but I knew that connection was a good one. It didn't hurt that it was his attorney (what's with guys bringing their attorneys to the nudie bar with them?) that pointed me out to him. It also didn't hurt that he was pretty fucking hot and had an excellent body. Oh, and the 4 jager shots and 2 vodka cranberries that I downed probably didn't hurt either. Well, besides the fact that they caused me to blow a .06, my highest score ever. Back to Mr. Liddell's buddy. I inquired if there was any way I could get an autograph or something because I'm a whore like that, and Mr. California told me he had one in his room (ha), at the Ritz (double ha), and he could leave it at the front desk for me so I could swing by and pick it up after work. Sounds good. Then we went off to VIP, where it took all my willpower to not throw caution to the wind and have crazy illegal VIP sex then and there. I have never even had the slightest urge to be sexual (in the honest sense) with any of my VIPs, but I really want(ed) to fuck this guy. Augh. After work I was feeling a bit...adventurous, so I decided to stop by the Ritz and check things out. The thing was, I had lost the little slip of paper with the guy's name and (gulp) room number, so I had no idea how to contact him. It didn't help that it was 3:30 in the morning, and I looked like a baby prostitute wearing a June Cleaver dress. The front desk lady was a bit apprehensive, mostly because all I was able to give her was a first name, and I kept asking about an autographed t-shirt. So, the outing ended in failure and disappointment, only slightly remedied by making it home and counting my $100s. Ah well.

Bayes

Working at two clubs is killing me. Especially since I like club significantly more than the other, and that happens to be the club where money is scarce. Why can't things ever be simple? Obviously I wont quit my money club, because let's face it; i'm in this industry to make money--that's it. If the money dries up, I'm out. Unfortunately there are other variables thrown into the mix that I can't discuss on here, which are chaining me to the money-less club for a bit longer.

I eat the same thing every morning (if 2:30 pm counts as the morning), this thing happens to be an egg McMuffin*. Except it's not a McDonalds brand egg McMuffin, it's one that I make on my Back to Basics toaster and egg poacher device. Now, I don't cook. Ever. I loathe it more than any other domestic chore, so me making breakfast in a cooking contraption is a big deal. Anyways, the point of this pointless spiel is that I had been using Kroger Brand english muffins, which were adequate. The other day, during my weekly Kroger run (I also HATE grocery shopping) I noticed the Kroger english muffins were all expiring in the very near future, which forced me to step out of my comfort zone and purchase english muffins of a different brand. I decided after much deliberation on Bayes, which were kept in the refrigerated section, and came in a red and white box. Well, Bayes english muffins are well worth the $1 extra they cost. Fucking delicious.

*not to be confused with the McDonalds egg McMuffin, which is delicious as well. No copyright violations here.

The Russian

Last night I worked at the 'new club' and it was such an obnoxious night.

I did learn to do one pole trick, sort of. I think I might keep going on just for that, I mean there are literally no customers, so I can practice my pole work without looking like a dork in front of money.

The one and only customer in the club last night happened to take a liking to me, which may sound like a blessing, but eh...not so much.

He was this Russian kid (ok he was 31, but you know) who got pretty drunk and thought that we were in love and that a sincere relationship was blossoming between us. He pestered me all night, and kept giving me these back massages where his finger would get dangerously close to my ass crack, and was a complete pain in the fucking ass (figuratively). I only managed to get $250 out of him, even though I saw that he had another hundred in his wallet that should have been mine. Oh well.

Way to crush my perception of Russians, which I previously felt were the most amazing people in the world.