Wednesday, March 27, 2013


I'm wearing my feetie pajamas from the boys' section of Target and listening to Ginuwine's "Pony."

This blog has been years in the making.  I've started and stopped with its creation like a car stalling and starting when you first learn to drive stick.

I guess that's what this is all about then, learning to "drive stick."  Metaphorically learning to hop out of the passenger's, (or back)seat of patriarchy as a woman.  The "stick" in my metaphor is of course a penis, and what I'm saying is it feels fucking good to harness your sexuality, and use it to your benefit, monetarily, and otherwise.  Any bronzed trophy wife will agree with my sentiments.

I landed on stripping within the realm of sex work for so many reasons that I've already written about, that I'd rather now explain why/how I didn't end up in other roles.  I decided not to sell sex because I didn't know that I could enjoy it in my personal life anymore if I went this route.  Definitely still consider it sometimes, if the price and circumstance was absolutely right. (Read: $$$$$$$$$$$)  I don't do porn, because I don't want those acts to outlive me on this earth in the form of video.  (Though I must add, I am a voracious and enthusiastic supporter and consumer of pornography.)  I can't pro-Domme, because I am the opposite sexually, and I believe for that work it needs to be "in" you, and not something that, despite the fact that it's roleplay, can be faked.  I'm not a webcam girl, nor a peep show artist, nor a phone sex operator, because the only memories I've found particularly grotesque and unshakeable were things I've heard or been told by customers.  I strip, and stay stripping, because, to be brief: I love dancing; I'm an exhibitionist; I enjoy teasing men; and finally, I've found having a relatively petite frame with DDs to be very profitable, and a way to gain agency over a body that has garnered so much unwanted male attention since I was too young to even know what to do with it, or for it to be appropriate in any way.

I'm onto "Ignition (Remix)" now, because I'm a classicist, obviously.  I'm actually just incredibly nostalgic, and that spreads to all aspects of my life, including looking back to my time as a "baby stripper."  Also, I'm going to see R. Kelly for the first time ever at Pitchfork this summer.  I started reading compilations of strip club anthems, and this song always ranks way up there.

Clearly my ADD is in full swing, and I have no idea where to start.  I started stripping in August 2006, which was a long time ago.  I've done a LOT of thinking about sex work and the sex industry.  My most thorough research project in college was about the schism within feminism about sex work.  My final project to attain my art degree was a photo essay about stripping and strip clubs.  I'm not here just for the money.  I, like the customers, am also here for the women.  I'm here to hear their stories, and I'm here gathering my own experiences a la Jessa and Hannah of "Girls," and pretty much my entire generation that seems to "come of age" in our mid-twenties, slowly "developing into fully-formed humans."  Whatever the fuck that looks like.

I'm a procrastinator, and I've most recently justified putting off starting this because, a) my keyboard was broken, (after over a year of being computer-less,) and then b) since I have so much time/knowledge/stuff to cover, I figure once I open the floodgates, I won't be able to stop or sleep.

My mind is swimming with stories and stripper jargon.  I'm thinking about glitter (don't wear that shit- none of us want to take it home on our bodies, and it's impossible to get off;) colored lights, Lucite, butt pimples from laps and general uncleanliness, pole bruises, and thongs that have straps of a legally-enforced thickness.  (One inch at the two topless bars I worked at.)

I'm thinking about Love Spell and Paris Hilton perfumes.  About weaves.  (What are ACTUAL weaves, vs. the fact that white girls think that, and call, any hair that is not yours and attached to your own hair, a weave.)

I'm thinking about men's vulnerability that is sometimes so present, and so raw.  I've read sex work referred to recently as "emotional labor."  Choose to do with that what you like.  I'm thinking about regulars, and how I've never been very successful at cultivating that relationship.  I'm wondering seriously how extensively and permanently damaged parts of my body are and/or will be by the time that I'm done, which hopefully won't be soon.  I love what I do, and I'll do it until I can't, or somehow decide I've finally had enough.

My psyche has been affected by this work, just as drastically and irreversably as my knees and instep.  I don't consider myself to be damaged by it, however.  It simply shaped the way I grew, and how I now conceive of: men, women, sexuality, power dynamics, capitalism, patriarchy, etc.

I have to stop now, and continue when I can better streamline my thoughts.  I dedicate this first entry to the man I sold my pantyhose to on Craigslist, who, though we've never even touched or hugged, bought me the laptop that I'm currently typing on, that enabled me to finally begin.