Commute Pictures

Thanks to weight gain, I got the “come back in 5 pounds” treatment at Hustler and Flashdancer’s. I got psyched out and pissed at myself after trying four Manhattan clubs unsuccessfully, so I’m working in Staten Island until I can “upgrade” or add a second job. I have no desire to work in Queens again when it comes to outer boroughs. Staten Island’s a trek, but the demographic is better suited to me.

I’ve been meaning to work at Private Eyes or New York Dolls in Manhattan (where Flashdancer’s outsources dancers they deem worthy, but in need of junior varsity grooming) but all my long gowns are in storage. There are a good 10-12 dresses I want from http://www.kamalacollection.com/ but I’m trying not to spend a bunch of start-up money. (If you’re a dancer passing through NYC, Kamala, who has high SEO on Google for shipped gown orders, makes their dresses in Long Island City and can alter yours on the spot if you go in person.)

It’s that Catch-22 of not wanting to spend, but knowing there’s higher earning potential in Manhattan. My club in New Orleans was feeling annoyingly brothel-ish toward the end, so I’m actually happy to work at a casual, lap dance and stage club for a few weeks. Some of the girls wear some downright ugly one piece numbers that ride up their butts like a Baywatch bathing suit, but it’s not super low class.

Back in New Orleans, we had lots of Staten Island customers, usually destination bachelor parties. They are the type of middle class Italian-American that likes me; I’m a sassy red-head who is short and curvy. In fact, I’m thinking of buying shorter heels cause at a mere 5’2″ 1/2, I’m towering over the vertically challenged Italian guys in my 8″ platform shoes! I have zero self-consciousness when I kick them off to start a lap dance and make a big point of showing them my shrinkage. (Speaking of my petite height, that’s why modest weight gain is a beast ; every three pounds shows far more than it would on tall girls.)

Without further ado, I have some really pretty commuting pictures to show y’all; mainly from the Staten Island ferry en route home, as well as some Verrazano Bridge and Manhattan skyline pics.

My Life in Someecards

Bottomless Bullshit

Not too many customers bitch and moan we aren’t full nude, though plenty hailing from Atlanta, certain parts of Texas, Wisconsin and other areas love leveraging the fact they get less for their money as an excuse to be cheap.

Female customers and civilians often ask “how do you get on stage topless like that?” and I always brush it off as no biggie. But bottomless is an emotional roadblock for me. It’s already irritating enough when I work the shit out of the pole and show my tits pro bono to an unimpressed, non-tipping crowd. Flashing my pussy in good faith, with nothing but some singles, or worse, perverted stares without tipping, as a reward just doesn’t sit well with me. Neither does the thought of getting finger fucked or otherwise sexually assaulted in ways that are far more applicable to nether regions than tits.

Last week, a young guy with an older man came in and pulled that move where he yanked my G string way out from my body and put the dollar right along my crack. Ever the psycho bitch, I ripped it up like confetti and told him it wasn’t worth it. The older guy later apologized for him and gave me $20, but in other clubs and other states, he’d have had nothing to apologize for and wouldn’t have pissed off the girl to begin with.

Guys often seem confused that a girl would go topless with zero hang-ups, yet clam up at full nudity. But I think my fellow women-folk can understand. Some of my favorite stripper bloggers are based in Portland, and I don’t know how they do it.

I’m not trying to act self-righteous or flaunt my personal boundaries. If my pussy looked more like a porn star’s, i.e. zero razor burn and less flappiness, maybe I’d be more inclined to show it off. I feel like my pussy is not as attractive as possible and that unleashing it on a stage audience would be akin to the girl with the horrible botched boob job dropping her top.

Ugly pussy self-esteem issues aside, it’s also a mental boundary. It seems far too easy to be violated on stage, during lap dances or in VIP when you have no barrier. The worst offense is on stage since the dollar stakes are low and the humiliation factor of having an audience is high.

As another girl said while discussing topless vs. nude, “a G string may be a tiny, almost microscopic barrier, but it’s a barrier.”

And as one of my cheesy jokes goes, “so little of me is left to the imagination and yet so much.”

Groundhog Day

There are many aspects of stripping that make me grateful I’m not an average working stiff at a straight job. I can talk back to customers. I can swear. I can toss drinks in people’s faces if they’re out of line. I don’t have to put up with emotionally abusive crap and feel like a pushover.

But my day to day feels damn boring lately. I’m working tons of shifts to pay my big-ticket expenses; taxes, a $1,200+ flight to Europe, the car I hope to buy this summer and a ginormous hospital bill. I’m on a monotonous cycle of working, becoming physically exhausted, hitting the 24 hour store on the way home, popping a sleep-aid, snacking, sleeping and waking up with just enough time to return for my usual 3PM-Midnight swing shift.

On my days off, I don’t do much. I pay bills, I shop and I organize things. I read and write for a few hours. I sit by my friend’s pool, I watch tons of DVR (justifiable as I’m a wannabe TV writer.) When customers ask me about fun places to go and things to do, I usually draw a blank. “Uh…just wander around Bourbon. Check out Uptown by the colleges, good drink specials.”

I’m not terribly good with money and my safest way to be responsible is to work so much I have little time to spend. The bad shifts where I leave almost empty-handed, my reassurance is “at least I didn’t spend money while I was stuck here.” God love indentured servitude. The good shifts make up for it.

Strip clubs are a very interesting environment to observe behaviors and size up various demographics, as well as learn sales techniques and conversational skills. But I don’t feel any different than, or somehow “above” my peers with normal jobs. My lap dances and stage sets are practically identical every time. My conversations are mundane, unless I quickly find a pleasant common ground with the customer. I laugh at bad jokes. I crack even shittier ones. I keep meaning to take certain songs off my stage list and groan every time the ones I’m sick of come on.

My job is quirky and it’s the premise for this blog, but it’s just a job and it’s boring me these days. There are worse gigs, half of which I’ve worked. I’m financially stable and want for nothing. I’m gearing up for summer adventures to Italy, Vegas, LA and maybe even North Dakota. I have work lined up in Providence, RI for the summer. I’m doing credit repair to prep myself for a car loan. NORMAL PEOPLE SHIT.

I don’t have much spark or passion these days, and I’m hoping my upcoming travels and break from the New Orleans routine will re-ignite the flame. Yet, feeling more lucid and passionate often goes hand in hand with feeling squeamish, anxious, vulnerable and manic. I’ve been feeling bored and monotonous in New Orleans, but with the boredom goes deeper, sounder sleep and a sense of security. I’m a bat shit crazy stripper supporting my writing habit at the end of the day, but I can’t hate on people who are perfectly content to live a stable, albeit boring life. There’s a certain comfort in it that I’m enjoying, yet resenting, for the time being.

Hatin’

We work the pole hard at my club, but most of us look like run-of-the-mill strippers, despite customers’ frequent “It’s like Cirque du Soleil with tits!” comments. One day, a girl about 4’10″ came in who seemed far more suited for burlesque, show-girl dancing, and watching her stage sets irritated the fuck out of me. It wasn’t jealousy, it was her nauseatingly precious and cutesy performance style. She wore a nautical ensemble, which I could forgive if it weren’t for the gold tassels atop shoulder pads like an H.M.S. Pinafore community theatre costume. She kept bopping up and down ad nauseum on our spinning pole along with Rihanna, but the kicker happened when she lay on her back, legs spread in a V, and someone placed a dollar right over her crotch. The dollar suddenly billowed up a good six inches thanks to an unknown air source I presumed a queef. I was disgusted, but when I said as much to a girl in the dressing room, she explained that she blows on it with her mouth. Still, the illusion of emitting a 10-15 mph gust of queef hardly strikes me as sexy. I haven’t seen her since. Maybe she hopped a time machine back to a WWII USO Show or happy-go-lucky MGM musical production lot.

Peep Show

People be acting like a stripper’s life’s all glamorous and shit.

New Orleans vs. New York

No Russian co-workers!

That more or less sums up why I like stripping here more.

Round Trip ?

Thanks to a mishap on my one-way $15 Air Tran flight from Boston to New Orleans February 1, I have a free RT! I asked if I could use it on a one way and, since I can do two one ways in lieu of a RT, hello Vegas followed by LA. I LOVE Boston in the summertime, but I can consolidate my love for lobstah, chowdah and wicked awesome Massholes into a couple weeks before replacing the Atlantic with the Pacific. Details TBD.

Dolla and a Dream

I’ve decided to move to LA by July. I don’t have as much money in the bank as I’d like and I’ll probably have to bite the bullet and get a car loan instead of paying up front, but it’s high time and I feel ready. I’ve wanted to be a TV writer since 2007 and I can’t afford to squander more years in other cities. So wish me luck and feel free to lend me some advice!