Exit Strategy; Step 1; Make a Plan

May 6, 2013

Hey, remember me? #attentionseeking

I’ve been MIA cause I’ve been focusing on other shit, ie my future over my present, which admittedly has caused some anxiety over immediate cash flow, but no biggie.

I’m outta the game for now, but most girls know you always have one foot, or at least one toe, still in the game, along with a piece in the back of your mind that nags “I’m always a handy quick fix if you fall behind on bills!” The whole “just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in,” cliche’ is painfully applicable to strippers and all sex workers.

I’m starting grad school soon and wish I could fast forward to day one of class. I actually have half a dozen prerequisite courses I didn’t take as an undergrad to do, so it’s good I have ample time before starting my PhD. On the flip-side, however, I also don’t qualify for student loans and my credit’s still below 680, leaving me poorly qualified for “personal loans” leading up to mky degree program. I feel in limbo; motivated and eager to qualify for a particular PhD program, but unable to finance the prerequisites up front.

It’s not too unrealistic to pay up front, though. If I take one course per summer semester, followed by two courses per semester in Fall and Spring, I only need 1K per class at the cheap in state and continuing studies schools (I looked into a local private school that is simply too pricey and impulsively registered for, then dropped four courses that were 2.5K a pop.)

I’m sorry to alienate any sex worker who sees this, but I’ve grown disenchanted with Twitter. I suppose I need to diversify my “following” portfolio, because I’m sick of everything revolving around hooker stuff, dressing room/DJ talk and sex work advocacy. Not that I’m not an ally of sex workers, pro-legalized-prostitution and all that good stuff (can you believe in some places, hotels will arrest you for having more than 3 condoms?), but I don’t want to serve a life sentence as a sex worker advocate. It will always mean something to me and I will always stand up against stereotypes and stupid jokes about strippers and hookers. But I want a regular age-proof career. I want to fill in the giant gap on my resume. By going back to school and volunteering in a relevant field, I’m essentially giving myself a clean slate and hoping people won’t judge my patchy resume too harshly. All my previous vanilla work experience is irrelevant to my future career goals, anyway, so just add my taboo stuff to that mix.

Many sex workers get pissed off if their peers act snobby, but at the same time, many sex workers act snobby in their own right. There’s a popularity heirarchy on Twitter; there are girls in complete denial of fellow sexs workers who fit into stereotypes, and women who have decided they are career sex workers and fuck anyone who questions them or expresses a true desire to get the fuck out this biz.

I was sitting on the train, where you do all your best thinking, like the shower or driving, and it occurred to me: “Why shouldn’t I reaffirm that I’m too good for an industry that acts too good for me?” I thought back to late January, when my long term club demoted me to day shift. They probably found me easy to manipulate, an exceedingly could sport who’d put up with t punishment. They knew my internal insecurities of being thick and older than average would allow me to agree with their demotion. But fuck that. As the shit-talking bartender sarcastically said, “You’re the intellectual stripper.” I’m not much of a hustler, like John Voight in Midnight Cowboy, so why waste my energy on an industry where my talents don’t fully lie? I’ll still chase the dream of writing, but I’m so happy that, after years of floundering and scraping by, I’ve found another source of passion and I’ve found some real direction and sense of stability.

 

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Recovering Anorexic

April 8, 2013

I just want to get to my bottom line instead of giving this past weekend’s story tons of context.

I stopped by a hotel after dancing amateur night outside Boston asking for rates and instead ended up loitering all night chatting up the cute young front desk guy and cute young security guy.

The desk guy was into me, although both were very flirtatious and I took him up on the offer of going to his place after his shift ended at 7AM. So we pulled an all-nighter together and proceeded to have this rapid ascent and decline of “booty call where I get treated like a girlfriend, so let me be sure to fuck this up before it gets any better.”

He was way too fresh off an ex, and mentioned she had depression and borderline personality issues. So, figured he could handle me! But I quickly developed an inferiority complex to her based on weight.

It started when he made breakfast that first morning. He asked if I wanted eggs; sure. Omelette? Sure. Ingredients? Whatever. So he slices small bits of leftover Easter ham and puts in shredded cheese.

Remark #1: “Wow, a girl who eats meat AND cheese!”

Ugh, just wanted to be a laid back houseguest. I was starving and hardly feeling fussy.

The following day, I find a Victoria’s Secret slip that was ex evidence. He’d said it was a clean break, so I let my eyes light up: “Hey, can I have that!”

“Well…..she was VERY small. I mean, like the size of a bug. I don’t want you to be disappointed. I mean, I’m not going to go trying on baby clothes.”

(Didn’t really know that, but I could tell by your leftover overpriced Vegan lubricant she was the reason for your “wow, you eat everything!” comment.)

The thing didn’t look like it would be THAT fucking small on me; like body fat oozing over it or my ripping it in the vain attempt to even try it on. I know I tried the same damn thing on at Vicky’s recently, most likely in a size small or “34B” The whole “you don’t try on kids clothes or baby clothes” analogy just added salt to the wound, because we were talking about a stretchy cotton sleep garment, not a fucking size 24 pair of jeans.

Comment #3: (During sex) “Oh, I love your thick hips.”

My later post-sex response: “Dude, I didn’t used to have hips. People used to ask if I was a ballet dancer and say they felt sorry for me whenever I had to go through childbirth.”

This guy claimed he had a foremerly bullimic sister and got “anxiety” when he caused girls stress over their weight, yet he repeatedly made comments that brought my briefly anorexic and long term borderline anorexic former self to the boiling point.

He’d try to salvage with typical backhanded (if you let them be) comments about my curves, bigger tits etc. But I just couldn’t let this inferiority complex of coming right after a super skinny girl fail to get under my skin. It got extremely deep under my skin.

The best analogy I can give is comparing a former anorexic to a recovering addict. If, like me, you’ve been to AA meetings, you’ll see the gung-ho old-timer who quit drinking at 16, yet goes to meetings and calls themself an alcoholic for the rest of their fucking life.

My body doesn’t look anorexic, because I’m semi-retired, or rather, not a “practicing” anorexic. But that doesn’t mean these emotional triggers don’t drive me bat shit crazy and that body image issues and eating disorders are something I’m in the clear from, just cause I resemble some happy BBW frolicking in a field of Dove real women self esteem. In fact, when I had outpatient therapy, I found it interesting that a girl with an eating disorder was in the “dual diagnosis” group, because the “substance” she abused was fucking FOOD.

Feeling fat compared to an ex pisses me off way more than any cliche backhanded compliment from strip club customers. I don’t care what strangers I’ll never see again think. I’m not sure why I cared so much with this guy; it’s just, for a weekend fling, he was treating me a lot like a girlfriend, spoiling me and acting really sweet and romantic.

Why I felt the need to compare myself to the other girl is a bit beyond me; I was really comparing myself to the “old me” that was as little as that girl; the girl he couldn’t seem to fathom comparing my body type with, even though it would be a legit comparison if you saw me in 2005 or earlier.

Here’s a PSA to people: when you go on an eating disorder bender, it’s very often motivated by A SINGLE COMMENT, however well-intentioned, let alone multiple comments that make you feel squeamishly big.

My friend who lost tons of weight, after being the happy-go-lucky, confident fat chick, attributes her dramatic weight loss to our mutual friends’ comment “You seem happy like you are….so why change?” Somehow, our friend casting her in the “happy fatass” light, but not in those words, motivated her.

I have counted my calories today and can see myself revving up the treadmill later using things he said this weekend as PURE MANTRA. Oh you have a little stomach cramp and wanna slow the treadmill down? Just replay in your head “She was REALLY small; I don’t want you to be disappointed trying that on” and you’ll be running 7.5mph in a hot second.

I’ve had those kinds of lines as dysfunctional motivators in the past. When I gained the freshman 15 and my Jewish mother figure said “You’re looking like the OLD (baby fat having) you.” I proceeded to lose 15 pounds in barely 6 weeks; we’re talking slim fast bar for breakfast and lunch, EZ mac for dinner, total calorie count of 700-800 per day with 1/2 hour of cardio every single night and some weights every other night. Dizzy every time you stand up. Not the emaciated 83 pounder of my 18 year old days, but back to the point of “gee, I’m almost dipping under 100 lbs, guess I can let myself go for ONE DAY so I’m at least in the triple digits.”

I used to use vegetarianism to mask my anorexia and give myself an excuse to refuse foods. A guy making a comment about what a good sport of an “equal opportunity eater” I am is meant as a compliment, but Christ…

I did my part in being hurtful toward him; I got angry drunk Saturday and acted like a bitch. I definitely put him on the spot with all the weight comments and exposed my insecurities bigtime.

So Friday night, we were watching sports and for a time, I went into his bedroom while he and his roommate stayed by the TV. I took that slip and ripped it into several pieces I was so resentful toward it and the blow to my self-confidence it caused.

Then, like an idiot (having already pulled a crazy bitch move), I decided to randomly tell him I’d done it while waiting to be sat for brunch yesterday. His ex and body image stuff came up again and I gave him crap for how his comment about that slip made me feel. I looked him dead on and impulsively said, “which is why that garment’s ripped to about five pieces at the bottom of your trash right now.”

That was just the trigger my self-destructive self-conscious was hoping to set off. Every time someone treats me well, misguided compliments aside, I make sure to act psycho and scare them off; I know it’ll happen eventually, so I go out of my way to get it over with. I’d already been bitchy to him Saturday night, and telling him I’d done that was the shoot-myself-in-the-foot outcome I was twistedly seeking. Instead of staying with him one last night before flying back out of town, I got myself kicked out for losing his trust and had to spend $90 on a Zipcar when I could have just spent more time having great sex and being treated like a queen.

Even after kicking me out (he had some work and friend betraying him issues on his plate also stressing him out) he was super nice about driving me “wherever I needed to go.”

“How’s the middle of the Tobin Bridge?” (I’m such a self-loathing bitch.)

When he dropped me at the garage to get my car, we had a super long hug and tiny kiss goodbye. It definitely made me sad, but also validated he’s a genuinely nice guy at the end of the day. He even said some kind of “talk to you soon” line, to which I replied, “That’s obviously YOUR move to make if you choose to make it.” I almost hope he does, but I’ve already cut my losses and gone back to my fucking four simultaneous sext conversations, not to mention scoping out a new marine prospect with a degree. Oh, and of course, getting back in touch with my psychotic borderline anorexic roots; 460 calories so far today! I’ll “save” my remaining 400 allowance for right before the gym tonight so I don’t pass out. Yesterday, it was so tense when I revealed my psycho move, we just left without sitting for brunch, so saved a few cals there!

This is the shit that happens when you make someone’s eating disorder side boil over. Shit like inspiring me to have a 20 Oz Diet Dr. Pepper as my afternoon snack and buying 45 calorie a slice bread to spray I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter zero calorie, chemical-laden shit on. Measuring fat free half and half in a tablespoon measurer, because God forbidd, I “free-poured” my creamer and couldn’t track the calories. I guess I’ll be living off of Chicken Noodle Soups, 300- Calorie Lean Cuisines, 60 Calorie Dannon Danimals things or Sugar Free Jello as “dessert” and Cliff bars for a while.

To add to the dysfunction, I console myself with the fact I willingly gave head and enjoyed doing it, unlike that other bitch, even making a snarky comment to the guy that “as someone who so CLEARLY isn’t bullimic, my gag reflex is minimal.” Crazy in bed, crazy in the head, as they say.

I’ll Blog Later. In the Meantime, Read This!

April 3, 2013

“It’s Always Darkest Before The Storm. So. Oh, Was It The Dawn. Wait.”.

Stigma

March 21, 2013

I’m very engaged in the sex workers on social media scene and it’s a completely different world than my quotidian dealing with strip club employees.

Strippers, dommes, escorts and other sex workers I follow on Twitter are extremely articulate, predominantly well educated and yes, relatively “priveleged.” Most, but not all, of them, have me beat in the “mental stability”, “maximum earning potential” and “sound business sense” departments.

That is a concession I will make right now; girls who don’t struggle as much with mental health and addiction have a firmer head on their shoulders, and are generally much more successful, not to mention healthy, than myself. But I measure success in personal progress, ie “doing me” not just earnings and account statements.

Some of my peers on the Twitter/Blogosphere can come off as snobby, and there is obviously infighting. I don’t like feeling like the elephant in the sex worker room because

I’m a “statistic” being someone with trauma in my past, a mental illness and addiction. I can’t boast a long standing sobriety date and I know I shouldn’t drink. My meds could stand some tweaking; I don’t firmly subscribe to the uniquely American pill pushing culture of overdiagnosing normal emotions, but I also know that I refuse meds based on their reputation for making people fat, even if they offer increased “stability” to my current regimen.

I understand both sides of the picture; a priveleged faction of a disenfranchised labor force wants to a) prove stereotypes wrong and b ) call out even more priveleged feminist scholars for daring to insinuate sex workers have addiction and mental illness in disproportionate numbers. I prefer to be brutally honest, even though it conforms to stereotypes. I fit into certain stereotypical boxes, but as I stated before, women who are more sound of mind and addiction-free tend to thrive better in my industry.

It’s depressing to say I have a stigmatized, sometimes dangerous, job just to get by. As a former colleague said, “I don’t take my clothes off just to pay my bills.” I just bought a $900 flight to Italy when I still owe the IRS 4K for chrissake. But treating myself is validating. I will still make my IRS tab on time.

Digression aside, I spend most of what I make, both on valid things such as taxes, as well as extravagant things. I don’t blow rent money on alcohol or cocaine. All I know is, as my family’s black sheep, I don’t have to go seeking handouts. Did I stumble into sex work because I was sick of working shit jobs for belated, shit pay? Hell yeah. But I know that the industry can also be a haven for people who lack the mental stability or sobreity to cut it at “vanilla/normal” jobs.

I know well-meaning sex workers want to debunk stereotypes, but I choose instead, to applaud the industry for allowing people with problems who are disenfranchised in other ways, to earn a living. Finding a traditional job with a criminal record and other personal demons can prevent you from being a part of the work force at all. I’ve avoided criminal history, but there is a lot I’m not cut out for and I’m just happy to remain gainfully employed without having to beg, borrow, steal, be a government assistance sponge, miss bill payments, jeopardize my credit score etc…..

Esprit de Corps Gone Wrong

March 14, 2013

I always wear a fleece that says Esprit de Corps, a team I was on, and learned from my Marine ex that it’s a morale saying for them. That’s what we called our team playing trivia night once; ah nice wholesome times.

Last Saturday, I had a beer at the Rick’s Cabaret “front bar” which is outside the actual club. I was visiting my Boston buddy who bartends there and catching up, when some dude approached me about my fleece.

“Why does your sweater say that?”

“It’s a team I was on.”

“You know what it really means?”

“Yeah, it’s a Marine thing; my ex told me.”

Fast forward a half hour and I’m verifying he has the hotel room to himself for a while and off we go.

Fun enough. Whatever. Fall asleep for a couple hours and suddenly his marine buddies are banging on the door and next thing I know, I’m naked under a sheet with five shitfaced hoorah motherfuckers talking shit. No physical aggression but it was ugly.

Mr. recipient of blow jobs who played nice until the deal was sealed, pulled the worst 180 ever in my extensive hookup history.

All of a sudden, him and the pals are telling me to hurry up and get the fuck out. I’m half drunk and half asleep; I can already tell they’re not kidding and feeling pretty dirty. I’m too out of it to think more than vaguely that this is a truly compromising situation.

I start to find my piecews of clothing as the guys ignore me to talk Marine shit with some random corps guy they met out and about. At one point, one says, “Hurry up and fuck off before you get fucked up the ass.”

That got me alert. I stayed calm and vainly slammed the door, as if they gave a shit I wanted to helplessly display my anger.

So, the point of this is, I’m providing yet another cautinary tale via my own stupid antics. The point is also that I got lucky and it didn’t get real in there. At least not physically; verbally for sure.

I’ve never had something that bad happen to me at work in 3.5 full years in the sex industry. It’s true what people say; random hookups are no less risky than “paid” hookups. They can be far worse. Verbal assault hurts, too, but thank God I dodged the rape bullet. Assuming they actually would have done something that horrible.

Fuck the dead hooker jokes and “Daddy raped you” jabs. I’m so used to turning down propositions at work, I forgot agreeing to random hookups as a civilian actually comes with risks. Just because I’m not being lured with money doesn’t make it safe to fuck a dude I just met at a hotel room occupied by four pumped up, obnoxious marines.  I was legitimately scared for a moment there, and there’s no other time in my life I was scared of an actual rape, versus date rape gray areas.

I talked to my guy friend about the bad taste in my mouth that left, given my usually favorable opinion of military men. I had fucking gone to the World War II Museum that day, for Christ’s sake; I was feeling as patriotic and thankful toward military as ever. My friend suggested this glorified fetish of mine it’s just a phase, implying I’ll wind up with a hippie writer type. But dude, I hate hipsters.

I think I’ll lay off wearing my Esprit de Corps fleece on Bourbon for a while. I don’t even feel like reading the rest of Generation Kill until this incident is further behind me. I tend to think of guys who deployed as poor little puppies who aren’t treated right when they get home, but those guys certainly had zero humility.

Downgrade=Upgrade

March 13, 2013

I’ve worked a handful of shifts at a new club and it’s going way better than expected.

My old club, as mentioned ad nauseum before, punished me schedule-wise for alleged solicitation. They are strict and clean and I was proud to work there, even though at least one shift a week was a complete waste of time.

Consider one crappy shift or even two per week that are barely worth showing up, multiply that by on-and-off working a year at the place, and you can see I’ve wasted tons of time.

I reluctantly went to work at a clu with a trashy reputation because I know the door guy; he’d text me when I was out of town, telling me to come in, so it was the easy choice upon my return to New Orleans.

All the girls are nice, making the transition easy, four girls (and counting) I know a little or a lot from my other club (Bourbon is incestuous) and there’s no micromanagement. That means a lot, ahem, goes on there, but you can set your own boundaries. The club has 3/$100 private dances which are super easy to sell since it’s like selling a cheap-o VIP room. People actually fucking tip at the stage, unlike my last job, and they are a more enthusiastic, and EXISTENT crowd.

Best thing of all; no schedule. You just show up as you please. You pay a higher house fee if you arrive super late, but sometimes it’s better to work a shorter shift well rested than show up early to save a little. On Monday and Tuesday, you get free house fee if you’re on the floor by 9PM. All in all, not a raw deal. The house fee is super low and the DJ gets 10% of what you make. That may seem like a lot, but at least if you have a random fluke of a bad night, you can tip $1 if you made literally $10, instead of having to tip $20 no matter how little you made.

The girls there are not cream of the crop, but they’re very nice, and plenty of them are cute enough, and good enough on stage, not to mention personable, to keep customers in. It seems the door guys do a good job and that the club also has the advantage of more foot traffic, being less on the periphery of Bourbon.

So all in all, good stuff. I’ve had some pretty lucrative shifts, and the mediocre ones were still decent. I’m looking forward to paying off my taxes and being 100% free of debt soon. I’ve decided to stay in New Orleans one more month, because my cheap apartment prospect for April in Queens fell through. If things keep going the way they are, I’ll have plenty of dough to sign a lease in a nice area like Sunnyside Queens next month. This is that fun part of the year, like last Spring, where, every time I have a New York customer, I take their info and tell them to visit me at a club in their city soon.

The Blues

March 7, 2013

I’m coming down off the high of a mega-productive and lucid, not to mention lucrative, three days. Last night was my first full shift at a club and my body wasn’t on a vampiric enough schedule to stay sharp until almost 5AM. I went to bed on 21 hours awake, and woke up earlier than I’d prefer.

Today was my first loafing day in quite a bit, so I decided to watch Restrepo, a documentary about a Platoon’s 15 month deployment in Afghanistan.

Normally, I know better than to watch or listen to anything depressing when my mood’s low. I figured I should educate myself on how things really work over in Afghanistan without contemplating the depressing deaths and real life reactions I’d see. Although the documentary has endearing, lighthearted moments, it’s not the “truth based” fare of Generation Kill with punched up jokes and no casualties. And it got to me.

Of course, I felt for the men (boys really) who lost their friends. I don’t ask my military buddies about whether they’ve lost close pals, the way you don’t ask customers at the club about their wives and kids, so it’s easy to maintain the out of sight, out of mind approach. Until you accidentally watch a documentary where you see soldiers discover the body of a man down.

I have a good deal of self shame about my inability to handle emotional triggers. Watching a damn 90 minute documentary has thrown my mood for the whole day (I popped a Klonopin to chill out) and these guys held down a grueling dragged out deployment.

There’s a great segment in the book Generation Kill where the author, a Rolling Stone reporter, talks about anxiety pill culture and the relative weakness of his civilian peers in Los Angeles:

“We stand around looking at each other through the warping, fish-eye lenses of our gas masks. I can’t conceal my feeling of triumph. Not only am I glad that I don’t seem to be showing any symptoms of exposure the gas, but I’m also not a little proud that I’ve gotten fully MOPPed up without panicking. Unlike these Marines, I haven’t spent the last few years of my life in wars or training exercises with bombs going off, jumping out of airplanes and helicopters. In my civilian world at home in Los Angeles, half the people I kinow are on antidepressants or anti-panic attack druge because they can’t handle the stress of a mean boss or a crowd at the 7-Eleven when buying a Slurpee.

that’s my world, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if, thrust into this one, in the first moments of what we all believe to b3e a real gas attack, I’dee just flipped out and started autoinjecting myself with Valium.”

(Afforementioned injectable Valium was meant to finish the job for a man wounded beyond recovery a la Morphine.)

Most of us semi-liberal urbanites can judge questionable military engagements from a chicken shit point of view. But how many of us will freely admit they are not man (or woman) enough to handle what the guys in Restrepo did?

Another quip in Generation Kill is a guy saying “we’re the ones your moms said not to hang out with in High School. Now they put us up on pedestals as heroes.”

Readers may wonder, “where are her dry humping anecdotes? I wanna know how she dealt with that guy who whipped his dick out last night.” All I can say is, I may be an emotional basket case, but I relate to other disenfranchised people as a result. I’m a closeted mental health case, sex worker and alcoholic, I mean that’s a triple whammy, man. Does it make sense to y’all why I date military guys, now? I’m drawn in a sick way to damaged goods, which is probably unhealthy and even dangerous for my well-being. But even if I’m a pussy who literally gets panic attacks over the prospect of running out of anxiety pills, I’d like to think I can be proud of my willingness to probe retired military men for their stories when, and only when, appropriate. You can’t shove your curious agenda down someone’s throat. But if you date someone, as I have, you eventually gauge how much they are willing to open up, and even vent. Military guys tend not to judge the stripping profession as harshly and if only they weren’t so in love with their guns, I’d put my money on marrying one eventually. I got tricked into seeing my Dad last weekend (something I hesitate to mention, as it’s linkable to my real life) and when I told him I’d dated a couple Marines and was back to manhunting, he said, “whoever marries you needs to be a strong man.” And I think the only hope I have is a guy who’s been through some heavy ass shit. I respect military men by default, until they lose my respect, like the guy I dumped February 15th (that has to be some kind of unofficial dumping day of women doing the dumping following Valentine’s let-downs.)

BRB

March 2, 2013

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I’ve been quite MIA but plan to change that soon.

Detox and Self Control

February 18, 2013

Yesterday, I attended a baby shower, and despite the cranked heat, I didn’t remove my hoodie because I was wearing ill-fitting clothes underneath. This morning, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror after my shower. Last night, I found a dozen pictures at my Gramma’s from Summer 2011 where I look positively beer-bloated, tired and pasty, as I do now. She doesn’t know it yet, but I removed them from her album and threw them away, I’m so mortified by my appearance.

Last year, I quit drinkiing from August until Christmas day, losing 10-15 pounds with little effort. I was quite active, taking pole dancing classes and figure skating, healthy habits that were enabled by being away from nightclubs and booze. My drug of choice is high calorie, and I’m not one of those alcoholics who has no appetite. I hate lying to my Dad’s side of the family about drinking and I was honest with my Mom’s side over Christmas. But I know myself best, and all one has to do to know whether I’m on or off the wagon is compare how I look now to how I looked at Thanksgiving 2011. I’m easily 15 lbs heavier with huge bags under my eyes, dehydrated drab skin and no glow or shine to my skin or hair. I quite frank;ly look like shit if I don’t pile on Sally Hansen spray tan, makeup, 8″ heels and tone everything down with flattering strip club lighting.

My weight, health and appearance are out of hand. Instead of being the one aspect of my life I sieze control over, to counteract the tough aspectss I can’t control (my brain’s chemistry, losing my mom), it’s yet another facet of my day to day life that is thoroughly out of control.  Now that I’ve quit my club, I have a little time to detox and prioritize self care. I can’t be a full time dieter, exerciser and detoxer for long, as I’ve already made far less money than anticipated so far in 2013. But I think I need to cut myself some slack and allow a solid 1.5-2 weeks of nothing but healthy eating, a regular sleep schedule, tons of fresh air, sunlight and walking and no cigarettes. Working at a New Orleans club has turned me into a vampire with a depleted immune system and a dehydrated, malnourished, yet bloated appearance. I’m quite frankly disgusted with myself.

I heard from my Dad for the first time since last Christmas (he led to my falling off the wagon last yeaer, though I can’t blame anyone but myself.) He wants to get together soon and resume talking, keeping it light and seeing where it goes. I don’t feel ready, though, and might postpone our get-together now set for this weekend. I want to look and feel better before seeing him (in my neverending vain quest to please.)

I’m quite dissapointed in myself and I’m seriously thinking about leaving New Orleans early. I can work private parties in Boston and New York City, which will allow me more time for self care than a full time strip club schedule. Being in the Northeast will allow me the comforts of having more close friends and family members around, so I’m motivated to stay on track, and feel more supported. Plus, my friend up here is trying to help me land technical writing jobs, which are not possible to work remotely. I think it’s time for a mother-fucking change. I’m thoroughly displeased with my work life and personal life. And I’m sick of lying to people all the time. It’d be nice to reach a place where I can be happy with my career choices and my lifestyle.

Fuck it Friday

February 15, 2013

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So, it’s been a productive Friday.

I decided to cut ties with the marine this morning. He’s dumped, but doesn’t know it yet, since I took the middle school approach of unfriending him and deleting our text and call history.

I was assigned to yet another day shift at work and there was only one other girl. After my fourth stage set where one couple and a few young guys just stared without tipping, I beelined to the dressing room, shoved my shit in a Mardi Gras tote bag and peaced out with all of $3. The poor DJ; he’s sweet and I would’ve liked to at least tip him out.

I’ve long suspected my club used my alleged solicitation behavior as an excuse or catalyst to demote me to day shift since most girls in their right mind have no desire to work them and aren’t exceedingly good sports like me;

I’ve been their day shift bitch before, broke free from it and got sucked back in. Girls are dropping like flies at my club and I can see why. They basically took thousands upon thousands out of my wallet by demoting me (“temporarily”) right before the Super Bowl and are still trying to keep me trapped in day shifts and swing shifts only.

Yet, I’ve stayed several times to work night shift when they were short on girls, or, in the case of last Saturday, when there’s a FUCKING SHOOTING RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR CLUB AND NO NIGHT SHIFT GIRLS ARE ABLE TO GET PAST NOPD YELLOW TAPE TO GET TO WORK.

I’ve been a good sport time and time again, I endured a horrendously slow January waiting for the Super Bowl payoff. I’ve helped them out, stayed loyal, not fucked with hard drugs and not prostituted in VIP or even used the least bit solicitary language to sell private rooms. And they return that by screwing me out of my Super Bowl and Mardi Gras money. They are having enough trouble retaining staff, they should try and be reasonable to girls like me who stay pretty sober, never miss shifts and don’t complain.

So speaking of the shooting, which was quite jarring to hear about and fortunately not witness, I texted the marine boy when it happened:

Him: How’s work.

Me: Well….there was just a shooting out front.

Him: Oh, damn!

Me: Yeah, I’m off at 11, don’t feel too safe about leaving, the street’s a shit-show.

Him: NO REPLY

Half the security guys and DJ’s at most strip clubs are ex-Marines and they all concurred he should have offered to come get me. Duh. Marine or not. Be a fucking man.

Yesterday being Valentine’s, I stayed at the guy’s house all day while he worked, marathoning Generation Kill (which is amazing, by the way) and picking up his dog’s poop when she decided to drop a deuce on the carpet right in front of me. What do I get?

He comes home, basically ignores me, starts doing his Mandarin Rosetta Stone and giving me a headache with his stupid pronunciation drills, continues to play on Facebook, and makes no offer to cook dinner.

He didn’t come home bearing gifT of any sort. I’m not a shallow girl who wants roses, jewels etc….but given his limited military budget, would a fucking $4 Russell Stover chocolate box be so bad? All I wanted was an acknowledgement; a small gesture

He always cooks, and I offer to buy the ingredients, yet last night I could barely convince him to go to the grocery store. When I finally did, he said he wanted fruit and French Toast for dinner; yeah that shit’s cute at breakfast, but I have little sweet tooth and guys who are into sweets turn me off (it’s a mental thing since my Dad never eats dessert and nobody in my family is huge on it. Main courses are so much better!)

So, talk about a clean slate. I wanted to quit the job before, right when they fucked me on Super Bowl, but the other clubs had done all their temp hiring and I felt trapped.

All of January sucked after New Year’s, so I didn’t have the freedom to say “fuck it” and storm off. Not that I did today, either. But I have guaranteed work in NYC, a promising lead at another club and, worse comes to worse, I’ll work at a lower caliber club for a few weeks to maintain cash flow.

I have to make some concessions until I figure out a new club here on Bourbon or up in NYC (still too chilly up there!) I can do private party stripping through an agency in NYC that I worked for over the summer. It’s more pressure to do more shit than at a topless club, but at least it’s safe, as the owner screens clients.

I’ve also resorted to resuming contact with a Sugar Daddy in NYC and our schedules mesh next week, so that’s some money in my pocket. It seems like all leads point to NYC, but I’ll try Bourbon first. Tomorrow, I have vacation for a week, so I can digest my options. I wouldn’t mind if my club crawled back to me offering a better schedule, considering they are desperate for girls.

I’m bummed out the marine didn’t act like a gentleman last night. There had been red flags and he was a pussy for a marine anyway, not my type lookswise (I prefer dark hair), and basically too country white trash for my tastes. I’m somewhat moderate, politically speaking, and part of that’s rebellion against my bleeding heart liberal past and surroundings growing up, but part of it is just how I am. Still, an elitist side comes out in me when I watch someone fumble to find the right vocabulary word during conversation. When someone so fucking pro second ammendent, yee-haw and gun-toting can’t offer me a sense of protection following live gunfire by my job.