But hey y’all COMPLEX.COM wrote about badass, hilarious strippers and included ME ME ME ME ME ME ME on their list!!!!

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

And if you’re a fucking shitty friend and NOT already following me on Twitter you should do something about this RIGHT NOW because my ego just inflated tenfold and suddenly I feel more entitled to being even more cunty on this Monday afternoon than usual.

originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com

Hey, Cunts!

So I’m taking a night off work this THURSDAY so I can get up in front of a group of people who don’t want to see my tits (I mean let’s be honest, they probably do) and instead they want to HEAR ME SPEAK.

I may or may not be shitting my pants right now, as the very thought of being appreciated for my brain and not my box seems just so… REAL.

So come and get real with me if you live in New York and want me to tell you a bedtime story.

The event is being held by The Red Umbrella Diaries at Happy Endings Lounge at 302 Broome St. It’s FREE! Be there at 7pm.

(Originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

Twitter is really great for sharing tips on how to potty train your baby, where the latest underground emo all-ages show is, and for tips on how to make men recoil when they attempt a suckle at your teet while you’re giving him a $20 lap dance.

In most cases I am pretty successful at maneuvering around thrusting tongues when I’m doing my thang. But sometimes I need to yawn, so I throw my head back ‘in ecstasy’ and gasp for a deep breath of oxygen to stave off the boredom. Perhaps you, too, have been here before: Leaning back, mid-yawn, I feel something GROSS on my precious fun bags. I look down, and lo and behold: some dink’s mouth trying to feed off me like I’m his wet nurse.

I lose my shit when this happens. It’s fucking gross. But ending the dance and fighting for your twenty dollar bill is not satisfactory enough. After all, strippers are vindictive bitches.

In my last post, I shared my prickly-leg strategy with y’all, which invited tweeter babe @VivianeMae to share with me that she slathers a bit of antibacterial gel on her nips to make them taste like ICK. It stems from the same tactic obedience school trainers use for quelling a barking dog: spray sour apple spray into their mouth.  This strategy makes perfect sense when you remember that men, too are dogs. (If they could they would totally lick their own balls)

IMMEDIATELY after being tweeted about this new stripper secret I made a beeline to the nearest RiteAid.

I was digesting my twitter feed in a meadow, obviously.

I scoured the aisles until I found the hand sanitizer section. For all the subway riding that goes on in New York City, I was seriously disappointed by the meager selection of two or three bottles that all bore the RITEAID home brand and offered little to no variety in fragrance.

I grabbed one of each bottle and shielded my stash from the apathetic eyes of the stock-girl shelving Rogain on my right. Squeezing a dollop onto my index finger, I performed a taste test: Which one is the most repulsive?

I know, you’re extremely jealous right now.

But after each lick I tasted NOTHING. They tasted like NOTHING.

@VivianeMae I implore you, what brand of man-tongue-repeller do you use?

(originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

Every day we learn something new.

This morning, I learned that, for a staggeringly high price, you can buy fantasy portraits of menopausal celebrities.

Neat!

Yesterday, however, I learned something even RADDER: 

It’s a new secret that I am just itching to share with strippers everywhere:

PRICKLY LEGS ARE A GODSEND.

When you’re sitting with a client, giggling, smiling, and smoothing out his lapels, trying to get him to invest in some quality time in the Jungle Room, your john will probably be reaching to your knees and thighs, because that’s what hungry men do. And, if your legs are freshly shorn and Nivea-commercial baby soft, then his hands are likely to keep wandering up, up, up to your honey pot. Then you have to tell him, with angelic flirtation, ‘no baby, not yet,’ when really you want to swat him away like a deer fly. Amiright?

Last night I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to raze away all my lovely angel hairs. I had a nice stubble that was on par with the handsome mug of Clive Owen.

The only man I would ever consider fucking

Needless to say, I feared it would affect my income.

I sat down with some nice old fart at the bar. He bought me a drink, reached for my knee and upon contact with my sandpaper gams, politely retreated his pervy paws. By the time I was sucking on the ice of my $20 “vodka” soda, he asked if I would join him in the Jungle Room.

He got wasted, we had a merry old time and he only occasionally pet my calves in a downward motion, never once reaching for the no-go zone.

EVERYBODY WINS!

Another *brilliant* repellent for mommy-issued titty-lickers was imparted to me by this total babe of a stripper who was spritzing Chanel Noir everywhere one night, and, because it wasn’t from Bath and Body Works’ Cotton Candy line for baby prostitutes, I decided not to throw a fit about my delicate respiratory system and asked her why she was spraying such a concentrated amount on her areolae.

“So when they go to lick you it tastes like shit,” she says with a devious megawatt grin.

The lesson, Cunts:

If a man’s going to spend money, ain’t no thorns protecting your divine rose bush gonna stop him.

So save your razors, strut those sandpaper thighs and get back to me on this.

(originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

Today (or was it yesterday? Tragically, my diaries journals are in storage.) marks the THIRD YEAR OF MY GASH FLASHING.

Three years ago some lovely fat man paid me my first $50 to get my kit off and I tell you I’ve really been the happiest cunt since then.

At first I thought to myself I’d give it a few months, buy some diamonds and then be done with it.

Six months turned into a year, a year became ‘just one more year’ and now I’m twenty fucking six years old and my tits have not fallen to the ground YET so I am still at it.

So does that make me a lifer? Yes, yes it does. At least until I’m 29 or 30. And then I’ll take the pay cut or marry Rachel Maddow or maybe Kristen Stewart will be out of the closet by then so I can be her trophy wife.

Or maybe we’ll have an affair and she’ll pull a Tom Cruise and pay me to stay mum. I’m perfectly fine with either scenario.

Or maybe by then the internet will lead me to a miraculous commune of ex-stripper dykes and we will all live glitterly every after.

The point is, for now this suits me just fine and I’m not doing this to ‘get me through school,’ or to ‘buy diapers’ or whatever it is that so many judgmental skeptics want to hear when they ask me ‘what are you doing here?’

I’m making money off your delusional boner.

I am thinking of buying a cake. But year three in Hallmark anniversary years is LEATHER so really I just want a corset, some heels and crazy sex with my slam piece. So I’m going to go and do that.

Cheers to all of my colleagues who are rich with stories, dollar bills, self-esteem and gyrating poon-tangs. I love you all.*

*except for when you steal my clients. Then you can fuck right off and fall asleep in a pile of vomit on the floor in the stall of the bathroom that everyone avoids.

This is totally fucking rad.

To shut up some haters when justifying herself as a titty-shaker to the internet, my redditor babe Menagerii took a jpeg of a nightly hull:

I don’t ever disclose how much I make to anyone, but sometimes there is no other way to tell someone to go right ahead and fuck themselves. Behold 3,345 hard-earned dollars. When a client asks how much money I make, I ask them the same question in return. In most cases they hang their heads in shame.

I’ve been stripping for over two years now, which means when girls make bank like this (and they didn’t steal a customer from between my thighs), I ain’t jealous. I could not have said the same a year ago.

WAY TO GO, GIRLFRIEND. I hope you went to the grocery store and splurged on some fancy cheese.

“I enjoy it too some extent,” she writes. “May do moonlighting after I get a big girl job.”

I am now wondering what my life will be like when I can’t don a pair of heels and act like a total horny slut for cash monies on a weekly basis…

HAPPY EARTH DAY!

originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com

*Kidding

But two strippers just had the best night of their life cuz this happened:

And where was I? On a bad acid trip. Seriously guys, never take Mexican acid.

Usually I don’t suffer from typical New Yorker FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), but I think I’ve decided now that since it’s REALLY trendy for actresses to come out as bisexual, and how it’s REALLY trendy to get married when you have lots of money and a few shitty or awesome movies under your belt, and how it’s SUPREMELY trendy to be sexually liberated and in charge of your libido and all that shit (I’m hoping this trend doesn’t fade; as the only kind of sex y’all should be having is good sex), that I can never, ever, ever miss a night of work ever again in my life. I have a feeling that a preggerz Evan Rachel Wood is gonna come in and want me to grind up all in her true placenta.

COME AT ME GIRL LET’S GO TO THE CHAMPAGNE ROOM.

originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com

One of the great things about being a stripper is all the free time you have.

I work three days a week, seven months a year.

Most of this free time is spent doing frivolous things like picking my cuticles, looking at recipes I will never attempt, and masturbating. Recently, however, I started doing structured bitch-work, which most people commonly refer to as an Internship. It turns out I LOVE OCCASIONAL, STRUCTURED BITCH-WORK.

I show up and do Real Person jobs like mailing.  I get to pilfer through all this free stuff these babes get sent for “review.” Most of the stuff never even gets reviewed. Like this AMAZING book I saw atop the freebie pile just yesterday. It’s on my personal reading list but I have yet to get my ass to a bookstore amidst all this free time I’ve been having for almost three years… so man was I ever stoked when my boss said casually, “You can have it.”

So now I’m reading SISTER SPIT and it’s totally rad.

Here is a poem that you should all read aloud to someone who sucks:

I’m going to memorize this and mix it with some dope beats and use it for my next stage show. The jury is still out on what sort of lighting I should use, so if you have any tips I welcome your input.

“I started Sister Spit because I wanted to go on a massive road trip, and I don’t drive. I started Sister Spit because I had a vision of a group slumber party with all the most interesting people I’ve ever met. I started Sister Spit because I was frustrated that all my friends are wild geniuses and the rest of the world didn’t seem to know this.”

Michelle Tea is a total fucking babe.

I miss being on the road, y’all. Are there any strippers in the Tri-State area who are rad, can drive and want to go on adventure? Bonus points if you can beat-box over my mad rhymes. Inbox me and let’s go to Jackson or some shit.

originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com

You wouldn’t believe the gold mine one can so easily unearth when the letters S - T - R - I - P are typed into your Netflix search engine.

Back in middle school I heard the name Method Man bounce around the lunchroom as I fiddled with Jewel’s Pieces of You spinning and skipping in my allegedly SHOCK-PROOF discman. I still don’t know anything about his jams or raps but what’s important is that I now know that he LOVES strippers (I mean, who doesn’t, but whatever) and made a DOCUMENTARY about it.

It starts off like this:

“EVERY MAN. IN THE WHOLE WORLD. WANTS TO SEE A WOMAN. BUTT. NAKED”
The cameraman then adds: “ASS ‘N TITTIES”

Then this guy goes on to totally win me over:


Travis Barker is the sidekick. In his first shot he looks more excited than I’d ever seen him banging on drums back when I was thirteen and taller than all the boys who idolized him.

Then (being the new stoner that I am), I realized that he’s not excited, but just seriously blitzed on weed. And so is everyone else featured in this documentary, for its entire seventy minute duration.

Method Man tells us that he is visiting strip clubs in five cities across America, beginning with New York City.

I was really excited to see which club they would pick/gain access to in New York. The sequence starts with an establishing shot of Manhattan and then Method Mad is like, “We’re at Sue’s in WESTCHESTER.”

BAHAHAHA.

I’ve lived here for two years and I guess I will officially become a quintessential New York asshole when I tell you that  WESTCHESTER IS NOT NEW YORK CITY.

I will now dismount my high horse.

*

We are now in some other club in some other city:

One of Method Man’s cronies jumps right into a totally legit statement,

“I GOTTA ADMIT, Y’ALL GOT SOME DOPE-ASS TOES.”

Which leads him to asking a very pertinent question:

“How do you maintain that shit when you wearing those high heels?”

The scene then cuts to some twerking asses without anyone giving an answer to his query, which I will do now:

WITH GREAT DIFFICULTY.

The corns I have shaved off my feet on a weekly basis could feed a moderately-sized Bolivian village.

THEN I LEARNED THAT YOU CAN GET A LAP DANCE WHILE YOU’RE GETTING YOUR HAIR WHIPPED. 

Seriously, America. You really have it all.

Then we have a magnificent scene where Scarface and Method Man are chilling in a garage somewhere. They are talking about their preferred pubic hairstyles on their Goddesses.

Scarface gets pretty serious and long-winded about his love for bush:

Scarface then gets so bold and breaks the fourth wall, reaching to the cameraman/boom guy’s sound thing (I’m lost when it comes to film production terminology) to really articulate his point:

I love when men talk about loving bush because it just seems so tragically rare these days.

Like Scarface, I, too, love bush this post seems to be getting a little long-winded. So here are some screenshots for your goldfish attention span:

SPOILER ALERT:

The documentary ends (more or less) with Method Man being confused and disappointed that he was unsuccessful in having the strippers bare their souls for his camera crew.

Method Man, like every man, wanted more from these fantasy girls than what they were willing to give.

*

The ratio of bouncing booties to interesting content in this piece is about 2:1. It is painstakingly clear that Method Man just loves hanging out in strip clubs with naked women. What is most impressive about The Strip Game is that he got a production company to give him enough money so that he and his friends could travel the nation doing just that.

And to that, Method Man, I say you’re one helluva hustler. Kudos.

(originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com)