Being proficient in speaking English kicks my ass sometimes.

You don’t want to sound too smart; it’s off-putting to most clients who just want a fembot to simulate some lunch-hour girl-on-topping. They don’t want to hear your life story or thoughts on dark matter; they just want you to ride their dick.

Being the considerate business woman that I am, I try my hardest to cater to the demands of my clientele.

In recent weeks, I’ve been pretending that I’m French and that “my English iz not so gud.”

It works like a charm.

Rather than seeming like a money-grubbing, All-American stripper, I come off as a shy girl who is self-conscious about her English language skills, for which she will gladly compensate with an extra-cute, ‘European’ (read: sophisticated, yet sexually liberated) lap dance.

Sometimes, though, I find it quite tiresome to fake my heritage on top of faking my orgasms and general interest in what the broker between my thighs has traded that day. Although on most occasions I do, there are some moments where I really don’t deserve the Oscar.

Last week Frankie fell in love with my fake-French self and he wrote me this poem:

I, too, had Magnetic Poetry on my fridge for all four of my college years. How else do you think I can make such brilliant and varied use of the word “g-string”?

ANYWAY, these days I’m exhausted by my lactose-loving alter alter ego and can’t be bothered to replace every “th” with “z” and poor Frankie turns out to be kind of a regular. So I avoid him. I pretend that we’ve never met. More than anything do I want to bleed more prose out of his nervous hands but I just can’t be French anymore and don’t want to confess to being a liar.

Because then I’d be a shitty liar.

And strippers are the best liars.

(originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com)