I am writing from a state of mild sedation, sitting on my couch, completely overcome by the magic of Lucy’s fingers.

Lucy is not my girlfriend, lover, or blow-up doll.

Lucy is my masseuse. She just rubbed me down for eighty fucking minutes because

Yesterday marked my last day as a New York City stripper.

(for now)

I cried.

I cried because the club was bereft of patrons with any sort of willingness so spend money and my emotions were fraught from other dramatic things that sprang out from my phone. I couldn’t even find a client to get me properly sauced to get through it.

So I wept in my favourite corner.

FEAR NOT, friends, I am not done with getting naked. I just need a fucking vacation. Strippers need vacations from acting like everything is awesome all the time and vacations from acting as though all the want to do is have sex, all the time. I’m humped out.

(not actually the me but not entirely unlike me and my general disposition at the moment. Actually she looks like she just got fucked and I feel like I’ve been screwed.)

I’ve worked four consecutive months with only two holidays, both to visit creepy old perverted men. Remember how  John Quincy Adams died at his desk? Well, serving four consecutive months as a lap dancing megababe should be made illegal. I’m fucking exhausted. I want to love the job but right now I just DON’T.

The good news is that around the corner from where I live you can find Lucy. For 26 bucks you can get a half-hour rub down and THEY HAVE CUSTOMER LOYALTY CARDS.

She is magik.

(Originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com)