the sapphic stripper

A NEW AND SERIOUSLY REVOLUTIONARY DISCOVERY

Wed, 15 May 2013 13:01:17 -0400

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)

HAPPY STRIPPERVERSARY!

Thu, 09 May 2013 15:47:00 -0400

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.

DAMN GIRL

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 13:41:23 -0400

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

I AM A FEMINIST SUPERHERO …and you probably are, too. My...

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 20:17:00 -0400

I AM A FEMINIST SUPERHERO

…and you probably are, too.

My goal, however, is to sell books and ideas and shit as the aforementioned Feminist Superheroine.

You probably know about Tavi Gevinson. She embodies the swagger I wish I had when I was fifteen. No matter; I’ve made up for it. My girl Tavi recently did a Ted talk and said a bunch of rad shit.

Namely, that we should all be Stevie Nicks.

This is absolutely true.

Sometimes I fall short on feeling totally rad about myself and what I do. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a drone bimbo trying to hustle my rent.

But even Superheroines have to pay rent.

I am a totally unabashed megababe who, like you, probably, is doing wonders for humanity. Sometimes I forget this, and sometimes I feel like The Sapphic Stripper needs to throw in her g-string and get a job selling life insurance. You know, to start considering that fall back plan my mother dearest always thinks is a better option for security and retirement savings plans and saggy tits.

FUCK THAT. I am Stevie Nicks 3.0 and to remind myself I’ve written it on a rather large piece of paper and tacked it to my wall.

Watch this video and remind yourself that you’re a fucking megababe. Tell me about it!

originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com

OLIVIA WILDE TOUCHED MY TITS*

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 15:45:34 -0400

*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

I AM FUCKING YOUR WIFE

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 16:56:00 -0500

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

The Strip Game: The Verdict

Wed, 16 Jan 2013 18:56:00 -0500

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)

Am I acceptable now?

Fri, 11 Jan 2013 10:08:21 -0500

Am I acceptable now?

Brigitte Bardot and Jane Birkin, “Don Juan (Or If Don Juan Were...

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 12:09:58 -0500

Brigitte Bardot and Jane Birkin, “Don Juan (Or If Don Juan Were a Woman)”, 1973.

WHY HAVE I NEVER HEARD OF THIS UNTIL NOW,

and,

WHY IS IT NOT ON NETFLIX?

Fuck this shit.

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 14:21:00 -0500

Fuck this shit.

I’m significantly happier now that I’ve seen this.

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 12:22:11 -0500

I’m significantly happier now that I’ve seen this.

SAPPHIC STRIPPER, JOB CANDIDATE!

Mon, 07 Jan 2013 12:11:00 -0500

Happy New Year, Friends!

Be it resolved that, in 2013, I shall earn at least one (1) dollar for my words and not my wiles.

It’s been nearly three years since I’ve hit the pavement with a resume and not a pair of stilettos in my tote bag. Today I’m sat in a cafe, drafting up a coherent list of all the skills I’ve learned as a dancing naked lady.

That’s right. Entertainer, psychologist, babysitter and Fantasy Girl will be appearing as my most recent job titles, at the very fucking top of my curriculum vitae. The skills and life lessons I’ve learned from shaking my tits and ass are invaluable, and I’m happy to divulge these facts with anyone who asks…. so why omit them from my job application?

Behold:

THE PROFESSIONAL ABILITIES OF IRIS GREENE:

Communication skills:

Outstanding written, verbal and physical presentation skills.

Confident, articulate, and experienced professional speaking abilities in public, to groups, or via electronic media. Comfortable, confident and generally enthusiastic to do so naked.
Empathetic listener and persuasive speaker. Ability to talk, flirt and conduct business in French and English. Possesses an ability to hustle in Spanish and Russian.

Problem Solving / Strategic Thinking:

Combined patience, determination, and persistence to ensure customer satisfaction.
Expertly skilled at evaluating options and generating solutions in a loud, dimly lit and drunken environment.

Business & Sales skills:

Possess self-motivated, entrepreneurial spirit and seriously competitive attitude.
Outstanding aptitude for setting targets and meeting them nightly and monthly.

Organizational Skills:

Managed my own schedule while traveling to different cities, countries and continents on short notice.
Work efficiently with little to no notice to changing working conditions.

Customer Service skills:

Routinely handled as many as 200 customer contacts a day (3,200 per month) under strobe lights, managing to remember most of their names, jobs, hometowns and kinks.
Interacted with a diverse group of customers, tailoring services to fit their needs.

Creativity:

Created myriad dynamic characters, often on the spot and in response to a quick and effective analysis of the customer’s desires.
Outstanding rhythm and dance skills that can be performed to a variety of musical genres, and under a varying level of inebriation.

Adaptability & Agility:

Culturally sensitive and internationally traveled hustler, friend, business woman and citizen intricate and universal web of titty bars.
Emotionally, physically and intellectually able to quickly adapt to a diverse range of cultural, business and geographical climes.
Enthusiastic to try new things and interested in improving efficiency on assigned tasks.

*All of the aforementioned skills can be performed while wearing six inch stiletto platforms.

~~~~

Fellow flap flashers! If you have anything you would care to add to help me be even MORE employable, I welcome your input!

STRIPPER SCRUPLES

Fri, 09 Nov 2012 18:45:27 -0500

It’s 6:15pm. The club just opened and four keeners* have already waltzed through the door and saddled up at the bar. One, a Business Man suited in grey. Within thirty seconds of his entrance he has been sidecarred by two Colombian mamas. The remaining three are t-shirted, red faced and cacophonous on the opposite side of the bar. From my perch downwind and in the corner, my schnoz is telling me they’ve been keenly drinking cheap beer since the hour struck four.

The dude most near to me waves me over. Since the TV is directly to my left and he is straight in front of me, I can’t pretend that I don’t see him as my eyes remain fixated on the muted RoGain commercial. With grinning reluctance, I walk over.

The man is wearing a tshirt that does not look unlike this:

(matching stains and everything)

“Hey bayBEE. Come over here for a minute.”

I spend all of thirty seconds swatting away this Dog’s paws before I tell him matter of factly, “unless you want a dance, darling, I’m going to go now.”

“Ohhhh Kaaaaay, BayBEE, come back later.”

I hate coming back later. Strippers get asked this all the time. I would be a liar if I said I never went back. I do because sometimes they really do just need to loosen up with a few more jack and cokes. Still. I want and need to be desired by everyone, immediately and all the time. Fuck, I did not chose this job because I cream at the thought of rejection.

I digress.

I’ve type-cast these men as cheap working class chaps. And, unfortunately, working class men in New York City don’t have much money (perhaps this distribution of wealth in America is about to Change #welcomebackBarry.) By my thirty second once-over, I decide that these drippy, drunk chumps aren’t worth it, and move on to a well-tailored suit with a understated, over-priced watch and freshly barbed salt-n-peppa coif.

It seems to be no use, though. The Dog tries again to call me over, only I am intercepted by his friend, who fists me a crumpled and damp twenty dollar bill. “Take him for a dance, hei?”

I take The Dog by his clammy palm, leading him towards a suitable chair in a more private area where I will swivel and bounce for the next two minutes and thirty seconds.

“Sit down.” I instruct as he fumbles into the wingback.

I straighten myself up, smooth down my dress and start swaying. Gracefully, I reach for the halter string tied at my neck. Pulling it loose, my dress falls the the ground.

Within a nano second, The Dog is reaching for my thigh. My reflexes beat him to his target, a triangle carefully highlighted by my day-glo g-string. Firmly grabbing his hand, I squeeze it hard and star into his bloodshot eyes: “No.”

I release my grip, turn around, and continue my routine.

The Dog makes another attempt; I am too swift. He fails.

In New York City, two out of every three dances involve some sort of scolding charade where a stripper has to remind a client of the rules (If you’ve been under a rock for the past decade the rules are NO TOUCHING, motherfucker). As much as I love this city, after a year and a half here, the only way left to describe its male inhabitants are as self-entitled pigs.

True story. (accepting submissions for supporting arguments or rebuttals)

I turn away from The Dog to flash my bootie and obstruct his view of my rolling eyes.

I feel a smack on my ass.

The Dog has slapped my ass.

I continue turning around, raising my right arm as I pivot.

The Dog sees that I’m about to meet him and raise him one, so he lifts his drunken arm to block my incumbent whack. Stopping his block with my left hand, I slap him across the face.

Sometimes things in life are really simple:

You slap my ass; I slap your face.

I point to the door,

“Get the fuck out.”

The Dog looks confused.

“Get out.”

This marks the first time in my life where I hit a Dog. Fuck did it ever feel good.

Instead of leaving the club, the Dog returns to his posse.

I’ve dealt with the issue, whether he stays or goes matters not to me. I warn the other girls of his stinginess and aggression, and bolt to the dressing room to cool down and give my nails a file.

And then I got into TROUBLE, y’all.

I NEVER get into trouble. I never even got into trouble in high school. I went to school, then ballet class, and most lunches were picked at in the library while I was alphabetizing the poems of Sylvia Plath for extra credit. As a stripper, I’m a manager’s wet dream. I show up on time, don’t cause dramz, don’t get high, nor do I fuck clients for forty cents on the dollar. I do my job and stay under the radar. Because if you want to make money— and not enemies— that’s what you do in this business.

But today is different.

Apparently a slap across the face is more insulting than a slap on the ass. I was informed of these ethics by a man who has never danced naked for money.

And apparently the customer is always right, even when he’s totally wasted and sexually assaulting one of your employees.

And apparently if I slap The Dog back in retaliation, that wipes his slap clean off his slate and The Dog is permitted to a) press charges, or b) finish his beer.

So I got told. What I was *supposed* to do was go directly to management and have them deal with the situation in a professional and cordial manner.

And in response to that, I, along with every stripper in the world shall say this: Fuck that.

But here’s the thing about strip clubs: On any given night, there are at least three people who identify as ‘management’ and they don’t really ‘manage’ anything. They just stand and stare at the sporting events being broadcast on seventeen different television screens. And here’s the other thing about management: they don’t usually like to confront the customers about being scrotum. They would rather demean the girls they once vowed to protect rather than turn away a paying customer.

Anyway, after I got told off by one authority figure, two other figures of alleged authority may have come up to me and offered a little fist-pound for my true grit.

The verdict?

Dignity: Intact

So now I’m leaving the question to you, babes of all passions and professions :

If you were to get slapped on the ass, without consent, would you think it fair to slap the slapper across the face?

Looking forward to your answers!

*Keener: Canadian informal. A person who is who is extremely eager, zealous, or enthusiastic.

(orginally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

My two favourite things

Mon, 15 Oct 2012 16:50:56 -0400

In honour of the day of the lord, last night I combined the two things I worship most: France and Whores.

(Come on, it’s totally obvious that she has a bangin’ bod under those robes)

Juliette Binoche, formerly known as the gypsy-bagging chocolate minx, remember her? In Elles, she’s all bougie and journalisty and flustered since it’s obvious within the first twenty two seconds of the opening scene that she ain’t got her lips serviced by her hubby in a long while.

SPOILER ALERT:

On more than one occasion, Ms. Binoche sniffs her fingers that may or may not have been dipped in clam juice.

I know.

You’re itching to watch it. The good news, you horny little fucks, is that it’s streaming on Netflix RIGHT NOW.

ANYWAY. Binoche is writing an article on women who suck cock and stroke egos to pay their way through university.

Although I’m not *technically* a whore, I can’t say that I’ve ever met a whore I didn’t like.

In ninety minutes, director Małgorzata Szumowskathe communicates to the viewers that we are all whores.

Yes, all of us.

HORRAY!

She also shoots some smoking hot sex scenes and reveals that the hardest part of the job is not the shame; it’s the lies. And these women don’t lie because they are ashamed, but because it’s simply too risky and/or tedious to try to make others understand.

French films are great because they insist on pontificating that everyone is fucked up. It doesn’t makes us special; it makes us human. There is no black and white in this life but only gray,

gray,

gray.

Why is it only in french films, or films featuring French actors where the characters smell their fingers after sex?

COME ON, AMERICA. GET RAUCHY ALREADY.

Are there any Degrassi enthusiasts out there who can tell me if there is any Canadian raunch out there that isn’t served with a single serving of maple syrup and cheeeeeeese?

(originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

AND BLEED SHE DID

Tue, 09 Oct 2012 16:28:17 -0400

In my last post, I accused someone I’ve never met of being afraid of a bloody cunt.

In this post I shall continue to do so.

The clock struck nine and I was straddling this stranger.

I got up to collect my greenback from his overexcited fist when I knew.

Something.

is

moving

down there.

Arms straight, legs straighter, I scissor kicked my way to the ladies room and shoved some bleached cotton up my twat.

I downed three painkillers, and went back to work.

You know how there is something unabashed about a girl on her rag? Like she just fucking hates everybody and doesn’t give a shit? Remember how that’s the girl we always wish we could be, all the time? Like Tank Girl, like Courtney Love, like Angelina Jolie before she went all malnourished-Mother-Theresa and shit.

Who doesn’t want to fuck or at least be clocked by an angry chick?

I do.

And apparently so do all these men who were so eager to have me grind my heels into their procreative sacks of unimpressive flesh.

The academics who sat around and collected data and DIDN’T get their dicks grinded on by some bad-ass babes are three dudes by the names of Geoffrey, Joshua and Brent.

I downloaded their research paper, skimmed it, but had to change my tampon and do a bunch of other really interesting things like rearrange my medicine cabinet and look at Instagrammed photos of what my friends ate for lunch, so I stopped.

The next day I couldn’t score any painkillers from the house mom, so my desire and ability to hustle was defeated by my cramps. I made less money than the night before, but not because my skin was oozing hormones of exile. I made less money because I sat in the dressing room eating miniature chocolate bars for five out of eight hours of my allotted time to hustle.

So that’s my study. If I can Meredith Brooks my ass through the night, it won’t matter if I’m surfing the crimson wave or not.

Three guys in New Mexico doing a ‘study’ on strippers and rating their level of consumability based on whether they are gushing blood everywhere or not? I get fucks like this coming in all the time asking me questions about my earnings, my goals, my alleged boyfriends… and none of them tip. They’re all cheap fucks who probably steal wifi from McDonald’s to watch free amateur barely-legal porn while jerking off into their 2-4-1 Happy Meal napkins.

originally published on www.thesapphicstripper.com

Hearting my rag

Thu, 27 Sep 2012 14:03:00 -0400

As a militant feminist, it has come to my attention that I do not talk enough about my period.

Since it’s almost ragtime for this sapphic stripper, I thought I’d make this post all about yours and my Menstrual Blood.

LET’S ALL CHOKE ON IT TOGETHER.

My friend Sophie recently told me that some babe did a study where she rubbed used maxi pads on various seats inside a movie theatre. And, in every seat where there was some Menstrual Essence, a man sat out of his own volition.

Obviously I’m not summarizing this study very well. I tried so hard to find it on The Internet and I just failed miserably. Unless it’s looking for ethereal water colour sketches of Stevie Nicks, I such at efficient and effective Googling. I’m sorry.

So basically men are attracted to rag essence, says the researcher who shall go unnamed.

I mean really who wouldn’t want to fuck Carrie?

Other studies say that men, unlike tigers and bears, are less attracted to women who are emotional and eating their feelings while surfing the crimson wave. And in my defense of that study I shall make an assumption: I assume (because I’m not in school any more and I can’t fail anything for making baseless assumptions) that these researchers were done by men who are afraid of a bloody cunt.

So, babes - I’m about to bleed and I think it’s going to make me rich.

Tomorrow night I shall don my whitest of white g-strings and rub my aching cunt all over these sad and lonely just-in-town-for-an-IT-conference dopes.

Maybe you’re not a stripper. But maybe you’re still itching to test my hypothesis? Want some free booze? If it’s that time of the month, you are in luck! Put on a boat-sized pad, head on down to your local watering hole and score yourself some free Bloody Marys!

Yeah!

Then, if you can muster some energy between scoops of Ben & Jerry’s and your Vampire Diaries marathon, drop me a comment and enlighten me about the accuracy of my bullshit hypothesis!

(originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com)

The Secret Breed of Super-Freaks

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 10:55:00 -0400

It’s my first day back.

While deflecting propositions to ‘just cuddle’ back in this geriatric’s hotel room, I end up raking in some SERIOUS FUCKING SCRILLA ( !!! ) all the while pulling a hamstring. While flopping my gams into a spread eagle on stage, a pang sears the back of my right leg as I scold myself for not keeping up with my lunges, squats and stretches on my two-month sojourn across Bavaria, Britain and Burning Man.

If you suffer not from latent masochistic tendencies and call yourself a stripper, you make like a kindergarten teacher and TAKE THE SUMMER OFF. Give your tootsies a rest and send your plastic platforms and fake smile to the back of your closet on sabbatical. The twenty-two-year-old Italian tourists and Iowan marching band aren’t going to stuff your g-string with Washingtons, never mind loosen the grip on the soggy twenty dollar bill they’ve budgeted for their evening entertainment. They are cheap fucks. And that’s ok. Not everyone can be rich, lonely and yearning for your tease.

Strippers are a lot like Kindergarten teachers. We use baby voices to keep droves of droolers rapt with attention. When we are not talking in baby voices, we are likely to be scolding the hoards of naughty, sticky-fingered boys whose main objective in their simple-minded existence is to test boundaries and push [the wrong] buttons.

We also like to get fucking FREAKY wherever and whenever.

FACT: Kindergarten teachers are freaky-deaky. If you happen to find yourself tripping balls on Peyote in the desert, surrounded by sequins, inventive penis jewelry and orgasm-inducing Reiki masters, the likelihood of you running into a kindergarten teacher is higher than if you were jetting down the hall of your elementary school, thighs clenched, praying you make it to the tinkler in time.

Yes, gash-flashers are freaky. But allow me to confuse the shit out everything you though you ever knew about your adolescence by letting you know that your kindergarten teacher was FREAKIER.

(Peaches was a Kindergarten teacher)

While I look into teacher’s colleges for the rest of afternoon, go and find yourself a kindergarten teacher and you’ll see what I mean.

I haven't tried this one yet.

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 16:23:00 -0400

I just got back to New York and I’m about to start sampling new clubs. You know what this means?

NEW STRIPPER NAMES ARE A-BREWIN’!

I’ve exhausted so many in the past two years (my two-year stripper-versary is fast approaching, y’all) and I need a new one.

So, naturally, I’ve consulted the internet, in addition to a handful of real-life friends. After a litany of concepts stemming mostly from advanced calculus and organic chemistry, I was able to extract the perfect formula to determine my next stripper alias.

THE NAME OF YOUR CHILDHOOD PET + THE STREET UPON WHICH YOU GREW UP

I contacted my nearest and dearest, and the only ones who responded to my text message riddled me this:

Whiskey Park

Rosie Rainy

Pamper Pratt

Prissy Morgan

Sammy Quinn

Sally Waterbury

Do I have a sexy group of friends or what? It has to be said that none of the aforementioned people are (to my knowledge) porn stars or strippers, but, given the brilliance of each breath of poésie, don’t you think they should consider a career change? It IS the recession, after all.

So what the fuck is my new stripper name, then?

CHULLA FUCKIN’ DIXIE

Of course, I didn’t name my cat ‘Chulla Fuckin’ and the street I grew up on wasn’t Fuckin Dixie Road, although I’m sure I may have heard my pa call it that at one time or another. Y’all know I just like to swear to add some fucking emphasis to what I’m saying.

CHULLA DIXIE

What do you think? Is it a keeper? What is your stripper alias?

www.thesapphicstripper.com

FLASHDANCE: The Verdict

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 19:19:24 -0400

It saddens me to admit that I forgot how fucking amazing this movie is.
Never mind that Bette Porter is kind of my idol, and that I think all stripper movies are amazing even if Rottentomatoes.com disagrees, FLASHDANCE FUCKING ROCKS.
And here’s why:

Alex throws her shoe like a champ when she finds out her date, totally, like, LIED to her.

Now it’s time for your favourite part of my sporadically-posted postings and whimsies. The part where I share how much I am JUST LIKE the protagonist.

Like Alex, I, too, like perusing French Vogue.

Only I actually speak french. Not that in compels me to actually read any of the articles.
And I would probably shit my pants if you asked me to hang out at a welding site for an afternoon that could otherwise be spent on my mom’s couch.

Like Alex, I, too have so much fun dancing on stage that the audience finds it mostly mesmerizing

… and occasionally their expressions of awe are usurped by this:

Like Alex, I would absolutely pick this warehouse paradise to situate my dream home/dance studio.

Like Alex, I, too, ride a bicycle. Only there’s no fucking way I’d ride it to work because then I’d have some guy follow me home in his creepy sports car and I wouldn’t have a pit bull waiting at the door to defend me.

Like Alex, I too, look like a buffoon while making any attempt at figure skating.

And, of course, there is that look of total boredom while you’re resting on your elbows, showing your ass off to some guys who wanna peek at my biscuit:

I FELL YOUR AMBIVALENCE, GIRLFRIEND.

*

Of course, until there’s a movie that’s about Iris Fucking Greene, there will always be moments where I’ll watch the main character and be like, I totally don’t get you, girl.

Like when Alex displays remarkable competence when using power tools.
And, when Alex NEVER locks up her bike. She just LEAVES it on the sidewalk for some hooligan to scoop up. Maybe Pittsburgh is just a bike-theft-free haven and I didn’t know about it until now.

Also, I don’t really get the 80’s athleticism that seems to have bread the tightest and tiniest asses of all time.

I’m convinced it’s just because cocaine was way cheaper back then.

Finally, the girls never get naked on stage. Because they’re not technically ‘strippers,’ but ‘dancers.’ You say to-MAY-to, I say to-MAH-to.
It’s been so long since I’ve been on a stage and remained clothed that I really don’t know what I’d do if I was instructed to do anything otherwise.

Like, OMG, you guys. I WANT THIS NECKLACE SO BAD.

AND I WANT SO BADLY TO GO ON A DATE, WEARING THIS, SUCKING BUTTER OFF MY FINGERS.

“Did you know that the smallest penis ever measured was 1/1 inches?”
Jennifer Beals, I love thee.

www.thesapphicstripper.com

REUNIONS

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 13:24:53 -0400

I’m back in suburbia with a fresh stack of business cards, and I’m off to my unofficial university reunion tonight, followed by a semi-official high school reunion tomorrow night. Fortunately, I am pretty thirsty these days so I’ll have some champagne and cocainechow mein to carry me thought the ‘oh my god it’s been ages” *air kiss* *let’s not pretend that we hated each other* or *didn’t you sleep with everyone’s boyfriend?* (Answer: Yes, yes I did. Or at least I tried to.)

Now that my mom knows I’m a stripper (I’d tell you all about it but then why would you buy my novel, due out sometime in the next millennium) I’ve decided that it’s ok for everyone else to know, too. This includes high school English teachers and perhaps even my youngest cousins, who are starting high school in September.

I’m doing my best to take my second Coming Out in stride, and trying really hard not to embarrass anyone when I start talking about gash-flashing and pubic hairstyles.

But I usually embarrass everyone anyway, plastic shoes or no plastic shoes.

HOW SHOULD I PROCEED?

(it has to be said that at this time my roots are not unlike Mira Sorvino’s in this frame)

Any tips? The more absurd, the better.