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

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)

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

I can’t believe that it’s been nearly a year since I’ve flashed my gash for cash. I left Melbourne last April. Since then I’ve been naked in the New states of Mexico and York where your pussy stays bundled up in its g-string.

NOT IN ALBERTA.

She’s out and ready to smile at everyone. It’s an easy, breezy and beautiful way to make fast cash.

Last night, I was seated with a guy who was way too drunk for his own Canadian tuxedo (At the end of the night, outside the club, he will fail to make the three paces to the snow bank and instead piss down his Levi’s). I would have upped and left, but he had already paid for a dance so we were waiting our turn to get into the VIP booths, which had been occupied for what felt like eons. I try to pry a conversation out of him. For all my efforts, all he says to me, over and over again, is “you’re so sexy.”

Me: “So where are you from?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Me: “I just moved here. Where can I find some tasty and moderately healthy food in this town?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Me: “Thank you. And what do you get up to on your days off?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Another drunk, although less-drunk man comes skipping in my direction with his hands full of whiskey-cokes, arms outstretched. With great enthusiasm, he spills some of the contents from his left hand onto my shoe, yelling to his fellow patron,

“THIS ONE’S GOT THE BEST COOCH IN THE WHOLE BAR!”

(google search result for ‘drunk canadian.’)

“Uhhh, thank you?”

It’s been a while since I’ve been paid pussy compliments from someone other than my mistress. I think I handled it pretty gracefully, no matter how crapulously it was slung at me.

www.thesapphicstripper.com

I’m at the Albuquerque Sunport (not to be confused with the airport. There is no airport here. Planes fly into the Sunport. I like this). I am reflecting on Georiga O’Keeffe’s vagestic flower-paintings and can’t wait to come back with a Volvo station-wagon and ten grand to lay down on a foreclosed adobe that I shall name Villa Villekula.

I’m heading back to my homeland. I’d like to leave you with some vagic imagery.

See you soon, Land of Entrapment!

www.thesapphicstripper.com