14 Things I Used to Hate and Now Love Since Becoming a Stripper

1. My ass.

a) Wearing heels while doing squats and hip undulations (these two moves are the basic steps when performing a lap dance) has turned my sad white girl booty into a slightly less-sad white girl booty. I’m about six light-years away from a shelf, but that’s a hell of a lot closer than I was before I first showed a stranger my yoni and demanded 50 bucks in return. And I feel like that is progress.
b) Contrary to every Cosmo sex-tips column you’ve ever read, stripping teaches you that Jiggle = Good!  If you are in doubt, please refer to #9.
2. Men who ignore me when I’m walking down the street. (Or at least the ones who make no mention of the fact that I am a person they would like to fuck.)

You see, there was a time where I yearned to be sexually harassed on the street. It made me think that boys liked me. I was sixteen and would giggle with my best friend when cars would honk at us as we walked the two kilometres to the nearest Tim Horton’s:
Me, Age 16: Oh my gosh that truck driver totally thinks we’re hot!
My BFF: Oh my gosh oh my gosh do you think they go to our school?
That was ten years ago. These days, I prefer being gawked at in my work environment, where it’s profitable.  Everywhere else, I like to be left alone. So thank you to men everywhere who leave me the fuck alone. I like you. But not in a like-like way; in a keep-up-the-good-work-by-continuing-to-leave-me-alone kind of way. Thanks!
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3. Informal Education.

I used to be Joey fucking Potter. I loved school and thought the only way to measure one’s worth was by getting a full scholarship to Harvard.
 
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Then I went to university. There, I learned how to get completely fucking obliterated on five dollars, and maybe a thing or two about punctuation and Socialist Realism. I was young and stupid and it was fun but there is no way in hell I am ever going back to school unless it’s fucking circus school. It’s expensive as fuck, you never sleep, pour endless hours and letters and words into a paper that no one will ever give a fuck about, and then you get a SINGLE LETTER GRADE telling you it kinda sucks. Then you get a diploma written in Latin so you can’t even fucking read it. Who is Zizek, you ask? IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER. Go to a bar, chat up a stranger and stock up on some of the good shit.

4. My low-numbers bank account.

Cash is King, and that shit is in my mattress.* Having met every depressed and coke-addled Wall Street guy in Lower Manhattan, I know never to trust those bastards with any sort of investment. But don’t worry, I’m not one of those assholes who collects the dole while making a mint under the table.

*It is not in my mattress. I am not telling you where it is.
 
5. When people think I am a heathen or bad person or best of all - a SLUT.

During my Joey Potter years, I wanted everyone to think I was pretty, pleasant and smart. Now I get off on people thinking I’m dumb as rocks or spreadable like peanut butter. Maybe it’s a phase. Whatever it is, it’s FUN.
 
6. Cotton briefs.

When my mom used to buy me six-packs of Hanes briefs, I was mortified. I’ve wanted cute lacey thongs to wedge up my ass since I was nine. I know, it’s fucked up. I’ve since come around. Cotton briefs are comfortable and hot in a virginity-losing kind of way:

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7. My scent.

That’s right - I love the smell of my pussy, and you should love yours too. It’s been identified by keen sniffers as ‘salmon,’ ‘puppy’s breath’ and ‘hot musk’ and it’s the fucking best. I used to think if my cunt smelled like ANYTHING and someone were to *GASP* smell or taste her, I would certainly die a thousand deaths unless I lathered her in Dove or better yet - just left the whole fucking bar of soap wedged up in there for the entire session of hanky-pank. Thank god those days are over. Come at my laundry hamper, panty-snatchers!

8. Gossip.

Gossip used to make me really nervous:
Me, Age 14: Oh my gosh are they talking about Sarah Sawishkison because if they are that means they could be talking about me, too because I just swapped Civics notes with her after third period. I hope they’re not saying anything good or bad or totally irrelevant because I don’t want anyone thinking of me, ever.
Now I just fucking feed off it like a leech on a boner. I hang out in the dressing room just to touch base with who’s pregnant and who got busted for dealing coke to customers and subsequently getting in a cat-fight with the Queenpin.
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Gossip is totally fun. And terrible.

9. Porn

It’s not that I’ve become a keen porn collector, but I can appreciate it now. Before I started stripping, I thought porn was gross and silly. A huge part of me still believes most porn to be hilariously gross; if I ever watch it I am laughing for at least 75% of the program. But being in the sexy business has inspired me to have this reverent sense of gratitude for it. Like, ‘Hey, look at how crazy awesome our fantastical imaginations are! Isn’t it nice to have some talented and generous actors to act it out for our viewing pleasure?’

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10. Body Hair (and by body hair I mean my bush)

When I first caught sight of a single curly strand down there, I chopped it off with safety scissors. It’s been an itchy, painful and bumpy ride ever since. But now that hair removal is not so much a chore but a money-making necessity, I feel differently about my ghost pubes. I never really get to see my bush in full bloom. Nowadays, if I have a few weeks off I’m really into having that tuft of fluff at the pearly gates of my lady bit. It’s pretty! It’s soft! It reminds me what my natural hair colour is!
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To my dismay, most of my clients are not of the 70’s-porn-watching variety. Consequently, I persist with the shave-job.  I leave a little bit to remind myself and others that I am a woman, and not a four-year-old, but really it is my heart’s desire to grow some serious bush one day. And when that day comes I shall blow-dry it. With mousse.


11. Hot Pink

I used to think hot pink was tacky. I still think it’s tacky, and this is precisely why I find it so fun. When you wear hot pink you’re giving yourself license to be fucking ridiculous. This is a *severely underrated* freedom.
SOMEONE GET ME THIS PUSSY DRESS:
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12. A day without alcohol.

Don’t get me wrong - I fucking love alcohol. It’s fun and silly and slutty and Shoshana is my new favourite character on Girls after last Sunday’s Mean-Drunk-Girl episode.

But a day without booze is so fucking rare when your job is to be perpetually drunk, and when your non-stripper friends think you’re ‘so fun’ because you’re essentially a professional fun-haver. And they never see you having fun because that would be AWKWARD. So, when they do get to hang out with you, it’s like NO YOU ARE NO WAY ORDERING THAT SHIRLEY FUCKING TEMPLE. WAITER SHE WILL HAVE A LEMON DROP SHOT AND A TECATE.

13. Strippers

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It’s quite possible that every woman hates the idea of strippers until she either meets one, or becomes one. I thought they were drugged up attention whores with daddy issues. Now that I’ve seen the light, I know that we TOTALLY ARE attention whores with daddy issues (and of course there are drugs, but drugs are everywhere so let’s retire this strippers-are-the-only-addicts hypothesis once and for all). And we are taking these needs, wants and Freudian complexes and spinning them into GOLD. We are modern-day Rapunzel-stiltskins with expensive hair extensions.

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This is quite possibly everything I could ever want in life: Gina Gershon as Donatella Ver-sayce

14. Nickelback

Nickelback makes men want to spend money. So now, whenever I hear one of their tracks (I couldn’t tell you which one; they all sound the fucking same) I am fondly reminded of having money thrown at me, and this makes me happy.

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originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com

GET WASTED GET RICH GET EXISTENTIAL, BITCH

It’s busy season. Strippers everywhere are either drunk, hungover, or both - but let me tell you we are money-minded and if you’re friends with us but have some semblance of a regular job, you won’t be seeing any of us until February.

distance3

It’s November. I’ve got six weeks to make enough to last me through my tropical repose that should extend through January. It’s crunch time.

Lonely men are looking to cosy up in my divine presence… and I will be there to listen to their woes, giggle while holding a straw close to my lips, and tell them how powerful, funny and handsome they are.

November is also the month I vowed to steer clear of alcohol. Because why not. Because alcohol is bad for you but really because I’m vain and want to look good for a good while without needing a liver transplant.

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Is it weird that I masturbate to my own self-awareness?

I digress.

There are always loopholes in the sexy dancer business when we’re talking about the consumption of alcohol. Like, you have NO IDEA how many bottles of Dom Perignon I have dumped behind couches, chairs, onto the 80’s carpeted floor or back into the ice bucket. It’s wasteful and fucked up and tragic but it’s what we do. Because we want him to buy another bottle. Because he will. Because in the eyes of Mr. Money Bags, the drunker we get (or appear to get), the more our strict moral code unravels.

Because this is true, but it’s also total bullshit.

When I get wasted I get pretty loose-lipped and entertaining. Just like you, I’m a really fun drunk girl. But I’m a business woman first, stripper second, and drunk girl third. So no matter how slutty I seem, I am not going to get herpes from you. But you can keep spending in hopes that I will!

So the trick is to act drunk.

But sometimes the waitress forgets that you ordered the mocktail, and you can’t really, truly not drink an entire bottle of champagne that some dude bought for you, because he doesn’t like champagne but wants to make you happy.

Basically I’m drunk all the time,  sometimes for real and sometimes merely acting like I’m about to fall over and need to grip the soft biceps of yet another finance guy for stability. Yet somehow in the deep recesses of my psyche I know that I’m not an alcoholic, because I’ve dated a few of those and they always piss the bed. I haven’t pissed the bed in at least ten years. (high five, me!)

So I’m in some sort of twilight zone where I’m perpetually drunk, yet I can’t tell if it’s sincere inebriation or an act. Where does my stripper self end and my real girl self begin? Is this an existential crisis and am I supposed to care when really I’m getting lady boners every time someone slips me a crisp new Benjamin?

hokey

Let me raise my glass to all my fellow strippers out there who are hustling hard, and I’ll see all you bitches in Tulum in a month or so.

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A FISH CALLED ME

I don’t know HOW it happened, but a Chinese client was bold enough to take me into the Jungle Room last night.

By and large, Asian customers are very bashful when it comes to being alone in a room with a naked babe. Old, fat and rich white American ones are the boldest when it comes to getting bouncy in a private room, in addition to coughing up generous tips.

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My client, hailing from Shanghai, has lived in Chicago for twenty years. His name is Jack, and after one vodka soda and some chit chat about my Canadianness, he invited me to the Jungle Room.

I didn’t even have to lay out a fancy sales pitch!

We decide to spend an hour together before he has to go back to his hotel for a conference call with his associates back in China. We get cosy, pop a bottle of champagne that neither of us have any interest in drinking, and I sit on his lap, fiddling with his lapels for the better half of 45 minutes. I dance a little, turning around and bending over to squeeze in a yawn.

"Can I see?" asks Jack, gesturing to my box.

"Sure," I offer, "But no touching!"

He nods in agreement and I take a seat opposite him. I unwedge my g-string from my ass crack (YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO MAKE THIS LOOK GRACEFUL AND SEXY), and slip it to the side to offer up a front row seat to my haphazardly shaven cooch.

"Woooooaaaaaaaahhhhh," says Jack, fixated on that which is *technically* forbidden in the state of New York when sipping booze in the company of strippers. 

"Can I smell?" he asks.

Men ask to sniff my panties all the time. I mean, I get it, as hot girl cunt smells pretty fucking great most of the time. But before I became super empowered and dykey, I thought a woman’s scent was terrifying. Had I had the courage to buy a douche at the age of fifteen, I probably would have. But those days are long gone and now I’m selling panty sniffs like hot cakes.

Jack leans in a little closer, inhaling deeply.

He looks up to me, with a surprised look on his face like he found a Tiffany’s ring in a box of Cracker Jacks:

"Your pussy smell like salmon!"

"SALMON?" I repeat, hoping I misunderstood the statement.

"Salmon!" says Jack, nodding with unprecedented enthusiasm. "Is good smell!"

I love salmon, I really do. And I love my cunt, I really really do. But there are a lot of things in life that I love, like MDMA and family barbecues, and I love them separately because in life you really can’t have everything snazzy all at once; you’d have a brain aneurism, or maybe offend someone you care about.

But Jack loves salmon and pussy on the same plate, and you know what? I’m cool with that.

The hour ended, I slipped my kit back on, accepted a meager tip and went back to work. 

To my own surprise, I DID NOT run to the bathroom to baby wipe every feminine fold, followed by several spritzes of deodorant and perfume. I just shook me head incredulously, saying to myself, “salmon.”

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(originally posted on www.thesapphicstripper.com)


DAMN GIRL

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:

SCRILLA

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


STRIPPER SCRUPLES

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.

Violators will be prosecuted

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)


AND BLEED SHE DID

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


Thank You?

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


Thank you, New Mexico, you’ve been Vagical

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


I want to receive this as a tip before my stripping days are over.
I vacillate between wanting it made out of a Benjamin or Washington.
See, if it was a Washington, I’d just leave it as the beautiful little clam that it is, and not ever unfold it.
But, it should *really* be a Benjamin, because the Goddesses of Pussy Power wouldn’t accept a fucking DOLLAR to represent the holiest of holies. But then I’d be tempted to unfold it and spend it, and that would be sacrilege.
CONUNDRUM!
www.thesapphicstripper.com

I want to receive this as a tip before my stripping days are over.

I vacillate between wanting it made out of a Benjamin or Washington.

See, if it was a Washington, I’d just leave it as the beautiful little clam that it is, and not ever unfold it.

But, it should *really* be a Benjamin, because the Goddesses of Pussy Power wouldn’t accept a fucking DOLLAR to represent the holiest of holies. But then I’d be tempted to unfold it and spend it, and that would be sacrilege.

CONUNDRUM!

www.thesapphicstripper.com