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!

Exit Strategies and Shopping Sprees

I’ve had my dear friend Fern drop into town. Together, we have spent the past week falling in love with an autistic barista and teaching ourselves to read Tarot. Needless to say, I’ve been a negligent blog-o-babe.

Tonight it my last night in Small Town, New Fucking Mexico. It’s been a blast. It’s been restful. It’s been lip-chappingly delightful. Tomorrow I will take three separate planes and one bus to reach Man Camp, Canada. There, I will be getting naked for men who haven’t seen a clit in months. I’m going to have to contain my excitement about this new adventure because I have a story to tell y’all about ALBUQUERQUE.

I went to The Big City yesterday to meet up with my fellow stripper friend, Santana, who has the Most Beautiful Turquoise F-150 in the World. Santana is almost 5’1” and if she didn’t wear 4-inch heels all the time, she’d need a step-ladder to get in the damn thing. Anyway, it’s a beautiful truck, and I don’t have a picture of it yet. This truck here would be Santana’s truck’s bastard sister, if it had bunions and low self-esteem caused by an addiction to corn meal:

New Mexico has done something weird to me. You see, I don’t drive. And, if I did, I’d be driving this:

And now I’m singing the praises of a pick-up truck.

Either she’s trying to do penance to all the gold star lesbians for all the guys she used and abused in college, or Iris Greene is really a changed woman.

No matter.

Santana, her truck, Fern and myself went to visit an ex-stripper who is living the dream of what it means to quit the industry all the while maintaining financial solvency and total-babeness.

Welcome to The Pink Rhino:

The owner is sweeter than Splenda, and has even come so far as to have her own reality tv show. Once upon a time she, like me and perhaps you, too, was a private dancer, dancer for money. Now she lives in a palace of sequins, scarves, furs and pills.

"Pills?" you ask?

Yes, pills.

As I was trying on a red linen blazer, I reached into the pocket and extracted THIS gem:

Would you LOOK at this horse pill? You can only imagine my jubilation. FREE DRUGS! When I try my hardest to remember my college days of yore, I’m pretty certain that feeling over-medicated was one of my favourite pastimes. Fern and I have this in common, so we shrieked and stomp-shuffled our happy little feet as she texted her drug-connoisseur friend with the thrifty-find’s serial number.

I am really just so excited about this that I want to show you another picture of it from a less-fat angle of my hand:

I didn’t end up laying down any scrilla for the red linen blazer, although I did find a new piece to add to my Sexy-Gandalf costume that I seem to be jamming out to pretty hard these days. We get back in the truck, searching for a quiet place to test out our new thrift-party favour.

Fern relays to me by way of her phone, friend, and that the orange delight is Gabapentin.

"That sounds like something the Russians invented to sound futuristic and threatening in the eighties," I offer, excited.

"Gabapentin is used alone or in combination with other medications to treat seizures caused by epilepsy. It is also used in adults to treat nerve pain caused by herpes virus or shingles, and to treat restless legs syndrome."

I search the truck for baby wipes, terrified that through contact with this pill that my grubby little hands will develop herpes-shingles as I convulse in the passenger seat.

Gandalf would be ashamed of my over-zealous beahaviour.

Hick vs. Hipster

Last night I danced for a guy with the reddest beard I have ever seen. He had bad teeth, a sleeve of some sort of maybe-tribal designs, and called me “ma’am.”

At first I thought he was just some hipster boy. And, as all strippers know, hipster boys don’t have any money, and if they do, they would rather spend it on beard-wax and mdma than on a stripper.

So I avoided him.

This boy, though, was really intent on getting my attention, and asked me to dance for him.

It turns out he was there that night to hustle the pool table. I love meeting other hustlers. There is some sort of simpatico between us that makes me want to shake their hand. He slips his pool cue back in its personal carrying case and, rather than shake my hand, proceeds to spend all his winnings on me.

"What do you do for fun?" I ask, just as I ask them all.

"Uhhh…. you probably don’t wanna know, ma’am. I got a lotta guns. I like to ride bulls. I’m a hick!”

And he was the sweetest hick ever. I may or may not have taken his number so that I, too, can go bull riding before my time in New Mexico is up.

Am I the only one who gets confused?


I don’t know who christened this pussy ranch, but even though Say Something Nice On The Internet Day is over, I’d like to give s’him an AMEN.

And guess fucking WHAT, cunts?


I am currently seeking a financially submissive male to buy it for me. If you think you are a worthy candidate, please respond to sapphicstripper [at] gmail [dot] com with a credit check, letter of intent and several sentences that praise my fine ass and witty words.


Last night marked my debut with Jessica on the New Mexican strip club scene. 

Being the heathen that I am, I didn’t consider the fact that yesterday also marked the first day of Lent.

I walk in to the dressing room that is populated with one other dancer. Her name is Carla, she’s a beautiful, petite Native American who has grandchildren she is planning to take on a hike this weekend.

The club is completely empty of customers, so Carla and I take a seat at the bar where she offers to buy me a shot of Crown Royal to welcome me to the club.

"First days are always tough," she tells me as I chase back a shot of what my sister used to con my dad into buying her when she was sixteen.

The DJ comes over to introduce himself, asking me what kind of music Jessica and I like to dance to, and asks me what I would like for dinner.

"Dinner?" I ask

"Yeah, I own a restaurant that’s not too far away. It’s traditional New Mexican cuisine. Are you hungry?"

"How much is it?"

"It’s free."




Six girls end up working a room of approximately six clients for most of the night.

One girl confesses to me that she just started dancing for the first time last week.

"I’m still really nervous," she tells me and two other girls.

The newbie steps on stage while the rest of us watch.

One of the girls, in between smacking her gum, confirms the obvious: “She can’t dance. I tried giving her some tips. She’s too stiff.”

The other girls takes a break from sipping on her pint of Diet Coke: “Give her a Xanax.”

"I already did!"

In the entire night, I would end up meeting a man searching for gold, a male nurse, a Mexican to whom I managed to sell a dance IN SPANISH (thank you Mrs. O’Donell, my grade 10 Spanish teacher who taught me all the lyrics to every Shakira song) and a pervert.

Fresh Meat

Last night I shaved my legs, got on a bus and rode it along the freeway to this small town’s only strip club.

Fact: I cannot go very long without money and male attention; they have, admittedly, become my oxygen.

"Hi, I’d like to audition."

"We don’t really audition," the doorman tells me. "We just need you to fill out some paperwork and we’ll go from there."

I’m wearing a massive winter coat, scarf, gloves and bulky boots. Without taking any of the aforementioned items off, I am hired.

I’m looking forward to having some human interaction, even if it is in the form of an inebriated lap dance. I’ve been writing, writing, writing, alone with my own thoughts for nearly two weeks now and it’s quite possible that I’m going to go all Jack Nicholson on Shelly DuVall if I don’t have some small talk with stupid drunk men, FAST.

Here’s the clincher:

"You have to wear latex," I am told by the manager.

I hate having to go shopping for new shit. It used to be novel but now it’s just a fucking chore and a business expense that would be tax deductible, if I did my taxes.

"State Law of New Mexico states that if your nipples aren’t covered, you are, by default, soliciting."

So if I flash a pink nip I’m a whore. We’re all whores! I’m fine with this! I say whore like I say cunt! With love, affection, and admiration! I don’t think New Mexico and I share the same feelings on this, though. American rules are funny.

"Most of the dancers go to Walmart and get fabric glue and paste that over their nipples," he suggests.

I start next week.

Dead Legs

I’ve been off the pole for nearly two weeks.

I’ve eaten a lot of birthday cake, let my leg hair go from prickly to soft and I have every intention of going out tomorrow to buy a pair or seven of Real Girl underwear.

Here’s the thing:

I wake up in the morning and can’t feel my legs. They are so worn out from doing eight-hour wall sits on slacked boners that they seem to have gone on strike. It’s hard to get up off my mom’s couch in the morning. My feet aren’t happy, either. The calluses that formed on the balls of my feet are now softening and it’s causing all sorts of I-hate-you feelings within the depths of my depleted soul.

My alcoholic, drug-addicted friend told me yesterday, “Are you okay, baby? You look like shit.”

The mustachioed, West Village basement palm reader told me: “You are stressed, tired and depleted. You need to restore your sole. I see travel in your immediate future. It will be twenty five dollars if you wish for me to continue.”

So I’m fucking off to New Mexico to wear this and only this for several weeks: