Lazy Sunday: links and a dialogue with The Man

Regan broke my record for most lap dances sold in a month, by nineteen dances. What a b!
I’ve been out since the 17th[1] and start work again this week, I can’t wait. If term hadn’t started I would have died of boredom almost immediately.[2]
But still, what a b. I’m not sure I can beat her, she works two-three shifts more a week than I do and it’s slow now. She may hold the record until next bachelor season.

currently reading (instead of studying for exam Tuesday):

Man’s lawsuit claims stripper ruptured his bladder

A few girls do this at my club–the trick, not rupturing people’s bladders–and it’s a subject of heated debate about who started doing it first; one girl exploding into a dramatic alcohol-fueled monologue about how stupid young bitches can’t come up with their own moves and have to be stealing her moves–this, from a 23 year old!–and I want to print the article from school and post it in the dressing room.

Also for the dressing room:

Ask A Pro: Oral STIs and Throat Swab Protocol
This is a really great series from Tits and Sass.

And more importantly, given all the unprotected oral happening at work:

CDC moves to keep new resistant gonorrhea at bay:

Gonorrhea, a sexually transmitted disease that infects 700,000 Americans a year, already has become resistant to all but one class of antibiotics and could soon become untreatable, federal health officials warned. Doctors at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention issued new treatment guidelines, hoping to delay the inevitable day when standard drugs no longer work. The guidelines call for withholding a potent oral antibiotic now commonly used to treat the infection. Instead, doctors should use an injectable form to which the gonorrhea bacteria seems less likely to develop resistance, along with a second type of antibiotic pills.

Gross and mildly horrifying.

And now, in the lazy Sunday spirit, a conversation I just had with Manny:


What’s up? You look concerned.
Excuse me?
Au contraire, mon per…ro. I gave you that rawhide. I even softened it so you wouldn’t lose your remaining teeth gnawing on it.





1- getting and recovering from a boob job, which, more on that later but let me tell you–I did my first laser hair removal Wednesday and it was a thousand times more painful than the boob job. I didn’t even take my pain medication after the surgery, which is good because I’m going to want it for the remaining laser sessions.

2- still in danger of that from Mandatory Science, though. In eight hours of class time she’s used four going over the syllabus and project requirements. I don’t understand–if she spent as much time lecturing as she did repeating herself it would be an interesting class. But she’s terrible, we spent 45 minutes going over the study guide for an exam on Tuesday, and three questions away from the end she suddenly dropped it to return to the syllabus. Her slides are poorly done and despite showing diagrams of the chemical composition of different hormones, she goes through them too fast to actually copy them. This is something Beautiful Professor scolded me about and in an irrationally resentful way I want him–or someone to get after this woman.


killing time: what I’m reading, what customers talk about when they’re trying to sound smart, what I fall asleep when reading. And what I’m eating.

So… expect more posts now that I’m back in school.  Inspiration strikes hardest when my attention is supposed to be elsewhere: for example, right now I’m trying really hard to focus on “The Revolutions of Heavenly Bodies” but all I can think about is how there’s a pun in there somewhere about naked girls.  This is after falling asleep multiple times when trying to read the text for my mandatory science class–four years and I’m just now taking it. I feel really good about the past four years of history, literature, and almost nothing else, and the bitterness I felt about having to take art history–which at least had some awesome pictures, including this picture:

(which my friend recognized from the last Indiana Jones movie, exciting because it’s real! I always figured it was a set.) is nothing compared to the quiet bitterness of having screwed myself so that my last term is eaten up with this dullness.  I might take a class on colonialism and imperialism in the middle east winter term just to make up for this. 
But mandatory science–okay, it’s one of two non-science science courses, the other being science through science fiction[1], and both are in high demand from all the history/liberal arts majors who can’t be arsed to do actual science or math–is that a harsh judgment?  I’m extrapolating from my own situation, which is driven by sheer lack of interest–this mandatory science class (I like calling it that and think I will for the rest of term) is taught by a very kind, very dull instructor who has already promised us lots of group work and given me a talking to a bout using a laptop to take notes. Which is fair because it was actually an email to a friend in which I complained about everything that was happening in class in real time.  I haven’t sent it yet, but I’m sure she’ll be stoked.  
So here I am: falling asleep over Woman[2], which is the text for mandatory science, and which is something like if Jeanette Winterson immediately followed Written On the Body with a sort of 90s update to Our Bodies, Ourselves.  Or something.  It’s indescribable, and yes, it is entertaining, if at times entertainingly self indulgent. I read a line which I really wish I’d managed to underline and dogear before accidentally falling asleep–it was ten or fifteen word sentence with three interior rhymes. And she keeps doing that!  I haven’t found that one again but here’s this example:
“Estrone alone for the merry crone.”(203)
or this:
“Until we cry aunt and have the uterus abolished.” I don’t even know what I want to italicise more in that sentence, it might actually be cry aunt. 
There’s also a nice reference to Heloise and Abelard, which I appreciated.  I think if Heloise had been able to express herself in hair metal lyrics, she would have written No One Like You 800 years before the Scorpions got to it.  
Which reminds me that one night a few weeks ago I let my smile slip and a customer asked me what was wrong.  
“I’m bored,” I answered, being candid since I’d made enough to be impervious to their money.
His friend took offense at this and asked me what kind of intellectual stimulus I needed. “Do you need to talk about Abelard?  What do you think of his misfortunes?” It’s like when someone aims a ball at your head expecting to hit you but it turns out either it’s nerf or maybe you’ve got better coordination than they thought.
“I think it’s a real bummer that Fulbert castrated him,” I answered.  “What did you think of his ideas about intentionality and sin?”
“Not much.”
We laughed. 
This has been brought to you by the best batch of chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever made, and I’m not sure what I did different this time.  Which clearly means I’ll need to do it a bunch more until I have isolated and memorized the difference.  I think it might be running out of baking soda (or powder, I can’t tell the difference, but I didn’t use either one because I was out) and they’re so amazingly delicious and chewy.  Also extra vanilla because you can’t have too much of a good thing?  That’s not true.
the inscription on this book (I know, I should stop bitching about it and just read it, except I already read it what! what I’m avoiding right now is Copernicus, hello) is so awesome(ly bad) it’s almost worth the (second hand) cover price!
why is “us” “WOMAN” singular?  Why would you say that?
I wonder if Ivy enjoyed it.


1-which a different friend highly recommended, but only from a certain instructor,  and this term it’s offered but by someone other than the person my friend liked and I think it would take someone really amazing to make me focus my eyes on a combination of science and scifi, cause I’m strictly a fantasy nerd and can’t get into scifi no matter how hard I try,  although I did just finish Embassytown and really enjoyed it, so that could, maybe, change at some date in the future, with a lot of work.  But with so much awesome fantasy why bother with scifi? so I opted for Science of Women’s bodies instead, and here I am. Plus I ‘m a Capricorn, myself, so I like a known quantity,  I digress)
2-which has the most embarrassing title/reductive cover design ever.  I had to buy another copy of Sarah Rees Brennan’s book (which I already own but miss since loaning it out) and The Diviners just to justify going to the register with such an unspeakably women’s studies book.  I know I started this blog as a queer feminist stripper dyed in the wool fantasy geek and I’m still a bunch of those things but I will never not be embarrassed by bad design that is essentially a vulva–no, it’s not even a vulva, it’s definitely just a crotch[3], or maybe a martini glass. The martini glass makes me happy so let’s go with that.
3-A word that Regan hates when I use, “because it’s terrible!”–as in “Move over, crotch hog,” because I’m tired of smilingly entertaining the customer’s gaze during a lapdance and I want to give my face a break but she’s hogging the prime territory of his lap, which allows you to avert your face in a number of ways.

Lazy morning, 9/12

Reading this:
“Emanuel obviously knows that such a state of affairs is intolerable to children, as he sends his own to a progressive school whose director staunchly opposes standardized testing.”
And this is like my favorite thing I’ve seen on craigslist:

I practiced new tricks with Regan and Autumn last night, and got one, but the Ironman one that Regan does so easily (even after over a month exercise free for her implants) is killing me. I finally got it at one point, letting go of the pole with my hand and relying on the tension between the back of my right knee and front of my left, only to slowly slide to the ground whimpering in pain.
“your face has a really unattractive expression on it right now,” Regan observed dispassionately.
the expression of one manfully controlling shrieks of intense anguish, I’m sure.

“It’s Versayss”: stripper malapropisms, awkward situations, lap dances and leisure reading. A thorough update. Ish.

I’m trying to hustle some older business men, the kind of guys’ whose track-lighting condos or boats I would party at when I was 19 and 20 but I’ve since lost the knack of squeezing any profit out of them at all. Come to think of it, even then mostly what I got from them was free alcohol and drugs. But I’m hitting everyone up, I have goals, man, including not letting Great Lakes entirely ruin my life with their refusal to allow me to pay the principle first. &c&c&c.
“So…” I whisper, trailing my fingers down my main target’s arm, “are you ready for a really good lap dance?”
“Maybe, maybe!” he says genially. “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”
I hate cleversticks. Don’t try to be clever, it’s a waste of my time and your breath. Before I can do anything but not say this he tilts his head.
“I tell you what!”
A challenge is coming, I can tell. Something like, “if you name the team whose logo is on my friend’s hat, I’ll get a lapdance.[1]
“Tell me who sings this song.”
In my head I groan and hit him with my purse. Outwardly I tilt my head, listen. Cringe, groan again as the ubiquitous tinkling notes register. I try to think back to the one time outside the club I ever heard it, during a YouTube theater marathon with the ex.

Over the winter I hung out with my ex some. We’d reunite the pets, eat, watch tv.[2] I was gearing up to go one night when X asked me if I’d heard a song. I didn’t think so, so of course we had to watch the video. Like everyone else I found myself caught on his teeth and not wanting to stare at his face and then inexpressibly annoyed. I recognised the music from the club, where it was inevitably muddied with dubstep, but I never listened to the lyrics before; like every other motherfucker I recognized the sentiment from agonized therapy sessions, sleepless nights and overrelating to Nabokov’s explorations of the inability to return to a past, one that you maybe can no longer relate to or even recognize.

Somebody…” he wailed. I couldn’t tell what my reaction was supposed to be, it was too much like a sitcom, sitting there awkwardly listening to this naked guy painted in earth tones wail about his relationship pain. it was like getting Punk’d. “Ashton, are you there?
“I hate it?” I offered. “He sounds like a total dick.” Like of course she would change her number. Clearly. I knew which part of the equation I was overidentifying with, but didn’t really want to explore our respective reactions any further.
“Well, she gets her say,” I was told. Great.

The guy is waiting and I finally dredge up a memory of the name next to the song title on the YouTube page.
“Gotya!” I say, feigning an enthusiasm that this whole interaction has really drained.
He looks puzzled and then amused. “Got-ya?” he repeats. “It’s Gau-tee-ay!”
I love when life mirrors art (or in this case, bad nineties movies about strippers). Just like that, the whole interaction was redeemed; like Gnomey in Showgirls, I got schooled.
“It’s Versays!” I told him cheerfully, and patted his shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

Of course I never returned to him, but I did have a good cackle to myself throughout the night, retelling it to my friends but slurring my accent harder so it came out “Gotcha!”

My class on Zionism in the first half of the 20th century got cancelled, leaving me adrift for the past week and anxious about my reception when (if) I ask the Beautiful Professor for a letter of recommendation. That was my last chance to prove myself and redeem my spring term sloppiness. To ease the anxiety I’m working as much as possible and ploughing through Nabokov: The Russian Years.

Currently reading this: –apparently Grossman has a weekly column which just made my life, texting pictures of cute animals, and eating dark chocolate sea salted caramels–which the local grocery store has just started carrying in bulk–in bed before work.
For you:



1-That’s a real quote.

2- Mystifying and mildly awkward and something which my friends would (and still do) badger me about. I’d try to explain but lapse into quoting Some Like It Hot, knocking on my head and excusing myself by being “not very bright.” Something about invoking Marilyn Monroe in a grand tradition of bad feminine relationship judgment was inexplicably soothing. They’d shake their heads.