Mr Shane

Sometimes you’re hovering, irresolute and there aren’t any money pings hitting your radar and then out of the corner of your eye you see someone with a wallet full of twenties and hundreds buying a drink. Cha-ching.

I walked up to the guy with the money, a short Asian guy in glasses and a hat. His friend, a tall blonde man of the bearded Comrade Lenin type-a type my city is so full of it’s likely I’ll never date again, or at least no dating til Brooklyn-was overtly uninterested in me but the little guy happened to to be eye level with my new 34DDs. I knew I got these for a reason.

“What’s that!” he asked about the gulag chest tattoo.

“It’s your face.” I shoved his face into it and he yelled. A yell of delight, a little muffled by my boobs.

I let him go and he circled around me.

“What’s that say?”

“It’s a stanza from a Russian poem.”

“You like Russian poetry? You like Akhmatova?”

“Akhmatova?”

“Is that how you say it? yes. And you say ‘Sve ta ya eva?'”

“Tsvetaeva?”

“Yes! And now say ‘poetry’!”

“Poesia?”

YES! it sounds like this!” He pointed emphatically at my lap.

I started cracking up. “Ah, yeah, I guess it does sound a little like that. Wanna dance?”

“Yes! Mr Shane!” Bored beardy blond man came over and looked at me, still devoid of interest. “I’m going to dance with her!”

“With her? You don’t want her.”

Oh my God, Mr Shane you are so lucky that I am on my best behavior after assaulting a customer or you’d be next.

“She knows Russian poetry! Poesia! Tsva-say it again!”

“Tsvetaeva.”

“Yes!”

I smiled winningly at Mr Shane. “We have so much in common. Russian poetry in the club! We’re going to dance now.”

Mr Shane was unimpressed but maybe just unimpressed with life in general. He shrugged and let me haul his tiny friend away.

The dance started and

“Pinch my nipples!”

I obliged.

“Hard! Harder! HARDER!”

I did my best, giggling harder every time he yelled.

“Okay, now you make me hard.” He let go of his death grip on the armrest and I grabbed his hand before he could get saucy.

“Ah… Yes. I’m trying.”

“I know why you’re holding my hand! It’s so I don’t touch you. I won’t!”

“That’s really great.”

He flailed the whole while, yelling. At the end of a song he asked if we could get all of the girls in there, to pinch his nipples while he smoked.
“Smoking’s not allowed indoors.”

Dealbreaker.

“Let’s go back to Mr Shane and get more money for a dance!”

 

 

 

Flashback Friday: A____ 2007

I quit S____’s, I don’t remember why. I went to A____.

“You’re going to hate it,” the manager of S’s assured me.

Starting at a new club is like starting a new romance: you’re so happy it’s not the old one it’s hard to see the new flaws.

I liked the dressing room: after being squeezed–with five other girls!– into the tiny closet that was the S’s dressing room, A’s was exciting. It was the only room upstairs and it had a door to the roof where, from a rickety reclining lawn chair, you could watch the freeway or the creek. The whole club, more rickety and ramshackle than the lawnchair, perched on the bank of that creek, out of which the odd shopping cart poked. Picturesque! with the side benefit that if you needed to go outside and yell, let off some steam[1], no one could hear you over the noise of the water and cars.

No one expected us to leave the dressing room and hustle drinks when we weren’t onstage. As a newly sober person, one freshly woken to the fact that drunk people are infinitely more annoying than sober ones, this was a big deal. More time to read: I could run up to the dressing room after every stage set, pull out my book, and read for a blissful and uninterrupted twenty minutes.

And it gave me more time to devote to the other new thing in my life, an actual romance. I have a commitment allergy, and I’ve had it my whole life. I disappear on people, I can’t help it. Even friends. It feels like being being suffocated when people want things from me and I just can’t come through, so I stop answering calls.

This was one thing I was willing to commit to, however. My high school geometry teacher once called me monomaniacal, and she’s not wrong. I dedicated myself to becoming the perfect girlfriend with all the fervour I usually threw into hiding from my one night stands, and the more signs there were that this couldn’t possibly end well for me, the more I determined to remake myself into someone for whom it would. Part of this involved being available at times I would normally be at work: weekend nights.[2]

There was an extra shift at A: 7-11am. All the drunk guys who’d been out partying so hard they hadn’t yet slept would come in, cringing at the music and begging me not to talk so loud. You wouldn’t have expected it (I didn’t, anyway) but they tipped very well.

Thus, Saturday morning, 9 am.

I sat in the corner by the staircase because the angle of the stairs meant there was only room for one chair, squashed between the mirror and the bannister. Someone would actually have to be deliberately snooping to get anywhere near my stuff, and after having both my iPod and computer charger swiped I tried to make any more thefts as difficult and obvious as possible. This tactic was only marginally successful (I had a g-string and a set of bikini bottoms stolen before I eventually hated the place so much that I stormed out) and it didn’t protect me at all from the real menace:

Orla.

Orla and I worked together at least two shifts a week. On afternoons or nights she had a customer who would buy her drinks and he took the brunt of her conversation, but on mornings–when no one else wanted to be on rotation with her because the girl actually danced to songs like “If you like pina coladas”–we were in the dressing room alone together and Orla was just one of those people who cannot bear silence. Even if the other person is reading or watching movies on their laptop, as I usually was. And once she started talking, I felt compelled to bear witness. She was so fragile and weird! She had braces and the biggest natural boobs I’ve ever seen, and anxious blue eyes that made me feel guilty when I ignored her.

Sometimes I would go downstairs just to escape her, but the dressing room was the only room in the bar with central heat; as the winter wore on and the shiny newness wore off I found myself shivering more and realised that the rest of the club was heated by the solitary (though giant) woodstove. It didn’t heat up until around 6 or 7 in the evening, when the customer population hit a critical mass and started warming the place up through body heat. Before that you just had to shiver and suffer.[3] Customers, wrapped in heavy winter coats, would irritably demand why I was wearing a hoodie and when it was going to come off. I’d flash them halfheartedly, try to explain how hard it is to get naked when every instinct you have is screaming for you to put more clothes on. They didn’t buy it.

“Dance harder,” the real assholes would say. This was why I liked the hungover customers best. In their hungover misery they were sympathetic to my frozen misery.

Plus once you were on the floor you were fair game for any time wasting customer to come up and talk your ear off and the management had very strict rules about what constituted acceptable conversational topics. Telling them to go away, I’m reading, was not within these parameters. I had to be very desperate to resort to that, most of the time it was just easier to listen to Orla talk.

Her two main topics were her boyfriend: a cheating asshole

and her roommate: our coworker, Flower Fairy[4]

“She’s cut her shifts down,” Orla was complaining. “She won’t do mids anymore because that’s when her team goes on raids. She’s barely even working right now!”

“Raids?”

Orla perked up at this sign of interest. “I guess it’s a World of Warcrafty thing. They all get together and raid? But they raid at five so she can’t be at work or they’ll get mad.”

“Flower Fairy plays World of Warcraft?”

“Oh yeah. Like all the time. When she doesn’t work she’s just online, like until four or five in the morning.”

“And… She can’t work mids because they raid?”

“Yeah.” This was more interest than I’d shown in weeks, Orla looked really happy. “She’s a sexy elf lady I guess and the rest of her team or clan or whatever is like a troll and a warlock and a thief? But if I make noise when she’s playing she yells at me! And she just got these new headphones so now she doesn’t have to listen to me.”

I’m jealous. “So who do they raid?” I asked, fascinated. I made a mental note to sit Flower Fairy down and have her tell me all about it.

“Other teams. Those are real people mostly, other nerds. It’s huge, they all dedicate their lives to it.”

“Ladies!” The bartender wasn’t happy. “I need music and someone onstage now, please, the song has been over for two minutes.”

“Ugh,” I said. We made faces at each other. “Do you want to do first stage again? I just want to sit and read.”

“Sure,” she agreed, one reason I liked being on rotation with Orla. She let me slack as much as I wanted.

_________________________________________________

1-I used to decompress by getting off work and mumble/yelling obscenities but A is actually the place where this stopped working. It beat me down so hard that just breathing became difficult. I developed a new and terrible habit of faux-whistling when I left work, puckering up and exhaling hugely, like my tension was some weight anterior to myself that I could just diffuse if I blew hard enough.

2- Because if I wasn’t around on those nights, who knows what could happen or who my date would have hooked up with. This is not my paranoid mind, you understand, this is what I was told as an incentive to get me to stop working nights. It worked.

3- And if you sat too close to the stove the soles of your shoes melted.

4- Everyone gets a pseudonym here, although Flower Fairy is sort of close to her actual stage name.

Love and money take 2

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My one year anniversary at my club tonight: it was a revelation to me back then cause I didn’t know you could still make that kind of money in my city. Eleven dances and six hundred dollars later I took my roommate out for pedicures to celebrate. Tonight was even better than that shift–i also climbed to the top of the pole and did some of my old tricks for the first time since boob job!–so we’re celebrating with treats and a shit ton of cheese:

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It really is euphoria inducing. But I’m a cheese hound.

Here’s to at least one more year of making money doing what I love before going off to grad school to do something else–that I love, but which is guaranteed to be way less lucrative. 16 months to pay off Great Lakes! The countdown is on.

Shit talking: Baby says, “Everybody poops!”

Friday night and the bathroom stunk. I went in to wash my hands and immediately gagged; a female customer looked at me guiltily and sidled by me, without, I noted, washing her hands. Choked by fecal miasma I left &  stormed into the dressing room.

“Don’t poop in the bathroom!  Jesus Christ! Why is that so hard? Just don’t poop at someone else’s workplace!”

Baby started laughing hysterically. “What are you talking about?”

“Bitches taking horrible giant dumps in the bathroom!  Where we have to go to!  Customers! Wait!  Just wait and go at home! You know what?  I was in a relationship for four years and I bet I only pooped while she was in the house five times. And one of those times I had food poisoning. We were just not on those kinds of terms and that was fine.”

Other girls started laughing too.

“That’s insane,” Baby said.

“I don’t even care.  Probably. But! There’s such a thing as Too Much Intimacy.”

Baby was dying by this point.  Bad smells make me crazy, I can’t be rational about them.  I used to work in a tiny dive bar with a girl I unaffectionately nicknamed Skeletor who looked like a walking corpse.  Skeletor kept herself going with copious amounts of coffee and invariably had a bowel movement two or three times a shift.  It was like clockwork. I know about this because the toilet was in the dressing room and the bar was so small that everyone knew.  It was awful.  It made me want to die.  It wasn’t even worth being the hot, non-stinky one to put up with that.

“Everybody poops, Red!” Baby hooted.  “Everybody poops!  It’s a book!  didn’t your parents make you read that when you were little? Everybody poops, everybody poops.”  Baby was maybe a little drunk.  She exited the dressing room caroling, “Ev-ery bo-dy poops.”

Melissa Gira Grant writes about labour struggles in the club

Organized Labor’s Newest Heroes: Strippers

 

The words “labor dispute” make a lot of people imagine big men on a picket line. This, despite the fact that the high-profile workers’ struggles of the past year happened in jobs dominated by women stuck with low wages and little respect: from domestic workers securing benefits in New York state, to Chicago’s teachers’ strikes, to this week’s Black Friday actions organized across the country against Wal-Mart. There’s another group of women we should add to this list, women who have been continually fighting for their rights at work, who are met with disbelief and retaliation when they stand up, and smirking headlines and punny scorn even when they win.

Last week, strippers employed by the Spearmint Rhino chain won an unprecedented $13 million settlementin Federal court, the result of a class action suit to restore back wages and contest their status as independent contractors of the clubs.

By managing dancers like employees but putting them on the books as independent contractors, club owners get out of paying dancers the benefits they’re legally entitled to, which could include worker’s compensation, unemployment, and health insurance if they qualify. Owners and management alike tell dancers they’re independent, but they still exercise control over dancers on the job, routinely using the kinds of restrictive rules on breaks and conduct you’ve come to expect of Wal-Mart, not the mythically “anything goes” world of sex work.

As its currently organized, stripping is service work—and not unlike most service work in the United States, it’s a field dominated by women who have to fight to be treated fairly. Even in a strip club where she was getting a pay check, Mariko Passion, a former dancer and current escort and artist, said, “I was still being charged $80 every day to work there, not including my tip-out,” additional fees to be paid to DJ’s and other club service staff. Dancers’ tips can vary widely, depending on factors as unpredictable as customer whims and volume, to banal concerns like rain and football. On a shift where you pull in eight $20 dances (that’s $160 before tip-out, for your back of the cocktail napkin math), an $80 “stage fee” per shift means you just gave half your earnings to your bosses. You might feel differently if you get twenty dances or a big tipper, but the stakes are the same every shift, and they’re rigged to maximize club profits. “But restaurants can try to do exactly the same thing with your tips,” says Passion, who brought her own individual suit over illegal tip sharing and won against three California clubs. “It’s not just a strip club thing. It’s a capitalist thing.”

Russian red, gingham style: a tale of two lap dances

Thursday night was all geek love, IT guys and gamer nerds who were stoked for a hot nerd stripper and basically darling and frequently hilarious. Last night was the exact opposite.

1.
“Can I ask where you’re from? I can tell you’re not from around here.”
“Boston.”
He looks disappointed. “But your accent… It’s Ukrainian maybe?”
Now, I’ve been having a conversation with this guy for a reasonable amount of time, he’s heard a good sample of my speech patterns. I talk fast and slur my words a lot but don’t have a thick Boston accent, and I’ve been tainted by the west coast to the point where it’s almost impossible for me to make a direct statement, or even say “I think”. Instead it always comes out “I feel like–“, a habit I’m trying very hard to break. But my accent is very American English.
“Ahh, my family is from the Ukraine, yes.”
“I can tell, I can totally tell.”
“…да.”
He looks thrilled. “So, are you ready for a lap dance?”
He gets three, and at the end calls me by another dancer’s name. We’re not easily confused: She’s tiny, nearly a foot shorter than me, South American, and it’s a Spanish name, but the name does sound a lot like “Yentl” and I can only imagine it’s some fucking shtetl fetish coming out.
“It’s Red,” I correct him gently.
He looks startled. “But Y—– is such a Russian name.”
I almost die. Because it’s not, at all, like a Russian name, because he’s so attached to this narrative in his head that it’s like I wasn’t even there. But if you ask him about last night he’d probably tell you all about the hot Ukrainian stripper and her accent. Two totally different lap dances were just had.
“It’s Red.” He looks hurt and baffled so I make it easier on him. “Like Russian Red.”
His face clears. Later he gets more dances.

2.
“You! You’re so hot!”
“So are you, are you ready for a lap dance?”
“Whoa whoa whoa! No no no!”
Okay. “I like your shirt. It’s very gingham, very Dorothy Gale.”
“Gangnam?!”
“Aha, no. Gingham. It’s what this pattern is called.”
“I thought it was called plaid.”
I sighed. Deeply. I was already annoyed by him, I don’t know why I kept going. Because I’m a Capricorn and I love money.
“So what’s your name?”
“Red.”
“Pfaw, no it’s not! That is not what your parents called you. I’ll tell you my real name. —– [2] What’s your real name?”
Seriously, are you seriously going there. It’s been a while since I heard this and I was hoping it got old and was now universally recognized as a signal for time wasting bad taste–which it really is. Not that I followed it.
“I’ll tell you during the lap dance.”
“Hold your horses tiger! I’ll get a dance, I’ll get a dance. Not right now.”
Yeah ok whatever. I waited 10 minutes and enlisted my young redhead doppelgänger in the cause. She’s pale like me, more babyfaced but we both have round enough faces and pointy chins, so when we tell people (guys) we’re sisters they don’t question it, they just look thrilled. She got his friend into the back and I followed with Gingham.

Gingham kept being charming.
“So I just got back from three weeks in Europe and you have a lot to live up to.”
I rolled my eyes. Because you go to an strip club in the states to have the same experience offered by a prostitute, European or otherwise. Idiot.
He kept talking and trying to grab my breasts. “In Prague the girls are so hot. Are those real? It takes a lot to get me hard.” He reached out for my chest. I ducked away again and grabbed his hands. “Are they real?”
“Why don’t you tell me, doctor.” I inadvertently channeled Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express, fitting because he was about as winsome as Clive Brook.
The song ended and I moved away from him with relief.
“That wasn’t the best lap dance ever. You said it would be.” He remained seated, sulky look on his face like if he complained enough I’d say, “oh, ok. That one’s on me then.”
“I did not say that, and I wouldn’t bother to do my best for you, you’re way too arrogant and annoying. Maybe you need to go back to Prague. Forty dollars.”
He still didn’t move, although now his face looked shocked.
“I don’t have forty, I only have a fifty.”
“That’s fine, I have change! And how much change do you want back and how much do you want to tip?” Now that I didn’t have to put up with him anymore, needling him was fun. He looked way more distraught than the situation called for.
“I will not be tipping. You didn’t earn it. Ten dollars.”
“Oh no,” I made a sympathetic face. “I only have five!”
“Then I’ll pay you in twos!”
“Oh no. I have enough twos. Let’s go to the bar and get you some change, big boy.”
He glowered. “I will not be forgetting you.”
What a threat! I rolled my eyes again. These guys were such badly behaved babies. Plus, after last week I got myself bear spray.
He got change from the bar and thrust two twenties at me with his face averted. It was like I’d destroyed his innocence.
“Thank you!” I caroled, and walked away.

A short while later a bouncer found me.
“I heard you were mean to a customer in a lap dance.”
“Oh my god!”
I told him what happened. He’s not one for overt laughing, but his face cracked.
“After last week I thought maybe you’re going on a rampage, hitting people, being mean to them.”
“I did not hit this guy! Don’t think I didn’t want to!”

__________________
1- When I was younger I would pretend to have a French accent when I was drunk, and run around insisting I was an exchange student from Paris named Ludovine, but it’s been a while. There is absolutely nothing about my accent to suggest Eastern Europe or Ukraine. I could do it if I thought about it, but that’s rarely a noticeable asset so I don’t usually bother. If someone seems to have a Russian Mail Order Bride type fetish I can just start dropping pigeon-Russian into my speech, whispering пожалуйста in their ears, whatever.

2- I don’t know why I’m leaving his name out, he doesn’t deserve the protection of anonymity.

Battle cry of the Brat Pack: “I just want to give you pleasure”

Stripping is an ongoing and very abject lesson in “You never know.”  You just never know.  I was talking to a guy who looked like Emilio Estevez in the Breakfast Club–a lot of it was in the hair but also sartorially. He was a pleasant and amusing conversationalist and within five minutes he suggested we do a dance.[1] Easy as pie, I thought. One of those dances where I’m laughing the whole time and grateful for customers like him.

I took him to the back room and we continued talking until the next song started.  He kept talking after that but all my energy was sucked up by monitoring his hands, letting out a half-hearted laugh where it seemed like he expected one, and then more hand holding.

“No touching,” I reminded him sweetly, and then more firmly.  “No touching when I’m naked, you don’t want me to get yelled at, do you?” This is a cue for the bouncer to intervene.

He loomed into the room. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

“Oh yeah oh yeah,” Emilio nodded.  “Right.” Bouncer went away, the guy explained, “It’s just so hard, I just want to give you pleasure.”[2]

“Ahaha, right. Well, you can’t, sorry. Not why I’m here. Now you just relax, don’t move, and enjoy yourself.”

We got through the rest of the dance without incident, holding hands for the rest of the song. I weighed the merits of another 40$ against the constant vigilance, handholding, and probable irritation of another song; decided I could cope.

“Let’s keep going!” I smiled, played with his collar. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“I don’t know… You know, I think you wiped me out but I really enjoyed this. You were great.” And with that, he swooped his hand toward my lap. I’d already turned away at “wiped me out,” but caught the motion from the corner of my eye and managed to catch his hand an inch above my [3].

I slammed his arm into the armrest of the chair and bent his fingers back. “If you try that again, I will break your nose.”
I paused to let that sink in and let go of his hand, moved away to dig around for my bottoms under the chair.

He found his voice. “I didn’t do anything!” I stared at him blankly. “You’re a crazy bitch! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything.”

“Pay me.” I tried to give him a cold look but felt over the whole interaction. Annoyed and tired and almost hopeful that he’d try something so I could actually hit him. What a whiny little shit–it went with his entitled poufy haired aesthetic.

“You know what? You know what?” We waited while he figured out where he was going to go from there. “You can have forty dollars! But you’ll never see me again.” He flung two twenties at me with hilariously ineffectual force. I collapsed in laughter, spite giving extra force to my cackles until I actually sounded like a witch. He gave me a dirty look and flounced away, poufy hair bouncing indignantly.

I finished laughing, and hustled off to spend the rest of the night re-enacting his grand and unsuccessful gesture.
“And you will never–see me again,” I intoned dramatically in the dressing room, arm in the air like I’d just made it rain. Autumn and Virago stared at me incredulously.
“Really?” Autumn is easily shocked, a satisfying trait in one’s audience.
“Like, ‘Oh no’,” Virago laughed heartly. “Oh no, you’re never gonna see him again! Oh no, there’s not a club full of men out there who are probably nicer and richer. Oh no.
“He just wanted to give me pleasure,” I sighed. “I’m such an ingrate.”

PS: No, you’re not entitled to your opinion.  Cause some opinions are more equal than others. True fact.

________________________________
1- He was actually really funny and made me laugh a few times, but this was a month ago and I didn’t take notes–the whole interaction was so funny that I thought it would stay in my head but turns out only the last two minutes stuck. With reason.

2- This is like, a thing. Guys say this all the time, about how their only pleasure is in giving pleasure, &c&c&c. But think about it. The guys who talk about giving me pleasure are so wrapped up in their vision and version of what’s happening that they’re totally blind to what’s actually happening.
How responsive and good at um giving pleasure can someone so unable to pick up on cues be? My cues, for example, aren’t so much cues as solid verbal warnings and directions: “No touching, only I touch you, no you can’t touch me, no you can’t touch me, you really can’t, I am the only person who touches, just sit back and let me do my job, I will hurt you if you do that again.”

Can you imagine someone that wrapped up in themselves being good in bed? Happy chance alone would account for it, I doubt he would register it if you explicitly told him he wasn’t getting you off.

3- It’s so annoying that there aren’t any non-embarrassing crotch euphemisms for girls.  Women.  Ladies.  Whatever.  Vulva is technical and embarrassing, crotch is, as Regan rightly claimed, terrible (although also terribly hilarious), most of the rest are infantilizing (kitty? yikes) and a bunch are worse than crotch. Gregology.net (seriously where do I come up with this shit? By googling “vagina euphemisms.” BECAUSE I CARE) suggests droog which, as the russian for “friend” (although the fact that it is a male friend, and not “padrooga” is stupid–or the etymology of this possibly entirely made up word could be totally different) appealed to me most but actually I’m just going to leave the whole thing as a footnote. I have an exam to study for. Though to be honest I might just end up finishing the Forsyte Saga and wondering why male gingers are always so unattractive except for the Weasley twins. Call me, boys.

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:

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What’s up? You look concerned.
GET AWAY FROM MY MOTHERFUCKING RAWHIDE.
Excuse me?
YOU HEARD ME. IT’S MINE.
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.

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BACK OFF, SNEAKY HOBBITSES. GNARARAR. MINE. MIIIINE. THE PRECIOUS. WE LOVES IT… WE LOVES THE PRECIOUS.

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…YOU’RE STILL HERE.

_______________________________
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.

Aural Sex 2.0: the curtains have a flaw

I’m sitting in this guy’s lap giving him a lap dance[1].  No two way contact but it’s still solid and he’s having fun until we get to the second song and the moaning starts next door.

“Unnnnnnnh unnnnnnnnh unnnnnnnnnhmmmmmm.”

It’s female: a dancer.  A dancer is moaning.  It’s like the aural equivalent of having to distract my customer from the guy diagonal from us who’s squeezing big handfuls of that dancer’s ass.  I didn’t want my guy to get ideas so I sat him over here and now a moaning girl is in the next area.  My customer immediately looks distracted; I’m not making that noise so I must be defective: somewhere along the line he got screwed.

“I promise you, nothing is happening in there that isn’t happening in here,” I assure him. I mean maybe she’s getting her ass grabbed too but he doesn’t need to know that.

He still looks longingly at the curtain, from whence the “unnnnnnnhs” just keep coming.  Oh my god.

“Do you need me to start moaning, sunshine?  Would that make your experience complete?” I want to kill the fool next to me–he was definitely going to go for a third before she started but now I’m not so sure, blocked by the curtain and fueled by the moaning, his fevered brain is coming up with all kinds of lascviousness which, bitchy me, I’m not indulging him in..

He looks confused. I swear to god.  People say the purring is cheesy but they can’t have heard fake moaning.  At least the purring is quiet and private and doesn’t fuck with anyone else’s hustle.

I try to channel a girl I worked with at a tiny, tragic little dive bar in 2006 who called herself Hot Pocket and always made the most embarrassing noises onstage.  If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.

“Oh yeah, mmmmmmmyeah,” I start off low in his ear. His expression actually brightens like he believes penetration might not be far behind.  “Unnnnh mmmmmmm yeeeeeah mmmmmmmunnnnnnnnnh.” I feel stupider than words can express, mildly implicated by having resorted to moaning myself.  He looks less unhappy and cheated, but when the song ends he doesn’t get a third.  He pays me and then loiters by the dance area until Moany comes out, and he leads her right back in.  Only got one song from her though, and then left, looking more disappointed than ever.  There’s no pleasing some people.

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1- Lap dances are kind of an ephemeral service, and quality is subjective, but mine probably occupy the (happy?) medium between the dances of when I first started dancing (which were adamantly not “lap” dances–by the standards of 2004 I’m a filthy whore) and the dances the other girls at my club do, and the dances that happen in most clubs in town.  Mine are good: not shocking (unless you’re some people), not tame, not terrible or amazing, probably kind of average unless my feet hurt and I resort to neck and shoulder massages–I do have repeat customers who pay me to do that.