Things that make me go . . . . WTF???

Sometimes I feel like I must have seen every strange sexual thing under the sun. You would think I would be used to it by now. But, some things guys do still mystify me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why any man would do the following things:

1. The blow job. I don't mean a real blow job, I mean that weird thing some guys do when they actually blow on me. Why? Do they think I am overheated and want to cool me off? Do they see some dust on me that they want to get rid of? I had one gentleman spend the entire dance blowing up my nose. No matter how I moved or bent to get out of his way, he matched my every move to continue blowing into my nostrils. When I asked him to stop, he paused for about 30 seconds, then resumed blowing.

2. The lizard tongue. This is when the gentleman darts his tongue in and out of his mouth in a lizard-like motion, while looking soulfully into my eyes. The tongue always looks pointy and hard, like a turtle's. I think this is supposed to make me think of the joys of cunnilingus? It really makes me think of reptiles, which are not sexy!

3. The wet Willy. Nibbling on an earlobe is one thing. Trying to lick my brain is something else entirely! 'Nuff said.

4. Massaging my internal organs. I had this happen just the other night. I turned to face away from my gentleman. He grabbed my abdomen between my belly button and the top of my pubic bone, and started kneading away on me like he was trying to make bread. My lower intestine works just fine, thank you!

A related move is when they jab their thumbs into my femoral arteries and squeeze. (The thick red artery in the picture to the right is the femoral. ) This hurts like hell.

5. Attempting to palpate my spine through my belly button. I am not a belly button person. And although I understand the sexual appeal for some people, I don't care for the sensation of having mine touched. It's even more of a mystery why a man would forcefully jam his finger or thumb into my navel and shove as hard as he can. Does he think that is a second vagina or something? What does he expect to find in there, except lint? There are no special nerve centers in there, and you can't reach my g-spot that way. Like the artery jabbing, it hurts.

6. Pulling on my clothes. There are two options here. One, he is pulling on my top, and it is a topless joint. The top is coming off in a minute anyway, so why pull on it? Or two, he is pulling on my top, and it is not a topless joint, in which case I can't take the top off at all, so why pull on it?

7. Pulling on my butt-cheeks. People like to grab one cheek in each hand and pull, like they are splitting a coconut. What are they looking for, loose change?

8. Giving me a wedgie. Aren't we all out of junior high by now?

9. The spring-loaded hand. He grabs for my crotch. I intercept him and push his hand away. He grabs again. I push him away . . . again. He grabs again. I push him away forcefully and give him a dirty look. He grabs again. I push him away and say, "NO!" He grabs yet again. I push him away, say "NO!" and slap his hand. He looks hurt and says, "What did I do?"

10. The newest annoying, bizarre mystery behavior to date: shoving their hands down the back of my nylons. Just like trying to split my butt-cheeks like a peach, what would make somebody want to do that? What do they think they are going to find down there? Would they really want it if they did find it? Do I really want to know?

Really, anybody who subscribes to the women-are-complicated-guys-are-easy-to-understand theory, needs to walk around in my 6-inch heels for a while. With some people, nothing they do seems to make any sense; and with many people, some things they do make no sense; and may the gods help anyone who tries to understand it.

You might be a redneck stripper if:

1. You have ever danced in cowboy boots because you forgot your work shoes.
2. You did a set of "Redneck Woman," "Honkey-Tonk Girls" and "Sweet Home Alabama," and it was NOT a cowgirl theme set.
3. You ask after your customer's wife, kids, and crops.
4. You can hold a detailed conversation about animal husbandry in an evening gown.
5. You have had your VIP set cut short because your customer had to go home and turn a calf.
6. You bought your best outfit at Farm & Fleet.
7. You plan your vacation for the harvest--nobody will be there anyway.
8. You say, "I think a farmer's tan is sexy!" at least 3 times a night.
9. When you call people "redneck" or "hillbilly" they laugh and agree with you.
10. You have to shake hay pieces out of your dance bag.
11. You own a cowboy hat that is not part of a costume.
12. You got tipped in fresh eggs.
13. You can do a lap dance to "The Taliban Song" or "I'll never smoke weed with Willy again"--and make it sexy!
14. You know at least one dancer who has taken "Honeysuckle Rose" as her stage name.
15. There is a mechanical bull and/or NASCAR lights in your place of business.

ANd in case you are wondering, I am most definitely a redneck redhead stripper, y'all!

The shame rubs off on you

I was just catching up on my reading and came across Melissa Gira's blog. Melissa is a sex worker who is also a free-lance writer, activist, and some other things. I came upon a sentence in her entry about a vigil to help end violence against sex workers, which she organized. This is what she wrote:

There is too much risk already in this work, in moving in the world as those who carry so much of people’s sexual shame and fear and pain.

Wow. I don't intend to address the violence we in the sex/entertainment biz face, although I know it is a very real risk. What really floored me was the way she nailed how being in this business colors how I face the world around me.

In my work, I really do see a lot of the seedy side of people. Not seedy people, just the seedy, seamy side we all have. I am at peace with my darker side, for the most part, which makes me able to face that darkness in other people. But thing is, that darkness scares a lot of people. Their own dark side scares them, and other people's darkness scares them too.

We all fear the unknown, the unexamined side of ourselves. We fear the unknown in others, possible because it reflects our own hidden selves. Because we fear the abyss, it is difficult to face and examine it. Without examination, or hidden selves remain unknown and fearsome, and the cycle continues.

Here come the sex workers and the entertainers, who listen to, act out, interact with, and participate in the hidden aspects of so many people. We see their fears; we touch their shame. Whether this harms or even changes us, is not the point. The world outside these personal little dramas knows instinctively that we have had our hands in the dirty, murky parts of other minds, and fears we are contaminated. They believe that shame rubs off on us like coal dust, and if they come too near us, the dirt and dust of all those unexamined fantasies will somehow transfer to them. It will stain them and sully them. It will make them unclean.

Whether they have given it that much thought or not, that is what people mean when they say they don't want to "associate with" certain groups of other people. They know I carry part of the shame and fear and pain of hundreds of other people. I know they know it. I know they fear it.

I regard people outside the industry warily. To them, I am an unknown "other" because I make my living where angels fear to tread. I am unsure how they will handle the truth of my life, but I know what their gut reaction will be if I choose to tell them. I've seen that before: one split second of horror before they arrange their features and choose their reply.

I move in the world as one who carries other people's fear and pain and shame, and I carry a shield, too, to protect me from those who fear where I've been.

FAQ: Why do you do this job? And more abouat work

A guy really, really pissed me off yesterday by asking me, "Why do you have to do this?" meaning my work. Then he shoved his foot further down his throat by telling me that obviously my husband does not make enough money because he should be able to support me. He said it with such a smug air of superiority, it just made me want to throttle him! Since lots of people ask me why I do what I do, and want to state my position without turning this into a big rant, let me make a FAQ out of this.

Why are you a dancer?

Short answer: It pays the bills, and does not require too much of me. Working part time leaves me free to be a better wife and mother.

Longer answer: I dance because I like it. I like being around people and I like the physical, sexual nature of the work. I also like getting paid cash every day (NOT under the table--I do pay taxes!) and in proportion to how hard and how well I worked. I like the instant aspect of the work, too. I know immediately the results of what I have done, and whether I was successful in making a sale or not. I love being my own boss. And I like to think I make a difference in peoples' s lives, in a small way. I believe that entertainment and fantasy are important for people's mental health, and I like making people happy.

I am NOT dancing for lack of other opportunities. I was pre-med when I got pregnant, and then took a couple of years off to raise my son. Dancing allowed me an easy, flexible way to rejoin the work force and still be there for my family when they needed me.

Doesn't your husband make any money?

This question is irritating for its pure nosiness, but it comes up a lot. My husband also works a job that allows him to be free as much of the time as possible, to be with our son. He makes a reasonable amount of money, but not a fortune. He supported us alone for 2 years, and it was pure hell. I also grew up with a mother who refused to work outside the home, and that was also very hard. I would rather work and make my own money that I can save or spend on things to make our lives better, than to sit around the house and be too broke to do anything.

Why don't you do something else?

I will, eventually. Right now I want to be available for my son, to give him the very best start in life. I can't give up sleep, which I would have to do if I chose to 1) pursue an 9 to 5, or 2) go back to college, and still give my son hours and hours of my undivided attention. I also do not want to spend a large amount of time and money on more education, only to later decide it's not what I want to pursue.

What do you think you would like to do?

Something related to science, definitely. I might go into something related to DNA and molecular biology (me second degree) or possibly something related to nature and ecology. Or possibly health and nutrition. I know I do NOT want to be a clinical psychologist (my first degree) or a teacher again. I am also fairly sure I don't want to make any of my hobbies (singing, cooking, writing, etc) my full time work.

Why do people do this?

For some reason, I keep getting e-mails, IM's, and other communication from people who have no purpose other than to criticize me for being a dancer. Here is a response I wrote to one of them, when I was in an exceptionally articulate mood. My latest is a 24 year old boy in LA who cannot seem to string together a complete sentence, but still thinks he knows more than I do about my life. Mind you, he has not met me, has not read my blog, nor even set foot is a strip club, but he is going to make me "see the light."

Dude . . . why?

Why do you care?

We live thousands of miles from each other. We will probably never, ever meet. You don't drink, and you don't like strip clubs. We probably have nothing in common.

So why on earth do you care what I do to earn my bread? It isn't interfering with you earning yours.

And furthermore, why ME? What makes me different from all the other dancers out there? OF all the thousands of dancers who have profiles on Yahoo or MySpace or wherever it is you found me, what makes ME so special?

I have long feared I am a nut magnet, but now I am concerned about being a magnet for condescending assholes as well.

The Death March Continues

I had 2 shows today. At the first one, a brand new account, I met a man who knew my ex father-in-law. I say knew because it turns out a few months ago, Chuck died of a terminal illness. For the first time in years, I feel sort of bad for my ex. He loved his father. I don't think he loved anybody else at that time in his life, certainly not me. I liked Chuck, a lot. He was the only one in the family who was nice to me.

Because of the first show being so long, I was only at the Playpen for 2 hours. In that time, thhe very first person I talked to was a day trader who had lost $70,000 that week. The last was a man who had come from the funeral of his friend and co-worker, who had committed suicide.

Sometimes, I wonder if this job is worth the emotional wear and tear. Sigh . . . .

A sad and intense day at work

It was a sad, strange day all around me yesterday. I have a good friend who rides with me all the time. Her boyfriend went to jail yesterday morning, after a few reprieves and delays and so on. He was supposed to go last week, but at the last minute was told to show up after the holiday weekend. So of course my friend was all sad.

Then I was called in to Porters for a rare Monday shift, (Thursday is my usual day) because the mother of one of the girls had died. Porters is a kind of small-town bar in a medium-sized city, where everybody knows everybody else, and many of the people knew this particular girl and her mother going back 2o years or more. It turns out that this girl's mother died of the same thing the wife of one of our regulars died of, a couple of months ago. Sadness sort of permeated the whole atmosphere. After I commiserated with the regulars who knew the dancer and her mother and the customer and his wife, I moved down the bar. The next person I met was a widower who, because he is focusing on his two teenage sons, has not been looking for a new lady friend. He seemed to think I might be the one, but of course I'm not. When I danced for him, he held on to me like I was his last hope.

Later I saw an old friend who also buys dances from me. He told me about how, while I was on vacation, his wife had died swiftly and unexpectedly of a heart condition nobody knew she had. To make matters worse, he decided last week to read her journal, and found out some awful surprises. If you are reading this, my friend, know that my heart goes out to you.

I was only at Porters for 2 1/2 hours, but I felt like I had been bathed in sadness by the time I left.

(At this point, I feel like I am obligated to write some dumb moralistic comment about the value om my work as an entertainer/temporary therapist/surrogate something-or-other. But look, there is nothing to say. People were sad yesterday. A lot of them. I was there with them, and I listened to their stories, and I helped share the load. Isn't that just basic human decency? )

So much fun tonight!

Of the 5 bars where I currently work, I have 3 that are my favorite for one reason or another. Tonight I visited Playpen in Stone Park, Illinois. I like that one because I have worked there for more than 3 years and I know almost everybody. Tonight I had planned to work from 4 pm to 8 pm. Well, my friend who was riding with me wanted to stay until 10, so why not? Then at 10, I absolutely could not leave, because people I know kept coming in the door. It kept up that way for 2 hours, and finally I had to leave because neither of us had had supper and it was the end of the shift (midnight.)

I totally love going there because it is just like going to visit friends. I see so many people I know and like there!

In other news, this blog has been a little sparse this week (ok, a lot sparse) because I have been working like a demon. I worked 8 different locations this week, many of them double shifts. Whew! I'm beat!

My "Vida Loca"

I was thinking yesterday about how neat and crazy my life is. I meet some of the craziest people out there. I mean crazy-interesting, not crazy-certifiable.

In any given week, I can buy home-made tamales, home-made pickles, bootleg videos, very good cheese and sausage, or designer knock-off purses, right there in a bar. I can (and have) bought t-shirts, thongs, and even a jacket out of the trunk of a car. I can't tell you how much holiday shopping I do from those guys who come into the bar selling stuff. It is an art form to finish the business transaction and get the guy out of the bar before I get busted for doing it!

I know guys that will fix my car, sell me windows, or do drywall work for me, all at a substantial discount.

I meet people with some amazing jobs, too. I happen to know a tugboat captain who has a boot fetish and who gave me the best advice on caring for my brass stripper pole. (Tugboats have a lot of brass fittings). I used to have a regular who was a farrier (the guy who puts the shoes on racehorses, which is what I once wanted to be when I grew up) and another who is a race car driver. I have had long discussions with a private detective, who told me his job was almost nothing like what you read about in in P. I. novels. I know all about the landfill closing in Bellwood, Illinois because I have had drinks with the guys who are working on it. I met the statistician for the Chicago Bulls, back when Jordan and Pippin were big names. I used to know a tragically depressed comedian and his midget side kick.

This is the stuff that makes me love my job. The hours and the flexibility make it a logical choice (and that is what I always say when I have to defend my position) but the people are the good stuff! The best part is, I never know, when I go in to work, who I will meet. Going into a familiar bar is like going to a party at a friend's house: I will see some people I already know and like, and I will be happy to see again. Then I will meet some more people, and maybe hit it off and make a new friend. It's always crazy and exciting and fun.

So This Lady Accused Me of Having No Morals

When I first put up my MySpace page, some woman sent me a message. The Subject line read "Morals." The entire body of the message read, "Do you even know what they are?" I liked my reply to this letter so well I decided to publish it here.

Dear Paige:

About a week ago, you sent me an e-mail with the subject “morals” and the entire body of the message read as follows:

“Do you even know what they are?”

I wondered, as in my reply to you, why you were concerned with my education or lack of it, but you never answered my question. I can only assume that you are too busy sending such messages to every stripper, exotic dancer, adult industry model, and porn actress on MySpace. That’s OK; as the moral watchdog of MySpace, you must have a lot to do.

As to your original question:

Yes, dear Paige, I do know what morals are. I think my Mom first introduced the concept to me. I further refined my ideas at the University of Maryland (Phi Theta Kappa, Class of ‘95—GO TARAPINS!) and while serving my country in the US Army Signal Corps. Just to be certain, I looked it up. This is what my dictionary says:

Morals: principles of right and wrong as they govern standards of general or sexual behavior (emphasis mine)

Well, since I am a sex worker, I have to believe it is the sexual aspect of this definition to which you are referring. I have drawn the conclusion that because my principles of right and wrong, as they govern sex-oriented entertainment and quasi-sexual behavior, are different form yours, you have discounted my principles and simply choose to believe I have none.

Shame on you, Paige. And you call yourself a Christian (other).

I would never tell you that your moral convictions are wrong; however I have a right to defend my moral ground as well. I am always honest and forthright in my business dealings. I do not go home with my customers, and I do not pretend that I will. I never lie about my marital status, and I never lie to my husband about what I do at work. In fact, the only time I ever lie about anything regarding my work is to protect somebody who would be hurt by the truth, like my son. I lie to his teachers and the PTA about what I do, to protect my son from people like you.

I am not trying to steal your husband, nor am I trying to steal all his money. I don’t want it on my conscience that I helped some man spend the grocery money and half the rent, because I know how devastating that can be to his wife and kids. How do I know? Because I’ve been there, baby.

What I am trying to do is feed my kid and pay my bills, just like any normal American parent. My decision to work in the sex entertainment field, rather than one of the many other things I could be doing, is all about the hours and the flexibility. I can be here for my family when they need me. (This year I took about 6 or 7 weeks off to deal with an abnormal amount of family drama, and my work didn’t even bat an eye.) Yes, Paige, believe it or not, dancing is a family value for me.

I understand that many Christians (other) believe that any sort of sexual behavior outside of marriage is some sort of sin. Obviously I disagree. Lest you think I am being arbitrary, alow me to point out that the Old Testament is full of lovely dancing girls who are praised for their beauty and grace, not condemned. The Ten Commandments state only that a man should not covet his neighbor’s wife. Harmless flirtation is not condemned.

Jesus Himself befriended and forgave many supposedly promiscuous women, such as the woman at the well. Even His close friend Mary Magdalene is commonly believed to have been a prostitute. After her famous entrance into the story with the alabaster jar, Mary is said to have traveled with Jesus and the Twelve, one of several women who “provided for them out of their own means.” As a prostitute, “her own means” would have to be money she had saved from working, or else she may have been working still. Imagine that: The travels of Jesus and the Disciples all through the Middle East were financed, at least in part, by the earnings of a sex worker! And Jesus must have loved her anyway: Mary Magdalene was the first person Jesus came to see when He rose from the dead.

We humans are sexual beings. If, as many Christians believe, we were created by God, then it is God who made us this way. Scientists are still debating whether humans are biologically wired to mate for life, or, like the majority of species, we are meant to crave change. Perhaps it’s true what some people say, that the male mind is always looking for a new place to sew a few wild oats, while the mind of a woman is set to ensure safety and security for herself and her babies.

Imagine for a moment that it is true. Say a man loves is wife, but he needs to get out a little. Take a little vacation from reality. So he stops by a bar on the way home from work. He could go to a regular bar, hit on some girl, and take her to a hotel room. Well, that’s about the end of the marriage right there.

Or he could come to see me. Sure, we will have a drink, flirt a little, maybe I will rub his back or even dance a few songs for him. Then I give him a peck on the cheek and send him home in a good mood. When he gets home, he is a little more relaxed and happy. He doesn’t kick the dog, refrains from yelling at his kids, and is responsive to his wife. Maybe they even make love after the kids go to bed. I think that is a much happier ending, don’t you, Paige?

My point here, the moral of my story you might say, is that yes, I do understand and even practice morals. The moral code by which I work and live is very strong. It is not wrong, it’s just not yours. As a business woman in the sex-entertainment industry, I provide, with integrity, an honest service and in return get paid an honest fee. I believe deeply in the value of my work, the value of entertainment and fantasy. And (surprise!) I also beiee in the bible, especially the proverbs:

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

What are you doing after work?

That’s one of my favorite things guys ask me. I know they are secretly wishing I would say, “Nothing more important that going over to your place . . . .”Well. Today was supposed to be my “early” night. I was scheduled to get off at 8. At 7:40, a good friend and former extremely good regular customer dropped in to see me. Why do people like that always show up at the end of the shift? Where are they at 4:15, when there is nobody in the bar and I am dying for someone to talk to? Well, anyway, I had to sit and chat for a few minutes and then had to have a chat in the dressing room, too, and so didn’t get out until almost 8:30.

Then I had errands to run. Yep. I do some of my best errand running after work. First I dropped by the discount liquor store to stock up on wine. Then I ran down to the grocery store to grab some groceries. I don’t know that store well, ands the self-checkout thingie was freaked out by my reusable grocery bags, so that took almost 2 hours. Then I ran through a drive-through for coffee and a rather lousy facsimile of dinner (diet resumes Monday–I swear!) and dropped off what little remained of my earnings at the bank. Then when I finally got home at almost midnight (did I mention the snow all over the roads on the way home?) I found my house looked like an explosion in a Goodwill shop. SO I cleaned my kitchen, ran the dishwasher, left a message for the dishwasher repair guy, put away my groceries, and started a loaf of bread. Took out the compost and the trash. Fed the critters.

After that I took a break and read some of my friends’ blogs.

Then I did 2 loads of laundry, folded some backed-up laundry that had been waiting for me to take care of it, hauled some stuff down to the freezer, and put a deep-cleansing oil treatment on my face. It is now 4:12 a.m. The only reason I am here at the computer is because I need to kill a little time and let the oil soak in before I go take a shower.

RUDE!

Normally I love what I do. It’s fun and interesting, reasonably challenging without being terribly demanding, and you can’t beat the hours. And then there are days . . . .

Today was one of them. It started out rough because I worked in two places yesterday, and didn’t get into bed until 3 am. Roughly 3 1/2 hours later, I was awakened by a mighty urge to pee (this normally never happens) and a driving desire to write about recycling. And no, it’s not that time, and no, I’m not preggers. Then I would up spending $77 on a doctor visit for kiddo’s unrelenting cough, and $40 on antibiotics. Ted told me what he had spent on kiddo’s Santa gift, and it was 3 digits. And there is another part of the gift that needs to be bought. And then I got to work late and the bar was empty of anyone but girls.

Ordinarily, I am very patient and forgiving when men say weird, bizarre, or just plain rude things. In all my years of dancing, I have learned that silence is usually the better part of discretion. But given the circumstances, I think any reasonable person can see why my fuse was a tad bit short today. Note I said a reasonable person. We had a shortage of those today. Here are some excerpts my night at work.

Me: Thank you for those two dances, I had a wonderful time. (Lie, lie, lie. This guy was handsy, smelly, and all over despicable. He slobbered on my neck.)
Him: Let’s go have another drink.
Me: Let’s settle up for those dances first.
Him: Didn’t I already pay you?
Me: No.
Him: Yes I did.
Me: Nope, sorry. Look in my purse, I don’t have any money.
He grudgingly produces payment for one dance.
Me: No, that was two dances.
Him: No, it was one.
It just goes on from here, with lots of “did not’s” and “did too’s” with the end result being that I did not get paid for the second dance. Funny thing is, I had a premonition in the middle of the second dance that that was going to happen.

Me: Hi
Customer: I don’t want any dances, I’m here to forget someone.
Me: Sweetie, a few dances with me and you’ll forget everyone.
Customer: She was a dancer. I hate dancers.
In my thought bubble: Then why on earth are you here? This is the only bar in Crown Point that has dancers.

Me: (After some random chit-chat) So, let’s go have some fun!
Customer (who is around 55 years old): I don’t want a dance with you. You know what I see when I look at you? I see a middle-aged woman who . . . (trails off after scathing look from me)
Me: Yes? Who what?
Him: Uh, uh. Well, middle aged, you know.
Me: And you know what I see? I see one homely m*ther-f*cker who I wouldn’t even give the time of day to, if I wasn’t at work.

Same customer, who is not content to let me be but chases me down and attempts to continue the conversation:
Customer: (in confrontational tone, grabbing my arm) I wasn’t trying to be rude.
Me: No, you were succeeding at being rude.
Customer: What did I say? I mean I didn’t want to hurt your feelings or anything. I was just being honest.
Me: I don’t consider 38 middle aged. (Turning away now)
Him: Well, don’t go away hurt. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. You ARE middle aged.
Me: (Losing patience now) Dude, neither you nor any other man in this bar matters enough to me to hurt my feelings. Only one man matters to me right now. He is six years old and believes Santa is going to bring him a hideously expensive train set which, thanks to cheap asses like you, I cannot afford. If you want to apologize or make me feel better, you can buy a dance. C’mon, let’s go.
Him: I wouldn’t get a dance with you, you’re old.
(This same asshole then contented himself with tormenting the bartender for the rest of the night.)

Some young guy, possibly a friend of the last guy: I can’t get a dance with you, you would not be able to handle it.
Me: I can handle anything, baby. Let’s go find out.
Him: If you saw my c*ck, you wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Me: Eye roll and walk away
In my thought bubble: What in hell makes his schlong so different from all the other ones I have had time to see in my advanced years? Does it do tricks?

What is is about the holiday season that makes men act this way? Every year about this time, the bars fill up with mean people, the physically grotesque and socially stunted, who possibly cannot even pay escorts to spend quality time with them. So they come into bars full of attractive women who would ordinarily never have any thing to do with them and anyway who are NOT there to get a date, and act in the most obnoxious way possible to guarantee that even if there were a remote chance one of us might have once considered leaveing with a customer, it would not, in a million years, be with them.

Life imitates the Simpsons

In between a somewhat disappointing trip to the children’s museum (am I the only one who notices the stuff is falling apart?) and running to 4-H (Where I will now be volunteering as a leader of my son’s Cloverbud group), I made a quick supper and sat down to watch the Simpsons with Kiddo and Super Ted.

This was the episode where Marge and Homer go on a tour of wine country, and Marge starts drinking as much as Homer. In the course of it, Homer does something Really awful to Marge. He sits in the local bar where the bartender, Moe, asks him some variation of “Why the long face?” This is what happens next:

Moe: You can tell me. I’ve heard everything.

Homer whispers in Moe’s ear.

Moe: That’s awful! That’s the most horrible thing I ever heard! You . . . why, you deserve to drink watered-down beer out of a chipped mug, while sitting on a stool with a big sharp nail sticking straight up!

Moe now smacks Homer’s mug on the edge of the bar–chipping the entire rim– then pours a cup of water into Homer’s half-finished beer. He relocates Homer one stool over onto a stool with a big pointy nail sticking out of it.

Homer: Can I have some peanuts?

Moe: OK, but I get to poke you with this sharp stick (which he produces from under the bar).

Moe resumes the classic position of a bartender, leaning with one elbow on the bar, bar rag in hand, all the while poking away at Homer with his stick.

Moe: (poke, poke, poke) So, did ya see the game last night? (Poke, poke)

Now, that was possibly the funniest thing I have EVER seen on the Simpsons. Everybody I told that to at work last night (Yes, I went after 4-H) thought it was mildly amusing, except the bartender, who laughed so hard she almost wet herself!

See, you have to realize that the the part of this conversation in dark blue is the part that is really happening, and the part in lavender is what is going on inside the bartender’s head. We who work in bars totally GET IT and love it. I have, many times, had to listen to a conversation where they guy is telling me how he beat up his kids, cheated on his wife, extorted his company’s money, and stole food from starving orphans, while I smile and nod and say, Wow! what an interesting life you’ve had. Let’s go have that dance now.

Now on to work. There were few customers and many dancers, which means, once you land a seat next to a potential customer, you stay there. To get up prematurely means you risk losing your only chance for a sale in the immediate future, and furthermore you will wind up staring at the fish tank or the silent TV, with no one to talk to. So I sat with one cheap idiot who had tipped me a dollar for a 5-minute massage ( I gave it back to him), a mooncalf who was about to go on house arrest for the second time, and this third knucklehead who started talking about how he had shot his dog.

THe whole story is, the guy had been divorced and was by his own admission sleeping with any slut that would have him. The dog had a habit of waking up the women in the middle of the night and scaring them away. Well, the dog took a liking to this one woman, and allowed the woman to stay in the house. Eventually this knucklehead married the (slut) woman, on the dog’s recommendation. Eventually the (slut) woman reverted to the behavior that got her in the guy’s bed in the first place, and started sleeping with the guy’s boss. So this asshole shoots the dog.

I feel ya, Moe.

Haunted Strip Clubs

Houses are not the only places that can be haunted. When you think of a what a strip club can be like–all the emotions people express there, frustrated sexuality, unrequited love, happiness, lies, anger, and sometimes even violence that go on there—It would surprise me to mind out that a majority of then were not haunted.

I have worked in 3 small regular strip clubs over the years (as opposed to bars where dancers are just part of the entertainment). Everu single one of them seems to have had a ghost. One was haunted by the ghost of the man who used to own the building. I never saw this ghost, just heard about him form the other girls. He was apparently harmless. The back-stage part of the strip club had once been a large house, and the public front part had been added on later. The former owner is said to have come down the stairs and sat in one of the dressing room chairs. According the girls who did see him, he didn’t seem creepy or weird, just lonely. The girls seemed to think he was really just hanging out for company. They would talk to him. I can vouch for the dressing room being icy cold a lot of the time, but I actually just thought the owner was too cheap to pay for the heat.

Another club I worked in had some raised separate booths on the side of the room opposite the stage. If you were up on the stage, you cold see into these booths. Frequently, I would see people sitting in those spots, and of course I would look over and smile at them. When I looked again, they were gone!

This is my best haunted club story:

The first actual strip club I worked in was this skanky little dump in Indana. The manager and the DJ were both young guys, who were also friends, and who apparently got their ideas of how to run a strip club from watching movies like “Stiptease.” One day the manager and the DJ came in with a box of clothes they said they had gotten hot somewhere and sold them to us. They claimed the things were new, but I and another girl noticed that when we took the things off, they looked like they had been worn more than a few times.

At about the same time, I started thinking I saw somebody by the door coming in, then I would look again to see if it was a staff member or a new customer, and there would be nobody there. Strangely, there always seemed to be an orange cast to the imaginary person, as if they were standing under a neon light. We had no such orange neon lights in the club. I saw this same thing once in the hallway by the VIP rooms.

Another girl had a bizarre experience while entertaining a customer in the VIP section. That club has small curtained booths for a VIP area. They only ever allowed one dancer and one customer to a booth, and there wasn’t room for more than that anyway. This dancer was sitting on the customer’s lap, facing away from him, and for some reason turned her head to the side. She saw ANOTHER GIRL’S FACE just inches from her own! By the time she recovered from the shock, the other girl disappeared.

A couple of weeks later, a girl came back to the club who had been off work for a while having a baby. She saw my gown that I had bought from the manager, and said “Oh my god, where did you get this?” When I told her, she told me that it was a gown the house mom had custom made for her, and that after she had gotten tired of it, she gave it to a new girl named Autumn. Autumn eventually became engaged to and moved in with the DJ. Shortly afterward, she was killed in a car accident on her way home from work!

Strangely, the only ones of us who saw anything unusual were those of us who had unknowingly bought Autumn’s used outfits from the DJ! Neither one of us knew her.

Seriously Warped Article in *Glamour*!

Did anybody see this? It is a demented article in Glamour magazine about one woman who started out with a pathetic life, becane a stripper, hated her life even more, quit being a stripper, and is now trying to save all the other strippers. Among the horrendous and retarded things they are implying or even stating outright is that ladies my age cannot make money dancing and so are letting the customers "put it in" while attempting to disguise the act by throwing table cloths over thier laps. What kind of club is that? As irritated I get with the Pig Pen, that is jsut unthinkable!

I wrote this reply, and I encourage you to do reply as well. The more they hear form us dancers and the people who love us, the better they will rethink this stupid position they have. Let's tell 'em what we think!

Dear Glamour:

I have read and loved your magazine for years. However, I am very disappointed to see your article, "No One Should Have to be a Stripper."

Ms. Dust seems to be doing an important and useful service for those girls who sincerely want to get out of dancing but are not sure how. I commend her for her work and her non-judgmental attitude.

Your portrayal of exotic dancers as being, to a woman, sad, desperate individuals willing to do anything to make a buck, is absolutely disgusting.

As I write this, I am sitting in my quiet farm house, having a cup of coffee and listening to Christmas music before I leave for my shift as a dancer at a small bar in Stone Park, Illinois. My life, like that of many of my friends and colleagues, is completely normal. I myself have a wonderful husband (who has a job and does not have a drug habit) and a happy, healthy son. I provide for my family an income greater than what I made teaching science, while committing fewer hours outside the home. My work provides us with extra cash for family vacations and day trips, along with the flexibility to take weeks off at a time if I need to be with my family.

I have been dancing on and off since I was 18. In fact, I will pass my 19 year anniversary next month. As a veteran in this business, I found this statement particularly offensive:

Ahnee says she saw women "who'd been working for 18 years. They had bad plastic surgery, and they'd have to have sex with customers because they weren't in demand as dancers; they'd put a tablecloth over their lap and let the man put it in." She didn't want her life to get to that.

I know many women who are my age or older, who have naturally spectacular bodies, and are in extremely high demand. Not only do they have regular customers they have cultivated over the years; they are constantly attracting new customers who admire thirty- and forty-something women for their beauty and their conversation. We are all making a good living, and we are not throwing table cloths over our laps to do so.

Sincerely,

Colleen C. O'Reilly
colleenoreilly.com


Post Script:
About 2 dozen of us at my stripper forum site sent replies to this letter. We shared them on the forum, and I can tell you, each letter was original, articulate, and intelligent. Each of us got a patronizing form letter, but no other reply. To the best of my knowledge, none of the other letters were ever published in the "Letters to the Editor" section.

I Don't NEED Saving, Thank You

This article in Glamour is seriously warped:

“No one should have to be a stripper”

She spent years dancing naked for leering men clutching $5 bills. Now she’s trying to help other women escape the soul-killing triple-X life.

Now seriously, nobody HAS to be a stripper. Me, I could have taught school. I did that for one soul-killing year. Every day I faced a few dozen cocky, arrogant, misguided adolescents and attempted to teach them the pleasures of reading and learning and using their minds. And then they told me they hadn’t done their homework because they were too busy watching TV or getting laid.

I could have stayed in retail. I could have killed more than my soul managing a Radio Shack store, mandatory 54 hours a week on $25,000 salary, with abusive customers and a misogamistic district manager. I was seriously expected to tell customers “thank you, please visit us again” after they threw merchandise at me. It happened more than once, and let me tell you, getting beaned in the side of the head with a package of four D batteries, HURTS!

But no, I chose to give all that up for the sad and depressing work of dancing. I must admit, I feel SOOOOOOOO degraded when some moron grabs my ass, that I just have to turn around and smack him for it. (Smacking people who desperately dereve it is jsut so humiliating, don’t you think??) It is completely demoralizing to have people greet me warmly, buy me drinks, and give me compliments. I felt so much more respected when the great majority of people I met in a day would imply or even say outright, what do you know; you are only a woman (teacher)?

I really hate that, you know. Having people act happy to see me. I hate it more when they say how much they enjoy my company, or my dancing, or even looking at various parts of my body. I really mostly especially hate it when I know I have made somebody happy, really brightened their day. Absolutely disgusting.

And do you know what else I hate? (Ohhhhhh, I am on a roll now!) I hate not punching a time clock. I hate not being responsible for other people’s children or merchandise or money or property. I hate being able to stay home with my kid when he needs me and taking time off to help my mom. Making my own schedule really sucks. So does picking up an extra shift or two whenever I decide I want something.

And I really really f’ing despise making as much in 2 days as I used to make all week, attempting to put a little sense into the heads of other people’s insolent brats. Now I have no bloody choice but to spend some of my extra time and income with my own son, making sure he does not grow up to be the same kind of willfully ignorant, arrogant little cuss that I so enjoy beating my head against. Damn! That was one of my life’s ambitions, to be so busy providing for my kid that I didn’t have time to raise him. And I guess I have to spend the rest of my free time building up my couple of businesses and making my husband feel like the luckiest man alive. Man, that irks me!

Yo, sister! Over here! I need to be saved!