I had a rapid session of good luck over the last couple days and I am grateful.
A couple unexpected windfalls, a tarot reading from my Colorado witch (2 really) and the girl that I was working with who I felt invisible next to, has decided to leave.
Do not get me wrong, I fucking love this girl. She is beautiful, sweet, personable and a really good stripper. I am a bad stripper. I overthink everything, I forget to smile, I don’t talk to as many customers as I should and I talk to some of them for too long. A, B, C always be closing, I suck at closing. I was never a good sales girl. I have that whole ‘freewill is paramount’ loop in my head, always. I figure if they wanted to they would, even though I have anecdotal proof to the contrary.
I look like a bitch.
And I know it.
I have lost track of the number of times some dude has said “I wanted you for a long time but I was too scared to talk to you.”
I am also very sweet, funny and kind when you get to know me but for the bulk of clientele who wander into a stripclub, they want approachable girls who approach them. And although I know this, I am still bad at it.
I am also shy in new venues.
My entire career has been x number of years at club A, B or C.
Too many close call fights over customers. But this place doesn’t seem to be like that.
I should know by now (and have written) that there is no stripper mecca. There is no perfect place. But the one I am in now is pretty close. I just need to get my shit together a little better.
The old days are long gone and I still maintain my ex husband stole my 30’s where I could have been doing things differently aka ‘right’.
I still danced when I was married. On and off, sometimes in secret so I could leave, after physiotherapy for that bad car wreck, my old boss at one of my clubs took pity on bent and broken me and let me do my 3 stages when there was no one around. I do acknowledge that dancing was a huge part of my recovery. I lost my grace and found it again. And I made enough to put first, last and next on my old apartment and furnish it without him knowing.
And there was a club up in the wilds near the farm.
Where the Birthday Sex fire occurred and I met one of my best friends.
There are a few things worse than being a pimp. Peophile, murderer, rapist, politician, especially the one who approved paying the mentally challenged 45 cents an hour for manual labour, pimp and then rat…in that order.
Hubby knew I worked there and took the money I made, then denied I ever gave it to him and after a while, I stopped giving it to him. After another while, I left him and stayed in the cathouse above the club.
Every cathouse I have ever stayed in is a bizarre palette of mistints from the local hardware store coating the walls either in all the colors of an easter egg or varying shades of band aid beige. Lists of rules that no one really follows, aged and water stained, peeling up at the corners placed randomly throughout, punctuated with artwork salvaged from the garbage leftover after rummage sales, always slightly crooked and a clock, like we want to know what time it is. The air is filled with ancient and fresh cigarette smoke, steam from someone’s shower and a hint of expensive shampoo and cheap body spray.
This particular one was garish shades of pink, like pepto bismol left in the sun to darken and harden or in the rain to dilute and fade and by the time I moved in, streaks of smoke from a house fire.
It all started with the Birthday Sex song.
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