My Dancer Diary

So I finally did my 2nd real photo-shoot Sunday. That is if we’re not counting the one I did in 1988 for the Rick’s Cabaret Calendar out in the corn fields around Houston in July (pause for effect – Ahem, that’s HOUSTON. In JULY folks. OUTSIDE. I’m just sayin…).

That shoot was done by the owner of Rick’s who for some reason liked me enough to take me to dinner one night and soon afterward invite me to try out for the calendar. If I’m remembering correctly he was an amateur photographer so did most the shoots himself. What I definitely remember is that he tried to help loosen me up with a few cocktails but having no idea I was a raging alcoholic, ended up with a grand total of 2 decent shots before I was plastered. The resulting contact sheets were essentially a pitiful digression from *stone-faced* (albeit perky as hell from the neck down) to some bizarrely twisted version of a *seduction face*.

I was 20 years old & so terrified of rejection back then I couldn’t even flirt with a camera – seriously. It was a long, hot fucking day that… >>sigh<< … and suffice it to say, I did NOT end up in the calendar, though my dear friend Ivory did, as did Anna Nicole Smith who also worked at Rick’s in ’88, someone who never seemed to have any problem flirting with the camera (possibly the only thing she never had a problem with actually, but I digress).

Honestly I don’t know how models do it – because if I'm not stone-faced I end up with a bizarrely crooked smile combined with an oddly demonic look. Which makes no sense because 3 things I most certainly am NOT are a stone, a demon, or bizarre. Okay, maybe I’m a little bizarre sometimes, but I’m definitely not crooked. So why do I put that out there? Why do I have such a fucking hard time just being myself when I'm on the spot?

Maybe I just need to prepare better. Make sure I really know my *good side* versus my *bad side* before the moment of truth arrives & be prepared to put my best face forward. If my life progresses the way I'm hoping it soon will, I'll finally be out of the sick/twisted real estate charade (er, business) & into something more creative, which means something more personal where I'll have to market (god I hate that word) myself a little as opposed to someone else's cookie-cutter 3/2 with "flowing floorplan & tons of storage space". Anyway that's part of what the photos were for though since I didn't keep much in the way of clothes on (go figure) I can't post most of them anywhere. Whoops.

My photographer, Kyle Nox (whom you can find as one of my MySpace & one my LJ friends) was good enough to agree to do those "damn stripper shots" my last photog wasn't really into doing. So Nox dragged himself to the club (poor boy) beforehand to discuss what exactly I wanted to capture in the shots, plus toss around some ideas he had after seeing me perform. What the poor boy couldn’t do however, was teach me how to model.

Yes, 20 years later, I STILL don’t know how to flirt with a camera… >>heavy sigh<<… I also I don’t even know how to tilt my head right so I don’t have a double chin or twisted neck skin (it just looks so damn easy when Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan do it on Entertainment Tonight but whatever, because neither of them can write a badass screenplay in under 4 weeks like I just did either). Anyway I was definitely more relaxed with Nox than I usually am in front of a camera & thanks to his skill (not to mention my kickass body) we actually managed to get some great shots. Yay!

The other thing is that regardless of the shots themselves, my time with Nox has been very fruitful in that he’s one of the best conversations I’ve had in a long time. I can’t remember the last time I sat & talked with someone for hours & not noticed how much time was passing. It’s a real gift I think, to allow someone (consciously or not) to be *open* in your presence. Not to mention one helluva good quality in a photographer.

So, I posted a few of the pics on MySpace & here as ‘user pics’. You’ll have to take my word about the dozens of other good shots he got - Nox freakin’ rocks!

If the last few Saturdays are any indication, I think I’ll do okay working weekends at Exposé. I found a more even mix of classes & age groups compared to the typical weekday crowd which is mostly youngish, overweight, wannabe gangstas spending more time staring at their cell phones than at the goddesses on stage. Yesterday I made my quota in 6 hours instead of 8, and most of it from over-40 businessmen.

My first customer is a regular who likes to buy me lunch & while I’m sure it’s neither from fresh water nor an organic farm, they do serve a damn tasty piece of salmon at Exposé - not to mention one less piece I have to pay $6.00 for myself at Whole Foods. Anyway G is a sweetheart who never fails to tell me he’s “had a lot of lap dances in my life but never one as good as yours” which is always nice to hear. He’s also the kind of customer who considers the crew at his local strip club to be his *friends*, doesn’t date, is a regular fixture at his favorite table, always gets the same waitress & tips her well, & has an annual party that apparently many of the girls attend. He’s “safe”, which is to say he doesn’t ask me out, knows his place, & appreciates all of us & our hard work – exactly the reason I appreciate the hell out of him. That & the way that every time he wants to push the envelope a little he’s sure to ask, “Can I touch it – on the outside?” which I find endearing for some reason (probably in part because he always pays extra for the honor – and well, duh).

Then I sat with Bill, a stocky, 62 year old cancer survivor from a small town who had just dropped off his wife & daughter at the mall for a few hours while he spent a little over $100 on me. He was incredibly complimentary in that way I find incredibly annoying, which is to say repetitive. Eventually I just stop even saying “thank you” once it starts sounding stale and detracting from my performance. Still I liked Bill, draining though he could be, because he had a big heart, good intentions, and interesting stories about radiation & chemo, his newfound lust for life, and a 41 year marriage. He also had some fascinating trivia about Napoleon’s war tactics & an unending pride in his (Bill’s, not Napoleon’s) 62 year old boner which I find interesting & kinda cute – in that order.

Then I sat with Clint, a 34 year old bartender/actor who always reminds me of the skinhead (lowercase) skater punks from my youth, which is to say very cute, shaved head, slightly hyper. As usual he wanted to cuddle like a puppy until “just the right song” for me to perform the one lap dance he could afford. I didn’t mind this time actually because once I got him to stop kissing my neck and shoulder (too intimate for me dude, really it just is) and redirected his energy into one badass back/shoulder massage, I was in heaven. The kid is downright sensual & at the same time as happy a kid as I’ve ever met which makes me wonder if he’s on X every time I see him. Regardless he puts me in a good mood – his compliments though sometimes also repetitive are always genuine and when I grind on him we sometimes get into this “zone” where I feel like we’re dry humping on a high school date or something – kinda fun.

Later I sat with Moe – a darling, small-framed, late 30’s, electrical engineer from somewhere in Europe, not sure where – though I know he lived in Italy, his accent seemed more Middle Eastern so who knows. Anyway poor man had JUST found out that his wife (a STUNNER – I saw pics) had lied to him about being married before (twice before!) among other things, so we had a lovely, lively discussion about honesty & romance & his unfortunately utterly broken heart (which makes me wonder now if he IS Italian because he did really have that ridiculously overwhelming romantic vibe a lot of Italian men get which kinda freaks me out because it’s just too intimate for me, yet is somehow also endearing nonetheless).

Moe (unlike G or Bill but exactly like Clint) did ask me out, but handled my rejection really well. And though he says he never gets dances and had come to Exposé solely to drown his sorrows, when I told him I only needed 3 more dances to meet my goal & go home, he bought one. Then I accidentally kicked over his beer. Then he offered to let me move in with him (when my exorbitant lease expires), then told me about his mom and how often she visits and how worried she is about him being single at his age and how much she would like me. So sweet. And also incidentally says a lot about how he ended up married to a woman he knew precious little about.

Then I sat with a 24 year old carpenter who mentions how much easier it is to be “open” about his feelings with strippers than with his girlfriends. I know just how he feels… For much of my life I felt the same way though thank god now I feel pretty good expressing myself honestly (yay for blogs) when the appropriate opportunity arises (& once in a rare while even when an inappropriate one does & damn it if I didn’t overdo it in an email again just recently but that’s what happens when you never have sex & meet an absolute hotty online but what the hell I’m human & anyway it makes me more compassionate toward my customers who just like me are not immune to developing unrequited crushes).

Anyway I’m feeling pretty good about working Fri & Sat, leaving Sun - Thur to focus solely on yoga & writing. After I finish this screenplay I’ll throw myself into the non-fiction book I’m writing with Ivory so we’ll have a couple polished chapters ready to pitch to an agent at an upcoming conference in June. Hopefully I can get that done in time to make more headway on my novel revisions. I’ll never finish by then, but can get maybe 100 pages, (a third of the book) polished to pitch at the same conference.

Thing is I don’t usually strip 2 days in a row (it really drains me & gawd my hamstrings & lower spine were tight in yoga today) though strange as it sounds, I’m totally satisfied spending 5 days in a row, every week, sweating my ass off for 90 minutes in a 105 degree yoga studio, then heading directly to my sofa (well, after a shower cuz… yikes!) to hunch over my laptop for 4 – 5 hours at a time.

I’m almost afraid to say this but, celibacy notwithstanding, my life is kind of rockin’ along in an okay way right now. That’s not something I have said much in my life – at least not without blatantly lying about it which I have, usually to my customers but whatever… most of them aren’t paying to hear exactly how I really feel about everything in the world anyway. That’s MY job – not bad work if you can get it either.

On Exposé’s dayshift there’s another couple dancers that attract the same customers as I do. I like these girls well enough for many reasons not the least of which being they’re an asset to the club & also an asset to the image of sexy "older" women everywhere. They’re younger than me but not by much, mid - late 30’s I’d say with ample bosoms, pretty faces & capable enough conversation. And until their claws came out in the dressing room on Friday, I would have actually used the word “classy” to describe them both … but alas the illusion has since been shattered.

The taller one started it (put Tina Fey’s face on Mariah Carey’s voluptuous body), much to the shock of the shorter one (think “Newt” from the movie ALIENS, both in the face AND the body because yes, she really is THAT SHORT, despite her ample bosom & yes I know that’s a slightly disturbing image but it fits, even though she’s cuter than you’re probably picturing her).

So “Newt” was on her phone laying into someone about something which for some reason seemed to be bothering “Tina” quite a bit who started making comments under her breath which soon got louder & more direct & something to the effect of Newt being a self-righteous bitch. Newt meanwhile is the only girl of about 8 of us in the dressing room who doesn’t seem to know Tina is talking about her. By the time she figures it out she’s so stunned all she can say is “No! No! No!” to which Tina keeps saying “Yeah yeah yeah & if you don’t watch it I’m gonna beat your ass!” (not exactly the “capable enough conversation” I mentioned earlier but both girls were totally wasted plus there’s a chance I’ve been overestimating them, as this incident so glaringly points out… but I digress).

So at that point one of our lovely waitresses who had not 3 minutes earlier stopped me in my tracks to tell me I had the most fabulous body she’d ever seen (that’s a direct quote I swear - & while I’m quite sure she absolutely meant it [have you SEEN ME lately?!] I should also mention that she was probably just as drunk as Tina & Newt AND, if you must know, almost everyone else at Exposé Friday but me), proceeds to position herself right between the 2 girls stating “I’m not going to let you fight”.

By this time most everyone else had left the room & I was trying to finish touching up so to catch the last hour of a pretty good crowd of customers, especially since the 2 very girls who tend to attract the same moneyed, white collar guys that I do were, it seemed, going to put each other out of commission at any minute (so yay for Casey who, though I don’t like to see my *sisters* fight, is not above cashing in on another woman’s drunken stupidity – it’s a rough world – I make no apologies).

So I stood at the mirror, one eye on my lip gloss application the other on the ensuing fight (also not above a little free entertainment to get me through the day), next to a new-ish dancer who had both eyes glued to the scene & kept repeating “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” which, while not terribly original, was kinda funny, causing me to have to fight to keep from laughing.

Right around then the fists, drinks, hair, etc. started flying & soon enough actually blocking my exit. Then it was over & management came rushing in & I went out and got a few more dances, then left. But not before New-ish Girl had the chance to comment to me that since I’d “been around” for so long I probably saw that kind of stuff all the time. To which I replied, “Yeah, from smack dab in the middle of it sometimes…” (not proud of that fact & just goes to show I’m really not judging anyone here). But that was before I finally quit drinking & realized I just don’t have that much to throw a punch about, leastwise not anymore & back then it was always either about love or money, same thing everyone gets upset about from the dawn of man & probably to the end of time.

There’s no doubt that the current suck-ass economy is all but crushing our business. And my average income has dropped by about 30% from last winter, but I’m apparently still making more than most dayshift girls to whom it seems $200 is a "good day". Of course most of them are overweight so they’re probably right to be grateful for that much & I’m sorry if that sounds harsh because I do absolutely love all my *sisters* including the fat ones. I’m just stating facts here - fat girls make less than me and well they should but again, I digress… My point is that when money is tight, strippers get stressed. Throw a dozen or so free tequila shots into the mix plus the typical girl’s piss poor ability to throw a decent punch & well … there ya go. Someone’s gonna get scalped.

Turns out Tina was upset that Newt was complaining about, &/or insulting, someone Tina cares about – though I’m not sure if it was our resident gay makeup artist, one of Tina’s regulars, or both. It really doesn’t matter I guess, it’s just a shame that
1) I happen to know Tina had recently tried to quit drinking so I feel bad for her that she’s still struggling with it, plus
2) Newt was really blindsided by a woman almost twice here size & I know as well as anyone how sometimes you just can’t help but say the wrong thing when you’re drunk.

In the end I’m left with a lot of gratitude for my sobriety & for the elimination of my competition for the rest of the day Friday. I made my quota & kept all my lovely hair right in my scalp where it belongs.

I’d been wondering how long it would take me to get to this point … The intense sexual frustration that can only be described with the clichéd (but oh so apropos nonetheless) term, “climbing the walls” .

Been two months since I last had sex which isn’t long considering I was single for 13 years before meeting Lalo & regularly went *without* for up to a year at a time, masturbating only when necessary which turned out to be once a week (albeit a dozen times over the course of an hour & am I weird or does even my masturbation practice smack of the same obsessive/compulsive behavior that propels me to pound out my routine Whole Foods/Central Market/Costco shopping trip every other Saturday...?).

Anyway, back then if I didn’t have my little Saturday Afternoon Delights every week my libido would simply take care of business on its own (god luv it) in the form of a mid-week *wet dream*. True to form, I had my first one, of late, on Saturday night after FINALLY falling asleep despite the ungodly loud, high-pitched whining of my neighbor’s faulty pool pump (something that sounded much like this very post I’m writing come to think of it).

I’m actually surprised I managed to climax at all frankly considering the dysfunctional nature of the sex dream I had (I was in a tanning bed full of broken bulbs, slathering every inch of my skin with buckets of gooey tan accelerator lotion … no idea what that means but would love any insightful comments here), which was probably in part due to the dysfunctional nature of the sex scene I wrote in my screenplay on Friday.

Anyway despite the lack of any erotic element in my dream, I did manage to *get there*, having the same kind of extra-long orgasm I usually tend to have in my sleep, which is always a nice bonus, especially because my sleeping orgasms are usually not as intense as my waking ones.

So I shouldn’t complain since, on top of my ability to have spontaneous, nocturnal orgasms, all this time alone is making it possible for me to get my writing done. Plus nobody really has any sympathy for me on this & why the hell should they because even I know that I’m just being a big baby here (venting to keep from exploding I think), but also because they just don’t get it – evidenced by the typical response I get (usually from men) which goes something along the lines of: “What’s the problem? You can have any guy you want!”

Which is just lunacy because
1) No I can’t; no one can
2) Even if I could Javier Bardem doesn’t even live in Austin that I know of & if he did he’d probably have a hard time finding me hunched over my computer and tucked away in my little apartment behind closed doors wearing the same old tank top & sweat pants I’ve been wearing for a week.
3) Even if I could have anyone ELSE I wanted, that leaves about 3 men in Austin I’d let lay a hand on me, one of whom is married, the 2nd well … kind of a slut so um, probably quite busy & let’s just say of *questionable* health, & the 3rd I don’t even know how to find & is probably not as hot as I'm remembering him to be anyway …
4) Oh yeah, & Jerry Stahl STILL hasn’t called (again Jerry, NOT getting any younger here… just saying)

I wish Kaviar was nearby but of course he’s in L.A. & I’m too busy & broke to fly there. Oh well, if you’re reading this, Paul darling, I’ll be thinking about you this weekend (probably about a dozen times on Saturday between 2 – 3pm, heh…)

“It’s cold in here,” he states, sinking into his wingback chair, letting the fabric of his hoody gather & bunch around his bare neck. He smoothes his salt-n-pepper moustache with his palm.

I grab his arm & pull my own chair closer to him, knocking armrests. “Here,” I say, kicking one leg over his lap. “Have some body heat.”

He traces two rough, brown fingers around my ankle, hesitating near the clear plastic shoe strap. I think he’s a little shy, afraid to touch higher. “You must be cold too, yes?” he asks, his accent becoming clearer now that we’ve moved to a corner table, away from the blaring speakers.

“I have goose pimples,” I point out. “See?”

They’re all over my leg, but he still doesn’t touch them. His hand hovers over my calf, then disappears into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. He laughs, like a little boy. He’s nervous & it’s cute. I can see the wheels turning as he searches for something to say. “What do you do for fun?” he asks.

“Well, I work a lot … so, not much actually.”

“Are you single?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. I don’t elaborate. Normally I would say more ... that I’ve been single for most of the last 15 years, except for a month here & there, plus all last year there was this one *special* guy … but I say nothing. I’m tired tonight for some reason; 2 hours before my shift is over & it seems I’m out of conversation for the day. I silently wait for the song to end, so I can dance the next one for him.

He sits up a little, because we’re side by side & he’s trying to look directly into my eyes. I let him. “Are you lonely?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer, surprised but pleased by his boldness. “Yes, I am.”

He nods in understanding & settles back down in his seat. We both stare ahead at nothing, listening to Blue Oyster Cult.

---
Seasons don’t fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun, & the rain
We can be like they are
Come on Baby, don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand, don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly, don’t fear the reaper
Baby I’m your man
La, la la, la la … La, la la, la la
----

I turn to him, throwing my other leg over his lap & crossing them at the ankles. “And you, are you single?”

He nods. He was married for 5 years, he says. I don’t ask how long ago. He has 3 boys. I don’t know if his wife died or if they divorced, but it seems strange that a Mexican man of his generation would divorce after only 5 years. I wonder if she died. I decide to not ask.

The song is winding down, but I don’t stand up yet. I turn back to him. I have to ask, “Are YOU lonely?”

He holds my gaze & nods. “Yes,” he says, then, continuing to nod, he looks away.

“Yes,” I say softly, nodding as well, though he’s no longer looking at me. We both sit, unmoving, staring into space for a moment, until I feel his hand on my leg. The song has ended & another is beginning. I look at him & smile. “Ready?”

He smiles back. “Yes.”

I kick my feet to the floor & drop my sweater on the chair. Goose bumps have appeared all up & down my arms. The fleece of his hoody is soft on my belly. His neck is warm on my face.

I just found out that the print magazine Metal Scratches will be publishing my short story "old man" in their upcoming issue, #10.

OH MY GOD!

Yay for me.

I finally had another flying dream! It’s been years since I had one (that I remember) & I’ve really missed them. Not to mention they always seem to happen during certain positive periods in my life – moments when I’ve achieved some sort of personal freedom or taken steps down the right path (for a change). So I’m excited about this on 2 counts …
1. it seems to suggest I really am making the right choices lately
2. flying dreams are fucking fun

Seriously, I’m a hedonistic pleasure seeking (not to mention pain managing) recovering alcoholic meth/cocaine/crack addict who hasn’t allowed herself to so much as catch a buzz for about 11 years. Nor do I expect much in the way of *fun with boys* in my foreseeable future. And masturbation makes me melancholy (& I know I’ve mentioned that more than once lately but now that it’s my only uh … *outlet* I’m pissed off about it enough to bitch & moan - no pun intended – a little more often lately).

Anyway flying dreams are a blast. Often I’ll be at the top of a cliff or hill when it occurs to me, or even more often an angel appears to gently tell me, that I’m supposed to be flying right then. Usually I experience a brief twinge of fear, like “Can I really do that?” just before realizing that duh, yes I totally can fly. Which is probably partly because when angels speak to me, in or out of my dreams, I tend to believe them. They have not steered my wrong yet … though to my recollection, outside of my flying dreams they’ve only spoken *out loud* (?) to me twice & both times drugs were involved (duh … really?)

One time I’d taken way too many mushrooms to be attending a funeral (for the record, I don’t know what the recommended dosage of psychedelic mushrooms IS for attending funerals, but my guess is that it’s a very very small amount). I was having a BAD trip to say the least & so was my Ex who, god luv ‘im, probably made an even bigger mistake since the deceased was his dear friend Sam Kinison (barely more than an acquaintance to me). Long story short (I can DO this, I swear!) Ex & I got in a vicious fight after the funeral, I think mostly because he needed MY bad trip to be as bad as HIS so he kept fucking with me until it was, to which I reacted by beating the crap out of him (only fight I ever won incidentally & only because he never once raised a hand to hit me back). As soon as I got away from him & into a quiet room, an angel immediately appeared to me & stated that everything would be fine between me & Ex, if I would just go home & clean up the house in preparation for his return that evening. My Ex, terrified that our relationship was actually over at that point, was so overwhelmed by the fact that I was not only home but had cleaned the house, made up with me instantly & everything was in fact suddenly “all right”.

The other time, I’d been out smoking crack with some girlfriends for like 2 days & had come home to crash, promising sincerely, albeit prematurely to never pick up a pipe again. For some reason (uh, maybe the 48 hours of crack smoking?!) every time I’d nod off I’d stop breathing. Ex, who was too upset & worried to sleep, would start shaking me so I’d wake up. After the 3rd time or so, an angel appeared, floating over my body, stating gently & matter-of-factly that we needn’t worry. I was going to be fine & he could let me go back to sleep. Sadly, telling Ex I was conversing with angelic apparitions didn’t seem to make him feel any better or any more confident that I wasn’t mere seconds from passing on & into the afterlife. Go figure…

Anyway, now that I think about it, flying dreams are more fun than crack – I mean, in the long run if not in the immediate, momentary full-body (& mind) orgasmic euphoria ‘n all. But hey, I’ll take my cheap thrills where I can get ‘em.

And this particular dream Sunday night came at the tail end of a long day of very productive writing, when I did actually start to feel like I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. And also I think, starting to realize how much I’m actually undertaking & how many obstacles are in my way with each of these massive projects.

Which might be why in my dream, when I first attempted to take flight, I had to fight strong head winds & then somehow got lost inside a corporate office building complex, boring & frustrating as hell not to mention complete with revolving doors requiring some sudden tricky maneuvers to navigate my way back outside. But once I did I really took off, dipping & weaving, coasting & soaring to my heart’s content – god it was amazing really. I hope I have another one soon … they’re so much cheaper than crack & leave me feeling more lighthearted than masturbation ever could.

So last night, went out with Hot Guy. Shot a decent game of pool in a cute, little sundress & heels, so even though I missed most combo shots & banks then scratched on the 8 ball, I looked damn good doing it. Took a 60 second ride on his ’77 Kawasaki then made out with him for about the same amount of time in my bedroom before sending him on his way. He’s hot, sweet, smart, talented, funny, laid back like a surfer, respectful, … & did I mention hot? But in the end, after a year-long, deeply emotional & intimate sex life with Lalo, casual sex it turns out, is boring as hell - or at least the foreplay was so that’s where it ended.

I told him it just didn’t feel right & I needed to stop. He didn’t ask why & just hung out a little before driving off on the bike, cigarette in mouth, offering up his cheek insistently for a kiss goodbye. The attention was nice. And it was fun to shoot pool again. But I have no idea when I’ll go on another date … so guess I’m leaving it up to Fate, who is hopefully better at complicated *combo shots* than I am.

A psychic told me recently that if I just go out a little I’ll have great dates right away & be in a great relationship a year from now. But I have no desire to go out nor any idea where to go if I did. I’ve been invited to a ton of parties lately - none of which I’ve attended because I loathe parties. Though I did throw a few badass pool party/barbeques when I was about 20 which usually ended with a bunch of buzzed strippers & boyfriends in a raucous game of Topless Chicken/Volleyball. Fun stuff. I was younger then.

A few years later, during the time I lived with Ex in our $1.5 million house on the hill in Studio City CA, I planned one such pool party/barbeque. And by “planned” I mean that somewhere inside a 3 day coke binge, among the usual late-night crowd of acquaintances milling about our game room, I shouted to no one in particular “Hey I’m gonna throw one of my badass pool party/barbeques”, picked a date & time, then promptly moved on to another topic & forgot all about it. So the following week, at the tail end of another 3 day bender, I’d never actually gotten around to barbequing anything. Or making a salad, or putting out chips. Or buying veggies. Or chips. Ahem …

My first guests showed up right on time, three brothers from Australia (who formed a band called “Brother” now based in LA); great guys who immediately found cleaning supplies & scrubbed our filthy black grill. Ex sent our limo driver for steaks & one of the Brothers grilled them up while I hid out in the upstairs bedroom praying no one would realize how badly I’d fucked up. I made it to the living room in time to see a dozen pals having a lovely time with plenty to eat and drink as the sun went down. The Brothers spotted me from the backyard & asked me to sit on the windowsill so they could serenade me with their bagpipes (told ya they were great guys). It was an amazingly sweet tribute, albeit to the worst hostess ever. I haven’t thrown a party since.

On the rare occasion I GO to a party, I usually show up first with a bottle of wine from which I’m not going to drink, chat with the host, help greet a few early guests then disappear as soon as the first buzz appears. It bores me to tears. Really there is nothing whatsoever charming or witty about silly drunks if you’re not buzzed & silly yourself.

What I do love is to dance my ass off to a great live band & used to do it regularly, just never WITH someone, as in no date, no friends, nor an acknowledgment of Inevitable Pitiful Stranger summoning up the balls to try to approach me. I dance alone. Sometimes Obnoxious Cocky Guy would break from Obnoxious Cocky Pack deciding he’s gonna be the first to *win* me over but since I dance with my eyes closed I’d not notice him until he’d feel the (oh so erroneous) need to touch me somewhere like my hip or shoulder or (god forbid) my waist. Which is when my eyes would pop open and I’d start swinging (often before I could actually SEE anything).

The bouncers at Antone’s always had my back though & once a guitar tech named Jazz, a stocky white-haired, bearded biker-looking dude practically flew over the partition (bikers are sometimes shockingly graceful) to pull a guy away from me screaming, “Leave her alone!” right before I decked the presumptuous disco dickhead. See, if I have my eyes closed, it’s a safe assumption I’m not looking for a dance partner - You Fucking Moron. (similarly almost every time I tried to shoot pool at the Saxon Pub some cocky guy would always act like he was *saving* me by insisting “such a pretty girl shouldn’t have to play alone” which really meant “I’m betting you’re too polite to tell me to fuck off so I’ll horn in on your personal space as if I have every right to, based mostly on the fact that I’m buzzed, self-centered, & just plain stupid in general” to which I usually replied “I play alone” & when they (inevitably) pressed the issue, would add “stop talking now & Fuck Off because I play alone & can’t you see how unbelievably out of your league I am, you stupid, stupid, self-centered & stupid drunk” … but, I digress)

Dancing to live music has always been SUCH a personal experience for me, that for most of my life I’d probably rather have been interrupted while masturbating than while dancing. I’d rather let a complete stranger into a confessional with me than into my dance space with me. I’d rather have shared my most embarrassing moment than share the moments of joy I experienced when dancing. These days I think I actually would like a boyfriend to go dancing with, like as partners ya know - Salsa, Two-step, etc., which means I need a man who can lead. Um, specifically one who can lead ME. Could be a while that.

So, until I find someone to actually TAKE me dancing, I am just loving being on stage more than ever. My boss tips me openly now & yet another girl I don’t know told me recently I’m the only girl she ever bothers to watch on stage, just because she loves the way I move. The owner of my club called me over to his table recently to tell me how beautiful & sensual my moves are. He’s really sweet but then openly tried to fix me up with his friend with whom I have nothing in common except that we’re both single. Which is almost as cocky a gesture as trying to be my dance partner without asking – though I think his intentions were good. Plus, he’s my boss (as much as I consider ANYONE to kinda be I guess) so I played along, agreed to go to dinner, took the dude’s number, then never called him.

I think I told Hot Guy I’d talk to him soon, but I probably won’t. I do however know for a fact I told Lalo last night that I would NOT be talking to him soon & that he needs to stop calling, texting, getting his mail here (still!), or hanging out at my pool regardless if he has friends at this apartment complex. It’s like he’s constantly appearing, tapping me on the shoulder or (god forbid) my waist. He’s all up in my space & I need to be left alone right now or I might just suddenly come out swinging.

He thinks we can still be friends but the truth is I can’t be. I broke up with him because he won’t live up to his potential which was hugely disappointing to me, & having a friendship with someone like that is like playing pool with someone you KNOW is always going to scratch on the 8 ball. Fancy combos & banks notwithstanding, watching someone you love lose all the time is flatout heartbreaking. I prefer playing alone.

So this super hot guy has been asking me out lately … type of guy I would’ve creamed for as recently as 14 months ago, which is when I met Lalo. So, now Lalo’s gone – permanently in case anyone’s been wondering – yet I’m still putting off New Hot Guy. Which is not to say I’ve turned him down completely, but I think that’s mostly cuz I just like keeping my options open. Is that bad? Fuck it … guys do it every day right?

Anyway Hot Guy does kind of remind me of Lalo in that he’s about the same age & body-type, but mostly because I’ve yet to see him without a beer or cigarette in his hand. Hot Guy is also Party Guy, much like Lalo was when I met him (& incidentally seems to be again) – enough reason right there to cut & run eh? (Thbbpt! – what fun is that kind of emotionally healthy behavior?!) But seriously, Hot Guy’s quick wit & our good rapport aside, the chemistry is essentially sexual. And I’m too busy with my writing to bother with casual sex right now (stop scratching your head - I am THAT fucking BUSY dude…no lie).

Since I’m not going to fuck him (ummm, probably not … heh), WTF am I supposed to do with him? I guess I could keep letting him write me suggestive emails – the attention is fun, not to mention inspired a sex dream I had about him a couple nights ago. One that would’ve *paid off* nicely except that sometimes when I get super-aroused in my sleep it actually wakes me up before I cum. Bummer. Though I toyed with the idea of just finishing the job myself, my brief indecisiveness resulted in me falling right back to sleep instead (>sigh<).

It’s actually a little weird to think of sex with someone other than Lalo, after more than a year of sex with no one BUT him. However it’s painfully obvious to me, almost every time I speak with him lately, that the Lalo I knew & loved is long gone. In fact he started disappearing months ago, long before I ended the relationship.

One of my friends said something recently, to the effect of, “All you guys ever did was fuck, then suddenly you broke up – what the hell happened?” Well first of all we did more than just fuck – I just don’t blog about most of it. Second we had plenty of problems – I just didn’t blog about most of them. Out of respect for other people’s privacy, it didn’t feel right. Still doesn’t … suffice it to say, I need a man in my life who is stronger & wiser than me.

And that I need someone who knows how to fight for his right to be with his daughter instead of letting her be psychologically damaged on a daily basis by a psychopathic, alcoholic, coke-addicted mother. Someone who might consider being there for his nephews since he's partly responsible for the fact their father isn't. Someone who isn’t afraid to confront his own fears, resentments, & past misdeeds, by completing his badly needed 4th & 5th step (not to mention the rest of the 12 steps like #9 where a person makes well-deserved amends for his aforementioned misdeeds like say to his ex-girlfriend & daughter - just sayin). Someone who’s more concerned with his own spiritual journey & self-awareness than petty jealousies & control issues. But, like I said, it doesn’t seem right to blog about it … much. ;)

And (while I'm not *much* at it) I will say this one last thing – which is that the biggest shame of this breakup is that I would’ve made a great step mom to his amazing daughter. Also that Lalo did fit in great with my family, especially with my folks who flat-out adored him. Of course I would’ve just grown to hate him in the end, for the constant disappointments & the lack of any inner strength or wisdom for me to lean on once in a while. Which is something I need a helluva lot more than casual sex come to think of it.

So, New Hot Guy is on his own I guess. I’ve got a novel to revise & a screenplay to write for fucks sake… I need another Party Guy in my bed like I need a hole in the head. Oh great, that tight, eloquent prose guaranteed to win me an Oscar is flowing already … I’m fucked (& not in the good way).

Speaking of regular customers, I just stumbled on this piece I started 3 weeks ago but never finished. I’ll go ahead & post it as-is & “stand corrected” in that I guess I don’t actually like ALL my regulars as much as some others …

Monday night at Expose, a customer I’ll call Mr. Grouch sauntered in like he does most nights around 5pm. He grumbled in my ear about how much his workday sucked, then asked me if I was happy to see him, in that rhetorical way he does, most nights around 5:01pm.

He always says stuff about how he’s the only customer who really "gets" me, like none of the other customers could ever possibly “get” Casey like he does. I told him ya baby, you’re my favorite, cuz you really get me, plus you really turn me on & I don’t have to fake it with you like I do with everyone else. I told him all this shit, just like I do most nights around 5:03pm.

Then he got 3 dances in a row from me, holding & grinding my hips down really hard on his rolling pin of a boner. It’s 48 hours later & I’m still a little sore around my bikini line. He really does get rock hard, impressive for a 55 year old man but not terribly uncommon I guess ... It’s just, I’m beginning to fear that one day I’ll be in the dressing room changing to go home, pulling down my g-string, only to see my 2 special, little, soft dough-y places suddenly flattened like pie crusts and hanging down to my knees from rolling-pin-man.

Business at the club has been about the same, no worse for sure & maybe even a tiny bit better. Being single again means I can uh, let’s say “expand” my boundaries while lap dancing (& do away entirely with Lalo’s boundaries) which probably gets me about 5 – 10 more dances a week. I have a few regulars who, unlike in Perfect 10 or Vegas DON’T try to pull their dicks out of their pants & then expect hand jobs. I actually like them all, for many reasons not the least of which being they don’t pull their dicks out & expect hand jobs.

My current cache of regulars are, for the most part, intelligent which means I don’t have to dummy up for them; reliable which means I can usually count on seeing them each about once a week, respectful which means they don’t suck on my tits or grind me so hard my coochie gets raw or inner thighs get bruised (happens, I swear!); & in-shape which is just a lovely bonus because I can do a much better (& fun for both of us) dance for guys when their beer belly doesn’t get in the way (happens all the time, swear it).

One of my favorite customers is a psychology professor. Yesterday he told me a story that he shares every year with his students, about a diabetic woman in India who had surgery on her eyes. Eventually the nurses heard her awaken from the anesthesia, screaming holy hell about the pain she was in. Offering the kind of care & nurturing I thought one could only find in the Uber-Civilized West, the Indian nurses basically told her to suck it up – everyone hurts a little after surgery. It was finally discovered, after checking under her eye bandages, that her diabetic sugar secretions had attracted ants from the this-is-what-we-call sterile-in-the-third-world hospital conditions. Ants which were essentially EATING HER EYEBALLS.

My customer then says to me, “It’s a story that totally redefined for me what it means to have a bad day.” Aside from the sporadic, highly disturbing mental images that have plagued me for the last 24 hours, I flat-out love that story. Which couldn’t have been relayed to me at a better time, since my day thus far has involved a broken washer/dryer on laundry day, a malfunctioning cell phone-turned-strobe-light (needed to negotiate the [somewhat low] offer I just got on my Pflugerville listing), a temperamental fax machine (needed to fax aforementioned counter-offer) & a screwed up scanner (which I’d hoped to use as backup for the failing fax machine). However, I am NOT complaining about any of it. Why? Because ANTS ARE NOT EATING MY EYEBALLS. Ha!

Another one of my absolute favorite customers is an older, successful movie producer & writer. I can always count on him to be, all at once, warm, sophisticated, interesting, & playful – great company to cuddle with in the VIP Room corner. Also I usually walk away with a couple hundred bucks, not to mention some priceless nugget of wisdom to chew on, that in some small way changes the course & quality of my life. Last time I saw him he asked me the same question as always, “What’s new with you?” to which I answered the same way I always do – with a rundown of any recent financial or creative successes & struggles I’ve had. Which is to say I tell him about any potential real estate deals or good feedback I’ve had on my writing, followed by my always longer list of bitching & moaning about slow days at the club, rejection letters from agents/editors, & [gads!] my constant lack of time to w.r.i.t.e! m.y! b.o.o.k.s! Hmph.

Last week after this exact scenario, his immediate but thoughtful reply went something like this, “Well Casey the way I see it, if on any given day I am not having any serious health issues, I just don’t feel like I have a right [hmph!] to complain about anything.”

And I have not been able to indulge in a good dose of self-pity since he said that. Ha again!

Today was the first day in a month that I thought I’d find time to write all day though it looks like I’ll manage only a few hours. I’ve just registered for the Writer’s League Agents & Editors Conference this June, & have exactly 3 months to finish & polish TWO books. On top of that, this same customer just emailed to strongly suggest (& by that I mean state) that I write a screenplay in the next 6 weeks for an upcoming contest. I read his email & instantly felt overwhelmed (because of course I’m going to do it), but the anxiety passed quickly. Why? Because I’m in the BEST health of my life. And I don’t have a right to complain about anything.

This morning my sister sent me a video clip from the Oprah Show. Randy Pausch, a college professor & father who has only a couple months to live, is giving a lecture on living rightly – a flat-out fabulous & inspiring speech. One thing he says is that life doesn’t put up brick walls to stop us from advancing or achieving our goals. They appear instead as a way for us to prove HOW BADLY we want those goals.

And so now all I can think is that if I don’t scale MY walls (of limited time & finances) I must, for some reason, be clinging to this current life of *aging stripper/accidental realtor* more than I’m striving for the *writer’s life* that I envision every single morning, noon, & night. I’m not sure what is holding me back from throwing myself into the work, but now that I have no relationship to get in the way, plus these new, convenient deadlines, I think I sense a change in all that. Of course I can’t see the future, but at least it’s not because ANTS ARE EATING MY EYEBALLS. So … I got that goin’ for me (& ha fuckin hell ha!).

“Is it right where you want it?” “Does that feel as good to you as it does to me?” “Do you think you can cum?”

Those are a few quotes I’ve heard from customers recently while lap dancing - nothing different than the same daft comments I’ve heard over the years at every club I’ve ever worked. Yet another example of the Us vs. Them that Brent mentions in his book, Stripped. Because really, even though on a rare occasion I have managed to cum from the friction of grinding on the rough crease of a man’s hard, denim bulge, it was not that of some old man, fat slob, awkward dork, or any other typical stranger in a crowded room where I’m trying to earn a living. I’m just not that kind of girl (oh shut up) … meaning I don’t simply hand over my orgasms to just any dude who walks in off the street with a couple twenties in his wallet.

That said, I will admit there’s been a couple times I became aroused enough at work to dart into the Ladies Room & take care of *business* myself, (practically choking on the noises that normally have such free reign in my bedroom at home, but what’s a girl in a pinch to do?). I admit also that once in the past, when working during a specific time of the month (ovulation - damn those Juicy Days!) after a string of lap dances, whilst sitting on a customer’s lap, I did discreetly play with the little clit-bump forming in the center of my T-back’s front triangle, until I came – in about 90 seconds.

I honestly do not know how many other dancers have done that sort of thing - it’s certainly not a discussion I’ve ever been part of in the dressing room. Nor has the need for it come *up* again since the aforementioned incidents, all of which occurred during that short period 18 months ago, when I was suddenly thrust back into the sexually charged atmosphere of the strip club business after 10 years of very little sex, way too much real estate work & at age 39, dangerously close to my sexual peak. All before meeting Lalo. I mean seriously, besides the typical teenage male, you’d never met a hornier person than me back then. It just wasn’t normal. It WAS situational.

My point is this - what idiot customer actually believes that strippers generally get anywhere near close to climaxing, halfway though one song grinding on the lap of some stranger, a boring/bland/goofy/nerdy/what-the-fuck-ever guy with stale beer breath & ketchup under his nails? Obviously the same fool who thinks nothing of stroking a delicate dancer’s creamy, flawless skin with the same filthy hands he just ate a plate full of greasy fries with (by the way, every strip club in which I’ve ever worked, has a Men’s Room WITH SINK AND SOAP - just sayin’…).

I’ve been single for almost 4 weeks now. Working almost every day which has kept me from thinking much at all about sex (or my lack of it) until this past weekend when I spent a little time hanging out with Lalo. Since we are now officially just friends I never planned to fuck him again, thinking a clean break & strictly platonic relationship would help us both “move on” all that much quicker. It was an easy decision; I’m a disciplined girl if nothing else (Uh, I’m a LOT else actually [duh] but, I digress …).

Strangely though, it was also a rather easy decision to go ahead & have sex with him this weekend (oh shut up), because after working 29 of the last 33 days (2 great buyers & 2 new listings!) I’ve finally had more than a few mind-blowing & badly needed orgasms. Besides, I came up with a great new term for that kind of hot, desperate sex we have sometimes – the kind that leaves you looking beyond disheveled, slightly hunched over & dazed, perhaps with one article of clothing still halfway clinging to a shoulder or an ankle. After catching a glimpse of myself today in the mirror directly after our latest dirty deed, I instantly labeled it “Refugee Sex” - because I resembled something straight out of a late-1960’s Life Magazine photo.

I’m still single & plan to stay this way for a while – I’ve missed it. And the truth is it suits me while I’m still stripping. But a little Refugee Sex never hurt anybody much less 2 consenting adults. Besides, masturbating makes me melancholy (seriously, just shut up). And all due respect to my well-intentioned customers, a woman’s orgasm is really a more sacred thing than a $20 bill (or even a stack of them) can buy (although apparently not too sacred to be compared to a devastating political & socio-economical phenomenon like distraught, penniless foreigners barely escaping their beloved, war-torn homelands … whatever – none of them are reading my blog that I know of & they probably have too much to deal with to care about my sex life).

A dear friend who happens to be a successful writer in L.A. sent me this email this morning …

******************************************
I know I'm not going to be the only one to point this out, but I want you to ***pay attention**.

Diablo Cody.

Stripper. Aspiring writer.

Does a blog.

Write a book about stripping.

Gets an agent in L.A.

Write a screenplay called JUNO that knocks around a while, gets made with a bunch of up-and-coming
Canadian types.

Makes a ZILLION dollars on the independent circuit.

And Diablo Cody wins a frigging OSCAR for Best Original Screenplay. And writes a pilot for STEPHEN
FUCKING SPIELBERG that gets picked up by friggin SHOWTIME for this Fall.

And YOU, woman, are TWICE the writer that Diablo Cody is.

So you keep at it. Don't you DARE fucking give up. And if you need a kick in the ass -- as inconsistent
and belated as it might be -- you call me or write me or telepathicate me. 'Cause you're GOOD at this writing shit, lady. It will happen. It WILL.

************************************************************

Upon reading it I burst into tears.

I hope he doesn’t mind me posting it here … it’s just that it meant so much to me & I have no one to share it with. I guess I thought posting it would make me feel less lonely. And scared & frustrated & helpless against the forces that keep me from writing more.

I feel my depression coming back a little these last few days.
I hope it’s temporary.
I hope it’s just a residual effect of the fatigue from working so many days in a row combined with the grief from my break up with Lalo.
I hope I find enough time, & make enough money, to get back to my writing projects soon (since I haven’t written anything but blogs this month).

I’m finally ready to revise my novel (3 years on the shelf) & get excited every time I think about it, which is a nice switch from the anxiety it usually brings on. Guess that means it’s time …? Ya, I think it does.

So my 2 main projects for this year are my novel, revised as a Meth addiction memoir, & also the nonfiction book I’m writing with Ivory. Wish me luck, though I am already so blessed to have the support of amazing friends who really believe in me. They are priceless. Especially you B ~ thanks again. Someday I’ll be saying that from a podium on a stage in front of Hollywood & the world.

Today in the dressing room the subject of my age came up. One of the young girls offered sweetly that “40 isn’t old!” Another girl, a feisty (& by feisty I mean completely full of herself) outspoken (& by outspoken I mean loud & tacky), curvaceous (& by curvaceous I mean she paid some hack to stuff a couple softballs under her nipples as a pitiful excuse for breasts) young woman, offered her two cents worth, like so, “Well if 40 isn’t old then what the hell is??”

Um, gee I guess you’re right. Demi Moore sure looked wrinkled & kinda hunched over in Charlie’s Angels. I’m sure the pregnant Halle Barry, not to mention Nicole Kidman, both use tons of makeup to cover their many liver spots. And Julia Roberts fabulous smile has GOT to be dentures. Since all these celebrities are my exact age & apparently like me have one foot in the grave.

A beaming young man tipped me on stage tonight, shouting, “You are the hottest one in here!” When I sat with him later he told me, “All due respect to the younger girls, there’s nothing hotter to me than a cougar like you.” I told him he was the smartest 28 year old I’d met all day.

I know I have an amazing body. I am literally in the best shape of my life these days thanks to hard work, quality supplements, a mostly raw/sprouted vegetarian diet, & Bikram yoga. I’m dying to get some more pictures taken soon, but hope to first get some kind of cosmetic laser treatment to tighten up the lines around my mouth a little. I don’t mind looking my age outside of the club; I’d just like my last year in the business to be treated like less of a freak show by the vapid 20-something masses.

I just finished Brent Kenton Jordon’s book “Stripped, Twenty Years of Secrets from Inside the Strip Club” (a fun read from a man with a real voice - pick it up), where in chapter 2 he writes:
“You are either one of us, or one of them. For a strip club employee, that fact slaps us across the face nearly every day … If you make your living in the strip club industry, you are one of us. If you do not, you are one of them; it is just that simple.”
He goes on to write, “Am I claiming you have to work in the strip club industry to truly know the strip club industry? I am claiming much more than that … not only must you work in the industry, but you must feel that it is your only real choice in life – the only means you have of supporting yourself or your family. You must work in the industry not out of curiosity, or for frivolous income, but for your very survival. You must work in the industry far past the time you feel you can not bear to do it one more moment. Only then do you become one of us …”

This really hit home for me because the truth is, that for as long as I’ve been a part of the American workforce, the strip club industry has been where I felt the most at home. Hell, for most of my LIFE the strip club industry is where I have felt the most at home & it is not anything I can explain or expect someone not in this business to ever understand. And right now, having made this huge leap from the imagined security of what I thought would be a long-term relationship, as well as the relative (in)stability of an 8+ year career in real estate, the comfort I feel among my coworkers at Expose is a real blessing lately. Despite the struggle to make decent income there.

Thus far, 7 weeks into 2008, I barely average 60% of what I was earning at Perfect 10 this same time last year. So last night I attempted to work late, a couple hours on the nightshift to make up for the frighteningly slow dayshift. I made it exactly 90 minutes longer for $90.00 more. By the time I got home & ate, showered, answered all my real estate clients’ emails, adored Tippy (& this can NOT be rushed), started a mani-pedi I hope to finish tonight, & turned out the lights, it was almost midnight. I was so tired this morning & my feet hurt so badly from my new shoes (for the LOVE OF GOD when will one fucking stripper shoe designer get it right?!) that I had to skip this morning’s yoga class.

And NOT ONLY did I have to skip the best part of my day as a result of my attempt to make ends meet, but today also happens to be the start of my “Juicy Days”. So my monthly hormone surge + lack of sex for 2 weeks (since Lalo moved out) resulted in my waking up horny & frustrated as hell. Fuck. Shitfuckdamnfuckin’shitshitshit. >>sigh<< …

And I am one week into a nonstop working spell that I expect to go on for at least another 10 days. I’m exhausted … which is probably just as well, since it takes my mind of the desire to jump Lalo & even the temptation to fantasize about luring him here in order to jump him. Plus my parents are coming to visit this week & staying in my spare room, which would be fun if I wasn’t juggling so much work - stripping AND real estate. Usually my Dad takes us all out for bread pudding & since I’ve recently lost 5 *breakup* pounds I could really use some before my tits all but disappear (though my ass looks amazing so it’s a ‘wash’ I guess, but really I DO so digress …).

This week I’ve spent $50 on gas previewing homes for my buyer/client/friend & will spend $200 next week to buy 2 lockboxes for my new listings. I just paid my $266 dues to the Austin Board of Realtors & bought a 6 month membership renewal at my yoga studio. I think I’ll have all my rent on time next month - TWICE what I’m used to paying since Lalo’s not here to split it with me. The soonest I can expect to close any of these real estate deals would be 60 days; the longest, uh ... never? Because working hard in real estate doesn't necessarily mean making money in real estate. Still, I think I’ll be okay for the time being, while I keep praying for the dayshift crowds to pick up.

Last night by 8pm there were 7 nightshift girls primping in the dressing room. At least 5 of them were serious competition – gorgeous with great bodies, & the 3 I saw dancing on stage sure knew how to work ‘em. But I think I fit in okay. The nightshift DJ, who’d never seen me before, was genuinely complimentary when I exited main stage. And one customer who saw my performance right after 3 amazing nightshift dancers’ stood up to tip me $4 & yell in my ear emphatically “You’re the BEST one!” Plus earlier one of our sexiest dayshift dancers told me how much she loves to watch me on stage, every day. She said she’s amazed at how I can dance to any kind of music & always be so sexy & graceful.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my girls? Because GOD I love my girls …

Last week a dayshift dancer I hardly even know brought me an outfit she didn’t want anymore, because she thought I’d look good in it – how sweet is that? When my dayshift DJ found out I’ve been going through a breakup he was super supportive & even said if he wasn’t engaged he’d totally ask me out – which isn’t as cheesy as it sounds because he’s as cool a dude as I’ve ever come across in this business, not to mention one of the best DJ’s around. Tomorrow I’m taking one of the waitresses to an AA meeting at her request. One of the younger girls has been asking me advice every day, about boys & sex & love & such. She can’t read, I just found out; I want to adopt her. I think my boss has been tossing $5 bills on stage when I’m not looking & he’s totally accommodating my crazy work schedule & split-shift attempts, without charging me extra house fees.

Back in the late 80’s Sugar’s was my pseudo family – a crazy, dysfunctional, incestuous family where everyone was fucking everyone (my scorecard included 2 DJ’s, 1 owner, 1 manager, 1 bouncer, & half a dozen strippers). In Vegas in the 90’s at Crazy Horse Too, the constant stress of the world’s consistently rudest customers made the feeling of *Us* vs *Them* palpable to say the least, & I thank god for all the other clean & sober dancers/waitresses who were there to help me stay the course one day at a time too.

Expose is a tiny club with no more than 7 – 15 dayshift girls working at a time & I will probably be one there for a while longer. It’s a good fit, & I’m content enough - underpaid & overworked, but when you’re one of *us* it’s nothing new & ya deal with it. If you’re one of *them*, get your ass to my club & spend some money on me honey … heh.

Dostoyevsky said that Hell is the suffering that comes from being unable to love. I know this is true. As is that Lalo’s love healed me & in doing so, rescued me from that hellish fate.

Hemmingway said “When you love, you wish to do things for [them], to sacrifice, to serve.” That was my Lalo for sure … who despite his monthly binges, did everything in his power to make me happy.

A General Theory of Love (a recent, fabulous read - go pick it up) states:
“Time with a mate is compared to a life raft – couples need that connection [for the relationship] to survive.” At the time I met Lalo I already knew that fact on some level, which is why I let him move in with me right away. In fact I knew it in high school when my first boyfriend BB moved away & my foolish parents said “true love” would prevail, even in separation. Bullshit! Humans are not wired that way & love takes *togetherness* to grow. That’s when, (according to the Theory of Love book) “in love” feelings can become “true relatedness & intimacy”. It’s also when you start to leave imprints on each other’s brains – something else I’ve read about. Which is part of why separation & breakups, even when they’re the right thing, are so hard.

Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, PhD, states:
“… you have to be [not just “pick”] the right partner. As you gain a more realistic view of love relationships, you realize that [it] requires commitment, discipline, & the courage to grow & change; [it] is hard work.”

I believe that. Though most people believe you don’t have a right to try & change your partner (supposedly an impossible task) I disagree. In fact I think that IS what a relationship is about – changing each other into better versions of ourselves. I believe humans ARE capable of change & that IS in fact our very purpose. It’s only human NATURE that cannot be changed & we should probably thank god for that.

I count on what I know about human nature to understand my customers & clients. It’s how I’m able to embrace my work, knowing why my customers want me, need me, need all of *us* – dancers & entertainers all over the world, since even before Salome peeled away the first of her 7 veils.

Customers never change. And I thank god for that too. Lalo saved me from the hell of crippling loneliness. My work will save me from the hell of missing Lalo.

That’s what I told Lalo when we met 1 year ago … that I’m “more fun sober” - a direct reply to his unabashedly charming offer to “do some drinkin”.

I could see him resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he impatiently tapped a $10 bill (folded length-wise) on the stage where I happened to be kneeling right in front of him. My breasts were eye-level but he politely looked sort of around them & occasionally sideways up at me, as if he was shy, though his voice was definitely cocky. “Well, come join me in the Champagne Room if ya want then …” Leaving the $10 bill on stage, shaking off my invitation to slide it into the strap of my G-string, strolling off with my heart in his hands.

I couldn’t get to that damn corner fast enough - that’s how hot I thought he was. Even a little overweight, 40+ pounds he began successfully dropping as soon as we’d become a couple, a few weeks later.

Two weeks after that he left his wife.

Two more weeks after that he’d moved in with me & quit drinking.

Asked me to marry him 3 weeks after that. And the rest is history - inasmuch as 1 year can be called historic I suppose ... Maybe Ancient History is a better way to put it.

Eventually he may tell people why - that he can’t, simply could not & would not EVER be in a relationship with a stripper. And I don’t blame him for that, wouldn’t blame any man for that. It’s just that it’s not the whole story because the other fact is that he simply could not, or would not, quit drinking.

Do I sound angry? I’m not really … disappointed yes, that I am. Still quite numb actually but even more than that today I am worried about him. I know he’s been drinking since we broke up, & I know he’s spent at least one night in jail. I’ve severed communication. For both our sakes I intend to keep it that way. So we can both move on as quickly as possible.

I told him long ago I needed a man who was AT LEAST as strong as me. I thought he might be. I know now I was wrong. But, I also told him I was more fun sober … & I suppose that really is pretty hard to swallow under the circumstances. Being accountable, responsible, reliable, & dependable is not actually a balls-to-the-wall freakin PARTY. Everyone in the world knows this. I fucking LIVE this (ya I know, poor me … just sayin).

Almost eleven years ago I pulled myself up from a pit so dark & deep that precious few men can even grasp it, much less have the guts or brains to crawl out themselves. And since then I’ve manifested one helluva life for myself. So I rent, not own but I have a gorgeous luxury apartment on one of the choicest lots in Austin. I drive one of the best cars on the road. I look & feel 10 years younger than I am. I’m a damn good Realtor, an incredible stripper, a talented writer & an amazing fuck. My parents rock; my sisters are first class. My friends are priceless & magical. My future is anything I dream it can be.

So I’ll be goddamned if I let anyone chip away at what I’ve built. Not my security, my sanity, my self-respect, my potential success as a writer. It’s all I have. Especially now. So I’ll spend my free time writing & practicing yoga while rebuilding my fortune $20 at a time, alone again, just me & Tippy.

I’m not afraid of any of being alone. I’m not afraid of shit & I do know how to make money. And THAT is what I call *fun*.

Cedar Fever caught me for the first time ever last week, leaving me shaky, weak, headachy & prone to sudden sweats. I even stayed home from work Monday, but when the club called to tell me only one dancer had showed up by 11am (when we open), I agreed to come in.

I ended up dancing for a bi-curious woman in a pink, flowered skirt, t-shirt, no makeup, & sensible shoes, for about 2 hours. Funny too, that her husband called me over about 20 minutes after a conversation in which I’d just stated that “I’m the most hetero woman I know”. In fact I hate dancing for women & have hated it for the last 20 years - which is apparently when I fully satisfied (or completely overloaded more like) any & all bi-curiosity I’ve ever had (by then I'd had sex with about a dozen women & fallen in "love" with 2 of them so, guess I'm a pretty slow learner or something - whatever).

I made $300 off that couple in about 2 hours so I won’t complain, & anyway they were nice. Well-behaved & clean. Which is the extent of the details I shared with Lalo later that night. To which he said very little & I’m sure thought about as highly of. He hates me dancing for women as much as me dancing for men I guess. Which might explain why he came home from work last night drunk & ranting abusive insults about me being a lesbian slut or whore or whatever other shit I don’t remember because I’m blocking it out.

Everything he owns is on my patio. And with any luck his memory will disappear almost as quickly. I mean really ... are you fucking kidding me?! Is there anyone on earth who knows me AT ALL, who thinks I put up with that kind of shit? Anyway, so far I’m somewhat relieved & a tiny bit sad … but mostly numb. I really hope that feeling (or lack of it) lasts. Obviously I'm not so stupid to think it will.

Yesterday before all this happened, I was feeling down about having to do real estate work all month for which I may or may not ever be paid, but will definitely eat up all my writing time. I’m over it now, party because one of my clients is the coolest chick ever & an old friend I’m thrilled to have back in my life, so how lucky am I? (especially now that there’s a huge void in it) So to cheer myself up I decided to buy myself the first charm to ever go on the bracelet Lalo bought me for Christmas. A lovely, little, silver jalapeño pepper – representing my spicy Vato of course.

I called him right afterward to tell him about my purchase, to which he replied with a chuckle, “Oh great … so I’ll just go return the one I already just bought you for Valentine’s Day.” I cracked up, terribly sorry for screwing up his surprise, but enjoying the laugh nonetheless.

Which makes his behavior last night all the more odd. The last time we spoke we were LAUGHING. He hung up saying I love you & can’t wait to see you tonight (!). But whatever, fuck it. I hate breakups & am sorry for all this pain we’ve both had & will continue to have for a while. But I enjoyed the love nonetheless.

In yoga class yesterday I realized something - that I can hold Triangle Pose (finally!) for the full minute, if I don’t go too deep into the posture. I have no idea if this is a good thing, but I’m gonna go with it for now.

It made me wonder, while attempting to hold the next pose (Dandayamana - Bibhaktapada – Janushirasana), forehead pressed to knee, gasping for breath & staring with my right eye at the sweat pooling in my navel, if I shouldn’t also apply the same policy to the rest of my life. I’m a woman of extremes, less so now than in my youth, but I have always been the kind of girl who figured that if one is good, ten is better (one notable exception being laxatives, just in case I’m not the only idiot out there who tries to learn everything the hard way).

By the time I quit drinking at age 29, I was consuming an average of 100 cocktails a week. I was known to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day, more if I was on coke & up to 3 packs a day when I did Meth in my teens (Winston Reds, which by the way, I recommend even less than taking 10 laxatives at a time). When I finally quit smoking I ate everything in sight for about a year, including entire cheesecakes for breakfast until I finally managed to get my bulimia under control (which sickens me to remember for obvious reasons but also because frankly I’ve never really liked cheesecake – and THAT’S how I rolled).

When I got my first job as a Realtor I immediately launched into an 80 hour work week. My broker adored me (duh) though I hated it (DUH). I just didn’t really know any other way to do things. At the same time I was marathon training & running 45 miles a week, while lifting weights at night. When I did manage to cut back, I discovered I had time to check out the best thing Austin has to offer - live music. And I proceeded to go dancing for the next few years, anywhere from 2 – 7 nights a week, no lie. I all but quit that lifestyle around the time I started stripping again in the fall of 2006. And right after that is when I met Lalo. He moved in with me less than 6 weeks later & we decided to marry about a month after that.

So it’s fair to say I tend toward immediately pushing myself into the deepest expression of every posture I assume. And now I think it might be a good idea to give myself a break once in a while. In yoga, form is more important than depth; I think that applies to most of life, including relationships. I’m trying to be the best girlfriend I can be, without making any firm decisions about the future for now.

Staying in the present moment (the only one that actually exists) is a lifelong challenge for most people & I’m no exception. Sometimes I’d probably do well to just stop stressing about what I’m experiencing & simply focus on my breath. I mean, Balancing Stick (Tuladandasana) is a 10 second long posture, but gets my heart rate higher than almost any other. It’s strenuous for sure, but it also doesn’t help that half the time coming out of it, dizzy as hell & red in the face, I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe through it. Funny how that works.