My Dancer Diary

After 4 years of Bikram yoga being my sole work out, I've hired a personal trainer.  I'm not dropping any yoga classes, and in fact, am loving my sweaty morning torture chamber more than ever lately.  But I've also wanted to target a couple areas that have never quite risen to the level of the rest of my freakishly rockin' body, so I decided to hire an expert to help.

Enter Danna Scott, former boxer, author, personal trainer, loyal friend and, most recently, the woman responsible for the fabulous way my rounder, firmer ass looks in (and out) of my favorite faded jeans. If you've been admiring my new, improved backside or the tone in my upper arms, you have Danna to thank.  If you've been wishing you could get a little more definition too, you have Danna to contact.  I only wish I had done so sooner.  With a stronger core, maybe I wouldn't have hurt my back as badly as I did 3 years ago.  I sure as hell would've looked better on stage (difficult to imagine, I know), but whatever...better late than never.

Full disclosure, Danna is a personal friend but I don't just hand over my hard earned cash or interrupt my busy schedule to help out a pal.  I pay for results which Danna produces, all without aggravating my lower back.  When my muscles do start to lock up, she knows exactly how to massage them out (something I pay extra for which is so totally worth it).

I know she's worked with other strippers in the past and knows some of our special needs and issues.  I trust her to push me when I need it and take it down a notch when necessary.  I'm not quite motivated or knowledgeable enough to get these results on my own but with Danna it's been relatively easy, fun and absurdly cheap (and if I wasn't planning to train with her indefinitely I'd convince her to charge more).

I may or may not start blogging again someday in the distant future, but since my little LiveJournal family has always been so supportive, I thought I'd just post a brief update about my good news.  Which is that my 3rd script made quarterfinals in The Nicholl Fellowship, the most prestigious screenwriting contest in the country.  This means it's in the top 5% of almost 7,000 entries, as well as in the running to advance when semi-finalists are announced late this month.

So anyway, thanks to anyone who read (or just quietly tolerated) all the rants and whining here over the years.  Thought I'd let you know it wasn't all for naught, and that I hope you're doing well too.

As slow as strip club business has been lately, I’ve actually been doing rather well.  I did have a bizarre dry spell for most of July but even then this work beats the hell out of my decade as a Realtor where I twice had a $25,000 windfall followed directly by a six month dry spell in which it actually cost me money to work every day.  Thankfully, in the sex industry (at least my little corner of it), income fluctuations are a little less dramatic.  Too bad I can’t say the same for some of the men I deal with.

 

Last week I met this guy who initially seemed very sweet, unassuming, a little shy but incredibly successful.  He was also quite handsome, like a rugged Don Johnson (oh shut up, you think he’s cute too) who, at 55, had the face of a 40 year old and the body of a 30 year old.  Unfortunately he also had the maturity of a 20 year old which became apparent once the getting-to-know-you chit chat devolved into bragging about his high powered career and extensive business travels (New York City and much of Europe including Paris where he’s been three times this year) and then hit a low point when he asked my opinion on whether he should dump his Mercedes and buy a Bentley (because really, who better to ask about a six figure luxury car purchase than a sex worker who hasn’t made that amount of money over the past 2 years).

I actually rented a Bentley once, back in 1989, and then tried to get my boyfriend at the time to have sex with me in it but since he was attempting to navigate Sunset Blvd in morning rush hour traffic on zero sleep and a pretty serious cocaine withdrawal, the answer was a terse, unequivocal “No way.”

 

But I digress.

 

Anyway, the conversation almost got interesting when Bentley-man suddenly mentions a recent, failed attempt at therapy but as soon as I try to engage him further on the topic he back peddles like mad and instead regales me with stories about how he hangs out with Billy Gibbons all the time in Houston.  And by “stories” I mean one, boring repetitive statement about how he hangs out sometimes in Houston with Billy Gibbons.

 

Maybe it would’ve been more interesting if I’d been sharing some of the entire bottle of wine he drank (in under 90 minutes, no less).  At least the poor server he impatiently forced his black AmEx card on would’ve appreciated it (the poor girl wasn’t even assigned to our table).  So it was no surprise when it was my turn to get paid and this world-traveling, rock star befriending, black AmEx toting wino hands me barely more than half what I’m owed.  This not being my first rodeo I managed to collect most of the difference in short order, however not before having to hear him whine that had he known how much it was going to cost he wouldn’t have spent so much time with me because he “can’t really afford that.”

 

Apparently the $300 discrepancy was already earmarked for the Bentley.

 

Whatever.  For the most part, all my hard work is finally paying off and by that I mean that most of the men I do business with lately truly appreciate the life experience of a 42 year old, self-aware woman.  So do I, quite frankly, and wouldn’t trade a day of it, even if it does happen to come with the occasional gray hair.  Yeah, you read that right, I found my first just last month, yanked the fucker out and moved on, deciding to take it as a sign to start pampering myself more with the occasional massage, facial and wardrobe upgrade (I’ll see your Bentley, dude, and raise you 2 Manolos).  Which is how yesterday, at Nordstrom’s, as I zeroed in on a table of sexy/strappy Pelle Modas I happen to meet the loveliest, most elegant and graceful older woman I have ever seen in my life.

 

We both fell in love with the same shoe, a sparkly, nude-colored, kitten-heeled sandal that was at once elegant, dainty, sexy and sophisticated—just like the woman herself.  Seriously, I’m not sure if she was in her early 60s or a remarkably well-preserved 70-something because she had such a timeless air about her, packaged in a youthful yet sophisticated outfit.  She had long, white hair combed and pinned back prettily and perfectly, a flawless pedicure and natural looking makeup over her smooth, albeit elderly complexion.  She moved with the grace of a ballet dancer and spoke in a clear, warm yet confident voice as she explained how to test the shoes on the store’s tiled floor instead of its overly cushioned carpet (no stranger to Nordstrom’s shoe department, her).

 

After she complimented my taste in fashion we shared a laugh about how, as we age, back pain becomes a major factor in shoe shopping selections.  Eventually I decided against the purchase though and bought a higher heeled pair but I may go back and get the others at some point too. You just can’t put a price on that rare combination of sophisticated sexy elegance (or if you do, make sure it’s high and you get the money up front).

 

A wise friend once told me that everyone we meet in life is meant to show us either who we are or who we are not.  I tend to agree which means that, ultimately, I benefit from every flesh and blood reminder that I am no longer a confused, empty, shallow alcoholic.  Also that I could, someday, be a sophisticated, serene, silver-haired goddess (in sparkly kitten heels).

Once upon a time I was stranded on a cliff.  The road down to this precarious place had been long & windy, dark & thorny, treacherous & injurious to the Nth degree.  Plus, the wreckage I’d left along that stumbling path had made the prospect of climbing back up impossible to fathom and yet the only other way out of my predicament was to plunge to my death—a solution looking more and more appealing every torturous day. I was bruised & bloody, starving & dehydrated and fully exposed to the brutal elements.  It was a rock and a hard place if there ever was one, and one day I’d had enough.

 

I crept toward the edge and gazed down longingly at the comfort & peace I saw in the jagged rocks below.  Once or twice I looked back over my shoulder, straining to see the warm glow of the increasingly distant world from where I’d come.  But I knew I’d never find my way back nor did I expect anyone would be very glad to see me if I did. 

 

So I leaned forward just enough to start sliding right off the cliff, certain this was my only way out until the very last moment when on instinct I grabbed a stray branch. Then I clung to it, suddenly debating whether or not to let go and finish what I’d started.  Hours passed before I finally, hesitantly looked up to assess my options only to see a hand extended right out in front of me.  So I grabbed it and was pulled to safety where I soon caught my breath and began the arduous journey up that steep, mysterious path, one step at a time.

 

To my surprise there were other survivors along the way, strangers who’d come back down just for me, to shout out directions or give the occasional, much needed push as I trudged along or scaled my various obstacles; huge boulders, vast canyons, raging rapids, poisonous serpents and the like.  I was half blind and extremely weak but if I listened carefully and stepped where I was told I usually kept moving forward.  I found my way slowly, over many years but once home discovered it was a much better place than I’d left.  There was not only plenty of room for me but a special niche where I fit in rather perfectly.  Overwhelmed by gratitude for all the guidance I’d received I asked what I could do to repay these selfless heroes.  They told me just one thing… pay it forward.  Help the next one.  Lead the next lost soul off the cliff because now you know the way. 

 

That’s how it works, you see?  When anyone anywhere reaches out, just let your hand be there.  Besides, if you’re not willing to give it away you just might not get to keep it.  

 

And I did help others, for many years until one day I felt a little lost again and reached out myself for the strongest hand I could find.  But suddenly she pulled it back, as if it had been a game all along. “Psych!” she said. “Sorry, I’m much too busy with my new wonderful life to help anyone else.  But don’t worry… you’ll be fine.  Someone else will come along, I’m sure,” and off she went, whistling a tune and leaving me to figure things out on my own. 

 

My feelings were hurt of course but since I’d come so far already everything turned out fine, eventually.  After all, I wasn’t pitched precariously off a cliff anymore.  In fact as more years went by I struck out on my own, started doing quite well, and forgot all about the place from where I’d come.

 

Until one day I heard a young woman’s voice, calling to me… “Help me, Casey, I’m at the edge.  I’m falling and I think I’m going to die.”  It was a girl, very much like myself at her age, a sexy, smart, sassy sister who’d somehow found herself in the exact same predicament I had.  A talented, artistic, cocky/cool mini-me, and I’ll be damned if she wasn’t clinging to the weakest branch of the very same tree, her weary, wounded body hanging over the very same cliff!  What luck that she somehow managed to get my attention, for who better to guide this girl to safety than someone who overcame all the same obstacles? 

 

So I shouted some encouragement to help her find her footing but the terrain proved too much for her blistered feet and skinny legs and soon she was calling out for more.  I made my way to her and extended my hand but when she didn’t grab quickly or tightly enough, well… I guess I let her slip away.  A short while later I heard another call, fainter this time for she was getting very tired and maybe not so sure about what she really wanted anymore. 

 

Which was fine with me because by then I had other, more important places to be.  So I told her I’d try to come back later but not to worry… that she’d probably be fine.  Someone else would come along, I was sure of it.  And I even found another capable lady to check on her, before I left for good.

 

That sexy, smart, sassy, cool, creative girl’s name was Meghan. They found her body Wednesday morning.

 

There was another girl once, Nicole, many years ago during a period of my life when I devoted as much time to helping other women as I probably devote to my yoga practice today.  And when Nicole asked me for the exact same kind of help Meg recently did, I took her by the hand and personally guided her up that damn mountain until I thought she was able to continue on her own. And she did for a while, though I heard last year she’s a junky again, living with her abuser and hanging on by a thread. 

 

Where I managed to find the strength that so eluded Meg and Nicole I cannot say for sure, and whether I can impart it better next time remains to be seen as well.  I know I can’t personally “save” anyone.  But I also know that in my program of recovery there’s a saying:

 

“Whenever anyone anywhere reaches out for help, I want the hand of AA to be there.  And for that I am responsible.” 

 

One of the reasons I’m alive today is because the people I met when I was in Meg’s position believed that.  They fucking lived it.  The ultimate irony is that Meg offered me a gift more precious than anything she ever requested in return because every time I extended my hand to someone in need the blessings I received were incalculable.  That’s how it works, you know…if you work it. 

I fucked up this time but life tends to offer many opportunities to redeem oneself...that is, if you can find the strength to hang on till then, or at least get some help when you can’t.  Otherwise, well… that’s the ultimate tragedy, isn’t it?

 

Rest in Peace, Meghan.  You were loved beyond measure and will never be forgotten.

I'm a boots 'n' jeans kinda gal (also a boots 'n' shorts one for 90 days every hellish Central Texas summer but that's beside the point).  So outside of working in strip clubs I wear a dress about as often as I'm on MySpace.com anymore (it's an annual event, pretty much). 

Here's a couple pics to tide the world over till next year.    

In a recent yoga class we were all getting into savasana, the 2 minute rest period directly after the intense cardiovascular poses, when the instructor made an interesting comment.  She said, “We make you struggle in class because in that struggle is where change begins but the magic happens when we relax & breathe.”

 

My life has been less of a struggle lately (creatively, financially, emotionally, physically, etc) and, while the “magic” remains to be seen, I’d say the yoga is working pretty well… (heh)

Stripping can sometimes feel like going to an obligatory party week after week, day after day where the same characters always show up, drink too much, have the same conversations, and try the same tired pick-up lines.  Meanwhile even though they’re not your type at all you’re forced to smile, make nice, dance your ass off and be the *Hostess with the Most-est* for 8 hours straight, night after night, week after week, year after year… until one day you discover your name is no longer on the guest list.

 

And for most of us, when that day comes it brings ambivalence; a mixture of joy, relief, sadness and fear.  Of course, most of us aren’t me and when my time comes I’ll more than likely just get a tingle of excitement at the prospect of squeezing more hot, sweaty yoga into my schedule and logging more hours at the computer writing.

 

Who knows when that day will come but I can tell you this much, no one likes a party crasher.  No one likes the girl who stands up in the middle of the room declaring, “These cheese puffs suck!” or “Don’t eat the brown acid!” or "Get your goddamn hands off my wallet."

 

Sometimes the truth hurts.  Deal with it.  Grow a pair.  Or… ya know, try to have me blackballed.  (For the record, reacting to my assertion that you wield too much power over your stripper work force by fucking with my livelihood, pretty much PROVES MY POINT, yafuckingnimrod.)  It’s your call.  It’s your karma.  I’ve got better places to be than shaking in my stripper shoes freaking out over the prospect of (gasp!) expulsion from your obsolete, lame-ass little frat party… just sayin.

Today at Perfect 10 I’m brushing my hair in the dressing room when a dancer I don’t really know suddenly says to me, “I read your blog.”  (past tense)

 

That’s it, no further comment, opinion, dissention, approval, slam, praise or insightful observation whatsoever.

 

Okay… uh, thanks for sharing.

 

In fact in the past 2 weeks she’s at least the 4^th person from work (customers & coworkers) to mention they read (past tense) my blog, completely out of the blue.  And, come to think of it, I don’t remember any of them voicing an opinion.  Which is fine since their opinion is neither any of my business or my concern.  It’s just, why bring it up?  It’s a little like me saying to one of them, “I overheard you chatting about your job the other day.”  I mean, so fucking what?

 

Aaaannnyway… worked at Palazio last Friday and yet again had that “Why don’t I work here more often???” moment.  I made twice as much in 4 hours at Palazio as I made in 8 hours at Perfect 10 last week.  Then I left early, as soon as my hips and back started to hurt, which worked out well because they felt better just 24 hours later instead of the usual 48 hours.

 

Also, every customer paid me full price for dances and one guy paid 50% extra.  Two customers offered me a drink (I just drink Voss water but still it denotes a certain generosity) and two of them commented on the great music.  It really is true that Palazio plays great music … I mean, both clubs’ DJs are stellar, no doubt, but they can only influence the dancers’ song selections so much and at some point it comes down to the overall taste of the girls working there.  Palazio just has more of a South Austin type o’ gal which is to say staggeringly hip chicks.  It’s common knowledge that South Austin is the “real” Austin and quite frankly if I never had to cross 51^st street again I’d be one satisfied south/central stripper. 

 

One of these days I’ll figure out how to get my P10 manager to this side of the river and then I can quit working there entirely since he’s half the reason that place is still bearable to me at all.  Especially considering that at one point today I was surrounded by TWO cigar smokers (I kid you fucking not) for almost 2 hours and THEN sat for an hour with a PIPE smoker who barely stopped puffing the goddamn thing in my face the entire time except when I was dancing (and by “dancing” I actually mean navigating his huge belly and his moist ‘n’ sweaty everything else).

 

The funniest thing today was when I politely (achingly so, swear to god and my customer JJ will vouch for this) asked the cigar smoker sitting 2 chairs away from where I was lap dancing (in a huge club with exactly FOUR customers and 100 empty chairs in it) if he “wouldn’t mind moving down just a few seats while I finish dancing to the next 5 songs here?”  His reply was a loud, stinky, unequivocal, “Yes.  I would.”  (mind, that is)  I had to stifle a laugh as I dragged my darling customer JJ to a seat at the other end of the room with no snarky comment whatsoever (partly because JJ has that effect on me and partly because I was holding my breath until I could get away from Chubby McStogie's stank).

 

I left 2 hours early and the inside of my nose STILL hurts from breathing that shit.  I’m going back to work at Palazio for a while.  I’m also writing off my Neti Pot on next year’s tax return. 

 

And if you’re reading this, and you DON’T have an opinion on it, please feel free to keep it to yourself. 

I am just so fucking bored with stripping.  Not the job necessarily, at least no more so than most other income producing activities (certainly not more than Real Estate which should go without saying but if not, ya know, ew!) which I suppose is just the nature of working for a living in general.  I’m just kinda over talking about stripping, reading about it, writing about it and most definitely thinking about it (note: I originally mistyped “thinking about tit” here).

 

My weekly blog reading, of which about a third is *stripper shit* has slowly devolved into semi-monthly blog skimming and even when funny/stupid shit does go down at the club the impetus to write about it usually lasts only as long as it takes to get home (note: typo this time was “takes to get homo” which may or may not be more than my 45-60 minute commute though I really wouldn’t know, however perhaps Lesbian Yoga Girl will enlighten us later in the comments section*, k/thnx). 

So lately I’ll arrive home and, after a quick dinner & vigorous shower, plop exhausted onto the couch with my laptop to jot down some quick, shorthand reminder of the day's event(s) for some future post and then file it away in an ever growing list of “shit to eventually blog about” which, not surprisingly, seems even more boring and pointless when I reopen it a week later.

 

I’m not planning on stopping, if anyone even cares, but I am giving fair warning in case some of these posts seem half-hearted.  I whipped out that last one in 1/3 my usual time which is why it’s completely lacking in metaphor, broader theme, or even a hint of my special brand of profound & enlightening self-awareness &/or the life lessons I egotistically like to think someone out there gives a shit about besides me.  The good news is my memoir revisions are coming along which may actually explain why I have so little inspiration left over for stripper musings and wouldn’t be surprised if this passing phase of stripper-blogger ennui simply disappears in a few months.  Till then, no promises but I’ll do my best to share whatever silly shit comes up, much like this little summary of last Tuesday’s shift at Perfect 10.

Ahem...

 

Early in the day I’d been admiring this one dancer’s dress, a beautiful teal-colored, scoop-neck mini-dress covered in sparkly, silver accents all around the bottom 6 inches near the hem.  I didn’t get a really close look until she got up from the barstool next to me where we’d been chatting and waiting for the lunch crowd to arrive.  It was then I realized those sparkles (I’d assumed were beadwork) must’ve been made from glitter because the rough, tweedy fabric of her barstool was absolutely covered in it, as was (I assume) every customer &/or dancer who sat in that chair after her as well as every other chair she sat in for the rest of the day.  Which I have to assume was at least a dozen, each of which probably had half a dozen customers in it after her, meaning that, if you do the math, exactly one helluva lotta customers left our club Tuesday with glitter all over their butts.  Serves ‘em right too since I came home with little red bumps all over mine, apparently from grinding on someone’s less-than-pristine lap which leads me to this invaluable lesson of the day: Wash your fucking pants, before AND after visiting Perfect 10, thank you very much.

 

Other than that it was another typical Two-fer-Tuesday except for our usually very professional DJ being uncharacteristically plastered on Crown and completely abdicating any responsibility for cutting those discounted songs short.  Seriously, I do love this guy and he certainly wasn’t alone as the Crown was flowing fucking everywhere Tuesday except down my pristine little throat which may be why I’m the only dancer who seemed to care about dancing to 4, 5, and even 6(!!!) minute songs for exactly TEN FUCKING DOLLARS each.  When I pointed this out to him, after hobbling over to the booth in no small amount of back pain, 7 straight hours into an 8 hour shift, with two customers STILL waiting for me to divvy up what precious little time I had left in order to make SOME kind of decent income for the day, he apologized profusely.  Which I appreciated, of course, but doesn’t do shit to rectify the fact that I basically just gave away a free dance.  Actually a LOT of free dances because I’m pretty sure he didn’t cut ANY song short that day and since I’ve actually done that math I can tell you that by not cutting 3.5-4 minute songs down to 3 minutes he’s shortchanging all us dancers a full hour’s worth of extra songs with which to make up for the discounted dances we’re forced to do.

 

And it’s not like the customers would mind (they do it every single day at the Landing Strip and no one ever complains) because if you’re used to buying a $5 smoothie every day and then you are offered one on Tuesdays for $2.50 but told it would be exactly 15% smaller – would YOU complain??  Hell no, you’re getting 50% off the price for only 15% off the goods.  Meanwhile the smoothie shop gets to recoup 15% in inventory.  IT’S A WIN-WIN-WIN, Goddamn it, and that is a seriously fucking important life lesson if I ever blogged one. 

 

Moving on…

 

I wrapped up the day with this lovely new customer I met last month; a cute, sweet, successful, smart, single dad who (like most my regulars) pays full price for dances (every time) and in between regales me with silly stories covering everything from hilarious college high jinx to his daughter’s summer riding camp.  He also gives the BEST back & upper-butt scratches ever, so much so that when my shift was over and I’d hit the dressing room as he made a quick pit stop on his way out of the club, I realized I’d forgotten to collect his payment for my 4 dances whereupon I tore across the club (back pain be damned) to drag him out of the Men’s Room (a first for me actually although I have been dragged out of a Men’s Room myself once at Dan Tana’s in L.A. in an even longer, more boring story than this stupid stripper post).  Suffice it to say I went home with full pay and two happy, tingly buttocks thanks to him, but also with insufficient income plus red, bumpy lower-buttocks** thanks to my DJ and at least one cheap/dirty customer. 

 

I probably even had a bit of glitter there from that dancer’s dress but whatever, I suppose it’s just another life lesson about the nature of working for a living and the myriad of shit your ass gets into in this line of work.  Which I still think is boring but also still beats the shit out of selling real estate.


*Until LYG gets here I'm going to take a stab and say it can be anywhere between instantaneous and a lifetime... sorta like enlightenment!

**Tea Tree oil applied directly to the infected area will cure this overnight, every time, which makes for 4(!) valuable life lessons in one post (you're fucking welcome).

 

Why is it bikers are always asking me out less than ten minutes after I introduce myself to them in a strip club? 

 

Wait, let me rephrase that…

 

What the fuck is wrong with these morons that they think I have any interest whatsoever in suddenly planting myself on the back of the bike of some horny, handsy, hairy stranger who may or may not be a safe driver much less a drunk, addict, lunatic, married, diseased or otherwise romantically undesirable?  Is it just because I’m so very friendly as I smile, stroke their arm, ask them all about themselves and laugh at all the right moments just before peeling my top off and pressing my bosom in their face… in a strip club?

 

Almost fourteen years of dancing and no matter how much money I know that table of bikers has (or just that one lone wolf in the super cool studded do-rag and Skynyrd t-shirt), I avoid them like the plague, partly because they always pull that shit with me and partly because when I say, “You’re so sweet but I really don’t have time for dating…” they always respond by asking me out TWO MORE TIMES, completely oblivious to the fact that:

 

1)      they were just flatly rejected.

2)      my presence on their lap is bought & paid for.

3)      asking me out when you know absolutely nothing about me is a pretty good clue you’re doing it purely for self-centered/immature reasons having nothing to do with mutual attraction, genuine chemistry or any real, serious interest on either of our parts which not only puts me on the spot (thrice!) but wastes my precious time and offends me to no end.

 

Everyone knows by now that a strip club’s customer base is made up of a zillion different types of men but I can actually break them down into 2 categories, every time. 

Those who have a clue and those who do not. 

 

I’d wager about 90-95% of them are of the latter group but I’d be interested in hearing from other dancers & sex workers about this…  What percentage of customers/clients do you figure are clueless about what you really think and feel about them (whether or not they’re successful, smart, fun, cute, kind or otherwise “normal” guys)?