At brunch w Mari we were (surprise! for once not talking about how the bouncers have so much in common w the guards on OitNB or that line) talking about how I crack my gum because GUM CRACKING IS ATTRACTIVE and it is part of an aesthetic I have admired since I was 9 and all the tough hot older girls w darker lipliner than lips and eyeliner and big fringed bangs did it and I practised until i could do it really loud too, leading to a chapter in the exciting graphic novel memoir of my life called “Gum Cracking: an homage”
I got distracted
Oh yeah Adrienne told me she despises gum cracking and I told Mari this with shock, shockand she was like
“Gum cracking is a way of life! It’s a form of self-expression! When guys are being terrible I even chew my gum at them in exasperation.”
there you have it ppl. Gum cracking: homage and valid form of self-expression.
working with friends is the best and the ultimate best is if you both get dances at the same time and can sit within each other’s eye line.
ok so b and I were giving dances opposite each other at the end of the night, for the second time. The first time I was dancing for an annoying overly earnest little hippie man who was actually totally harmless, I was just bored and annoyed in general and grimacing and b’s customer caught me making faces at her, and then her strangling herself at me, and was totally good humoured about it.
The second time I was dancing for another massage guy—ok when it’s legit it’s amazing; yesI will let you give me a massage for 40$ for three minutes—although actually after the new and increased cut which they take it comes out to be like 30$, 70 from every hundred, and 175 from every 250, ballz old sport but anyway—yes you can pay me to sit there while you massage me; I’m like a tense person ok. Plus it means they’ll probably want to be massaged too and that can go on indefinitely like my best customers just sit there for increasing amounts of time while I zone out and work on their knots and get paid better than any massage therapist I know dreams of. It’s good to have big ol man hands.
anyway this was another German boob swiper. Have I told you that, Fredi aside, Germans and north europeans are my absolute least favourite customers? especially when they have wire-rimmed glasses. could you live down to my mental stereotype any harder. He wanted to massage my shoulders and it was not relaxing and also was mildly painful but I was too tired to make conversation so I just sat and faced B and made faces at her while she tried not to alert her customer to the fact that she was shaking with silent laughter. This was made even better by one of the moaners (god I hate moaning as a tactic so much, it’s even worse than allowing touching or extras because it’s such a false promise, it’s all lies, and it’s so distracting and impossible to protect their tender impressionable man brains from!) who was wearing a noisy skirt and just making the biggest racket.
It’s just so wonderful that at these improbable and improbably terrible moments of my life I have friends right across from me to share them with and just be like
can u blieve this
no god this is awful
out of this night was a cupcake.
And lap dances so I can keep my heat at 68. And some Joan Watson gifs. And to have some dumb conversations so I could have something funny to post.
But most of all I wanted a fucking cupcake. Three hours of posting bribes on fb later (“Free lapdance if you bring me a chocolate cupcake!”) my sweet sweet friend left one out for me to pick up on my way home. A special cupcake with glasses!
Mission accomplished. On all counts.
I’m not always into xoJane (especially not after that recent and abysmal excuse for some twentysomething gogo dancer to try and reassure herself at the expense of strippers—not worth linking to) but this It Happened to Me by a friend of mine is really good:
The economic reality is that sex work is the best (and sometimes only) option for me. It’s certainly not always the best choice for my mental health, but neither is poverty.
Friday night and the bathroom stunk. I went in to wash my hands and immediately gagged; a female customer looked at me guiltily and sidled by me, without, I noted, washing her hands. Choked by fecal miasma I left & stormed into the dressing room.
“Don’t poop in the bathroom! Jesus Christ! Why is that so hard? Just don’t poop at someone else’s workplace!”
Baby started laughing hysterically. “What are you talking about?”
“Bitches taking horrible giant dumps in the bathroom! Where we have to go to! Customers! Wait! Just wait and go at home! You know what? I was in a relationship for four years and I bet I only pooped while she was in the house five times. And one of those times I had food poisoning. We were just not on those kinds of terms and that was fine.”
Other girls started laughing too.
“That’s insane,” Baby said.
“I don’t even care. Probably. But! There’s such a thing as Too Much Intimacy.”
Baby was dying by this point. Bad smells make me crazy, I can’t be rational about them. I used to work in a tiny dive bar with a girl I unaffectionately nicknamed Skeletor who looked like a walking corpse. Skeletor kept herself going with copious amounts of coffee and invariably had a bowel movement two or three times a shift. It was like clockwork. I know about this because the toilet was in the dressing room and the bar was so small that everyone knew. It was awful. It made me want to die. It wasn’t even worth being the hot, non-stinky one to put up with that.
“Everybody poops, Red!” Baby hooted. “Everybody poops! It’s a book! didn’t your parents make you read that when you were little? Everybody poops, everybody poops.” Baby was maybe a little drunk. She exited the dressing room caroling, “Ev-ery bo-dy poops.”