Top 10 dumb-ass questions guys ask strippers.

I know I’m supposed to be a fantasy but even when I’m flirting around a strip joint in a slutty lil’ skirt I’m still a woman. I know strippers are mystical magical creatures that just appear. I know customers often want to “know more” and create some picture in their head of who we really are. Often men want to “rescue us” from our tragic fate.

For some reason when males walk into peeler bars all manners are lost and the most offensive and rude questions are asked. Things everyone knows never to ask a woman, we hear multiple times a day. Lucky us!

Top 10 dumb-ass questions guys ask strippers.

10. Where do you live?

9. What does your boyfriend think of you dancing?

8. How much for the night?

7. What else do you do?

6. How old are you?

5. How much money do you make?

4. What’s your REAL name?

3. I don’t feel right giving you money. Can I take you out for dinner instead?

2. You’re too pretty to be here. Why don’t you do something better with your life?

and the #1 dumb-ass question...
1. It’s my birthday can I get a free dance?

Mugs, Jugs, and smiles.

Yawning, I stare across the decrepit old room towards my suitcase. “What to wear? What to wear?” I mutter to no one. I glance at the clock, stretch, and with my blanket wrapped around my body I walk the short distance across the room to reluctantly peek into my garment bag. The metal rod squeaks as I flip through the hangers. The crowd downstairs is working boys. They like rock. I like rock. Besides I’m feeling fat today and I don’t want to wear my angel. Lil’ Red Riding will do. I haven’t done that show in months.

Staring at myself in the mirror I notice how tired my eyes look. It’s been a rough couple weeks and I’m beginning to see the results. I paint on another layer of foundation, and accent the smoky makeup of my eyes. Bright red lips are glossed and puckered. Mascara is retouched. I quickly run a comb through my hair, it’s getting long, and stuff my blanket into my rainbow leopard print stage bag.

I’m watching CSI Miami while getting ready. I won’t see the end of this episode because I have to be on stage at 12:25am. The red PVC layers are completed by the hood. I adjust my PVC skirt, and slide into my stilettos, grab my stage bag and CD and walk down the stairs to the bar. It’s time to work.

I’m exhausted from my week off, but so thankful to be on stage where everything is okay. The music fills the bar, and fills my mind and I dance. Mugs and Jugs is a kick ass bar. It’s fun and full of good energy. The crowd cheers and grins and loves the attention. I’m having fun grooving to Billy Idol, and laughing as the crowd sings along “In the midnight hour she cried more more more! With the rebel yell she cried more more more Whoooooooo!”

It’s a happy bar. Tips are good and the energy is awesome. I love shows like this. I’m a performer and anyone that lives on stage knows what a difference the audience makes. As the final notes of The Who fade into the cheers I smile and collapse on the floor, sweaty and happy. I grab my work purse out of my bag and stuff the couple five dollar bills in. I feel my phone vibrate as I do. I’m done and curiosity gets the best of me as I pull out my phone and glance at the call display. It’s The Musician. I answer. “Hey babe, I’m still on stage. I’m sitting here naked with everyone looking at me.”

“What! You’re answering your phone on stage? hahahaha” he’s laughing at me, but I know he’s totally entertained by the image.

I giggle and tell him “I’ll call you back in 5 min babe.” Quickly tying my black lace top, and sliding into the matching tiny skirt I grab my shit and head up stairs to get dressed and call him back. I’m done for the day, and so is the bar. The lights go on as I make my exit.

The Musician wants me to come over. I pack my stuff, wriggle into my jeans and jump into my car. It’s a quick drive to his house at 1:00am. He grins as I walk in the door...

It’s really late when I finally pull into my driveway.

It’s not just the sex, which is amazing. It’s hanging out and just being real. I love the goofy shit, listening to him babble about stories and thoughts and people. I’m smiling from just laying there exhausted, chatting, and watching stupid 80’s movies.

We talk about music and business. We talk about life, and what's been going on. He takes my mind off everything and always makes me giggle. All I want is him to just be himself. I love it. He gives me the release I need and the companionship I adore.

It was a wonderful day. I can still smell him on my skin. I can taste him on my lips and I’m going to bed with a smile.

I wish I could cry.

I don’t want to be numb anymore.

I don’t want this. I want to taste the air and feel alive. I do. I really do. I’m happy (not today) and life is good (just not this week). I just want… something. I want to hear “I love you.” I want to know that someone thinks I’m special. I want someone to convince me I’m not disposable. I’m feeling pretty pathetic and vulnerable… from that detached stance I take.

I could care. I know I could let myself love… someday… when someone wants me. maybe I’ll just be real. I’m not impenetrable. I might be invincible.

I’m just me. It’s all so fucking repetitive and who cares really... I want to be loved. I want to stop being defensive and afraid. I want to let myself love.

Not yet. But I want it. I want the magic. I wish I was adored... the Musician is being caring. Alexander is wrapping his arms around me. Neither one is really present in my life. Neither one has done anything to actually pursue me, but they’re both acting like they might possibly give a shit. Maybe someday someone might actually care about me.

I wish I could cry. I always wish I could cry but I can’t. I can feel it… barely… so far below the surface. An inkling of pain is there, quiet.

I wish for so many things. I wish I had spoken with Merrick these past few months. I wish he had been more communicative. I wish I could have known what was in his heart. I want to know if he knew, what he was feeling, how and why and what… was it cancer? Was it defeat? I wish Merrick had taken the time to talk to me. I’m a million miles away. I’m a million years away. Our paths crossed like two ships in the dark, sailing blind through an intense collision. I don’t even know how I feel about him. I don’t know anything. I just know I can’t cry. I can’t do anything.

I’m paralyzed and angry. I’m nothing. I’m so sick of being numb. I wish I could scream and shout and feel. I wish I could jump off the cliff and know that I would survive. I want to feel the pain. I want to bleed and ache. I want to yell at him. I want him to hold me. I want to know whether I even give a shit. Do I even care? He’s gone. Big fucking deal. He was a hurricane. He was an incredible force and maybe he was just done. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Fuck this.

It’s just so weird. Other people can cry. I wish I could cry.

I feel sick, weak, lost, needy, and pathetic. I want to be fucked. At least then I would feel something. I want pain and humiliation. I want the punishment and the comfort. I want the warmth and fear. I want the soft protection and the violent degradation. Instead I’m alone. So alone. Silent.

No man loves me. No man needs to protect me. There is no number in my phone to call. I can’t say “I need you to hold me. please.” I don’t have that. I’m too strong. I’m too in control. I’m in so much fucking control I can’t even cry.

I could be weak with Merrick… but he’s dead now.

I'm numb

He’s dead.
Merrick is dead.
It’s a fucking death year. I don't want it. No more! No.
I saw him at Christmas. He came from Slovakia to visit over the holidays.
Sunshine told me a few hours ago over msn. "He's dead." A million miles away in Slovakia our friend is dead. The End.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t feel anything. So fucking numb. I knew. I knew he was dying and now he’s dead. Been there. done that. I watched a friend die. They’re all so surprised, so shocked. I’m not. I knew. And now he’s dead. Weird.

I’m numb. I can’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry until I feel safe, safe enough to be vulnerable. I won’t cry until a man I trust wraps me in his arms and takes away the pressure of control. It could be a while. I have to take care of everything. I have to be strong. I have to… breathe. It’s not the worst week of my life—not by a long shot but it still fucking sucks.

I’m numb.

I just want to focus on the manageable stuff. I want to think about boys and crushes and possibilities. Maybe I could just be vulnerable. Maybe I could let myself care. I don’t even know what I’m scared of… a fucking broken heart? What’s so terrible about a broken heart? I know it’s not worse than this. It’s not worse than this fucking helpless numb overload. I’m so stressed and worried. My family is in crisis and I’m scared. The burden of responsibility and powerless frustration fucking sucks. I can’t deal with any more. I’m maxed out. I’m done.

My friend is dead. I can’t sleep. I want to sleep.

end of an era

What a day. I don’t even know where to begin. I’m totally overwhelmed. As everyone knows last night was the final night for The Drake. That alone was both amazing and emotionally draining. The bar was packed, wall to wall, hundreds of people came out to celebrate and mourn the end of an era. Crowds cheered. Sequins glistened. Gravity was defied. Beer was poured. Breasts were revealed. Hugs were shared. I fought a lump in my throat as I watched the final few dancers bring the bar to a close. I’m really going to miss that bar and the people that made it such a great place to work.

I also ended up working the entire day at the No5 Orange, and I spent my time in between shows running around trying to make my extensive to do list manageable and plausible. It worked but it took a lot out of me. On top of everything work related I also received some personal news that really shook me up.

The thing the audience always forgets is that the show must go on. There were moments yesterday when I wiped away tear smudged eyeliner before touching up my lipstick. Sometimes you just take a deep breath, add another layer of makeup, and hide behind the music.

I was onstage at the No5 when I saw The Musician. I contemplated ignoring him or pretending I didn’t see him, but I didn’t. I don’t know why he appears when I’m having a rough day. It’s not the first time I’ve been grateful for the comfort and distraction of his company. He asked me to come over later. I said yes.

After my last show, after The Drake had put its final dancer on the stage, after there was nothing more to do with my personal worries, I went to him. Frazzled and physically and emotionally exhausted I drowned my night in whiskey and giggles. It was a very intoxicated night. It was exactly what I needed. A lot of things were said last night, some he may remember—many he probably will not.

I liked being around him and I liked the feel of him next to me. I missed his laughter and his unnecessary apologies. I don’t know where I stand with The Musician or how I feel or what’s good for me but I guess that’s life. If I’m totally honest with myself I’m just feeling vulnerable and exposed. Dammit!! I’m afraid a layer of my defenses has been breached. It was good to see him.

Tomorrow I’ll continue rebuilding my life and deal with my family responsibilities. Tomorrow there won’t be naked ladies at The Drake Show Lounge. Here’s to the end of an era and to finding a way to make tomorrow a step in the right direction.

it just sucks.

I don’t want The Drake to close. I feel like I’m losing a friend. What I am losing is options. I’m losing a safe environment in which to work. I’m losing security and choice. They don’t fucking care if they run strippers out of business. They don’t fucking care if our choices are taken away, if we’re forced to make harder decisions. They don’t care if we end up on the street.

It’s just another reminder of how disposable the City of Vancouver thinks we are.

Bastards!
I’m going to cry again.

They bought everything—the stage, the bar, the poles… everything! Someone tell me what the city needs with a stripper stage? Maybe they’ll run us out of town and use the brass poles for the fucking Olympics.