Asshole!!

Mother Fucking little Weasel!!! Christ I’m so fucking mad right now I’m still shaking. My head is pounding and I’m raging. I just want to tear out his balls shove them down his throat and slam his face into the heel of my stiletto!

Still shaking.

Sigh… I guess I’ll back it up…

It’s been an uneventful week at the Liquid Zoo. Too many spoiled drunken kids as usual, but the lineup was good, the schedule was ideal and everything was smooth… until about two hours ago.

I’m in the dressing room after my show, just touching up my makeup and cooling down when the DJ comes in. “I have a private show for you to do.”

I look at him and respond with “okay, $40.”

“No. I hold on to the money and you get paid at the end of the night.”

My eyebrows go up as I look at him, thinking about that idea. I’m not comfortable doing dances unless I’ve been paid for them. “No. I’m not cool with that. It’s my money. Take your $10, but I want my $30 for the dance. I don’t like doing dances unless the money is in my hand.”

Cocky and dismissive he explained, “Well we’ve had problems with dancers stealing before and this is the best way to do it.”

I don’t like where this is heading. “Sigh… Well I’ve had problems with bars before trying to rip me off. But fine. Whatever.” I shrug, ending the conversation and grabbing a pen. “I’ll log it.” I say as I write down DJ owes me $30 in my book and go do the dance.

From there it just escalated.

After my third show the DJ comes in again. “I have another dance for you to do.”

I’ve already thought about it and decided that I’m not comfortable with the DJ holding on to my dance money. It’s not legal, and it’s not smart. Without vouchers or dances being logged I have nothing to prove how much money is owed to me. I explain it to him. “No. I’m not doing dances unless the money goes to me. I’m sorry that’s just not how I run my business.”

“Fine you stupid bitch. No more dances for you. You’re cut off. You’re not allowed to do anymore private dances.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“This is how it’s done! It’s the best way to do it. Maybe if you’d been selling dances you would know that.”

“Excuse me? I’ve sold more private dances than any girl here. I’ve done dances every single night this week and this has NEVER been a problem until now.”

“You don’t want to do that dance fine. You’re done. You want me to fire you and you’ll never work here again. Fine I’ll get the manager.”

“Fine!”

After a brief encounter with the manager we’ve managed to smooth things over and I’ve calmed down enough to work. He gives me the $30 for the dance I already did. I go back out on the floor, sell a few more dances, and pay the manger directly for the $10 on each dance that the house collects.

It’s 1:00am and I’m getting dressed for my final show for the week. My Sister is in the bar and she wants to see the pirate show, so she will. I pull on the black PVC leggings and red and gold sequined bra and fiddle with mesh of my pirate shirt. The DJ comes into the dressing room and announces, “Hey Fuck Face give me your songs.”

My blood boils, my teeth clench and my pupils constrict as I stare at my CD case trying not to hit him. I don’t say a word. I don’t move an inch. After a minute he walks out, frustrated. The other dancer stares at me in disbelief. I’m raging.

Asshole DJ returns as I’m lacing up my red brocade skirt and demands my song numbers again. I glare at him “Oh I’m sorry were you talking to me? Because I’m pretty sure you don’t need to talk to me like that.”

“You stupid cunt! Everything had been fine all week then you have to get a fucking attitude and be a spoiled bitch! This is how things are!! Now give me your fucking songs or get the fuck out!”

“I’ve worked in a hell of a lot more strip clubs than you have, so I’m pretty sure I know how things are.”

“Listen you stupid bitch how about you give me your fucking songs.”

“Fuck you! Get out! Just get the hell out of my face.”

“You’re done! Forget it. I don’t need your shit. Your show is cancelled.”

“You are NOT canceling my last goddamn show.”

“Well when a cunt like you has to cause so many problems. Why should I put you on?” He smirks at me, mocking my anger.

My knuckles are white. My fists are clenched. Somehow I breathe long enough to give him the song numbers before he wrenches the CD out of my hand and slams the door behind him. My hands are shaking. I’m too angry to cry. I have to be on stage in two minutes and I want to fucking kill that self-righteous little prick. I want to scream. I glare at the door through which he disappeared and scream.

“SLAM!!” my stiletto punctures through the drywall from the force of the kick, leaving a full footprint hole in the wall. I look at the damage and glance over at the other dancer. She’s dumbfounded by the entire scene she just witnessed.

I take a deep breath; pull a poster off the wall and cover the hole I’ve just made. I watch my hands shake with rage. I have to be on stage, now! I take another deep breath, put the red brocade pirate hat on my head, adjust the feather, add another layer of red lip gloss and beeline it for the stage.

Somehow I survive my show. I just dance. Fuck him. I just dance, and dance and try to expel the excess energy. It doesn’t work, but it helps. On stage I’m safe. I still want to implant my stiletto in his throat, but I don’t. I hate him.

I pack my things, collect my pay, say goodbye to the other two dancers and get the hell out of the bar. I’m so done. Fuck him!!

I need to sleep

I look like a tramp. That is a tramp in care bear pajamas. Leftover smoky eyeliner is smeared across my eyelids and my cheek. It’s not classy but I don’t care. Stage makeup is never flattering after a nights work, but it was worth it for the full Cleopatra effect.

I’m tired-- body aching, eyelids heavy, brain foggy, crushing exhaustion tired. Yet I can’t sleep. I don’t even know what I’m thinking about but I’m in one of those moods. Wondering who I am, and why I do what I do. Wondering what I want and whether any of it is worth it. I’m not really having an existential crisis, just an ambition and homework mini-crisis. I’m not feeling very motivated to write papers or drop thousands of dollars into the educational abyss. I’m feeling a bit over my head with certain endeavors, but I’m sure it will pass.

I don’t have any answers; I don’t even really know what’s keeping me awake. There aren’t any real problems in my life, and everything I’ve taken on is on track and progressing as it should. I’m just feeling… exhausted and unsettled. I should sleep…

k-town

CSI is playing in the background. I can’t remember if I’ve seen this one or not, but I’m exhausted and not really paying attention. My sister is sprawled on a lime green yoga mat on the floor, watching CSI and snuggling with a giant teddy bear. The cat has lost her mouse in a pile of fabric that used to be a curtain and is attacking everything in sight searching for it. The Little One (our youngest sister) is beside me on the mattress MSNing me from 3 feet away. We’re a lazy bunch of girls this afternoon.

I’m in K-town for the week. Soon enough I’ll have to drag my fabulous but exhausted ass off the floor and get ready for work- but not yet. I think I’ll sit here for a couple more hours, wishing for a nap and recovering from the weekend. Maybe I’ll get back to my homework tomorrow… maybe. Maybe I’ll just enjoy the sister time. It’s too rare.

I’ll be getting naked at the Liquid Zoo all week.

Fetish.

I learned something new today. As some of you may remember I managed to get my poor car stuck in my driveway in the evil snow and had to call a friend of my sister’s to come rescue me. I had no idea that my annoying predicament drew the attention of the dedicated followers of Stuck World.

Fetishes amaze me. I encounter a few fetishist patrons at work, but many of the less acceptable fetishes remain hidden in the dark corners of the internet. Strip clubs are by nature very vanilla, but we certainly get our fair share of loyal fetishes. Common strip club fetishes include:

Voyeurs- I don’t think I need to explain the prevalence of that one.

Submissives- it’s pretty easy to be treated like a worthless wallet in a peeler bar, and there are usually women willing to take out frustration and rage on a willing victim. I know I’ve had my share of subs pay me to be a bitch.

In a world where the fantasy is the perception and adoration of the parts all sorts of objectification fetishes are welcome. Pick a body part or accessory, and there will be someone in the bar that fantasizes about it. Small boobs, huge knockers, legs, booty, blondes, piercings, tattoos, long hair… you name it. Many theme costumes such as the school girl and dominatrix also play on common uniform fetishes. We also get a huge variety of the clothing fetish guys. Stockings, garters, corsets… etc… and of course the favourite “fire-crotch” red head fetish, and all sorts of variations on that theme.

Foot/shoe/stiletto fetish: usually found sitting in front row staring at dancers’ feet. I LOVE foot fetish guys- they’re so easy to please.

That’s the thing about fetishes, I suspect that everybody has at least one. Some are perceived as mainstream and acceptable (like boobs- everyone is allowed to love boobs) others are considered perversions and remain secrets, hidden even from loved ones and partners.

Glad to do my part. Haha.

Oh yes I have my own fetishes. No, I’m not telling what they are ;)

It doesn't matter what I say.

I had a great night. The company was great. The music was awesome and there was no bloodshed or tears. (at least that I know of)

I doubt I can defend my absurd relationship with The Musician. I know many people would be much happier if I would just find a (good enough) man and become part of a societal acceptable partnership. Then I would be properly “figured out” and categorized. I would meet other people’s expectations of what I deserve and what I need and everyone could sleep at night- everyone except me.

I know it doesn’t matter what I say. It doesn’t matter if I say I’m happy, or if I say I don’t want a boyfriend, it’ll still be heard as something entirely different. People will hear that I don’t think I’m good enough, or that I just haven’t met the “right one”. People will say “just wait- it’ll happen to you when you least expect it”.

It doesn’t matter what I say. It doesn’t matter how I feel. I’m something else. I don’t fit into that bubble. I never have. I don’t even want to. I don’t even want to care about The Musician, but I do. Maybe someday I’ll feel differently.

I’m selfish when it comes to my life. I don’t want to take anyone else into consideration.

I guess people are welcome to read my words and think I’m lost or in denial, or just waiting… I know it doesn’t matter what I say.

better...

Okay I’m less mad now. I’m still irritated at my own vulnerability but at least the situation isn’t what I thought. I suppose things are okay, and I welcome the distance again. The Musician called me and we're back on the same page. Cryptic communication and assumptions never do us any good.

I’m okay. I’m totally overwhelmed by my life and everything I’ve taken on, but I’m okay. I don’t have time for drama. I do not have the energy for bullshit. Every-so-often I remember that I’m human, and I feel weak. I know that’s kinda stupid. But fuck that- I'm going to the show. Not to be a bitch, but because I want to.

I think I’ll head over to Van… later… maybe… I should be packing. Soon…

I don’t know what I need for the next month. I’d better figure that out soon. Costumes, shoes, real clothes, homework… and everything else I have room for?

By the time I come home again to my precious island I will officially have moved to Vancouver. I suppose that means I should put my stuff in order and have a plan as to how to get this shit off the rock.

I’d rather just sit here and write, or think, or work on the projects that are consuming my inspiration.

Not willing to care enough to cry.

Fuck this! I’m pissed off and I’m pissed off because I care. Yes, I actually care about feeling disposable today. I might not have cared yesterday, and hell I might be back to not giving a shit tomorrow, but right now. I care and it fucking sucks.

The Musician and I have a complicated relationship on the best of days. We’ll go weeks or months without speaking and inevitably the status of his on again off again pseudo-ex-girlfriend effects my life. It doesn’t seem to have much relevance as to whether we fuck or not, just timing and logistics, and guilt. Mostly it just effects his guilt.

I don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t know why they continue to circle around the disaster and pain of what they’ve become- but then again I don’t know why I’m here today so I suppose I’m not much better.

He has a show tonight. She’s going. Therefore I’m not. I want to go. I want to stand in front of her, looking perfect, looking like the stripper, and stare her down. I want to glare at her and ask, “Do you really think you’re that sweet and good?” I know in his mind she’s the good girl, the girlfriend, she’s the one you marry.

I’m something else.

I want to stand in front of her and invite her to attack me. It’s not jealousy; I just want to feel real for a moment. I would rather have her hit me than continue to pretend I don’t exist. It’s just fucking selfish but I want to feel some power and influence. I want to be real, not hidden as an obscure threat, or an indefinable fantasy, but real- as a woman. She doesn’t need me to deliberately hurt her. But I can’t help wanting to.

I want to scream “Do you really think he’ll stop fucking me!?!”

I won’t do any of that. I won’t go to the show, and I’m not going to do anything malicious. I don’t know if anyone would call that morals, but it’s about respect. I doubt I can even defend that claim if challenged, but it is. I would not actually be that cruel.

I suspect this absurd affair will continue… and really it doesn’t matter. I’m just realizing that while my intentions haven’t changed, somewhere along the way I accidentally grew to care.

If I come to care anymore I might have to end it. I’m not willing to cry over this guy.

WET!!

It’s raining… it’s pouring… the island is WET!!

Ok so my rhyming skills aren’t up to par today but I’m afraid my brain has turned into mush. It’s been a rough week for homework but my paper has been emailed off and I can check that assignment off the list. It’s strange flipping back and forth between antisocial nerd and naked fantasy, especially when doing it every 2 hours, but that’s my life right now. I slide into my stilettos and costume of the moment, smile, and dance up a storm. My “clothes” end up in a pile the corner of the stage, and I end up naked, sprawled on my back. As the music fades and DJ announces me off I wrap my rainbow leopard print blanket around my naked sweaty body, climb the secret stairs, and curl up on the dressing room couch, computer in my lap, and books all around me. It did make the week fly by.

I’ve been busy, too busy, too busy to think or create, or write or explore. I’ve been buried in books, and multitasking an absurd amount of tasks. But I’m happy. Things are coming together and my homeless days are almost over.

I’m beginning to get a sense of how exhausting my gypsy life has really been. The constant moving, the lack of a stable base, the memory of my own bed totally gone from my frame of reference, it’s almost over. I’m moving to Van… in 3 short weeks I’ll officially have my own apartment again (it’s been years). I’ll have my very own space… complete with NO furniture because after three years of being transient and homeless- I own nothing but books, PVC, plastic shoes, and sequined hats.

I’ll still be touring, but for the first time in my stripper life I’ll be able to come home to my own space. The idea is calming and exhilarating. I can’t wait!!!


(from the Vancouver Courier) Me and Trina at Dancers for Cancer :)

ED4C4 Thank you

I’m exhausted!
I’m also famous. Urgh. Well if anyone didn’t know I’m a Peeler- they do now. CTV carried the story on both the 6:00 and 11:00 news. Global picked it up at 11:00.

The day itself feels like a very long, very exhausting dream. It’s been overwhelming and exciting, and wonderful, and challenging all at the same time. I’m very proud to be able to call myself a member of The Naked Truth and the exotic dance industry. What an incredible community!!!

I want to personally thank everyone that came out us last night. The support has been tremendous. A HUGE THANK YOU to all the women that donated shows last night. We had 20 different girls get up on that stage out of the goodness of their hearts. Ashley came all the way from Toronto, and Alena joined us from Edmonton. I also want to send out a special thank you to Lady Sable for making the trip down.

There are other donations still to come in, but last night we raised $7705

I’m exhausted, but I’ll be back at the bar in an hour… It’s Monday and I have a full week of work ahead of me at The Drake.

Thank you everyone. Every dancer I know has experienced the stigma associated with this job at some point in their career. The judgment and negativity can follow you for years… When the Breast Cancer Society turned us down I was hurt. I wasn’t angry, or bitter. I was hurt to be reminded of how harsh some people view us, view me, simply because I get naked.

Even now, being inundated with positive energy and love, I’m still waiting for the backlash. I’m still waiting for the hate mail and the condemnation. That’s how deep the stigma runs.

Thank you to Rethink for accepting our money, and openly supporting our compassion and desire to make a difference. We’ve all been touched by cancer and if I think about it too much tears well in my eyes. Cancer has broken so many hearts in my life, and broken my own too often. Thank you to the media for covering this event in such a positive and respectful manner. Thank you for validating our humanity to the masses who may not have thought too much about strippers before.

“Our beauty lies deeper than what we expose to the masses on stages all over the world. We are strong, independent, powerful women who deserve to be heard, not just seen.” Trina Ricketts.

24 hours to go...

In the background I can hear my laundry clanking against the walls of the machine. I’m waiting impatiently for the cycle to finish before I leave to do errands. Exotic Dancers for Cancer is tomorrow and I still have a long list of things to get done before I make my way to the ferry.

I pull my geisha costume out of the closet and quickly count the pieces. It’s all there. I grab metallic paints from the cupboard, and dig my wig out from behind my posters. Due to popular demand I’ll be doing my Geisha show at the event. My show time is tentatively scheduled for 7:30, and all my props are ready to go!

I’m exited. The event this year is going to be our biggest yet. At last count there were 20 girls donating shows. The list of items up for grabs at the silent auction is sweet. The media attention has been overwhelming, and the guest list has become long.

I’ll be at The Drake from noon on tomorrow. Hope to see you there!!

I'm a little whiney and pathetic

Las Vegas was shiny, and sparkly, and wonderful. I could talk about all the glitter and glamour, or how fat and rude Americans are (sorry to any nice people south of the border). But seriously I was shocked by how rude people were. I had fun. The wedding was sweet, and my sister and I had a blast running through the smoke and mirrors.

But now I’m home. It fucking snowed and I don’t wanna be here. I can’t get out of my driveway until the ice melts a bit, and I’m not getting anything done. I’m pretty much feeling whiney and pathetic and I want to curl up with my care bear and cry. I’m totally overwhelmed by everything I’ve taken on. Exotic Dancers for Cancer is only 3 days away. Homework is piling up around me and all I really want to do is go for coffee with Ginger or Clare. I miss my friends.

The house I’m living in is for sale. What little stability I did have to come home to is gone. It’s been replaced by the pressure to make everything look like no one lives here. Maybe I shouldn’t live here anymore. I don’t want to think about it but in the back of my mind I know I’m moving, sooner than I had hoped.

I guess in a couple short months I’ll be saying goodbye to my precious island home and trying to make a life for myself in the pre-Olympic construction zone they call Vancouver. Urgh!

I know life isn’t that bad, and really I have it pretty good. But the lack of stability is starting to get to me. I guess three years homeless is enough? I want a home. I want bookshelves with my books on them. I want a kitchen with food in it, and an oven that works. I want to bake cookies, and sleep in my own bed. I want my pictures on the wall. I want my clothes in a closet.

It looks like my life is changing again. Sigh… I’ll deal with it. I know I’ll figure it out and everything will be fine, but I’m feeling a little resentful right now. I want my own place, and I know I will have to move. I just don’t want everything to change right now. I don’t want to add more stress to the pile. I don’t have a choice, but I don’t have to be happy about it today.

I’m going to finish cleaning my room, and then make another attempt to get out of the driveway.