bye bye 2007

Wow. I can’t believe this year is already over. I have to say I’m relieved. It’s been exhausting but I’m sure 2008 will be a good year. I just didn’t expect it to be starting with such major change. I’ll be starting new jobs soon. I don’t know what they are, or how I’m going to pay my bills without stilettos but I will.

I’m heartbroken. I really am. I love dancing with all my heart and soul and the women in this industry. I’m not ready to walk away. I’m really not. I have to tell myself I’ll come back to it and I’m sure I will. I’ll take the occasional gig here and there. I’ll cover a shift for a friend but as a fulltime job I’m done.

I’ll be in Squamish this week for a couple of days but I don’t have any bookings after that.

I’m mad at the world that I’m being forced to stop dancing. I’m mad at the city for targeting strippers and making running a strip club impossible. I’m mad at them for shutting us down, for being so self-righteous about it, and for being so blind to the lives their agenda is hurting.

I’m pissed at the driver that failed to yield and caused the car accident that has left me still injured more than eight months later. If I was healthy I could have gone back out on the road. I could have kept dancing.

But mostly I’m mad at the world for forcing me to start over, pick up the pieces, and rebuild—again. I’ll always be okay. I’ll always land on my feet and survive. I don’t actually need the help and support I want. I’ll be even stronger. I’ll be okay. I’m just so tired of having to be.

I’m heading out dancing in a couple of hours. A couple girlfriends and I are going Salsa dancing to ring in the New Year. Thank God 2007 is over. I need a change.

I don’t do “resolutions” but I do take personal inventory, reflect, and make goals and priorities for the coming year. This year my goals are to…

Be awesome-er
Financially stable
Pelvic-ly stable
Datable

Ha! I know in my heart that 2008 is going to be a good year. I shouldn't be so hard on 2007. I grew a lot but it's time to bring on the happy times!

it's the end

I have so much to say and it’s been building up for weeks but the reality is I’ve been too devastated and angry to say anything more than “Fuck you all!”

Mugs and Jugs is closing in a week. Unfortunately without that bar I can’t pay my bills dancing in Vancouver and I’m not physically able to travel anymore. So I’m forced to quit dancing because of finances.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I know I’m qualified I have the experience to do anything I want but all I want to do is dance. Every other job I’ve had has bored me to tears. I want to learn something everyday and feel passion and purpose in what I do. That’s what Stiletto Storm is going to be. But I have to survive and pay rent in the meantime. So I’m looking for a job. Anyone want to hire me?

Ironic isn’t it? The perception that strippers make a ton of money is so far from the truth in Vancouver it makes me sick. We’ve been circling the drain for a while now and I guess it’s finally happening. Politics is winning. The cities get to shut down strip clubs, take away safe work options for women, and congratulate themselves on doing so.

I should go paint the whole picture here but I’m just too exhausted. I look around Vancouver and what I see is a community at risk. Pickton is guilty. Big fucking deal! Women are still dying. They’re still disappearing. They’re still treated as disposable inconveniences.

And instead of protecting the most vulnerable women in our community the municipality prides itself on shutting down strip clubs and forcing women to make harder decisions. I’m already depressed and feeling desperate. All I have to take care of is my self and my dreams. I’m not a single mother—but a lot of my friends are.

The demise of strip clubs in Vancouver means the end of non-contact income for a lot of women. Think about that for a second. Think about it when you drive past one of the old ghost clubs. We used to be able to entertain for living. We used to dance to support our families, and our future. We used to strip on stage—safe. Those days are gone.

I have so much more to say… but I’m still too livid.

I’ll be at Mugs and Jugs Dec 27-29. I’ll be there to close the club and cry my heart out. We’ve lost so much more than a bar.

Bourbon 50 bullshit!!

So Friday night I was at the Bourbon 50 on West Cordova for Reid's CD release party. Near the end of the show I got a phone call so I went outside so I could hear, stepped over the rope and finished my phone call. I hung up and went to walk back in the bar and the doorman (who looks familiar) stops me. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry? What? I was just in there. I’m with the band. I’ve been here all night. I was just on the phone.”

He snorts at me “Oh you are easily the most annoying person I’ve dealt with all week.”

I’m shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’m not fucking kidding you. You can’t just step over the rope. You’re not coming back in.”

“What the FUCK!?!? You’re not letting me back in the bar because I STEPPED OVER YOUR ROPE?!?”

He shouts at me in front of 20 people standing in line. “LISTEN BITCH!! I DON’T GET IN YOUR FACE WHEN YOU’RE TAKING YOUR CLOTHES OFF AT THE NO5!”

Suddenly I remember where I’ve seen him-- he used to be a bouncer. This guy used to work protecting me. “Look. It’s probably the only Friday night off I’m going to get this year. I just want to go hang out with my friends.”

"So." He shrugs.

"WTF! come on. It's almost the end of the show. I never get to hear them play can you please just let me enjoy the show!"

"Get out of my face bitch."

"What the FUCK is your problem? Because I stepped over your fucking rope? Seriously just let me go hang out with my friends."

He ignores me and walks away, refusing to let me back in the bar and leaving me alone on the street in Gastown. After ten minutes of walking in and out of the bar, ignoring me, he returns. He shrugs, rolls his eyes, and nods for the other doorman to open the rope for me. I glare at him and storm into the bar, heading straight for the stage.

Another bouncer follows me to the dance floor and starts yelling “Hey! You can’t come in here. You didn’t show your stamp!”

“Are you fucking kidding me! Just leave me alone. I’m with the band. I’m on the fucking list and my stamp is right here on my arm!”

“Oh you need you go. Get out!” he yells at me

I’m practically in tears as my friends try to explain it to him. Before I even know it the fucking bouncer has called the fucking Vancouver Police on me!! Of course it has to be some angry chick cop who stands with her hands on her hips glaring at me “You need to leave. Right now. They’ve asked us to remove you. Let’s go.”

I’m on the verge of tears. All I want to do is enjoy my night.

Outside the bitch starts giving me shit about causing trouble and threatens to throw me in the drunk tank. “They have the right to refuse service to troublemakers.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong! At all!” The tears have started.

She refuses to listen to anything “You need to keep your mouth shut. We get a lot of problems in this neighbourhood.”

“What’s the problem?” Reid, the guitar player, asks as he walks out the door.

“You need to stay out of this. Go back inside.” She orders him.

“I’m not about to leave her out here alone.” He replies calmly. “She's a good friend of mine. I just want to get this sorted out.”

“You want to go to the drunk tank too?” She threatens.

“Look. She hasn’t done anything. This is just a misunderstanding.”

Suddenly he’s slammed up against the side of the building and cuffed. I’m bawling. The doorman is smirking at me, laughing.

Obviously the show is really over now that the guitar player is in cuffs. I shout at the lead singer as he walks out the smoking room door.

“They all need to stay out of this.” The cop orders me.

I glare at her.
She glares back.
I’m in a fucking staring contest as I type their badge numbers into my phone.

It takes us another half hour to get Reid released. The promoter is raging. I’m still in tears. What a load of crap. Fucking asshole. The doorman is gloating now. He tips his stupid beret at me as we walk away to wait for the rest of the band to load up the gear.

Maybe that asshole doorman hit on me one day at work and I blew him off. Maybe he just hates me. Maybe he’s a fucking steroid monkey that needs to feel powerful over something. I'm still upset about it. I don't treat people like that. I just couldn't.

Anonymous said...

"Why don't you get a real job and develop some selfesteem while you're at it. Stupid people are people that keep doing things they hate for all the wrong reasons. You're only a small step above being a hooker, don't kid yourself."

I'm not going to bother deleting this one... or replying right now. So let's put it out there for everyone to read because this person obviously really needs to be heard and I already deleted one comment.

Would anyone else care to respond?

Cheetah’s, Kelowna (I hate it)

The room is toxic with negative energy as I reluctantly shuffle through Cheetah's in my little skirt and bikini top. I’d like to sell a few dances but I can’t. Scattered co-ed groups giggle to themselves, ignoring the stage, as my friend dances. They don’t even clap. I pause to watch young girls grind each other in the corner and wonder why they don’t put more clothes on. This is a party bar. The kids come here to drink and be amused. It feels like a frat house as they judge, watch, and compete with the strippers.

I pretend to not know how much the manager hates dancers as I ignore the catty comments that fly behind our backs between the staff. They think I’m a bitch. They’re right. My patience is nil.

One of the bouncers is pushing private dances for another girl. He picks his favourite—I’m not it. I’m glad for her but my purse is empty and I’m stressed. My lack of income combined with the negative atmosphere is crushing my confidence. I just want to cry.

Ignoring the drunken brats I return to the dressing room. I hate this bar but I have one more show to survive before I can crawl into bed and hide. I need to dance for me. I need to just enjoy myself and purge this critical bullshit. Maybe Top Gun will help.

I create a shallow fake smile as my music fills the bar and for a moment I feel okay. I close my eyes and spin myself around the comforting brass pole. My hair flips around as my back arches and I slide to the ground. I wish I could do my entire set with my eyes closed. I dance, trying to force the judgment to slide off me. A drunken teenage girl is making out with her boyfriend in front row. Another group is chattering about the weekend, their backs to the stage.

I close my eyes again and shake my ass to encourage my shimmering white pants to fall to the floor. Pulling the legs over my stilettos I toss the garment into the corner and strut across the stage again, staring at the ceiling.

Another drunk is leaning on the edge of the stage taking pictures of me with his cell phone. I don’t have patience for this. Seductively I crawl over to him and snatch the phone out of his hands, tossing it into my stage bag. I don’t have time for this shit.

Instead I ignore his insults and yells and climb the pole. From fifteen feet in the air I can take a quiet breath before I toss my bra to the floor. I wish I could just stay up here but somehow I find the strength to slide down the brass and finish my show. I didn’t make a cent in tips this show. They’re just too drunk, too spoiled, and too cheap. I grab my cozy blanket from the stage floor and wrap it tight around my body. I love this blanket. It comes with me everywhere, keeps me warm, and keeps me hidden when I need it.

The bouncer has disappeared again as I make my way down the stairs and through the crowd. Before I get ten steps the guy whose cell phone I’ve confiscated corners me with his buddy. He grabs my wrist and yanks it back, almost knocking me off balance as his buddy reaches for my bag, attempting to find the phone. Instinctively I shove them both back but my arm already hurts and I’m feeling very angry and mistreated. The bouncers reappear and violently throw both assholes out but the damage is already done.

Tears well in my eyes by the time I close the dressing room door. I feel sick. I hate this bar. I just want to go home. At least the night is finally over and I can go cry in peace in my car.

Cheetah’s, Kelowna (the first rant)

I’m bitchy, whiney, and just generally pissed off at the world (or Kelowna).
It’s been a while since I bitched about a club… come to think of it I believe it was Liquid Zoo (also in Kelowna) that last had me raging.

And it’s only Tuesday!

It’s not often I work in clubs that treat their dancers like disposable inconveniences only good for what money they can squeeze out of us—yet here I am at Cheetah’s in Kelowna.

It’s such a shame because the club itself has so much potential. It’s a beautiful bar, I like the stage, and the hours are good. So much money walks through that room, and yet they insist on scraping every last penny out of their entertainers.

We’re charged $125/wk for the house regardless of whether we stay there or not (I’m not). So the bar is collecting $1500 per month from the dancers to pay for a house that has no cable, no internet, no laundry, no towels, and it’s dirty. We found clumps of hair on the floor and just about puked when we opened the fridge.

They even insist on taking such a high cut per song for every private dance that it drives the prices up to unrealistic. I do have to give kudos to my agency for at least making this week as tolerable as possible.

So maybe I should just be thankful for the writing material because when the strippers are the least fake people in town, and the whole thing is one big Stepford Wives frat house I suspect I’ll have a few good stories this week.

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?

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!!

Broken contract.

What do I say? It’s been a crazy couple of days and I’m fucking exhausted.
I’m at Roxxanne’s in Kitchener. After what feels like a hurricane of bullshit I’ve managed to find a piece of stability in this bar. First impressions are clean, friendly, and potentially lucrative. The staff has been very welcoming and kind and after the animosity of last week, I need it.

I don’t know if I have enough distance from the situation to write about it yet… but I’m at least going to try. I was booked for the feature spot at Whiskey A GoGo, just north of Toronto, last week. The manager knew what I looked like, he knew my show, he knew what I was offering… and he booked me back in December. I rearranged my schedule to accommodate his dates and in good faith made the journey from Vancouver to Toronto for a mere two week gig.

This industry can be pretty brutal at times, and we are judged daily, hourly, weekly… on everything from boobs, show, boundaries, pole work, attitude, costumes, body, makeup, beauty, walk, posters, cellulite, music, smile… If you can notice it, if it goes into a show, we are judged on it- naked.

At some point last week the absentee owner came in and decided he hated me. Maybe I wasn’t blonde. Maybe I didn’t buy my tits. Maybe he saw part of my show and decided I simply wasn’t good enough. Maybe this just isn’t my bar. It’s a strange club. Shows that get rave reviews, cheers, and money thrown on stage everywhere else I’ve ever done them went over like gay marriage in Alberta in this bar.

Regardless of my learning curve in meshing with this club, there was a verbal contract in place which the powers that be chose not to honour. Saturday night I was informed of the owner hating me, but nothing was confirmed. Sunday night… at 2am I received a phone call to tell me my shows had been cut to one a day. I was now booked 6 shows for the week rather than the 18 I had agreed to (difference of $1000 on my pay cheque)

I did my one show on Monday, while sorting through alternatives. I fly to Yellowknife on Sunday, and I’m stuck in Ontario for this week. I flew out here for a confirmed booking. With all expenses out of pocket, and work available to me at home, I agreed to come to Toronto because I trusted Whiskey A GoGo to be good on their word. I will not be making that mistake again.

Faced with a broken contract and an income problem I spent Monday and Tuesday searching for a replacement gig. It’s almost the end of January and I have financial obligations just like everybody else. I wish it was easier to get a straight answer on what a club is actually like. Agents will push bars they get a kickback from, and minimize the value of every other booking. Managers of course function on loyalty. Customer’s impressions rarely include more than what extras they can get, and how pretty the girls are. Even other dancers can be reluctant to share accurate information. Thankfully I do have some excellent contacts and friends in this industry whose opinions I can trust. Under the guidance of my stripper friends I found Roxxanne’s.

I started last night and it was a good night. No pressure. It’s a beautiful club and I’ll be okay. (I love the stage here- it’s perfect) I’ll make enough money this week to cover my expenses, and the hit my bank will take shouldn’t be too drastic. It sucks, but I’m resourceful and I tend to figure things out quickly. I’ll be at Roxxanne’s for the remainder of the week.

As for Whiskey A GoGo… well I have no desire to step foot in that bar again. They’re concerned about the reputation of their club… I can see why they might need to be.

They fucked me.

I’m okay, but the level of unprofessional, unreliable, two-faced manipulation and betrayal that I was subjected to is unfortunate. I liked that club. I have recommended it to both customers and dancers. I would have continued to support it. I would have encouraged other features to take the price cut to work there.

I won’t be doing that.

Disillusioned

Back in Toronto… I’m trying to digest and process my first experience with the Miss Nude Canada Pageant (MNCP), but I’m having a hard time with it.

It was a good week overall, and I met some great girls. Bad luck of the draw got me eliminated early. I went in without expectations but it stung looking at the scores, realizing that I had I not been first on that stage on Monday, I would have been in the finals. The difference between 4th and 7th place on Monday was 0.6. But, I had fun and I learned a lot. I ended up co-coordinating the pageant with Ultimate Feature, and was really able to get to know some of the girls. I’m really glad I had the opportunity, and I know I made some amazing friends. At the end of the week I won Miss Congeniality and Fanciest Fanny (best ass!!!)

As for the finals… well I don’t know what to say… or how to say it. This year we had international competitors entered in Miss Nude Canada. They are both great girls, and wonderful entertainers, but I just can‘t agree with what happened.

Miss Nude Canada should be exclusive to dancers who live and work in Canada. It no longer is, and we no longer have a highly regarded pageant for our Canadian girls

We had been told that IF an international girl won she would be given the award “Miss Nude Canada- International”. The Canadian 1st runner up would be awarded Miss Nude Canada. What happened instead was the Hungarian won Miss Nude Canada, the Australian won 1st runner up, and this is what it looked like.

Contestant Fri/ Sat/ Combined Total Award
Ginger Jones 43.5/ 46.6/ 45.05 Miss Nude Canada
Paris Lamore 41.7/ 45.5/ 43.6 1st Runner Up
Justice 41.3/ 45.9/ 43.6 2nd Runner Up
Mandy Carlton 43.4/ 43.1/ 43.25 3rd Runner Up
Fiona Phoenix 40.6/ 45.2/ 42.7 -
Fantasy 39.9/ 44.8/ 42.25 MNC Au Natural

As you can see Paris and Justice tied for 1st runner up. Beauty Queen Image scores were used to break the tie.

I spent six hours yesterday with Ultimate Feature and Pooh Bear (pageant owner) going over every detail of everything. The entire history of the pageant, the changes and state of our industry, past winners, egos, emotions, and expectations and I’m still left with the same feeling.

Miss Nude Canada should be represented by a dancer who lives and works in Canada.

I’m finding it difficult to convey the level of disillusionment and hurt to people who weren’t there to experience the week. It was agonizing watching our top dancers loose the crown. I know people will say they should just work harder, and fight for it next year. But it’s so much more than that. It’s our pride and faith in Canadian girls to keep going.

I’m upset. Other girls are upset. People are confused, and while some might calm down, and gain some emotional distance from this contest, others won’t come back.

About Pooh Bear (from the manual)
The company is (his) baby… he conceived of it, he designed it, he built it. This business is his pride and joy and no one is worth destroying a dream for. Honesty is the foundation of this pageant, a novel idea that seems to be working.

Stripper pageants are infamous for being manipulated, and tweaked. Miss Nude Canada is truly an honest event, and we cherish it. But now… it’s not Canadian, and it’s not the same. I don’t know that Canadian dancers will be as willing to take a week off, make the financial investment and sacrifice to come together and compete for a Miss Nude Canada, that isn’t. It’s not Miss Nude World, or Miss Nude International. It’s Miss Nude Canada!!

I want to cry. We NEED a reputable, reliable pageant for us. Our industry is struggling, our finances are dropping. The money that a top feature in Europe makes is TRIPLE what she would make in Canada. Yet we try. Even with the push towards lap dancing spreading across the country, even with the lack of bars booking features, even with clubs closing down at a staggering rate, we still have dancers willing to put in the time, the money, the creativity, and the love of performance into this pageant. It’s all we have left!!

I haven’t been around for 30 years. I only know the stories of what the Features did 15 or 20 years ago. I hear people long for the “good old days” of exotic dancing when it was a real show. I would love to spend $5000 on a show. I would love to invest in a trailer, and lights, and pyrotechnics, and effects… but I can’t. The money isn’t there anymore. At the end of the week and the end of the year you have to look at your net income. This isn’t volunteer work. It’s a job. I do the best I can and I know every contestant that entered this year does the same.

If you want to make money as a stripper in Canada you buy a couple sexy bikinis, a skimpy dress, and a pair of heels and you lap dance. You don’t take a week off to compete for titles. You don’t invest thousands into costumes and props. You don’t leave your family behind for weeks at a time. You lap dance, or you buy 6-10 simple costumes and you work as a Showgirl. You don’t buy $500 theme costumes; you buy $80 jam costumes.

I know Pooh Bear is struggling to keep MNCP alive. We all know the state of the industry. I know he’s had a hard time getting girls to enter. The days of 30 contestants are gone. There aren’t that many girls working as Features in Canada anymore. The old school Features are almost all retired, and there’s only a handful left. It’s a new generation taking up the feature game, and it won’t be the same. Our world is not the same. But there are those of us that care!!! It might not be 30 girls, but there were 14 Canadian strippers last week that cared enough to enter. We take pride in our show, in our performance, in our creativity and desire to keep exotic dancing in Canada an exotic art.

I want Miss Nude Canada to keep going, but not at any cost. It breaks my heart that it seems necessary to bring in international performers to compete for the only thing we have left.

I saw the best shows I’ve ever seen at the bar on Saturday night, and I saw the tears. I saw the anger and the pain of watching our title go to a wonderful performer that had never been to Canada before last week. Tears well in my eyes, fighting the raw lump in my throat as I think about how hard these girls worked, all the blood, sweat and tears that not only went into this pageant, but that goes into this business everyday as we fight tooth and nail to keep Features working in Canada. MNCP helps build Features. If we loose faith in the worth of MNC as a career booster and venue for creativity then I am even more worried about the art of exotic dance in Canada. The Velvet Lounge had never even seen a feature show before last week. We don’t often have the opportunity to see other feature shows. MNCP is a chance for the dedicated up and coming generation of exotic artists to come together to network, showcase, and compete. We build contacts and friendships. We exchange booking information, and discuss the state of our business. We inspire each other to enhance our shows, and remind each other of why we do this.

The MNCP should be an inspiration to improve, not a reason to quit. I thoroughly enjoyed the week, and I would like nothing more than to remain positive and determined in looking forward to next year’s pageant. But right now, I don’t want to go back to watch the most talented, hardworking, and dedicated dancers in Canada not be awarded the titles to represent our country and our industry.

Finally time to post... (and rant)

Where to begin… I’ve just finished two weeks at Whiskey A GoGo, and now on to Miss Nude Canada. It’s been a pretty interesting couple of weeks, so here it is… I’ve posted a few stories below, so scroll down and keep reading.

I’m packed, frustrated, and not ready for the contest. Sunshine never bothered to pick up my pool from the bar after Miss Nude Ontario so I’m pissed off and scrambling. I know I’ll figure it out, but it is one more thing on my “To do” list. Miss Nude Canada starts in 24 hours and I don’t have a pool. Fuck!

He’s pretty, but about as mature and useful as a slinky. The level of tolerance I have right now is just slightly above homicidal. I want to scream. I want to punch something. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that this is important to me. Instead he’s defensive, dismissive, and completely without accountability. An apology of “I’m sorry, but it’s not really my fault” doesn’t count. A statement of “It’s not a big deal, it’s just a pool, just get a new one”, isn’t helpful in November.

The plan was for me to drive down and visit him after work last night, spend a bit of time and just relax. Instead I’m staying in the city for another night. I simply had no desire to see him after our conversation…

It’s not really my problem, or my responsibility. It’s not my job to get your pool
Well when you said sure no problem I’ll pick up your pool, it became your responsibility. Now I don’t have a pool.
Well I’m sorry but I was just waiting until I wouldn’t have to make a special trip
It’s 15 minutes, and it’s been 5 weeks.
Well I went down there and no one would talk to me. I asked, but I couldn’t get any information.
When did you go to the bar?
Not too long ago, they wouldn’t talk to me.
You went to the club at midnight on a Saturday night to ask about a POOL!?!
Yes.
(rolling eyes, and shaking head- not the brightest crayon in the box)
Of course they wouldn’t talk to you. Midnight on a Saturday!
Well I tried. It’s not my problem really.
Obviously not!
It’s not my job to get your pool. I don’t work for you. What are you going to do? Fire me?

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Um… Yes actually you stupid kid. Consider yourself fired. My actual words were slightly more civil… but not by much. I think I ended the conversation with “I have to pack.” Click.

Now while most of the world might not realize the importance of this pool I’m going to change a few words. Let’s change stripper to sales rep, pool to report and contest to promotion.

Get it?

I’m sitting in a coffee shop trying to catch up on my life. With a great deal of effort I’ve managed to remain somewhat civil to Sunshine throughout the day. He’s driving up to Toronto to drop off my bubble machine, but he’s lost. My phone rings and I’m already irritated. He’s whining. He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know where he’s going. My sharp response does nothing to defuse the tension. My voice is patronizing, and short. I remind him that I gave him a map book, he’s not a child, and I do just fine with a rental car and a map… maybe he should figure it out. I’m not helping, and I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I dealt with such immaturity. It’s repulsive. Besides, he’s already fired.

After a few more arguments on the phone, and him wanting me to come find him, he finally stops bitching and follows my directions. I’m busy. I have a hell of a lot of stuff to get done today, and he can damn well drive another 10 minutes to the coffee shop. I’m not feeling very compassionate today.

I see his car pull into the parking lot, and ignore it. He struts arrogantly into the shop and drops a box at my feet. “Here.” He pronounces self-righteously, as though he’s going out of his way to do me a favour. “Thanks” is my brief reply before he turns and walks out.

I guess that’s done. Next!

I still need a pool.

He owes me $40

A twenty is folded and handed to me “take him for a dance” I’m told, as the young guy motions to his friend. I smile and take the hand of the pretty blonde, leading him off to the VIP room. Lounging on a dark couch, the music changes and I begin to seduce him. Sexy, and smooth I arch against him, taunting him with my body. It’s working. His eyes are glazed, transfixed on the naked body in his lap. He wants more. “Would you like another song sweetie?” I ask softly. He nods, licking his lips while staring at my breasts. I dance. I tease. I taunt. I seduce. I do another song. He’s in awe as the music fades again. “Would you like another song? You owe me $40 already babe”

“Huh?” The mention of money jolts him back to reality. “Why didn’t you tell me that?” He accuses.

It’s $20 per song. You’re friend bought the first song, and then you had two more. No big deal, you just owe me $40.

Well it’s my birthday, I don’t have any money.

Okay, well I suggest you borrow it from a friend

You really should tell people that it costs more

It’s not $20 for unlimited dances

Well you didn’t tell me. That’s not very professional of you. (by this time, I’m dressed, we’re back in the bar and looking for his friend)

I said, would you like another song. You said yes.

But you should have told me. That’s bullshit. I shouldn’t have to pay for it.

Look kid, So far I’ve been really nice. Don’t be stupid, just pay me.

Well I could go outside and look for him

Hahahahaha. No. I’m not about to let you walk out of here without paying me.

Well I didn’t know it costs more.

(rolling my eyes) We’ve been over this, and I’m done explaining it.

I turn to a nearby bouncer and quickly explain “He owes me $40, and can’t find his friend. ” The bouncer nods, and walks us towards the front door. “What the fuck?” Pretty blonde is bitching, and whining now. He sees the bouncers and glares at me. “What now you’re going to get me beat up and kicked out? How is that fair?” “You owe me $40.” I’m sick of this kid. The manager is there, talking to another doorman. He pauses immediately to give us his full attention. The situation is explained, and I’m told to go back on the floor. I shake my head to myself as I walk away, listening to him explain his side to management… “But I didn’t know it was per song… she…”

The next time I run into the Manager on the floor he hands me $40.

guess I'm just stupid...

Am I fucking invisible?

Why am I the one that gets to suck it up, shed a few tears, and keep going? I just want someone to take care of me instead of throw me away. I know how lonely I am. “I don’t want to hurt her.” But fuck feel free to disrespect and discard me. Feel free to ignore my plea for compassion and admission of vulnerability. I asked him to not put me in this position. Feel free to disregard everything I feel. I’m alone on the road, again, and he doesn’t want to hurt HER! Fuck you! What about me? What about my daily routine of wiping away tears to create a serene expression?

I clutch the phone to my ear, sniffling and raging into the mouthpiece. I want to hate him. I’m so disappointed in myself for walking into this again. She listens. She wants to yell at him too. He hurt me. Tears cloud my vision as the car winds its way back to my hotel. Two more shows. I don’t understand. He likes me. He doesn’t want to hurt HER! It hurts. I don’t know why I’m supposed to be irrelevant and invincible. I don’t feel invincible.

I don’t understand. He likes me. We’ve always been drawn to each other since the day we met, over five years ago. We were together last year. We were together before they rekindled their relationship. Then I went on tour. He chose her. He wants a relationship with me, but he won’t leave. It’s not working, and inevitably they will go their separate ways, but not yet. He likes me, but in his mind it’s complicated. I get to be the one to fall. Maybe you don’t leave the good girl, with the good family and the picture perfect scene to take a risk on the stripper. Perhaps I’m too far removed from an acceptable life. He likes me, and I like him, and now I have to walk away... It hurts.

The TV flickers a superficial distraction as I struggle to rebuild the illusion. I want to yell at him. I’ve already yelled at myself. In spite of my experience, I fail to hold on to complete cynicism. I really should. I dared to hope. I dared to believe for a moment that it could be something other than a mistake.

I glance at the clock and drop my jeans to the floor. The mirror reflects my sadness. My eyes glisten with tears. I pull off my tank top and bra and examine my naked body in the mirror. I need to tan more. Slowly I paint on a new layer of makeup, a fresh layer untouched by tears. I smooth out my flushed emotions beneath foundation. My lips shine, liquid. Liner protects my secrets, and shadow detracts from the lies of sweet seduction. I hesitate with the mascara, reluctant to risk exposing myself, but add a touch. A final sheet of powder and blush create a soft and sexy deception. I still want to cry, but I won’t until after my shows. Maybe I am invincible. Maybe I’m just too good at becoming fictitious. Tonight, alone in my hotel, clutching my care bear, the emotions will flood. I might cry, but I doubt it. After hours of giggling, flirting and dancing I have trouble expressing anything real. Maybe I’m just too good at compartmentalizing.

It’s time to be the fantasy again… two more shows… I need happy stripper music.

Familiar Stranger

I’m procrastinating. My car wanders reluctantly towards the restaurant driven by my determination, but without my approval. I don’t want to go for dinner. I want to keep driving. Defensive and nervous, I fight the temptation to run. Passively I watch myself park the car. I feel my head fall back against the seat as my eyelids shut out the world. Breathe. Time stands still as I sit and wait. I’m waiting for the courage to smile and walk into a restaurant that I have been to countless times before. I’m searching for the strength to casually survive a dinner I used to look forward to. She will be late. I have time because I know she won’t enter a restaurant alone. I smile at the knowledge of her habits. I wait, calm and smiling, unsure and frightened.

Conversation flows easily into catch-up and gossip. We’ve missed a lot. Familiarity with the characters in her stories reminds me how distant I have become. I know who they are, but I’m not a part of that group anymore. I’m not invited. I struggle with the unspoken tension as her plot unfolds.

I want to listen. I want to care, but I don’t know what to say. Swapping stories allows for personal distance. I realize I don’t want to look at her. I realize I don’t know her anymore. I pause to consider being vulnerable and hesitate in doubt. I want to scream “Fuck this meaningless bullshit!!” But instead I smile. Like a toddler’s dedication to a noisy toy, the words I have yet to say repeat persistently in my head.

“We need to talk about what happened.” It has taken me 45 minutes to force the conversation away from roommates and travel. I don’t know what I’m waiting to hear. I have no idea what the magical understanding is that will make things right. I don’t hear it. The rift is echoing in my mind as I listen to her explain. Embarrassed, hurt, surprised, needs time… I listen for something unknown. I don’t hear it. I try to accept this moment and allow faith to grow, but I fail in my heart. I’m too hurt, and no apology is offered or accepted. I’m resentful that she lays entire blame on me. I’m hurt that this has been left unresolved since April. http://ryannreflections.blogspot.com/2006/04/im-sorry.html

I don’t want to be dismissed or excluded. I don’t want to be thrown away. Once a cherished friend, I find myself having dinner with a stranger. A stranger I do not trust.

Her voice flows through my memory as images appear. I remember pieces. I remember gossip and growth… but the detachment has grown too big. I don’t remember how to be friends with her. I don’t remember how to need her. I don’t know if I have the resolve or desire to rebuild this from nothing.

I have crossed over a journey, and leapt beyond my robotic escapist smiles. I’m not only happy, I’m inspired. The taste of something so genuine lingers on my tongue as I climb closer to the forms I seek. This room is moving in slow motion, and the colours lack the effervescence I crave. I want to share the taste of the world I feel today, but I can’t. I have changed.

Priorities have changed. She doesn’t know me, and it’s not her fault we are not the same. Her voice is kind, and her eyes are confused. I am the one who has suddenly jumped tracks at the revelation of a muse. I feel a purpose fusing my personality. The exuberance of my adolescence has recovered and is melding with the inspiration and insight of my experience thus far. This awakening is thrusting my focus in a new direction. I’m finding myself incapable of relating to superficial dialogues. I don’t want to go back.

Kind words and well-meaning promises clutter the good-bye. Awkward familiarity taints the love. In many ways we grew up together. Heartbreak and struggles were shared over many martinis. Shared experience created a bond as we watched everyone else walk hand-in-hand away from our still single status. Conversations littered with confusion and frustration lingered into the night. But that abruptly ended one evening in April. Can there be a friendship after the trust has crumbled?

The realization that we are strangers stings as I walk away.

I don't want to live in your world

Just in case anyone forgot for a moment that my job is still stigmatized, I’m putting this out there for all to read.

smart person said...
Ummmm - ok, I. Will break it down for you.You are a
stripper. Stripper = SLUT. Slut = skank. You are a fucking joke. Waht plant do
you come from....Plant Stupid Ho??

I could (should?) delete the comment, and I might… but right now I’m going to talk about it. I find this type of behavior incredible. It’s not new, nor is it original. I know the location and IP of the offender (because I track these things). Obviously not a regular reader, I might have to make some similar security changes as RSG has done recently.

I know I don’t need to elaborate on the oxymoron of the self-appointed name, and the obvious literary skill.

I know I don’t need to point out how absurd, ignorant, and ridiculous the comment actually is.

I know I have no reason to even validate it with a response.

But I guess I’m leaving it for today because I want people to know that this is real. People DO treat me differently. People DO harass and stigmatize strippers and treat us as subhuman. I don’t like being called names, or being ostracized. I don’t like being referred to as worthless trash. But my self-worth is not at risk, and my self-esteem is healthy. It is frustrating. I find myself wondering if our society could be making any progress at all. I don’t understand why our species is so cruel and I find myself questioning the true nature of humanity. Is love, respect, and hope a personal choice that is frequently lost? What is like to wake up each morning and see hatred instead of beauty? How terrifying is it to live in fear? It hurts my soul to be reminded of how lonely, scared, and malicious fear and ignorance can make people. I don’t want to live in that world.

I am still one of the lucky ones. Physically, I am very rarely threatened. I am sheltered from hunger and despair. I may be harassed, but I am not abused. At night I sleep feeling safe and loved. Daily, I watch the women that hover on the streets and in the parking lots around the bars. I look beyond the cuts, burns, and illicit distractions. I see their eyes. I ask their names. They are the forgotten ones, sliding between the cracks of jokes and abuse. We are all Women, with names, stories, and emotions. No one has the right to be abusive verbally or otherwise. This mission is far from over. Yes, I’m guilty. As a teenager, I laughed watching the hookers in the rain. I didn’t think, and no one pulled me out of my self-absorbed bubble to remind me that she is just like me. I realize that now, and I will never forget again. I don’t want my generation to forget. Feminism is rarely a priority anymore, yet obviously the battle is far from equal. I don’t want this neo-conservative attitude to dissolve the determination of my grandmothers. I don’t want to live in that world. I want to live in the world my mother raised me to fight for with conviction, respect, and above all- love.

And I will. My love will spread through my friends and family. The love will touch people and the ripples from my example will create an electrical inspiration that will flow through the relationships we build and the children we raise. I have hope.

Pathetic Power

There are some amazing people in this industry, dancers I admire, DJs I adore, managers I respect. Then there are the pathetic power-tripping twats who weasel their way up the chain of leftovers.

I had the misfortune of working for the latter this week. The stage is great, good lighting, great staff, the girls are awesome, the bar is classy… the manager is definitely the sour apple of the bunch. For the record, I’m NOT impressed with the agency either. They have done nothing to earn the 15% of my pay.

He fired me Friday night. Actually it was apparently arranged on Thursday, and the agency decided that growing balls was out of the question and is still avoiding me. At 9pm on FRIDAY night another girl arrived at the club to cover my shows. Unprofessional? Gee ya think? I was informed that I was not good enough to dance in his club on a weekend. Good enough for a Thursday, but not for a Friday. I can’t take it personally. We’ve all met those individuals who illicit memories of pond scum. He’s arbitrarily fired some of the best dancers in the circuit. I was not the first stripper he screwed over, and I will not be the last. I will write it off as lesson learned and I will not be intentionally working in his club again.

But it’s been a rough day. While he took away my night shift, he simultaneously refused to pay me until I had finished my Saturday day shows. (there was no one to cover me). So knowing I was replaced, loosing money by the day, waiting to just go home and forget… I had to do two pointless afternoon shows before being paid for the week. Grrrrrrrrrrrrr

It’s over now. I am on vacation. Three weeks off!! Three weeks to relax and distance myself. This job is jading. This industry wears on your soul. It has nothing to do with the customers, who are amusing and entertaining at best, annoying and odd at worst. No, the attitudes of a few useless individuals are frustrating and demoralizing. Dismissed, detached, and objectified we strippers are a dime a dozen. There are those who crave the power, perhaps a penile enhancement would solve some problems.

Rough night

And then there are the days when tears fall despite facades, despite determination. Tonight was one of those dreadful moments. I don’t want a hug because I know how quickly I will shatter. I don’t want to speak because I know there is hurt in my voice. I want to scream. I want to rage at the unprofessional power-tripping assholes that arbitrarily manipulate my income.

I’m frustrated. I try to conduct myself in a thoughtful and professional manner. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. There is no incentive to not be a fuck-up. In reality, fuck-ups often get more work. Egos are a dangerous thing.

I am thankful I have friends in this industry that understand, and that on a Friday night I knew exactly where to turn. I knew they would accept my frustration, offer hugs and reassurance. Smudged makeup and quivering voice I drove the familiar blocks. Away from the pretentious illusion of business, through the streets of crack and homeless, I drove straight to the comfort of real people. It helped.

But it’s late and I’m ready for bed. My heart is still heavy, and I know there are more tears waiting patiently for a trigger. I’m lonely. Tonight, I wish I could call and have the comfort of humanity. I want someone to hold me. I want someone to massage the stress out of my muscles, and tell me I’m special. Tonight I wish I was more than an object, more than a disposable fantasy. Tonight, I want more. At the end of the day, I always go home alone. Tonight, I wish someone cared.

Duke Rape

I haven’t touched it yet, but I am now realizing that I have an obligation to comment on this situation. The Duke Rape case is horrific.

Sadly I am not surprised at the events. I watch men. I know what a group of drunken men with “Lord of the Flies” group dynamics are capable of under the right circumstances. I know that as a “Stripper” in the eyes of many, we become the “Other”. I am aware that when functioning in a society that dichotomizes good girls from bad girls and only offers protection and support to one segment, that permissive abuse can be excused.

There is no question. There is no credibility to question. Trust me; she has nothing to gain by subjecting herself to this intolerance and hate. Trust me; all she wanted was her money to pay tuition, to pay her bills, to live. Trust me; she did not want to be raped.

It is 2006 and yet it is national debate south of the boarder whether a woman deserved to be raped. It is 2006 and so many are so eager to separate the good girls from the bad. If it was a young blonde daughter of a senator there would be no question. There would be uproar, not debate. There would be no question if a young black stripper was asking for it, if she deserved it.

I am shocked, appalled and sickened by the determination and vocalization of so many people to blame the victim.

www.hogonice.com/
http://rightwingsparkle.blogspot.com/

Just to name a few… It’s those people that inadvertently condone and encourage violence against women. It’s those voices that create an atmosphere of hate and abuse.

STOP BLAMING THE VICTIM!!! You stupid arrogant cock-sucking hate spreading self-righteous scrotum licking shit diving self-loathing fear-based ignorant cunt hating TRASH!!!

She is a stripper! Damn straight she is a stripper. For those that perhaps misunderstand the definition of stripper, I am going to elaborate.
A stripper is a woman who has chosen to make a living taking her clothes off.
A stripper is a woman who works, who pays her taxes, who does her best to support herself and her family.
A stripper is a daughter
A stripper is often a mother.
A stripper is a friend, confidante, roll model, advocate, and sister.

I take my clothes off. Should I have no rights? Should I have no dignity? Should I have no choice?

I am a stripper.
Do I deserve to be attacked and raped?

Fucking ignorant cowards.



On the smarter side…
http://redstatefeminist.blogspot.com/
http://harpowoman.blogspot.com/
and my own… http://ryannreflections.blogspot.com/2006/03/rape.html

so scared

I’m so scared. I am terrified that as long as I’m dancing I will keep loosing friends. That as I become more and more self-aware as an individual, and embrace my life as a stripper, that everyone will just walk away from me.

They won’t understand. They won’t love me. They won’t accept me.

I’m loosing count of how many friendships have ended already. I love my friends, and I love myself. I wish they could love me for who I am and who I am becoming. What if I end up with no friends? What if they all walk away? I’m so scared. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be thrown away as the stripper.

I’m not willing to quit my job. I feel like I have found my path, I have become myself. In Ryann I found truth. I love the person I am, and the person I will be. Not perfect, but real. I can’t go back even if I wanted to. I have already crossed that line. I think like a stripper. I am a stripper; I can’t pretend I’m not. I can’t explain the realities of my job accurately to mainstream society. I don’t have the energy to fake approval everyday. This industry changes you.

It’s complicated to make friends within the industry because of work schedules and lifestyles. It’s difficult because so many of us have been hurt so intensely that our defenses are resilient, and walls are impenetrable. I always find it challenging to find people I can relate to.

I’m scared, and I’m hurt. There is nothing I can do but wait. Wait for her anger to subside. Hope that my patience lasts, hope that my vulnerability doesn’t run out before her anger. I can’t stay open for long. It’s breaking my heart and weakening my soul. I’ve apologized, I’ve called, I’ve emailed. All that’s left is to leave.

I already feel my hurt and fear turning into resentment and aggression. I’m already tempted to say “well fuck you too. Lie to me, go ahead. I don’t care. I don’t need you. Throw me away like the rest.” I’m already tempted to put the walls in place and salvage what emotions I have left. I don't want to be alone.

It hurts too much to be wandering around in a daze, waiting. Waiting to see if she’ll talk to me, waiting to see if she cares. It hurts too much to spend my last few days at home wondering is I can add her to the list of people I’ve had to walk away from. I don’t have the time to wait. The window is closing...

It hurts. I don’t have the strength to stay vulnerable.

I'm still sorry

Ahhhhh. Why am I doing this again? This is such a mess, and it’s so complicated. I don’t really wish things were simple, but maybe it would be easier. I’m sure it would be easier if I was simpler. I’m not perfect. I can be defensive, aggressive, and arrogant. I am also vulnerable and loving.

I am on a path of self-discovery. I am learning and changing so much each day, and my choices are complex. My life is undergoing so many changes, and I struggle to adapt to very diverse situations. I have lost so many friends this year. I’m incapable of putting myself through that again. I don’t want to be judged and dismissed anymore. I don’t want to be called a whore. I don’t want to have my personal value ascertained by my job. I don’t want to be isolated and discriminated. It hurts my soul. I am so raw from recent experiences, and I’m not perfect. I need her to understand as a friend how difficult this process is for me. I love my friend. I love her so much. She’s like a sister to me. It hurts so much to be in conflict with her. I didn’t want to hurt her…

I’m so scared of being hurt again. She can’t understand how painful and disheartening it is to be constantly perceived as a threat, as an enemy. She can’t understand how hard it is to maintain strength and courage when being dismissed over and over again. I wish I could cry.

I’m still learning how to deal with peoples opinions. I’m still learning, and some of my coping strategies, suck. I wish I made good decisions all the time, but I don’t, and I didn’t.

I use sex to change the balance of power in a situation. I do it because it works. It’s something that a very old friend pointed out to me, and I was forced to recognize. It’s a strategy I learned and incorporated before I even knew what sex was, but I knew there was power there, and I knew I could take it. When I feel cornered and threatened, I do.

I am confident, and I LIKE who I am. I don’t feel that I should have to justify or change who I am to please people who ultimately are going to hate me and disown me. I choose NOT to subject myself to that, and if I do have to, it takes a lot of mental and emotional preparation to decide how to handle the situation. I wish she had known that.

I’m a stripper. There is so much that goes so far beyond the stage. I wish she read this blog. I wish she knew what I go through. I wish she had realized how delicate and raw I am, how incapable I was of dealing with that situation. I wish she had known how hard it is for me to meet new people. I wish she had read my journey… maybe we could have avoided this disaster…

I hope she calls me soon. I want to cry.