boundaries.

Here’s a great one for you. I met Hitch at the taboo show. He runs a dating coaching service. This is an important point— He TEACHES men how to date. He prides himself of being able to talk to women. Hitch expressed an interest in advertising with Stiletto Storm so I emailed him back to arrange a business meeting to discuss the options. The email conversation turned into a text messages as the day progressed. I tried to set up a business meeting in the afternoon, he was only free evenings. I was only free Tuesday night so I emailed him back to see if that would work…

Hitch: Hey Ryann. In a meeting now but free later. How about 9:40 at Celebrities?

Me: That sounds a lot like a bar

Hitch: It IS a gay club. Davie and Burrard. Tonight is usually good. Straight night.

Me: No. I hate bars. It’s what I do for a living and useless for a conversation

Hitch: Tonight you are not to work. Just relax where no one knows your name

Me: If you want to meet for coffee to have a conversation, great. But I’m not a club kid.

Hitch: Actually I am not either. I just go once in a while to see some buddies. If we don’t like it, we can always go elsewhere ;-)

Me: I’m not going.

Hitch: Hey Taurus and supposed to be the stubborn ones not Sagittarius

Me: Guess you learned something new :-P

Hitch: Ha. No, I’m the evil one here, not you. Ok I meet some friends at Blenz at Davie and Granville we cam meet there at 9:20 and figure it out. Ok.

Me: We can set up a meeting over coffee when you have time. Enjoy yourself tonight.

Hitch: No I will say Hi then ditch my friends for you.

Me: your choice.

Ha. I want to see you

Me: It sounds like you already have plans. Perhaps we should reschedule this meeting.

Hitch: Ok, I’ll skip the gym and see you tonight and don’t you worry about my friends. 9:20 Blenz?

Me: fine. 9:30.

I roll my eyes and look at the clock. Business is one thing but he is starting to push my buttons. Aside from suggesting we meet at a bar most of the emails have still suggested that he’s interested in advertising. I grab a marketing package and reluctantly head downtown.

He grins when he sees me and walks right up to me. “You’re short.”

“Without stilettos, yes I am.” I walk past him and order myself a tea. “So, advertising.” I hop onto the stool and grab my notebook.

“You have really beautiful eyes.”

“Thanks. So what’s your demographic?”

“Oh we have two kinds of clients. The first are young, in an ideal position to meet women, but lack the confidence.’

“Mmhmm”

“The others are older, very career focused and haven’t made time, or divorced and looking to restart.”

“Makes sense. And you offer what services?”

“I believe that everyone is looking for that deeper connection. I teach them how to create that chemistry.” He grabs my hand with both of his and stares at me. “Finding that connection, knowing who you are.”

I pull my hand back and resist the urge to slide my stool further away. I lean back. He leans in. He’s in my space. I hate people in my bubble. “Ok. With your demographic being primarily men I can see there being a market for you through the website, and in the program may reach some audience members but you said you are expanding to coaching women as well?”

“Yes.” He slides in closer.

I hate people in my space. “Ok well our show is primarily targeted to women. There will be men attending of course, but our target audience is women. Is that something you feel you could benefit from?”

He touches my shoulder and leans in close. “You should relax. Just enjoy yourself. Tell me about you.”

It’s going to be a long meeting at this rate. I glance at the clock and try to move my stool back. He won’t get out of my space. If he touches me again I swear I’m going to hit him. “What would you like to know?” I reply reluctantly.

I finally escape after what seems like an eternity of cheesy lines, shallow attempts at romance by ‘creating the chemistry’, and a constant invasion of my personal space. Ick.

It’s eighteen hours later. My phone beeps as a text message flashes on the screen.

Hitch: Hey I just heard of a special movie thing that you would be into. Want to go? 7 or 9pm?

Me: I have plans.

Hitch: Can you break them?

Me: No!

I’m regretting that this guy has my number. I expected issues with being a stripper running a business and having to be accessible but FUCK! My plans are not imaginary. I don't create fictional appointments. Why do these guys insist on thinking I'm just waiting for a man to rescue me from my fake life. ARGH!

A week passes. Saturday afternoon another nauseating text message appears on my phone.

Hitch: Hey, what are you doing?

Me: Relaxing

Hitch: Good. Come see me. Bring some soup.

Me: What! No.

Hitch: Haa

Me. Have you given any thought to advertising or sponsoring?

Hitch: No business talk today please.

Me: Ah so these are just random personal messages

Hitch: Yes shorty, you should check out the wellness show. It’s for women more than guys.

Me: In that case you can contact me during work hours to talk business.

Hitch: Work hours are all over the place aren’t they? How about a casual meet? Today?

Me: You said no business today. I agree. This is my personal time. I appreciate you respecting that. Let me know when you want to do business.

Hitch: I’m trying to ask you out on a date :-P sheesh

Me: I’m not interested.

Hitch: Casual of course. Don’t get any ideas. Have you lost that loving feeling?

Me: do you teach your clients about boundaries?

Remember… this guy… TEACHES men how to date and be attractive.

Happy New Year!!!

I’m impatient. “Let’s dance.” I shout as Rose shimmies over to Sierra and I. Clad all in scarlet red we’re the three Sirens out on the town tonight. I need tonight to embrace change. I can feel the excitement building and I know Sierra was right in dragging me here. She can’t resist the urge to say so “I told you it would be fun.”

“Uh huh. Now teach us.” I demand. Sierra has been doing ballroom and latin dancing for over a year but Rose and I are used to dancing solo on stage. We find an open corner and pay close attention to her instructions. “…right foot back, left, right foot up, pause. Now the other one. Left foot back…”

Rose and I high-five.

The lessons have barely ended when a stranger appears in front of me “care to dance?” He asks, holding out his hand. Of course I say yes and we dance, and dance… and dance.

I glimpse Rose being spun around the dance floor in one corner and Sierra in the middle of the room. “Break time.” I grin at my dance partner and beeline it to where I suspect Rose has dropped our purses. I’m correct. I grab the purses and their bottled water and hover near the edge of the dance floor talking to my dance partner. He’s American, just came up for New Years to dance and has blue eyes. (okay I noticed that last part)

Sierra joins us on the next song and reaches for her bottled water. ‘I may have drank it.” I smirk as she scolds me and proceeds to finish Rose’s. I spy Rose hurrying over to us looking panicked and I wave her purse in the air. “I have them.”

“Omigod! I was so worried. I put them down and then… hey who’s the hottie?” She interrupts herself having noticed the tall dark and handsome standing next to me.

I laugh and do the introductions, ignoring the look Rose is giving me. It’s shaping up to be an amazing evening. We giggle and wiggle as only Sirens can do, lost in girly fun.

A wave of relief washes through me as the countdown ensues (and not due to the new hottie beside me). With every number being shouted I feel my fear and anger melt away. Surrounded by new and old friends we cheer and giggle and yell “Happy New Year!” I grin as Rose and Sierra attempt to sip from each other’s champagne but instead spill the sticky liquid on their chests.

I blush as both girls coo while watching the American kiss me. And then we dance the night away. I dance and giggle and dance until I can feel my feet swollen against the leather of my shoes.

Still grinning I collapse on a bench in the hallway with my unexpected date. Rose joins us shortly, flinging herself onto the bench and kicking her heels off. “I’m done.”

“Me too.” I don’t move.

Sierra finds us slumped against the wall and shakes her head. “You lazy bums. Is that it?”

I raise my eye brows. “You wanna keep dancing?”

She shoves Rose over and plops down next to us. “Ha. I’m done too.”

It’s been a good night but it’s barely begun. I promised Carmine I’d show up at the house party she’s spinning at and meet her fabulous friends. Rose takes off first. She also has another engagement. Sierra collects our coats while I say goodnight.

It’s 2:30am by the time I arrive at the house party. Hank is sitting in the kitchen mixing something that looks like purple syrup. I grin and jump into his arms demanding a New Years hug. Carmine’s pretty boyfriend is the next to spot me. He grabs me in his arms, spins me off my feet and plants a sloppy kiss on me before I have a chance to escape.

Carmine shrieks when she sees me “You made it! Damn you look hot! Oh I have people you need to meet.” She grabs my wrist and drags me into the living room. “This is my amazing friend I’ve been telling you about.” She announces to random people.

I collapse on the couch and bury myself in conversation with Monkey while watching scantly clad bodies float in time to the music. There’s no way I’m dancing again tonight but Carmine was right there are interesting people here.

By the time I fall into my bed dawn is hovering on the horizon. It was good night- a really good way to start the New Year.

Ginger called me New Years day and we shared the exact same sentiment—Thank God 2007 is over! Bring it on! It’s going to be an amazing year. Change is good.

I’m ready now.

The best gig ever!

“We’ve built you a stage.” The masculine voice explains to me over the phone.
It catches me off guard. That’s odd. It’s a private party. But whatever. I take down the address and shrug it off. People are strange.

It’s 3:00 in the afternoon when I pull my car into the muddy path. “Are you sure this is a road?” I ask unconvinced into the phone.

He laughs at me. “Yes. I can see you. Just drive straight ahead. I'm waving at you.”

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHH that’s a huge puddle” I squeal, cringing as I drive my poor Jetta through the swamp. I can see my girlfriends laughing at me as they follow me in their Jeep into the construction site.

We’ve arrived—at a muddy unfinished construction site for an afternoon party… of some sort. The money is handed over and I count it quickly before stuffing it in my pocket and grabbing my bag from the trunk. Brit and Sam do the same. We exchange looks and laugh as we’re led into the concrete building.

“This feels like a sarcophagus” I comment as we make our way into basement of the structure. As we descend I can hear music growing louder.

“Okay so we have a dressing room for you set up and everything is ready to go. I know it’s cold in here but the dressing room is heated.”

I exchange looks with Sam and Brit. Sure enough we arrive in a heated room where they’ve thrown carpet down to make it cozy for us and supplied a couple benches.

“The stage is through this door here.” He explains, motioning to a nearby metal door.

We peek.

Two hundred guys cheer and shout in the warehouse sized room as a DJ spins in the corner. The music is already pounding. A disco ball has been installed filling the stage with actual lighting. Our jaws drop when we see the stage. There’s a pole, a tub, a shower, and a swing.

“What the fuck?” I laugh, shaking my head. “This is insane! It’s 3:00 in the afternoon.”

Sam bursts out laughing. We’re happy. We quickly plan our shows. Brit is going first, then Sam, and finally me. Once we’re done our individual shows we’ll do a group show.

The crowd erupts as Brit hoists herself onto the stage. In our dressing room Sam and I fix our makeup and get dressed. “This is great!” She grins.

“Yup!” I’m thrilled. “When was the last time any of us performed for a crowd like this? There’s two hundred guys and it’s as good a stage as any in a bar.”

“I wish the bars were like this.”

“Yeah! This is how it should be.”

Once Sam is done I jump up and pull myself onto the stage. The music is loud. The crowd is amazing and I don’t think I’ve ever had a gig this fun. Hell yah! I jump on the swing and fly through the air, grinning. The boys scream and wave money at me. I dance and dance and collect tips. I’m fucking happy.

Sweaty and loaded with a pile of money I finish my set and skitter back into the dressing room. “This is so fucking cool!”

Brit is grinning. “We have to do this again!”

“I know!”

We’re now dressed in beaters, denim skirts, and safety vests as the three of us climb back onto the stage. They’ve supplied us with strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, honey, and body wash. These guys have thought of everything.

We turn the shower on and allow the steam to billow as the water warms up. Wet T-shirt time! Soaked and giddy we play with the crowd and sell Polaroid pictures. I rip my shirt in half and sell it to an enthusiastic worker. We’re all collecting money, tossing it to the back of the stage.

We frolic in the tub. Sam squirts chocolate syrup on my chest as I feed Brit strawberries. This is so much fun!

Finally the money begins to slow down and we’ve had enough. We’re wet, dirty, and ecstatic as we plop down on the dressing room floor to divide up the group tips. What an amazing gig. I check the clock. It’s only 4:20. Sweet! We all need to go home and clean up before we go to work.

Grinning and giggling we climb back in our vehicles and they laugh as I scream driving through the massive puddle again. Sam follows me in her Jeep and I lead the way back towards downtown.

What a great way to start the workday. Fucking Sweet! I so want to do that again!

Robbie

He calls himself Robbie the Newfie, but his east coast accent is fading. I don’t know how long he’s been in Vancouver. Beyond his name, I don’t really know anything about his past. But he always smiles when he sees me in the parking lot at the No5.

It’s raining. I’m just leaving PACE, pulling through a shallow alley in the downtown eastside, when I spot Robbie. He’s shivering, wearing a thin woman’s blouse and boxer shorts. Rain drips off the ends of his sandy brown hair and runs down his forehead. I watch him wipe it away with his thin arm and catch his eye and wave. My smile holds his attention long enough for him to recognize me. As I pull through the alley he takes long strides towards my car. “Hey! Princess. Hang on. Just a second.”

I stop and unroll my window, looking up at his too thin six-foot frame, “How you doing Robbie?”

“Not good. It’s not good.”

For the first time I realize the rain is mixed with his tears. “What’s going on? You’re freezing. You okay?”

He shakes his head, still shivering, and begins to cry. “It’s not a good day princess. Look at me. I’m fucked up.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“Huh?”

“Robbie. Seriously. Are you okay?” My concern must have struck a chord.

“No. I’m trying to find a reason to get up in the morning and there just isn’t one. Look at me. There’s nothing left. There’s no point. I just want to die. She’s gone and there’s nothing left.”

“Who?”

“My wife.” He sobs “She died in the spring. A complication with her heart. From smoking crack. It does stuff to your heart. And she needed medicine. And I tried. I brought her to the hospital and I sat with her. But crack, it does stuff---

“Yes it does.”

“Like with me. But she died. And I tried but she’s gone. There’s nothing left… and now. Now there’s really no point. I just want to die.”

“Oh Robbie. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you miss her very much.”

“And now… I talked to the clinic and it’s all over.” Tears stream down his face. “I got it. HIV. Now the love is gone. No one will ever love me again. She worked y’know. On the streets. But I loved her. And she loved me. Just to have a woman all warm and good. I tried to take care of her. I tried.” He chokes on tears, “But she died and now no one will ever love me again.”

I force a soft smile and keep listening.

“And I have so much love to give. So much love to give. So much love… that’s all that matters. I don’t belong here. I fucked up. I don’t belong here. I gotta get out. Get cleaned up… I’m a painter by trade. But no one will ever love me again. There’s no point.”

“Are you going to the clinic? Are you getting treatment?”

“Huh?”

“You’re a painter. That’s a good trade.”

“Yeah. If I could just get a job and get out of here. I gotta get out of here. Get cleaned up. I gotta get out.”

“That’s a good idea.”

He whispers, “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Why’d you stop and talk to me?”

“Because you’re Robbie the Newfie. You’re a person.”

“You’re really not afraid of me? The HIV doesn’t scare you.”

“No Robbie. It doesn’t. You’re a human being with hope and love and fear. Just like everybody else.”

“Hey if I get cleaned up and get a job and all that would you go to movie with me?”

“I don’t know. You get cleaned up first.” I smile.

He nods.

“Can you get out of the rain this afternoon? Is there somewhere you can go?”

He nods again and reaches his bony hand out to collect the two dollars I offer. Grasping my hand tightly he holds on for a moment. “Thank you for listening. Thank you.”

“Of course. You take care okay.”

He nods again and waves as I slowly pull out of the alley. Tears well in my eyes as I drive away, warm and safe in my car.

Full Moon.

I’ve been a horrible blogger. I’m sorry. It’s not that I’ve been away or anything I’m just too damn busy. Oiy!

Life is good and I certainly don’t have any time to be lonely. I’ve got my friends squeezed into the cracks in my schedule and that pretty much leaves time for sleep. I went with Reid and Hank to the Mute Math concert the other night. I just adore Reid and Hank. They play music and they don’t try to fuck me.

I have million sweet and wonderful things to say about those two. But I’ll probably get busted for blowing smoke up their asses and then they’ll just make fun of me. I might do it anyhow. Hank had a BBQ on the weekend. It was a veggie feast with steak on top. Mmmmmmm. And then we went for gelato and saw Across the Universe. Oh I’m in love with that movie. I think I might go see it again, and again, and again.

So… I’ve been busy. But I do have one bar story to share before I immerse myself in business.

It’s Wednesday. But it’s not just any Wednesday- it’s welfare Wednesday. I know it as soon I walk into the bar. The room is packed with enthusiastic drunks nursing cheap beer. The full moon overhead adds another unpredictable factor into the mix. It’s going to be a weird night. We all know it.

The crowd is good for my show. They yell and cheer and hoot and holler. But they don’t tip. Whatever. I glide across the stage and twirl myself against the pole, gyrating my hips. After a quick peek to ensure everyone is sitting back I slam down into the splits. My stilettos just poke over the edge of the stage, scaring the local drunks.

Buddy in perv-row is staring at my feet. His eyelids are heavy from a long afternoon of drinking and his eyes are glazed. Without warning he leans in, full open mouth, and bites my toes! He drools on my foot, three toes in his mouth. I scream. But I can’t move fast enough. I’m in the splits. After what feels like a disgusting eternity I spin out of the splits and stand above him—yelling.

My foot is covered in slimy drunk drool. Ew! Buddy is confused. He looks dejected but doesn’t apologize. It’s too early in the day for the bouncers to be working and the DJ didn’t see it. Oh well.

A minute later I lean against the pole and see a fresh jug of beer snug up against the edge of the stage. If I angle it right…

I do. I slam back into the splits contacting my heel with the pitcher and knocking it into Buddy’s lap. Cause and effect. Don’t bite my toes.

Less than a song later another kid grabs my hat off the stage and puts it on his head. I’m not amused. I snatch it off his head and smack him. “don’t touch my stuff.”

I finish my set in the middle of the stage—out of reach. It was a long 18 minutes. And it’s only dinner time.

personal connection

“Hey! That’s my wedding song.” He slurs, grinning at me from the padded bench seat.

I smile at him and shout over the lyrics of Bono singing With or Without you. “Aww Honey that’s sweet. You don’t look old enough to be married.”

“You’re hot!” He answers.

I shake my head mildly amused and crawl over to the other side of the stage where men are actually tipping me. The show is uneventful and it feels good to be back on stage after a week off. My body needs the stretch and my wallet needs the money.

I’m on the floor casually selling dances before my next show. As I wander through the dim room I catch the eye of the enthusiastic drunk kid. It’s 3:30 on a Monday afternoon and he’s hammered. I smirk as I notice he’s holding himself up by clutching to the nearby railing.

“So Honey… you want a dance?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

“Yah!” He shouts. “But only if you suck my dick.”
I sigh and shake my head. He’s too young and stupid to really get mad at. “Sorry Honey. I’m not a prostitute.”

“Huh?” No.” He explains. “I don’t want you to do it for money. I want you to suck my dick because we have a personal connection.”

He looks dejected and confused by my immediate outburst laughter. Grinning I continue to laugh as I turn and walk away.

My tummy hurts within minutes from laughing so hard. Tears stream down my face as I share the story with every other girl in the bar. I jump up and down giggling hysterically and clapping my hands, my boobs bouncing as I jump. “Oh my god!” I stammer between giggles “You have to hear what this stupid kid just said to me. I just heard the line of the week! Dude this made my day!” I say to the DJ relating the conversation.

“Hey you gotta give him credit for originality.” The DJ chuckles.

“Oh absolutely!”

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.

Bachelor

It’s early. The bar is empty but for staff and a handful of patrons. I’m not even expecting to have any dances to do for another hour or so. But then the elevator door opens and a group wanders in. I notice him immediately. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and women’s clothing. Not a dress, no, he’s wearing women’s shorts and a flowered blouse. Not a small man he fills out every inch of the attire, leaving very little to my imagination. What I can see looks good.

It’s a stag, obviously. And they’ve come in to buy the Bachelor a private dance before hitting the next bar. I like this Bachelor. He’s cute and well mannered but I know that cowboy hat will look better on me. Flirting and smiling, I steal the hat and add it to my outfit. I was right. I look adorable.

Still wearing the hat I take the Bachelor by the hand a lead him into the VIP room. I dance. He watches. I dance again. His eyes never leave me.

“Are you going to give me my hat back?” he asks, watching me pull on my dress and place the hat back on my head.

“Mmmm. It looks better on me.” I reply smiling at him and walking out of the VIP. Justice is on stage, and sees me wearing the cowboy hat. Giggling, with arms outstretched she prances over to us, begging for the hat.

The Bachelor is confused, not knowing if he’s getting his hat back but enjoying trying. Once Justice does a few laps of the stage and poses seductively with the hat she tosses it back to him. Grinning he places it back on his head, adjusts his pretty blue shorts and the stag leaves the bar.

The night passes quickly. Dances are sold, beer is drunk, and women are naked. Finally at 2am I head for breakfast at Denny’s with an old friend. (For my American readers- Denny’s in Canada is actually really good)

We laugh and exchange stories over hash browns and eggs. Out of the corner of my eye I spot the infamous cowboy hat. The stag has arrived.

I catch the eye of the Bachelor and start laughing as they start pointing at me, whispering (loudly) “stripper”.

“I’ll be right back.” I tell my friend and sashay over to the stag’s table. I grab the cowboy hat off the bachelor’s head and place it on my own. Suddenly he grabs me and pulls me into his chair.

“Join us” he slurs, offering me his chair.

I accept. I watch him standing above me, happy and oblivious, and see his eyes sparkle with a new bright idea.

The Bachelor starts dancing. “Duh nu nu na” he sings, twirling his jacket over his head. “Duh nun u na”. He sings while gyrating his hips. He spins around shaking his booty, and wiggling around as I laugh and laugh.

“Ya like that!?” He asks me, pointing to his tight abs, then turning around again to wiggle his bottom.

I clap.

He unbuttons his pretty blue shorts.

I clap.

He pulls his shorts down and whips out his cock, flopping in the wind.

I look. Lucky bride.

His friends struggle to not choke on their drinks. I clap and laugh again. The Bachelor has finished his show, and pulls his feminine attire back in place. They beg me to stay, but I politely refuse. I do have company waiting for me. The Bachelor places his jacket over a high chair to make it more comfy because they’re out of chairs but I don’t sit.

Reluctantly I return the cowboy hat, shake my head and laugh. It’s bedtime for me. though I have to say I’ve never had dick in Denny’s before.

Just another night at Harley's

I notice him immediately. Early 50’s, peppered hair and obviously self-important, he stares at me, licking his lips, throughout my show. Fascinated by my performance, or just horny, he motions for me to join their table.

Wide-eyed, I smile at him as he explains how important he is, and how much money he has, and how honored I should be that he has chosen me to support this evening. He hands me a $100 bill and explains, “You got my attention. I’m taking the boys out tonight. They all work for me, and I want you to show them a good time.”

The boys are well-behaved and dull. I dance. They pay. We chat. I dance again. I’m making money for pretty lazy work. All I really have to do is sit here and listen to Mr. Very Important Executive talk about how very important he is.

Fiona finishes her show and joins the group. Neither one of us cares how very important or supposedly wealthy they are, but they are spending money. I watch her as she dances, enjoying her performance as I always do. Mid-dance Mr. Very Important Executive leans over to assure me that I’m beautiful and I’m talented and I shouldn’t feel bad.

Dammit! I forgot that I’m supposed to have no self-worth and feel threatened by every other dancer. He’s starting to get annoying… correction: More annoying!

Fiona and I trade entertainment duty, attending to the group for the duration of their company drunk fest. I dance. She dances. I do a show. She does a show. We take turns sitting with Mr. Very Important Executive and listening to his condescending bullshit.

I try to enjoy her show but I’m interrupted throughout by reassuring bullshit. I obviously need him to validate my worth. He is so very important and I should listen to him. I give up explaining that Fiona is a good friend of mine, and I’m not threatened by her. She’s gorgeous, and one of the best dancers in the country.

He replies with “But so are you. Don’t feel bad. You’re beautiful, and I really enjoyed your show.” (Fiona is doing a hand stand on stage) “You’re just as good as she is. I don’t want you to feel like you’re not good enough.”

“Okay.” I nod at him, trying to unsuccessfully end the topic. A question about work effectively turns his attention back to talking about himself.

Finally midnight draws near and the group abandons their fearless leader. They leave him in our care, drunk. I’m squished in between him and Fiona, trapped listening to his advice.

“I know you don’t understand what I’m talking about, but you should listen to me and be smart about things. I know you don’t know how to do that.” His voice is patronizing and I’m fighting the urge to tell him off.
He keeps talking. “You girls have an opportunity to make a lot of money, and even though you don’t understand how the world works, I’ve made a lot of money in my time. I’m a multi-millionaire and I know how to be smart. I know you girls don’t.”

I stare at Fiona, my eyebrows raised and lips tight. She smirks at my obvious desire to say something smart and bats her eyelashes at him “Uh huh…. Oooh. Uh huh…” She gazes at him.

I throw up a little in my mouth.

He continues. “How old are you girls?”

We lie.

He nods, believing us. “Well you girls are young. Too young. My company is big, and I’m very important, and we’re responsible for a ton of big expensive things that you girls are obviously impressed by” (I might be paraphrasing a bit here)

The bartender pulls me away from the absurdly condescending lecture before he gets to his point. I leave Mr. Very Important Executive in the fine hands of Fiona and go get dressed for my show. She joins me shortly having finished the conversation.

“So?” I ask

She shares the remainder of the conversation. “Well He has a lot of money, and he enjoyed my show. I’m a very talented dancer, and in his position he’s pretty qualified to judge that. He’s in room 203 in the hotel and he doesn’t know what I charge, but he thought he’d put that out there.”

“Alrighty then.” I shrug, laughing “He is very important you know.”

“Oh yes!” Fiona agrees, rolling her eyes.

The bar is almost empty as I wander back out to do my show. An old native guy is peering at me through is dirty glasses. Wiping beer from his white handlebar mustache, he waddles over to get a closer look and I catch the overpowering scent of diesel (the fuel, not the cologne). He’s been following Fiona and I throughout the bar all night, each time becoming more unintelligible.

4 regulars are hunched over the bar basically ignoring me as the music plays and I pretend to dance. I wander around the stage playing with the music, doing disco moves, and laughing. The “chicken dance” sends Fiona into giggles and she runs up to the front of the stage. Pulling a chair front and center she sits there for the remainder of my set.

The final notes of my third song fade into silence. Nothing happens. No music. No fourth song. No nothing. The bar is dead quiet. I shrug and lay down on my blanket on stage, clothed only in a pink PVC thong.

The bar is still silent as I watch the bartender fight with the CD player. “Piece of shit!” I hear him say.

“Well someone sing me a song and I’ll take my panties off” I announce to the bar.

The old native guy jumps out of him chair, accepting the offer. He raises his voice high, does a little jig and sings loud and clear…

"I once was happy but look at me now
I’m sitting in jail for raping a cow.
And when I get out how the people will laugh
‘Cuz I’m the proud father of a horny bull calf"

I collapse in a fit of giggles on stage. When you ask for a song… well I guess you get a song.

It’s just another night at Harley’s Hard Rock Saloon.

Freaks!

It’s Tuesday and the crowd is inconsistent. Having lost patience for the young kid who’s in love with me I wander towards the bar. I approach a couple new guys leaning against the back wall and say hello.

“I got stood up tonight.” The guy pouts, looking for sympathy from underneath his dark ball cap.

“Awww. That sucks.” I respond. What happened?”

“I dunno.” He whines.

“Well maybe a lap dance will help.”

He blows off the question “I don’t get lap dances. So I was talking to your friend over there” He emphasizes, motioning towards my friend Fiona. “And we were talking about a cat fight.”

She’s already told me about this freak. I know where this conversation is going, but it’s too late to walk away now. “Uh huh.” I sigh and let him continue.

“So yah I want you girls to rip all your clothes off and have a cat fight in the living room of the house. I’m allowed over there. The ‘no guests’ doesn’t apply to me.”

I laugh at the absurdity of the suggestion and shake my head but he’s still talking.

“I’m a porn star you know. It’s okay the $500 fine doesn’t apply to me. I’ve been over there tons of times. I’ve done some crazy shit with other girls. So don’t worry, I can come home with you guys tonight.”

My eyebrows rise in a blatantly condescending expression. “Ooohh really? Wow. That’s so exciting. I had no idea. But I already get to go home with this hot red head, so what would we need you for?”

“We can film it. Remember, I’m a porn star.”

“Great idea. Maybe we could start a live web feed.”

“Yah!” He’s getting excited as Fiona wanders over and joins the conversation.

“Oh we could wrestle around naked, but oh I’m too shy to do it on camera. That’s scary.” She dotes on the idea, batting her eyelashes.

Flirty, yet totally patronizing I play with him. “But… Oooh there’s no internet at the house. You’d have to get us a high-speed connection before that would work. I guess I’ll just have to go home with her instead. Sorry.”

“But I have her.” Fiona teases, wrapping her arm around me as I cup her breast. She’s a good friend of mine, and we’re always happy to torment the freaks and pervs with suggestions of hot girl-on-girl action. Silently we agree to play innocent and simultaneously bat our eyelashes at him.

He inquires immediately “So you guys are going to go down on each other later.”

“Of course.” She answers, fondling by breast.

But you said you were to shy and innocent for the web cam. How can you eat pussy if you’re innocent?”

“Oh it’s not scary when you have one.” She explains.

He’s too stupid to follow the conversation. “Have one what?” He asks.

“A pussy.” Fiona explains with a straight face. “It’s not scary eating pussy when you have one. It’s the same parts. But what YOU have in there…” She points to his groin. “Well that’s pretty intimidating. The one-eyed snake and all. That’s a lot for a girl to handle.”

“Oh don’t call it a snake.” He interjects.

I laugh as Fiona shoots back, “Oh excuse me, Anaconda!”

“Nooo” He whines. “Snakes are dirty and slimy.”

I shake my head, laughing, but done with the conversation. “Well whatever you want to call it. I’m going home with this hot red head.”

I hear him shout after us as we walk away, “But what about the cat fight?”

As soon as I slide onto a stool at the bar my lovesick puppy is back at my side, tapping me on the shoulder. “Will you come sit with me?”

Young, enthusiastic, and totally out of touch with reality, he’s in love with me. I’ve already been dealing with him for hours, but he’s determined. “In a minute.” I reply. “Did you want a dance?”

“Come sit with me.”

“Do you want a dance?”

“Will you come have a drink with me?”

“No. Do you want a dance?”

“Sure. Will you come sit with me?”

“In a minute.”

“Come sit with me. Please.” He whines, refusing to leave my side.

“Fine.” I shrug, exasperated. I follow him to his table and pull my chair a comfortable distance away from him.

He leans in closer. “Will you have a drink with me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to. Do you want a dance?”

“I’m going to take you to a movie.” He insists.

“No. You’re not.” I sigh, frustrated.

“Why not?” He whines.

“I don’t want to.”

“Can I take you for dinner?”

“No.”

“Do you want to go on a cruise with me?”

“No. Do you want a dance?” This conversation has been repetitive for hours already.

“How about babies? Do you want kids?” He grins at me.

I shut him down, again. “WTF! No. I don’t want kids.”

“How about Disney World?”

“No.”

“I love you.”

“Uh huh.”

We’re come full circle again. “Will you have a drink with me?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

I get up and walk away, again. I spend the next half hour unsuccessfully trying to avoid conversations. I watch Fiona get trapped into another conversation with the wannabe porn star as I wander into the back to hide for a few minutes. She joins me shortly.

“So how’s the porn star doing?” I ask her as she gets ready for a show.

She laughs and tells me the story “Oh well I was rocking in my chair, trying to stay warm, and he happened to look at me while I was leaned away from him, and he freaked out. Apparently he doesn’t like my body language and I have a bad attitude. So if I’m going to be like that well then I can just forget it. The whole night is off.”

I stare at her, shaking my head. “Wow. Well I guess you ruined everything.” I laugh.

“Uh huh. I have good timing. I picked just the right second to totally accidentally lean away. He doesn’t want me anymore.” She’s grinning, pretending to be serious.

I let her get ready and head back into the bar. My lovesick puppy is motioning to me to sit with him again. I ignore him and make small talk with a couple guys at the bar that I remember from last summer.

I’m interrupted by a pretty blonde girl tapping me on the shoulder. “Can you do a dance for my friend?” She asks pointing towards the new table of lesbians.

“Of course.” I take the money and follow her back to her table. “Which one?”

Lesbians to the rescue! Thank god! Normal people! I’m so relieved. Laughing and amused by feeble excuses I do a lap dance for one of the girls, get dressed again, and squeeze in between them on the couch. “Move over girls. I’m hanging out for a while.” I enjoy the company of the girls and go through the typical questions. “Where are you from? How long have you been up here? What do you do?” Conversation flows easily and is entirely without propositions or porn.

The lovesick puppy taps me on the shoulder again. “Do you want to go on a boat with me?”

“No! I will not do it on a boat. I will not do it with a goat. I will not go here or there. I’m not going with you anywhere!”

“Will you come sit with me?”

“No!” I turn away, ignore him, and go back to my conversation. He continues mouthing “I love you.” from across the bar until he leaves.

I do a couple more dances for the girls, Fiona joins in on one, and the two of us hide out in the lesbian group until the end of the night.

What a freak show.

at the CoHo

“SLAP!!” the sound of my palm against his cheek echoes in the room. His hand momentarily releases my hip as he gazes up at me.

He mumbles “Ohhh baby” and winks at me. His tongue is undulating in the air, slapping against his lips and bringing to mind the image of a half-swallowed goldfish still in his throat, swimming for escape. “Can I lick your pussy?” he asks.

I shake my head and watch him giving sloppy head to the neck of his beer as he attempts to drink more. He’s blonde, young, drunk, and dumb. My favourite! The pretty brunette beside him peaks through the cracks in her fingers, embarrassed for his sake, and trying not look. I ask her “Is he yours?” and laugh at her adamantly negative response. If he had any hope of getting laid tonight he’s probably destroyed it.

His hand stealthy wanders towards my ass; my right hand is already cupped. “SLAP!!!” Palm to cheek impact is harder this time. I feel his head turn in response to the force and watch his eyes flutter in surprise.

“Oooh do it again. Harder! Please?” He gazes up at me, rubbing his cheek, and savoring the violent memory.

The intoxicated masochism is not attractive and I’m bored of this fool. “You have pay for that shit, kid” I state as I shake my head and walk away.

I make eye contact with some old friends, and wander over to say hello. My name is in the marquee and I’m close to home. It’s not the first time this week that an old friend has come in for a peek.

The updates are shared quickly. Where you living? Whatcha doing? Who else is still around? It’s been years. We used to volunteer together, in a different life. Word of my new career spread quickly through my old colleagues but I’m on the road so much there have been very few opportunities for reunions. From this group they are the first. I know the news will be shared quickly and with pride “Guess who WE saw at the CoHo!?!”

We head into the lobby to take a picture, because they need proof not only that I’m a stripper, but that they really do know me. I watch Mark turn bright red from the top of his head to the collar of his shirt when I bend over to pick up my keys. I laugh at him for checking out my ass. The photos are taken and the hugs are passed around. It’s a good way to start the year.

It’s been a great week in Courtenay and I have only good things to say about this bar. It’s a good atmosphere, good stage, great poles, and a cute town. The staff is amazing, and they run a damn good peeler pub. I really need to remember to work here more often.

Happy New Year.

The sun is shining and the bar is empty but for staff, musicians, and fans. There are bands taking over our stage tonight and it should be an interesting evening. Aside from a few details it’s New Years Eve and everything is exactly the same, but I feel rusty. It doesn’t take long to adjust to a normal life and forget about the routine of Stripperville. It’s been an amazing month but it’s time to go back to work.

Mindlessly I wander the dressing room. Makeup splayed across the counter I play with colours and paint my eyes, creating the fantasy. My eyes glow jade surrounded by the smoky midnight navy shadow. Metallic gold accents shimmer in the light, drawing focus to the sultry stare that both mesmerizes and betrays me. Sometimes I wish I could hide from the honesty in my eyes. My lips pout, plump and sexy. Powder evens my skin, as blush emphasizes my already prominent cheekbones. I’m beginning to look like the stripper again.

Naked, I examine my body in the mirror, looking for evidence of my couch potato weeks. It’s not as bad as it could be, but I do need a better fitness routine (or at least some imitation of fitness in my life). I slide my feet into my plastic platform shoes, fiddling with a bent clasp. Turquoise sequins in hand I naturally pull the image together. The bra clasp fits snug between my breasts. The skirt zips loose onto my hips. Mechanically I tug at the zipper of the bustier and pull the white PVC trim in line with the laced bows. Snapping on the girly collar completes the outfit and I become the stripper again. Ryann Rain stares back at me through the mirror. It’s time to work.

2006 is coming to an end. I have no doubt that this coming year will be an amazing adventure. I can already see so much on the horizon. I’m excited. Passion and creative inspiration flow through my veins. 2007 is upon us.

Happy New Year!!

holy moment

My motivation is nonexistent as I survey the sparse crowd. It’s Thursday, and the customers are cheap and offensive tonight. Fighting a yawn I wander through the bar, smiling and doing my best to make a living. Middle aged and probably married a corporate shmuck catches my eye. I sigh quietly to myself and bat my eyelashes innocently. The conversation is shallow and scripted. He stares at tits while I attempt to manipulate the transaction. He’s drunk and mumbling “this is bad” as he hands his American Express to the bartender. “You’re so young, and I’m so old” he repeats, his hand sliding up the curve of my back. “This is bad.” He mumbles again. His drunken moral crisis is annoying and unoriginal. “Do you want a dance?” I interrupt, taking his hand and his money towards the VIP room. He continues to mumble and stumble through the bar, following me like a puppy. He’s probably not allowed in strip clubs, and is going to hear about it later. Maybe he just feels guilty. Maybe I don’t care.

The morality ceases the moment he sits down. “So can I lick and suck?” he asks me. My negative response prompts an argument. Apparently once the line is crossed in his mind anything goes. I’m not in the mood for this pathetic pouting so I dance. Distanced and careful I crawl above him, wary of his movements. I’m not fast enough. Within 15 seconds his hand reaches behind me, between my legs, and I jump. “Get the fuck off of me! What the fuck is wrong with you? Pay me, and get the fuck out! Now!” The VIP is quiet for a moment as other girls pause to look. His head is lolled back on the couch, arrogant, and indignant. “Pay me and get the fuck out!!” Slowly he begins to understand the dance is over and is thankfully smart enough to pay me. Fucking drunken asshole! I’m sure he’s very happily married. Maybe he’ll go home, because his night here is over.

I’m angry. I don’t want to dance. I need to take 5 minutes to regroup and put myself back together into a sellable idea. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I run my hands through my hair and try to avoid looking at my eyes. Ugh! I want to go home, but I don’t.

Instead I apply a fresh layer of lip gloss and glide back into the darkness. The men watch me, or deliberately ignore me as I wander. Frustrated and cold I move through the room, searching for an income. He’s alone. Young and well dressed he catches my eye just enough to grab my attention. He looks harmless, and friendly. I need a friendly customer right now. With spontaneous impressions I fling myself into his lap, stealing his affection. I play. I flirt. I entice him. He’s lonely and seeking more than comfort in this room. He’s questioning salvation. I know what he needs.

I dance for him, and talk with him. Gentle and open, he needs me. He needs me to distract him, accept him, and guide him. I begin to gain an understanding of his quest, and his past. Fundamentalist, Christian, divorced, father, and struggling man. He’s my age. His foundation has been shaken and he’s searching for a new truth, a personal truth. The regulations and system of certainty no longer fit. There are too many questions. Is it wrong to question? Does faith have to be blind? Is sexuality evil? Are affairs forgivable? Does he actually have the right to condemn his wife? Why did she make the decisions she did? Who has the right to impose choice? If he doesn’t, if the church doesn’t, the questions are piling… what about love and sexuality? What about the love and attraction between two people regardless of gender. The uncertainty is multiplying. Is seeking solstice in the arms of a naked stranger a sin?

“Do you believe in God?” he asks me. The conversation is sobering, and essential. There are holy moments when paths cross and purpose is discovered. I didn’t want to be at work last night, but I needed to be there. He needed to meet me.

In a darkened room, surrounded by old couches and scripted fantasies we talked until the bar closed. I didn’t make my millions last night, but I made a difference. We spoke of faith, and dogma, of expectations and manipulations. We spoke of judgment and Love. We explored fear and acceptance, politics, freedoms, agendas, and choices.

Does God work in mysterious ways? A young man was starving for answers and acceptance last night. In a moment of desperate loneliness and necessity he sought companionship and escape in the darkness of the sex industry. He found a stripper to take the time to see his soul, and encourage his journey of growth and discovery. I was meant to be a stripper, and forces beyond my limited experience meant for me to be there last night, to interject a holy moment of humanity, passionate questioning, and loving acceptance into his life.

His journey to finding an individual faith and a personal relationship with God has begun. I have no doubt that 2007 will be a year of growth and discovery for this young man.

MNCP- meltdown

Through the deep fog of slumber I hear my alarm sound. It’s morning. Everything aches, my head hurts and I want to wrap the blankets around my soul and hide. I haven’t cried yet, but I’m thinking I might be the only one. Maybe I should, hidden in my room, shielded from the day for a few more stolen moments. It was a rough night, and things could have been so much worse had I made semi-finals. Somewhere in the mayhem of sabotage, drama, and unattainable perfection I lost my phone. Fuck.

I doubt I’ll cry. I’m in caretaker mode, and there are too many girls that need support and help. Emotions are high, and the stress level is off the chart. I’ve seen the scores, and I know now that my show was good enough to make semi-finals, but drawing #1 on Monday hurt me. I could cry, but they would be tears of anger and frustration. Yes, I’m disappointed but I’m more concerned about the girls. I’m fucking pissed off at the lack of compassion and respect demonstrated by an arrogant individual. Someone is determined to make a point, and hurt as many people as possible in the process. Someone’s ego is willing to jeopardize the safety of over a dozen dancers just to make a point. Oil was poured in a fog machine. Pools were popped. Props disappeared. Oil could cause a dancer to slip and break an ankle, or worse fall off the pole. Sabotage is fucking pathetic. Endangerment is beyond forgivable.

I ran for hours, collecting props, organizing shows, and ensuring every girl had what she needed. Then I ran around again, checking on injuries, comforting disappointments, and providing interference through the chaos. Somehow it worked, and Ultimate Feature and her team held together the show. Pools were shared, comfort and hugs were plenty. The fantasy was maintained, and the deliberate attempts at destruction did not show on stage. We are professionals, and the show went on. They smiled, and danced, and did everything in their control to put on the best show. The shows were beautiful. There were tears across the board as the stress culminated into a 3am meltdown. Vibrating with anger and disbelief, we did our best to make it work. And then we all went home and collapsed. It was a rough night.

I have to convince my body to leave this bed, and face the day. It’s Saturday, and not only do we have finals to prepare for, we have repairs and investigations to do. It all has to be done in the next four hours, and we all have to be at the bar, perfect embodiments of stunning fantasies for a media meet and greet in six hours. I’d better get up.

MNCP - day three

Day three.

Naked in my hotel bathroom paint is dripping off my breast as I examine the effect in the mirror. I like it. My hair is knotted, and untamed, and I need a shower. But the paint is going to work. Even though I’m a mess, sexy in a morning after, smudged makeup, covered in paint, fuck me hard kind of way, I’m just about ready for the night. It’s still mid-afternoon. My basket is organized, my music is burning, and my costume is on the bed. Ultimate Feature would be so proud of me if she knew how prepared I was for the day. My second preliminary show is tonight, and I’m a bit nervous. I don’t know the show as well as I’d like, and I really hope it goes well. The ranking from your best night is used to determine who advances on to semi-finals.

I fully expect tonight to be my last show for the week. Not because I don’t have faith in myself, or that I’m not trying… but because I’m new to the competition scene. It’s my first time at nationals. For me to believe that I have to make it to finals this year would be presumptuous, and arrogant. There are so many girls who are so much better than I am.

We’ll see how it goes. I’m having fun.

But right now, it’s time for a few sexy strippers to go jump in the pool and soak away the aching muscles in the hot tub.

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.

Arrogant

It’s early and I can smell the arrogance from across the bar, their need to feel flashy and powerful. I can’t tell yet how much is talk and how much is monetary gain, but there’s one way to find out. Moving into the circle of men I begin to access the group. The Money Man is quickly identified. He’s middle aged, slightly portly, casually dressed, and carrying a wad of cash in his left hand. It’s his nephew’s birthday, and he’s determined to showcase every possible disrespectful and narcissistic behavior in the book. I have no doubt that the birthday boy will be taught how to buy women, and how to tell them their worth. I’m sure he’ll be a real doll within a few years.

Tonight he’s 19, and trainable. The money is flowing and I do a few dances for the birthday boy, his uncle, and a few other guys in the party. Money Man is talking about their plans, and how extravagant the evening is going to be. They’re going to an exclusive club, in their limo, and I ought to be impressed. He wants to make a deal on the evening, for a few dancers to join the party. I’m willing to talk and negotiate as long as he’s paying me to do so. “$1000, no sex and no drugs, and sure I’ll come party with you. You want me out of the bar, you have to make it worth me leaving the bar.”

Apparently that’s not the deal, and “extras” are desired. If sex was on the menu, he should have hired a few escorts, and got his money’s worth. As it stands right now, I’ve pocketed a couple hundred, as has every other girl who’s been pretending to negotiate while Money Man proves his worth. No dancers left the bar.

A dance...

He’s damaged. Newly single, he’s fragile and frustrated. The lack of regular sex is a shock to the system. I sense in him a smooth power and comfort. He’s used to being secure in the routine of monogamy. His role has never been questioned; his power has never been challenged.

I love his delicate vulnerability. Confident in his ability to manipulate he slides into my circle. He wants relief and attention. He wants to be masculine and desired. He wants to forget for a moment the reality of the loneliness that waits for him at home.

In a different world I may have given him my number; instead I make him my favourite for the evening. ‘Let’s dance’. Let me crawl into your lap and press my naked breasts against your cheek. Let me straddle your body, and tease you with an idea. I rotate my hips and feel his breath catch. Arching in his lap I play with the intimacy and the escape. Another song, and then another, and then perhaps a few more… He’s frustrated and beautiful. The outcome might be the same as every other night at home alone, but at least he now has a new inspiration. Right now, in this room, he can forget how lonely it gets.

Bloody long day

Saturday night... Sunday morning I don't care what you call it.

Sunday Nov 5. 12:30am. The posters are signed, and I’m done. With a final glance around the bar, I head straight for the front desk. “Money please.” I check my contract, count the bills and say the obligatory goodbyes. Tip toeing across the icy cover parking lot I drag my tired body back to the room. It’s still a mess. I went out for dinner instead of packing. I laugh at my own procrastination and survey the explosion of panties, props and posters. Everything came from somewhere, and like every week it must be stuffed carefully into my suitcases. I’d better get on it. I peel off my sweater and wander around in my bra. I have work to do, and a sweaty turtleneck is gross.

1:00am Ashley pops her head in my room and shakes her head at the obvious lack of packing I’ve done. We both have flights to catch out of Winnipeg and we need to figure out timing. There’s a bus leaving at 6:45am. I hate mornings. There’s also a 3am bus… Strippers and early mornings are not a good combination. I suspect our best hours of sleep are between 6am and noon. I guess we’re leaving at 3:00am. Joy!

1:30 am. I’m watching CSI Miami and sitting on my suitcase. With a bit of moral support and extra body weight it slowly zips closed. Suitcases are quickly being piled in the hall. My costumes are packed, as are Ashley’s. As I do a final check of the room I realize that I’ve packed my shirt. I have nothing to wear. Oops. I tug at the zipper, carefully opening a crack, peering in I spot a clean shirt and pull. Success! I have a sweater.

2:00am. After a bit of searching and a few phone calls from front desk, we find a willing employee to haul our 6 suitcases, Rubbermaid container, and random stuff to the lobby. Yay! The cab is called and we wait. The driver is useless. After staring at us for a few minutes and starting to drive away she reluctantly gets out of the van. With no assistance, and a few complaints we manage to load up. Finally.

2:45am. The road is slippery and the air is sharp. An obscene amount of luggage is piled around us, providing a chair and a hassle. The doors are locked and the depot is abandoned but for three enthusiastic drunks, and two very tired strippers.

4:30am. It’s dark, and it’s late. I’m exhausted and allow my body to drift in and out of sleep. Scrunched in the seat I toss and turn in futile attempts at comfort. My neck hurts and my back hurts, and I hate buses. Beside me I know Ashley shares my sentiments. Yawning, I stare out into the darkness for a moment. Everything is flat, and icy. Winter has come to the prairies, and I’m ready to move on.

5:30am. Winnipeg. I think I slept. I know I closed my eyes, but sleeping on a bus doesn’t count. We need a cab, actually we need 2 cabs and apparently the competent employees aren’t working at 5:30 in the morning on a Sunday. I’m annoyed, and too tired. The cabbies stare at us blankly until I give them very short instructions. “Ok look. We need two cabs. We have 8 bags. They won’t fit in one. You and you, drive around back.” My message appears to have made an impression and we’re on our way again.

6:00am. Home sweet home… or rather a pathetic imitation. I know this hotel all too well. For cheap weekly rates this is the local stripper hotel. Located downtown, and above a peeler bar it’s where most out of town dancers stay. We grab a dancer room and drag our sore bodies down the hall. Suitcases are dragged in and dropped. Clothes are stripped off and left in piles. “I claim the window bed.” I mumble as Ashley yawns in response. “Fine with me, I want the one closest to the door.” Comfortable chatter delays sleep for too long. Finally with the sun peeking through the heavy curtains I drift into darkness.

10:30am. The alarm rings. I roll over and whine. Squinting through a haze of exhaustion I watch her slowly crawl out of bed. Half asleep I hear her shower and drag her share of the gear into the hall. Before too long half the suitcases are gone, as is my friend. Her plane leaves soon. Mine doesn’t. I roll over and hide from the day, but I’m already awake.

11:15am I give up on sleep. I might as well start the day.

2:00pm. Showered, dressed, and packed I’m ready and waiting… for hours. A cab ride to Starbucks provides a welcome dose of caffeine and comfort. I can be a nerd for a couple hours.

4:30 pm. Back at the hotel, I finish closing zippers and staring blankly at the TV. I seem to be watching a follow up on the career of the New Kids on the Block. I’m too lazy to change the channel, besides it’s almost time to go and maybe the life of Jordan Knight is interesting.

4:45pm. realize I haven’t eaten today.

5:10pm. In another cab, this time on the way to the airport. The boy at the check in counter is cute and friendly. He’s my new favourite WestJet employee of the day as he barely charges me for the extra checked baggage. He remembers Ashley from earlier, and did the same for her. What a doll.

5:40pm. I roll my eyes at security girl who wants my MAC lip gloss in a Ziplock before I’m allowed to take it on the plane. They’ve run out of baggies. The guy working at the gift shop finds me a tiny baggie so I can continue through security. Some things I’m willing to sacrifice. Chapstick- sure. MAC tingle shimmer gloss- not a chance.

5:50pm. Sunshine calls. He can’t make it up to see me tonight. Work needs him. It happens. Contingency plan, I call Ashley and get the name of her driver in TO. She offers to make a few calls and txt msg me if she figures something out.

6:10pm. Board plane.

6:25pm. Ashley calls as the flight attendants are going over emergency exits. She got a hold of her driver, and he’ll meet me at the airport. Sweet!! I’m disappointed about Sunshine, but hopefully our schedules with work out soon.

7:50pm. There’s nothing on TV. I munch on a bag of cashews. This does NOT count as dinner, but it's a start. Yawn… (cross time zone and loose an hour)

9:45pm. I’m in Toronto. I’m exhausted and starving. My driver is right where he said he’d be, and he recognizes me immediately. I must look like a stripper. I suspect my luggage is a dead giveaway.

10:40pm. I don’t know where I am, but somewhere in this isolated industrial area is my new home for two weeks. I grab a quick glance in the mirror and head into the bar. I love it. The multileveled floor plan both isolates the room into intimate corners, and creates a central focus around the stage. The room is dim, and feels inviting. I watch patrons enjoy conversations with scantily clad beauties as I weave through the room to the office. I need a key, and an introduction. All is well, and I’m sure I’ll have a good time here. Starving a grab a Chicken Caesar salad and wander through the darkness to my room. The bar is the only life in the neighbourhood, and my apartment is hidden above dark store fronts. The pillows are speckled with lavender flowers and the canary walls create a homey atmosphere. I feel safe here.

Monday Nov 6. 1:00am
My concentration wavers as George Stroumboulopoulos talks Kyoto with David Suzuki in the background. A can of iced tea rests on the bedside table next to my cell phone. I swear I can create a home in 10 minutes. All I have to do is open the bags, and my personality overflows into the room. Flicking channels impatiently, I’m trying to kill a bit more time. I need to stay awake just a little bit longer. I need to switch my laundry before I can pass out for the night. Saddam Hussein has been declared guilty and sentenced to execution. It’s a strange moment. I feel detached and uninformed. With so much propaganda being fed through the media, I’ve found myself frustrated with everything political. I wonder if Saddam will actually be hung. What a strange concept. A trial with international attention resulting in a sentence that reminds me of old westerns and historical revolutions.

1:30am
I’m done. The alarm is set for 10. My care bear is nuzzled in my breast. The pillow is soft. CSI is providing a familiar distraction and I’ll be asleep soon.