Better lock your doors 'cause the bitch is back.
Ah, writer's block. It's not so much that life itself is lackluster, it's just that the incidents can't be articulated. Myspace has formulated a devestatingly powerful grip on a large portion of the present online world and siphoned them away from the Livejournal archives, leading me to the conclusion that people are clearly becoming more shallow as the months fizzle away into photoshopped camwhoring and "some extra baggage" on their homepage stats. The internet is so depressing now, funny how it used to be a haven for amusement, trolling, and general communication yet nowadays I don't even want to TALK to any of these fucking douchebags anymore. But let's progress to "real life", shall we?
Anyone who knows how irresponsible I am, knows that I can't handle a normal job. I need salacious, unpredictable, bizzare-ish occupations to function properly. Routine makes me incredibly antsy to the point of wanting to backflip into a pit of anacondas who haven't devoured fresh meat in about a decade, which I guess would make them dead, which I guess would also make me a pussy. Stripping in Rhode Island has the misfortune of being at risk for working in undercover brothels where you can hear the titilating moans of obese whores behind the curtains. So alas, I decided to get a job in Connecticut, the state that never seems to end because it's so insufferably boring. UnFortunately, due to scheduling and distance problems, I'm only required to whore my lascivious services on weekends.
So on to the part where I describe in revolting detail about how I've obtained this job.
Hairband, Beer-guzzling, Nascar-driving Fucks Across the Hall:
Hey, my buddy has a girlfriend that works in a strip club! She's pretty chill. They could break you in without the complications of auditioning, and you guys could spent the weekend in a hotel together! It'll be rad!
Me:
Hey, thanks man! Wow, these people sound pretty nice.
Enter Toothless Rich the crackhead and his sapphic smutqueen "Kitten". Now, typically when I describe people in journal entries, I tend to embellish slightly for comic effect. But not with these two. In this case, they do the embellishment for me, and the rest of us are left to stare agape in abject mortification. I have never seen a girl so disengaged and completely oblivious to the fact that everyone thinks she's an utter retard. Her blank, deadpan eyes behind her eyeglasses make me constantly feel like I'm raping her virgin intelligence with every word. Sure, Kitten's got a slyphlike body like my own, but years of crack abuse have eviscerated her teeth into moldered rot. Her peroxided blonde hair is frayed at the ends which grasps her skull like a migraine, like an albino tarantula molting it's skin onto her bony shoulders. She told me her cunt looks like a peach. I guess I would know, considering I filmed them having sex in the hotel room several times. But seriously, who compares their genitals to a fruit without expecting a boot to the face? Kitten is also a porn star, except replace "star" with "idiot that films shoddy sex tapes so her shady boyfriend can mooch off all her financial earnings". Moving along.
When I entered the club for the first time, I instantly noticed two things. One, the stage looks absolutely hazardous, with gaps outlining the perimeter of the stage and around the platform where the pole is, basically telling the customers "Hands off!" When to the dancers, it's really more like "Head comes off if you fall, fuckers!" The second thing I noticed was that there were absolutely no blondes. The body types varied from anorexic to 'thick and solid', but the common denominator was that they all had oranged cosmetic tans and were brunettes. Most of the girls are of mixed ethnicity. Despite the refreshing change from the typical platinum-blonde stripper stereotype that plagues our cinema, I still have one complaint, since this is an industry completely based off physical appearence. Please, fellow dancers, for the love of god. Stop thinking that revolting glitter eyeshadow will razzle-dazzle because it looks good under the blacklights (which, those lights come in handy for masking unsightly cellulite and scar tissue from angsty self-mutilators, ahem). You look like elves on acid.
Typically, I'll be a beguiling temptress in black or gold, but hey, even a cruel bitch can be endearingly cute, can't she? I hacked off a good four inches from the bottom of a plaid red skirt so it would display the bottom of my succulent ass quite nicely. Throw my fire engine hair into girlish pigtails and presto! Every pedophile's dream, sashaying along a gold pole with a coy and inviting smirk, trailing my expert hands along the delicate folds of my trite little costume. The term "stripper" doesn't really sit well in my psyche, because technically that's not what I do. My routines are more of a suggestive tease, a flash of the nipple here and there, a feigned accidently glimpse of labia outlined by a tautly stretched white thong. Typically, especially in bikini bars, stripping is for ugly girls. A busted face has to be compensated with drooping breasts squeezed together quite desperately.
To cut to the chase, the money here is decent but never promised. Every night is a gamble. Will I make ten dollars, or will I make eight hundred? It really has no relation to how attractive you are visually. You have to make stimulating eye contact that teases that you have the delectable goods that they spend their lonely nights jacking off to, and then not supply it. You have to pretend to be so amused and absolutely fascinated by disgusting old lechers and their wacky fetishistic endeavors. Which is not exactly rocket science, but it can be psychologically exhausting to screw on a shit-eating smile for eight straight hours. And aside from the straps of nine inch heels bruising your ankles, the job really is just a simple mind game. And if you have balls of steel, it's pretty fucking amusing at that.
My favorite customer comments:
1. "Life is a game, you know. Right now, this is a game. Every comment I make is a movement on the chessboard of this decadent world. (Passes out into his martini)."
2. (When asked for money after a lapdance) "Why is it all about money with you? I'd rather you do this for me because you care about me. Why can't you move to my beach house in Massachusetts? I couldn't possibly promise you wouldn't end up pregnant within two weeks, though.. two children sounds good, a boy and a girl. Yeah, I love kids..." (*Note: Met fifteen minutes ago.)
3. "Nigga fuck this shit, in Miami they let me CUM ALL OVER THEIR TITS!" (During a double lapdance with Kitten where we had to explain that this isn't a brothel).
But I'm sure you want to know where I was going with the Tales of Kitten, correct? After she disappeared off the face of the earth because of relationship problems and an assumed pregnancy, I was finally able to breathe normally and attempt to move on with my life, gullibly assuming that the chronicles of the burned-out pornstar had dissipated into oblivion. Amy and I had just passed out in the living room while watching old wrestling VHS's all night, relishing the lavender-scented midnight air with Dude Love, when suddenly the following morning, we were jarred awake by a knock on the door.
Cue horror movie violin flourish as Amy and I's frantic stares as an excrusiating, underwater slow-mo of the word "KITTEN" rolled underneath the door and spilled onto my carpet. It couldn't be.. could it? She sauntered into the living room, jacked up on chemical drugs, but stopped in her tracks when she noticed us waking up under the covers, our eyes still blearly from sleep.
"OH," she huffed jealously, folding her arms across her pale chest, "figures I've INTERUPTED something." What. Seriously, why is she still alive?
She then proceeded to regale us with boring anecdotes about how Rich is in prison for unpaid child support and how she's busting ass to come up with two grand for his bail, and how she got fucked in the ass while doing four lines of cocaine. During the entire visit she never shut her mouth about how "high" she was. But here's the kicker! Guess where she's living now?
ACROSS THE HALL IN APARTMENT C.
Usually, my initial snap judgement is to attempt finding some vestige of good character within a person I'm forced to deal with every week. And with women in her circumstances: I try. I really, really try to understand why her life is such a garbage pit. But with her, I have lost all sympathy, particularly because of her smug and willfully delusional disposition. I don't want to hate someone so pathetic, but I do. I'm sorry guys.
Friday afternoon, right before heading to Connecticut, she knocked on the door again. Our bags were packed and sitting on the coffee table, waiting to be thrown in the car. Justin and I rolled our eyes at eachother, expecting a shitstorm of retardation. We were right. Kitten storms into our apartment, lips frosted glittery pink like she just sucked off a teletubby raver, demanding to use our phone. Apparently her ride changed his mind (lol), and she was four hours late for work. Could she make phone calls. Could she borrow a pair of shoes. Sob sob sob. She then mentioned that she was going to the Satin Doll, a club notorious for being a whorehouse.
"Isn't that place a dump?" I asked.
She squirmed. "Yeah, but I'm desperate. They won't be allowed to peg me, but if a guy asks for a handjob.. I'll just.. y'know.. Do it." I told her how disgusting and offensive that was considering strippers lose the majority of their clients to whores. That ruins the quality of the business. Who's going to buy a lap dance if you can get a blowjob (syphallis optional)?
After she left, we loaded our shit into the car for the brief road trip. Between every round up and down the stairs, outside in the hallway you could hear her loud sobbing onto the phone, "MY RIDE ISN'T HERE AND I'M FOUR HOURS LATE AND I'LL HAVE TO PAY A LATE FEE AND I HAVEN'T ORGASMED IN A WEEK OHHH HO HO".
But alas, the job is still badass despite douchebags like her. Most of them are pretty fucking awesome and interesting people, and all of them are honest, if not brutally so, which is a refreshing change from liars and cheats. $550 in two brief nights, just for being a hot piece of ass that can hold a conversation and work a room.
Not bad at all.
Anyone who knows how irresponsible I am, knows that I can't handle a normal job. I need salacious, unpredictable, bizzare-ish occupations to function properly. Routine makes me incredibly antsy to the point of wanting to backflip into a pit of anacondas who haven't devoured fresh meat in about a decade, which I guess would make them dead, which I guess would also make me a pussy. Stripping in Rhode Island has the misfortune of being at risk for working in undercover brothels where you can hear the titilating moans of obese whores behind the curtains. So alas, I decided to get a job in Connecticut, the state that never seems to end because it's so insufferably boring. UnFortunately, due to scheduling and distance problems, I'm only required to whore my lascivious services on weekends.
So on to the part where I describe in revolting detail about how I've obtained this job.
Hairband, Beer-guzzling, Nascar-driving Fucks Across the Hall:
Hey, my buddy has a girlfriend that works in a strip club! She's pretty chill. They could break you in without the complications of auditioning, and you guys could spent the weekend in a hotel together! It'll be rad!
Me:
Hey, thanks man! Wow, these people sound pretty nice.
Enter Toothless Rich the crackhead and his sapphic smutqueen "Kitten". Now, typically when I describe people in journal entries, I tend to embellish slightly for comic effect. But not with these two. In this case, they do the embellishment for me, and the rest of us are left to stare agape in abject mortification. I have never seen a girl so disengaged and completely oblivious to the fact that everyone thinks she's an utter retard. Her blank, deadpan eyes behind her eyeglasses make me constantly feel like I'm raping her virgin intelligence with every word. Sure, Kitten's got a slyphlike body like my own, but years of crack abuse have eviscerated her teeth into moldered rot. Her peroxided blonde hair is frayed at the ends which grasps her skull like a migraine, like an albino tarantula molting it's skin onto her bony shoulders. She told me her cunt looks like a peach. I guess I would know, considering I filmed them having sex in the hotel room several times. But seriously, who compares their genitals to a fruit without expecting a boot to the face? Kitten is also a porn star, except replace "star" with "idiot that films shoddy sex tapes so her shady boyfriend can mooch off all her financial earnings". Moving along.
When I entered the club for the first time, I instantly noticed two things. One, the stage looks absolutely hazardous, with gaps outlining the perimeter of the stage and around the platform where the pole is, basically telling the customers "Hands off!" When to the dancers, it's really more like "Head comes off if you fall, fuckers!" The second thing I noticed was that there were absolutely no blondes. The body types varied from anorexic to 'thick and solid', but the common denominator was that they all had oranged cosmetic tans and were brunettes. Most of the girls are of mixed ethnicity. Despite the refreshing change from the typical platinum-blonde stripper stereotype that plagues our cinema, I still have one complaint, since this is an industry completely based off physical appearence. Please, fellow dancers, for the love of god. Stop thinking that revolting glitter eyeshadow will razzle-dazzle because it looks good under the blacklights (which, those lights come in handy for masking unsightly cellulite and scar tissue from angsty self-mutilators, ahem). You look like elves on acid.
Typically, I'll be a beguiling temptress in black or gold, but hey, even a cruel bitch can be endearingly cute, can't she? I hacked off a good four inches from the bottom of a plaid red skirt so it would display the bottom of my succulent ass quite nicely. Throw my fire engine hair into girlish pigtails and presto! Every pedophile's dream, sashaying along a gold pole with a coy and inviting smirk, trailing my expert hands along the delicate folds of my trite little costume. The term "stripper" doesn't really sit well in my psyche, because technically that's not what I do. My routines are more of a suggestive tease, a flash of the nipple here and there, a feigned accidently glimpse of labia outlined by a tautly stretched white thong. Typically, especially in bikini bars, stripping is for ugly girls. A busted face has to be compensated with drooping breasts squeezed together quite desperately.
To cut to the chase, the money here is decent but never promised. Every night is a gamble. Will I make ten dollars, or will I make eight hundred? It really has no relation to how attractive you are visually. You have to make stimulating eye contact that teases that you have the delectable goods that they spend their lonely nights jacking off to, and then not supply it. You have to pretend to be so amused and absolutely fascinated by disgusting old lechers and their wacky fetishistic endeavors. Which is not exactly rocket science, but it can be psychologically exhausting to screw on a shit-eating smile for eight straight hours. And aside from the straps of nine inch heels bruising your ankles, the job really is just a simple mind game. And if you have balls of steel, it's pretty fucking amusing at that.
My favorite customer comments:
1. "Life is a game, you know. Right now, this is a game. Every comment I make is a movement on the chessboard of this decadent world. (Passes out into his martini)."
2. (When asked for money after a lapdance) "Why is it all about money with you? I'd rather you do this for me because you care about me. Why can't you move to my beach house in Massachusetts? I couldn't possibly promise you wouldn't end up pregnant within two weeks, though.. two children sounds good, a boy and a girl. Yeah, I love kids..." (*Note: Met fifteen minutes ago.)
3. "Nigga fuck this shit, in Miami they let me CUM ALL OVER THEIR TITS!" (During a double lapdance with Kitten where we had to explain that this isn't a brothel).
But I'm sure you want to know where I was going with the Tales of Kitten, correct? After she disappeared off the face of the earth because of relationship problems and an assumed pregnancy, I was finally able to breathe normally and attempt to move on with my life, gullibly assuming that the chronicles of the burned-out pornstar had dissipated into oblivion. Amy and I had just passed out in the living room while watching old wrestling VHS's all night, relishing the lavender-scented midnight air with Dude Love, when suddenly the following morning, we were jarred awake by a knock on the door.
Cue horror movie violin flourish as Amy and I's frantic stares as an excrusiating, underwater slow-mo of the word "KITTEN" rolled underneath the door and spilled onto my carpet. It couldn't be.. could it? She sauntered into the living room, jacked up on chemical drugs, but stopped in her tracks when she noticed us waking up under the covers, our eyes still blearly from sleep.
"OH," she huffed jealously, folding her arms across her pale chest, "figures I've INTERUPTED something." What. Seriously, why is she still alive?
She then proceeded to regale us with boring anecdotes about how Rich is in prison for unpaid child support and how she's busting ass to come up with two grand for his bail, and how she got fucked in the ass while doing four lines of cocaine. During the entire visit she never shut her mouth about how "high" she was. But here's the kicker! Guess where she's living now?
ACROSS THE HALL IN APARTMENT C.
Usually, my initial snap judgement is to attempt finding some vestige of good character within a person I'm forced to deal with every week. And with women in her circumstances: I try. I really, really try to understand why her life is such a garbage pit. But with her, I have lost all sympathy, particularly because of her smug and willfully delusional disposition. I don't want to hate someone so pathetic, but I do. I'm sorry guys.
Friday afternoon, right before heading to Connecticut, she knocked on the door again. Our bags were packed and sitting on the coffee table, waiting to be thrown in the car. Justin and I rolled our eyes at eachother, expecting a shitstorm of retardation. We were right. Kitten storms into our apartment, lips frosted glittery pink like she just sucked off a teletubby raver, demanding to use our phone. Apparently her ride changed his mind (lol), and she was four hours late for work. Could she make phone calls. Could she borrow a pair of shoes. Sob sob sob. She then mentioned that she was going to the Satin Doll, a club notorious for being a whorehouse.
"Isn't that place a dump?" I asked.
She squirmed. "Yeah, but I'm desperate. They won't be allowed to peg me, but if a guy asks for a handjob.. I'll just.. y'know.. Do it." I told her how disgusting and offensive that was considering strippers lose the majority of their clients to whores. That ruins the quality of the business. Who's going to buy a lap dance if you can get a blowjob (syphallis optional)?
After she left, we loaded our shit into the car for the brief road trip. Between every round up and down the stairs, outside in the hallway you could hear her loud sobbing onto the phone, "MY RIDE ISN'T HERE AND I'M FOUR HOURS LATE AND I'LL HAVE TO PAY A LATE FEE AND I HAVEN'T ORGASMED IN A WEEK OHHH HO HO".
But alas, the job is still badass despite douchebags like her. Most of them are pretty fucking awesome and interesting people, and all of them are honest, if not brutally so, which is a refreshing change from liars and cheats. $550 in two brief nights, just for being a hot piece of ass that can hold a conversation and work a room.
Not bad at all.