Today, for the first time in a while, I jumped my fiance's bones. He was just sitting there, watching football, and something about the combination of the fact that he had willingly gone to the flea market with me earlier and the sun shining down on his facial hair made my lady parts quiver with excitement. And so, I pounced.
Understand how rare this is. Usually when I initiate sex, it's because I feel guilty for not having done so in weeks (yeah...weeks). And so for the record, I was proud of myself. But I noticed something interesting.
I didn't plan on fucking him. I planned on kissing him. But the spontaneity, the complete surprise by which I took myself was such a turn-on that the next thing I knew, I was grabbing him by both hands and leading him down the hallway, practically yanking his pants off as we walked. By the time we reached the bedroom I was no longer myself. I was a sexual beast, freed from the confines of bullet pointed sexual suggestions in women's magazines, anger and resentment over ongoing fights, to-do lists, all the shit that usually crowds my brain during sex and makes it nearly impossible for me to relax and have fun.
None of that was going on. I was a sex machine. I was Tom Jones, Prince and Madonna. And it was glorious. And I had planned exactly none of it beforehand. Such a departure, if you'll indugle me, from the detached, controlled and highly staged sexuality of my stripping career. A part of myself that I love, to be sure, but a part that is different from the raw sexual energy of this chilly afternoon. There was no fancy make-up, no high heels, just me and my random -- and very welcome -- hormonal outburst.
Here's hoping it returns again soon.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Writing Writing
So, it occurred to me yesterday as I was strolling through the palm-lined streets of West Hollywood with two retarded golden retrievers tugging on their leashes that there is one thing that I'm not doing daily, and that is writing. Not writing for money, not writing on assignment, not writing about shit I don't really care about so I can buy new shoes (stripping, I'll miss you most of all).
Just writing cause that's what I like to do. It's an important exercise, but for some reason, I've had this idea that if I don't have something sordid to say, I shouldn't say anything at all. But that can't be right. And so hopefully, from now on I'll be bringing you the mundane, sometimes intimate, sometimes not, details about my daily life, as sort of an exercise in writing for me and an exercise in voyeurism for you.
Wish me luck, and um...if you're there, let me know.
Just writing cause that's what I like to do. It's an important exercise, but for some reason, I've had this idea that if I don't have something sordid to say, I shouldn't say anything at all. But that can't be right. And so hopefully, from now on I'll be bringing you the mundane, sometimes intimate, sometimes not, details about my daily life, as sort of an exercise in writing for me and an exercise in voyeurism for you.
Wish me luck, and um...if you're there, let me know.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What happened?
Right now I'm working on a post for Jewcy, this website about...wait for it!...Jews. Cause I'm one.
Anyway, I'm deep into it, it's all about porn and why there aren't more Jewish chicks who do it and whether that's a result of Jewish chicks being repressed or porn people not liking the Jewish aesthetic. So I'm pretty deep in it, and I have to admit that my mind is swimming in circles.
And then I realized -- what HAPPENED? Writing used to be fun. Writing about sex used to be fun. When, and WHY, did it get so serious? Do I even like writing serious, thoughtful articles about why the fuck organized religion is so repressive? Or do I kinda not care? I miss the days that I came home from work at 2:30 a.m., bruised and battered and yet all I wanted to do was explode all over my keyboard with the events of the evening. Somehow my writing has become distilled, stilted, not loving, not part of my body anymore but some chopped off, wooden, stiff part of my mind. I miss the days when my heart was involved.
Anyway, I'm deep into it, it's all about porn and why there aren't more Jewish chicks who do it and whether that's a result of Jewish chicks being repressed or porn people not liking the Jewish aesthetic. So I'm pretty deep in it, and I have to admit that my mind is swimming in circles.
And then I realized -- what HAPPENED? Writing used to be fun. Writing about sex used to be fun. When, and WHY, did it get so serious? Do I even like writing serious, thoughtful articles about why the fuck organized religion is so repressive? Or do I kinda not care? I miss the days that I came home from work at 2:30 a.m., bruised and battered and yet all I wanted to do was explode all over my keyboard with the events of the evening. Somehow my writing has become distilled, stilted, not loving, not part of my body anymore but some chopped off, wooden, stiff part of my mind. I miss the days when my heart was involved.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Adventures in Dog-Walking
Maybe this blog is becoming more about my odd jobs and less about my naked body.
I say this because recently, I've taken up dog-walking as a non-controversial way to make extra money. And unsurprisingly, it blows.
Today wasn't as bad as yesterday, when it rained all morning. It was sunny, I had a few dogs that I like (my favorite is a 3-pound Yorkie who only needs to walk about 2 blocks), and I didn't have to be anywhere until 11. But I did have five pugs in a row, and let me tell you, pugs are way less cool than they look.
My first pugs of the day, G and E, are gentle little creatures. They're about six years old, and very sweet, but E absolutely hates to walk. So I have 1/2 hour with them, and there I am, dodging a dump truck the entire way up Queens Road in the Hollywood Hills, trying my best to ensure that they don't get run over, and all the while trying to get this little beefeater to move.
"Come on, E!" I gently cajole. She digs her heels in and puts her head down. "Come on, E!" I say again, getting stern. She does the same. With my next tug, I pull her collar off by accident.
Aha. Now we're at a standoff. She knows she has me by the balls, because if she runs she will likely die, and that will be my fault. I try to anticipate her next move. Will it be to the right? The left? A fakeout? Will she just turn around and head for home with everything she's got? She stares me down. The next thing I know, I dive for her, grab her by the plentiful scruff of her neck, and slip the thing over her head. Crisis averted, but now I'm on alert.
Pugs 3 and 4 are assholes. Really, I hate these dogs. B and O. Fitting.
I have witnessed these two little shitheads frighten schoolchildren repeatedly, and when I try to feed them treats at the end of their walk (against my will), they bite me. Basically, they can go fuck themselves, as far as I'm concerned. Also, they make the most disgusting noises, far beyond the typical mouth-breathing snorts of your average pug. They whinny, almost, like someone is slowly but surely strangling them.
I think part of the reason I hate them so much is because their owners are bastards, and their apartment is really messy. Something about it rubs me the wrong way. Also, my boss told me that one of them went through a phase where he only bought orange shit. Is it jsut me, or is that really annoying?
Anyweay, B and O sucked balls per usual today, taking their time crossing the street as if daring me to let them die, and eating berries at every turn that apparently make them puke. Full disclosure: sometimes, I cut their walks short. I did it again today.
Pug 5 is cool, but he is the biggest fatass of the bunch. This guy hates a walk more than anything. Our 1/2 hour takes us, literally, up the street and back. Today was no different, with the added bonus of the piece of dog shit that hung from his asshole by a hair (yes) that he tried to roll around in before I had to glove my hand and pull it off.
And that was my day! That's my new life. For now. No more laps, no more stages. We'll see how long I last.
I say this because recently, I've taken up dog-walking as a non-controversial way to make extra money. And unsurprisingly, it blows.
Today wasn't as bad as yesterday, when it rained all morning. It was sunny, I had a few dogs that I like (my favorite is a 3-pound Yorkie who only needs to walk about 2 blocks), and I didn't have to be anywhere until 11. But I did have five pugs in a row, and let me tell you, pugs are way less cool than they look.
My first pugs of the day, G and E, are gentle little creatures. They're about six years old, and very sweet, but E absolutely hates to walk. So I have 1/2 hour with them, and there I am, dodging a dump truck the entire way up Queens Road in the Hollywood Hills, trying my best to ensure that they don't get run over, and all the while trying to get this little beefeater to move.
"Come on, E!" I gently cajole. She digs her heels in and puts her head down. "Come on, E!" I say again, getting stern. She does the same. With my next tug, I pull her collar off by accident.
Aha. Now we're at a standoff. She knows she has me by the balls, because if she runs she will likely die, and that will be my fault. I try to anticipate her next move. Will it be to the right? The left? A fakeout? Will she just turn around and head for home with everything she's got? She stares me down. The next thing I know, I dive for her, grab her by the plentiful scruff of her neck, and slip the thing over her head. Crisis averted, but now I'm on alert.
Pugs 3 and 4 are assholes. Really, I hate these dogs. B and O. Fitting.
I have witnessed these two little shitheads frighten schoolchildren repeatedly, and when I try to feed them treats at the end of their walk (against my will), they bite me. Basically, they can go fuck themselves, as far as I'm concerned. Also, they make the most disgusting noises, far beyond the typical mouth-breathing snorts of your average pug. They whinny, almost, like someone is slowly but surely strangling them.
I think part of the reason I hate them so much is because their owners are bastards, and their apartment is really messy. Something about it rubs me the wrong way. Also, my boss told me that one of them went through a phase where he only bought orange shit. Is it jsut me, or is that really annoying?
Anyweay, B and O sucked balls per usual today, taking their time crossing the street as if daring me to let them die, and eating berries at every turn that apparently make them puke. Full disclosure: sometimes, I cut their walks short. I did it again today.
Pug 5 is cool, but he is the biggest fatass of the bunch. This guy hates a walk more than anything. Our 1/2 hour takes us, literally, up the street and back. Today was no different, with the added bonus of the piece of dog shit that hung from his asshole by a hair (yes) that he tried to roll around in before I had to glove my hand and pull it off.
And that was my day! That's my new life. For now. No more laps, no more stages. We'll see how long I last.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Queers to the Rescue!
So, how was everyone else's Labor Day? I hope it was pleasant. Oh, how was mine, you ask? Thank you so much for your inquiry. I'd love to oblige with an answer.
Mine made me want to slowly gouge my eyeballs out with a hot poker and roast them over a bonfire.
Too far?
I think not. My boyfriend has a group of friends that I'll call the collossal bores. They're friendly enough, but they are the kind of straight-laced, conservative white folk who one goes to great lengths to avoid telling that one used to be a stripper. Know what I mean? They live in the Valley, are in their early thirties, have sensible bank accounts and mortgages, don't talk politics or religion, and are settling in to Life with a Family, just like they're Supposed to Do.
Every Labor Day weekend, this group of friends goes out of town together, and this weekend was no different. Since "we're" friends with them, this weekend found me up in a ranch by Tahoe (but not in Tahoe, no, that would be far too pleasant for me), sans cell phone reception, and surrounded, horrifically, by small children, daytime activities, a profound and shocking lack of curse words, and adults whose lives have swiftly come to an end, marked by plastic pickup trucks and sippy cups.
For the first few hours of the trip, I held on to the hope that maybe we could still get blasted throughout the course of the day. We had come prepared with tequila, whiskey, wine and beer. But the most anyone drank from noon till nine (bedtime!) was one or two light beers.
It didn't take long for myself and the other childless female in the group (perish the thought!) to resign ourselves to sitting sulkily sitting by the pool, having nothing to do as the the big gender divide descended over the house like a storm cloud over a midwest sky. That's right: the women tended to the babies in the kitchen, and the men threw the football over the pool outside.
I shit you not.
And so -- call it intellectual subversity, a cry for help, a blessed escape -- as the other childless female sat next to me flipping through bridal magazines (oh, did I leave that out?????????), apparently anxious to join the ranks, I sat reading about queer San Francisco courtesy of Valencia, by Michelle Tea.
I literally did that all weekend. Through every lunchtime, every nap time, every fucking hike and trip into town and board game, I injected Michelle directly into my veins for the most immediate and effective high. As glossy-eyed moms called over the banister to their husbands that lunch was ready, smiling as though they had inhaled massive mushroom clouds of valium, I watched Michelle fist a tattooed girl who held a knife to her nipples.
Anyway, we're back now, and I survived. But you know what? Parenthood -- at least this version of it -- kills me a little on the inside. I just hated it. I hated every waking minute of plastic toys and white bread and deli meat and talking nicely and bedtimes. I hated the dads in the game room trying to act like they didn't have kids. I hated the undercurrent of resentment mixed with smug contentment that ran between the moms and everyone else. I hated that so many subjects were taboo, that I'd never be able to tell them who I am, that I had to lie and act like I wanted to play games with their kids when frankly, I wanted to get back to my book and to Michelle's glorious lube-covered fingers.
And I don't hate kids. I think kids are swell. I just hate the loss of fun that so many adults feel like they have to take on when they have them. Adult shit is fun, people. That's why we have strippers. :)
Mine made me want to slowly gouge my eyeballs out with a hot poker and roast them over a bonfire.
Too far?
I think not. My boyfriend has a group of friends that I'll call the collossal bores. They're friendly enough, but they are the kind of straight-laced, conservative white folk who one goes to great lengths to avoid telling that one used to be a stripper. Know what I mean? They live in the Valley, are in their early thirties, have sensible bank accounts and mortgages, don't talk politics or religion, and are settling in to Life with a Family, just like they're Supposed to Do.
Every Labor Day weekend, this group of friends goes out of town together, and this weekend was no different. Since "we're" friends with them, this weekend found me up in a ranch by Tahoe (but not in Tahoe, no, that would be far too pleasant for me), sans cell phone reception, and surrounded, horrifically, by small children, daytime activities, a profound and shocking lack of curse words, and adults whose lives have swiftly come to an end, marked by plastic pickup trucks and sippy cups.
For the first few hours of the trip, I held on to the hope that maybe we could still get blasted throughout the course of the day. We had come prepared with tequila, whiskey, wine and beer. But the most anyone drank from noon till nine (bedtime!) was one or two light beers.
It didn't take long for myself and the other childless female in the group (perish the thought!) to resign ourselves to sitting sulkily sitting by the pool, having nothing to do as the the big gender divide descended over the house like a storm cloud over a midwest sky. That's right: the women tended to the babies in the kitchen, and the men threw the football over the pool outside.
I shit you not.
And so -- call it intellectual subversity, a cry for help, a blessed escape -- as the other childless female sat next to me flipping through bridal magazines (oh, did I leave that out?????????), apparently anxious to join the ranks, I sat reading about queer San Francisco courtesy of Valencia, by Michelle Tea.
I literally did that all weekend. Through every lunchtime, every nap time, every fucking hike and trip into town and board game, I injected Michelle directly into my veins for the most immediate and effective high. As glossy-eyed moms called over the banister to their husbands that lunch was ready, smiling as though they had inhaled massive mushroom clouds of valium, I watched Michelle fist a tattooed girl who held a knife to her nipples.
Anyway, we're back now, and I survived. But you know what? Parenthood -- at least this version of it -- kills me a little on the inside. I just hated it. I hated every waking minute of plastic toys and white bread and deli meat and talking nicely and bedtimes. I hated the dads in the game room trying to act like they didn't have kids. I hated the undercurrent of resentment mixed with smug contentment that ran between the moms and everyone else. I hated that so many subjects were taboo, that I'd never be able to tell them who I am, that I had to lie and act like I wanted to play games with their kids when frankly, I wanted to get back to my book and to Michelle's glorious lube-covered fingers.
And I don't hate kids. I think kids are swell. I just hate the loss of fun that so many adults feel like they have to take on when they have them. Adult shit is fun, people. That's why we have strippers. :)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Curse you, Stripper Blogs!
You're so distracting!! All I'm trying to do is get a little work done, and yet all I can seem to pull off is checking each and every one of your posts, mulling it over, and then coming here and writing my own. I'm not even stripping anymore and I'm distracted by it.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Two Camps for Sex Workers?
So, I recently wrote an article for the supercool website Girl With Pen. It was just a light-hearted little ditty, about some of the more common types of strip club customers out there.
In response, I got exactly one comment. That comment was from a dissenter (surprise surprise), and that dissenter essentially accused me of giving our profession a bad name (that's a quote) and of disrespecting customers (that's a paraphrase).
Anyway, it made me wonder whether in fact there are two camps of sex workers -- those that get to know customers and deal with them more compassionately, and those that treat the entire thing more like a business. I would love to know what you all think! So, if you have a little time to kill, go over there and check out the back and forth. Weigh in, if you feel so inclined. Call me an idiot. Call me a genius (I'll understand).
But seriously....I am curious as to who falls where on this debate.
In response, I got exactly one comment. That comment was from a dissenter (surprise surprise), and that dissenter essentially accused me of giving our profession a bad name (that's a quote) and of disrespecting customers (that's a paraphrase).
Anyway, it made me wonder whether in fact there are two camps of sex workers -- those that get to know customers and deal with them more compassionately, and those that treat the entire thing more like a business. I would love to know what you all think! So, if you have a little time to kill, go over there and check out the back and forth. Weigh in, if you feel so inclined. Call me an idiot. Call me a genius (I'll understand).
But seriously....I am curious as to who falls where on this debate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
