Confessions of a Las Vegas Stripper

I don't cry.

2010-05-31T03:32:00.000-07:00

I really, really don't. Which is why it threw me for a loop tonight when I lost my proverbial shit.

Going to work has been hard for me. My husband doesn't make me, he's sweet, easy, understanding. I feel like an accessory wife, like I go well with any outfit; I've been losing weight because I haven't been boozing, and it's been forcing me to deal with my emotions.

My manager scares me. He's old friends with my husband, but sometimes I go in later than he expects and he corners me and says

Catherine, I've made exceptions for you

and telling my friends

She's a distraction for G

even though he doesn't baby me.

One day I was sitting in the window, swinging my long legs in a decisive manner, showing my eight inch heels and a man comes up, and pokes me in the thigh, right where my tattoo is and he comes flying saying

YOU TOUCH MY GIRLS I TOUCH YOU

and I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling, because I admire such dedication.

Tonight, I washed my hair and ironed all the curls out pin straight, facebook chatting with a girlfriend of mine who is equally adventuresome but a little less polished than I.

I could never be with anyone who couldn't decide to travel on a dime with me

she related

and I replied

Why do you think I even entertained the idea of getting married? He's like me, the idea of moving around and not being settled sits well with him.

I called a taxi that never came and the music next door started booming through my walls, rattling my feet and making me shake with the thought that

I'll never make it.

The police came and blocked off my street; I live in a nice neighbourhood but I'm the lightest girl on the block; despite my Canadian upbringing I am still relatively cautious; had my husband been home he would have been outside screaming at them to

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

Even though it seems trite I sat on my couch and cried.

I cried for the fact that I am terrified to go to work.
I cried for the fact that I seem ungrateful.
I cried for the fact that no matter how impossible I am, he loves me no matter what.

You would think that unconditional love wouldn't be hard to swallow but it is. You mean you will love me, even though I'm a slob? Even though I have a bad temper? Even though I have no family? Even though sometimes when I try my best, it isn't good enough for me?

He came home, tried to make me laugh. I rebuffed him, wallowing in my own sorrows, trying to make sense of it all, as he grabbed my kneecaps and smiled at me. I tried not to look him in the eyes, lest I smile and forget how I felt; I'm not honest with my emotions, so when they do come, I try and let them overcome me.

What if I go and I don't make anything? The house fee will be astronomical.
Anything you make will be more than we had before.

In less than twenty minutes I was in the car, covered in kisses, love and support, and went into work.

I didn't do as well as I had imagined. It was long, impossible, though I did meet someone for good conversation. I met an agent from Los Angeles, who did a 3 for $100 with me, talking about how he is disenchanted with his lifestyle and wishes he could meet a girl like me.

At the end of the night, my husband came to get me without complaint, even though I woke him from a nap.

We came home, and I layed on his shoulder before we went to run errands.

When I lay there I feel nothing can get me, the warmth seeps through his shirt and into my skin, his arms wrapped around me so I can only peek over them to glance at the television, but it doesn't even matter.

As hard as work is, when he comes to get me, I am home. Wherever, whenever, whatever that may be, as long as he is there, everything is going to be all right.

Just breathe.

2010-05-24T20:49:00.000-07:00

Yeah, people have been telling me that all my life.

Me, the reigning Queen of the Kingdom of Freak the Fuck Out, who never learned how to breathe, who spent too much time being high and mighty, thinking she knew best, looking down on everyone's opinion.

Because yeah, I knew it all. I tore down other people's opinions relentlessly, scoffed at everyone; thinking just because I was a little smarter than the average bear, the average bear didn't know shit.

Or frankly, the other above average bear for that matter.

My eyes have been opened a lot recently, my heart feels like it grew a new chamber, my sense of trust is huge.

For him at least.

This was new, but the softness of his lips is always new and old at the same time. Thinking

Whoa this is new sensation

but

You feel like home to me; I've known you all my life.

Impossible.

Push me in the swing. I trust that when you swing me over your head you won't drop me like I've always been afraid of.

I've always been afraid of the pavement. It's hard, uncontrollable, it hurts and when the impact supposedly comes you can't stop it and

Ow. Ow. Ow. Why the fuck did I do this that was so stupiddddd.

He assured me over and over while my hands shook as I climbed in, and suddenly, I had no idea what I had ever been afraid of. Perhaps it was other people's tales of how they had crashed and burned, while I would vainly touch my bow shaped lips, my skin thinking

I could never do anything that would give me a scar.

Our home is like a safe haven. We curl up in our living room, our stories dancing around us in the air. I'm staring into his dark eyes, aware that I am openly flirting; touching my hair, lowering my gaze... even though it started unconsciously.

Who flirts with their own husband? You're shameless.

I think it's absolutely imperative to flirt with your own husband, to create such a strong emotional givemethewordstodescribeit bond that is more intimate than any sexual escapade I have ever had. Emotional foreplay before you get that kiss that feels like pop rocks in your mouth.

My heart thumps in my chest.

I've always been hard on myself. When I look in the mirror, I see a collection of pieces rather than an entire picture.

Porcelain skin, yet you could stand to lose weight. Beautiful eyes, but your upper lip needs to be fluffed up.

Your best friend said she could get you free collagen injections.

He'd never forgive me. Secretly I am glad for lately I am getting a grip, seeing that what he sees is most important; the rest seems irrelevant while I am home in the warm decadency that is Time Off.

Before work, when he is gone I think no layers of grey eyeshadow could cover what I see, covering myself in false lashes, fallacy, opinions of strange men that are just so temporary and meaningless. I struggle with my first table these days because I don't drink at work anymore. I hang back while the VIP hosts tries to sell a room for myself and a coworker to Parisians who look at me with confusion in their eyes, even though I speak perfect French. Las Vegas shook me to the bottom of my guts. I don't want to rock the boat, even though I never hesitate to grab the face of the dirty old men who try to lick me.

Despite those occasions, here I don't have to take baby wipe baths. I don't go home disgusting, revolted, swearing a blue streak hunting down leftover Bacardi Razz drinks I don't even like that my room mate abandoned in the fridge weeks ago.

Six days a week is not reality for me anymore. I should work more I know, he can't do it all.

Sometimes I feel guilty about it. He dismisses me when I am melting with apologies saying

I look real upset right?

smiling as he picks up room.

Last night he picked me up without protest long after he'd gone home for the evening. The guilt creeps up in me as again I try to explain why I called, lamenting

I'm so sorry darling. I could have called a cab, I don't mean to be inconsiderate.
What kind of husband would I be then?

We walked up to the house. He always unlocks the door for me to go in first as he holds it open. I throw my bag on the floor, complaining about incompetence, seething with frustration, throwing my hands around, the same complaints every dancer has after a slow night where she sits around for hours before anyone makes a move.

He always listens to me without protest, I think I must sound like a horrible whiner until he suggests we go for a swing.

I feel like you did this for me as a special treat.

I don't think there's anything wrong with needing it sometimes; to whoosh through the air, fill the silent night with secrets. It's our time, the once in awhile to just let go, be ourselves, let go of work persona corporate drama garbage that clouds the little things to take joy in.

In my house these dismissals dissolve like sugar cubes in my mouth, sweetening my speech.

In my house it's the norm for there to be no arguing, no uncomfortable silences, no tension, no outside opinions telling me

You're being ridiculous.

Everyone has their own swing, whatever the metaphor means to you. Yet upon suggestion the image in anyone's mind beings about the same emotion. There's no stopping the smile no matter how hard you bite your lip.

Our swings go well past dawn. They are full of sparkling kisses, soft gestures.

I think to myself that heartbreak is obsolete now. He touches my hair, my face so delicately, like maybe I'm made of china.

I look up; everything I thought was wrong in the world is gone.

One day, I hope every one of my loved ones can be looked at like this, and feel enough trust to be pushed on their personal swings.

It's been a long time, and I have a lot to say.

2010-05-17T15:52:00.001-07:00

Despite being in love with Austin, I moved to New Orleans a month ago for a reason I never expected and a reason you, my audience, would likely never expect either.

A month and a half ago I received a phone call from my friend friend J who is so dear I could call her my sister that changed my life forever.

So you should come to New Orleans.
I know, I know. I just can't afford it.

The money in Austin had been lackluster; she'd been asking me for months, and I always had to decline, for if it wasn't one thing, it was another.

I'm serious. When you come here, I have the perfect guy to hook you up with.
Really? Is he cute?
I think he's cute! I think you guys would be so good together, I'm serious. Can I give him your number?
Sure, what's his name?
His name is G, you'll love him. I promise. Here's his number, actually, you should text him!
Ok, I think I will.

J and I had broken up recently due to his legal issues in Dallas, and my realising that yeah, it wasn't going to work, especially since I had been broken up with over facebook message and was trying not to take it seriously.

I figured what the fuck. I will text him.

Over the next three days, there was no less than two hundred text messages per day, hours of phone conversation that made me smile. The click was instant and deep, like I had known him all my life. It began with I will see you in three weeks. Then I will see you in three days. Then, I'm coming tomorrow.

Admitedly I am a hopeless romantic but I had related to this same friend six months ago

J, there is no one for me. I will never meet anyone who wants the same things I do.

She assured me, over and over, that when the right time came, I would.

G texted me late into the night one night with a phrase that would change my life.

So, you want to get married?

I stared at it. I didn't know what to think.

If you're serious, you will call J right now and tell her.

He called me and we conferenced called J, she would later tell me she thought we were playing a joke on her. He drove out the same night.

I went to work, elated, drank with my girlfriends, and threw around words like my love and my fiance and my husband. I went home and fell asleep on my couch, woke up with a start at seven in the morning. I followed my gut and went outside, and there he was, everything I had imagined; tall, broad shoulders, dark eyes, curly hair, with a five o'clock shadow that suited him surprisingly well, though it would prove to be murder on my skin.

I married him six days later on the 22nd of April, in an eight and half minute ceremony in Austin. My new in laws came, took us and our friends who had managed to come out to a fancy sushi restaurant. His mother hugged me, and his father kissed me on the cheek; they called me their daughter from the moment I met them.

G took a job in New Orleans a week later. I wasn't ready to leave Austin, but it was a guarantee, and dancing in New Orleans has relieved me of my alcoholic demons. It's changed my diet, my hips are flat again. He's changed my life saying things like

If anything happened to you I'd kill someone
Lock the door behind me when I leave
I love you woman
I'd do anything for you
I absolutely adore you.

He makes me lunch when I wake up, and notices when my clothes are hand wash only. I sleep on his shoulder every single night, while he reads or watches movies to fall asleep; he needs far less sleep than I do. He proudly introduces me as his wife everyone he knows, and tells me I am beautiful.

Every morning around 4am when I hear the click of his key in the lock, I run up and throw my arms around him, stretching to my tiptoes to kiss him good morning, running my hands through his wavy hair and exclaiming

Look! I cleaned and made you chocolate raspberry cupcakes, just because I love you.

I've never had to do that before. Though trivial, it makes me feel small and protected... when I lay in his arms, nothing can get me. He always smells warm, faintly like clove menthol cigarettes and Kenneth Cole Black cologne. I bury my face in his neck; he purrs with contentedness and strokes my hair.

I never believed in this kind of love. When people say you just Know, and that the love you have for your spouse is different than other love, I would roll my eyes, thinking yeah right give me a break.

But it's true. It isn't a crazy lust drunken madness rollercoaster of emotions. It's a safe, I've got your back, I love you as you are for better or for worse til death do us part.

He completes me.

And I've never been happier.

‘Cause it’s nine in the afternoon, and your eyes are the size of the moon...

2010-03-04T18:38:00.000-08:00

You could ’cause you can so you do
We’re feeling so good, just the way that we do
When it’s nine in the afternoon.

I remember the last time I was with you before you had to leave and attend to personal reasons in a city far yet so near all at the same time.

You sat in my living room with your dress shirt on, open, tie hanging around your neck with perfect abandon. You danced in my kitchen, wide grin splashed across your face. You met my sister over Skype.

We sort of look alike, you and I. We both have large,wide eyes; though yours are blue green and mine are decidedly more grey than blue every year. We both have wide electric smiles with straight teeth, long lanky bones, and sharp cheekbones, full lips. It's cute in a way, but what's even cuter is how you can write in a letter, however sad "I know how we are".

When I kiss you it's like falling into bed, but when I talk to you or read you, it's like I'm meeting myself.

You aren't the sentimental kind. You shy away from saying things and largely rely on actions. You kiss me when I'm in a haze in the morning before you leave, spend hours on video chat with me a week, sometimes not saying much of anything, but sharing your screen so you can show me websites you think I'd like.

When I fell down the stairs and split open my knee you dragged me into the house, my blood dripping onto the pavement outside. The blood is still there. I see it every time I leave the house, big bold now purple-black drips. You bandaged my knee, and still acted like I was the most beautiful thing in the world when we went to bed together, even though I bled on your expensive jeans from Saks Fifth Avenue.

You've been gone three weeks.

My blood on your jeans all came out in the wash. I know this will too, in one way or another.

I am WTF'ing all over the place...

2010-02-14T15:24:00.000-08:00

.. not that I should be, because every night we go out there is an adventure, but...

yeah. Overusing ellipses should convey my stunned state of mind.

I was ready at 6:45 as planned, waiting to zip on my knee high red vinyl boots. You have a distinctive knock usually so I knew it was you immediately.

Hi. Sorry, I'm late.
It's fifteen minutes, not a big deal.

I always give you a hug and a kiss when you come by, today was no exception. How I didn't notice you holding a rose behind your back I don't know, but when you told me it matched my hair my hand flew over my heart in delight and my already big eyes got saucery.

Come on, K is waiting for us in the car.

We met up with M and R, we've had M home with us before and R is aware of it. Your skill in asserting your position is so cultivated that you come off as being the nicest guy in the room, but really, you're taunting him with it- you even brought out a roll of Magnum condoms from your blazer. Your laugh is incredibly disarming, it always sends ripples of warmth through my body, and I am positive it has the same effect on other people.

We always recount the story of our first date, again today was no exception.

The first bar becomes loud, we go to get R some pizza. The second bar won't let them bring their outside food in so we stand outside- M offers you some and I say

Don't you go spoiling your appetite with pizza.

M squeals.

Oooh she just said "don't go spoiling you appetite with pizza!"

You smiled and rolled your eyes.

I can eat as much as I want.

They leave, we can't convince them to stay out. We walk the several blocks to the restaurant- it isn't cold, the night is clear.

The restaurant is beautiful, we sit in the lounge area, side by side per usual. I always say I feel insulted if I am on a date and they don't sit next to me; you agree with me but say corners are an exception.

I have always wanted to do omakase, so we got the three course; each dish was more beautiful and delicious than the last. Restaurants always seem to give out an odd number of pieces, so we split the last piece every time.

You friend is going to meet up with us on a corner, we window shop and you ask

You're not cold or anything, are you?
Oh no, I'm fine.

He comes up to us, the way he exclaims at you leads me to believe you haven't seen him in awhile. I'm always surprised at how warm and sweet your friends are to me- they greet me with hugs and smiles every time, include me in the free shots, talk to me when you're in the bathroom.

After a few hours, one of them asks me if we can go to the club. I stop in my tracks.

Yes, but you guys have to be VERY, VERY WELL BEHAVED. Do you understand me?

I know I don't have to worry about you. Your friend I am not sure.

We get to the club and go sit in the VIP. One of my coworkers gives you a lap dance; I know they don't do much for you, but I like to watch them salivate over you.

The next thing I know we are being thrown out. You are irate at your friend- we aren't even sure what happened. I put his jacket on and you take the car keys so he can't leave.

I am angry at you but I can't admit it. I am angry with your friend and I can't admit it, although I do tell you I feel like I am going to start crying.

Your friend is drunk and tells us

You just don't know where you live!

when he takes the wrong turn.

I storm into the house and throw my keys onto the counter. You're good with me when I am upset and suddenly we are taking it out on each other- I'm all over you you're all over me and we fall asleep in a heap.

The light peeks in the window and I can feel you in that twilight between sleep and full wakefulness. I sleep so much more soundly with you there. You usually have something to do but today I get to lay in bed with you until nearly noon.

You say something sexual to me and I smile at you.

You're going to have to work a little harder for it than that.
I know.

I keep bursting into laughter while I am kissing you- takes three or four times to get anything going.

I want to comment on something but I don't want to jinx it.
Then don't jinx it.

I suppose your curiosity got the better of you.

What were you talking about, the jinx thing?
Don't worry about it.

Tonight, I find out what was so dreadful that we were asked to leave the club.

As one can imagine, I am horribly nauseous.

You're an enigma...

2010-02-06T01:58:00.000-08:00

but so am I and I love it.

We went out of town with friends, flying down the I-35 to a destination I had never been before,telling jokes, recounting awful stories of drunk friends who puke in our cars- a three hour drive feels like five minutes. I notice you keep eye contact intermittently in the rear view mirror.

We get to your friend's house, our other friends go to a separate apartment to prepare for the evening. I get ready in the bathroom next to your best friend, shadowing my eyes and frosting my lips red to match my hair. I'm not a fussy thing; it takes me less than a half of an hour, and when I ask you

What do you think? Good yes?

you grin at me and nod.

You have pockets, here's my passport,the cash and here, put my lip gloss in your pocket

You groan at me in a joking manner and say

I have ruined many a jacket with lip gloss

and I reassure you that the lid is on tight.

We go downstairs and your friend tells me I look pretty, I thank him and kiss him on the cheek, tell his date she looks pretty and hug her as well. I slip my arm into yours, you walk as fast as I do if not faster and I feel like I am keeping count with the CLACK CLACK CLACK of my high heeled shoes.

I am thankful you are three inches taller than I am, I can wear these shoes and not tower over you.

The club is glowing, green and your friend hasn't gone on to DJ yet. You ask if I want to go outside to the glass deck overlooking the city. I say yes and even though I rush towards the door with glee you are there to open the door for me. We stand close to each other looking over the edge, you point out buildings to me and explain the architecture. I am thankful it isn't windy yet, and that you are wearing a velvet jacket that warms my bare shoulder as I lean against you. You introduce me to all of your friends, they are so warm to me, welcoming- when I mention it you say

I hang out with good people, not assholes.

like I would think any differently.

Inside a woman easily thirty years your senior takes a shine to you. You spin lavish tales for her, she hangs on every word and believes you, though that doesn't shock me.

Go for it, if it was flipped, I would milk it for all the free booze it was worth.

You beamed at me, kissed me decidedly on the lips, blue green eyes looking at me in that way where I never have to say a word- I know what you're thinking.

We float around the room, you dance with the older woman while I stand with your friends.

Does that bother you at all, that he is dancing with her?

your shyer friend asks me.

I place my hand over my heart and say

No, I'm so proud of him!

Later on I walk up to you in her presence, maybe to assert my position even though I am not jealous and ask for twenty dollars. You give it to me, as we pool our going out money, and she looks at me quizzically, as if wonder who the hell am I. I go up to the bar with you, you buy her a drink. I hadn't any idea she had bought you three, so when I go outside to sit with your best friend and lament, he rolls his eyes.

Catherine, really? You know how he feels about you. You know how he is, he is just networking.
I know but that is OUR money and I don't like him spending it on her to drink..
It's nothing, seriously. Don't worry about it.
I know.

You later explained to me you felt obligated. I understood, I have been there before myself, and sort of admire the gesture.

The night goes beautifully. I sit in your lap on the porch, wind whipping through my hair,taking pictures thirty six stories above the earth. We drink whiskey and coke, pacing ourselves as to not get entirely shit faced. I dance with you, your best friend and your shyer friend, who says to me

Don't feel like you have to sit here and mingle with me...
Oh come on, I don't have to be his satellite, I'm fine.

You kiss me throughout the night, hold my hand on the way to the bar, cozy up with me on a couch to talk. They say when you're dating you should be close. We are, but often I feel more than a standard Closeness with you; I feel a wash of warmth, and like you would understand anything I tried to tell you. You pay attention and never say WHAT or PARDON ME or UH HUH. Your eyes don't leave mine unless you are looking for something or someone, even then- I know you are paying attention so I don't mind.

The night is over in a flash. When we get home, you feed me vegetarian pizza with ranch dressing for the first time.

That's disgusting.
Oh come on, just try it.

I roll my eyes but trust your judgement; when you see my eyes light up you're all

See? I told you ranch is good on everything.

In the morning you leave to go retrieve our other friends, one of whom was mistreated by the person he was staying with- a mistreatment that ended up in a trip to the cosmetic dentist and me fixing up a gashed eyebrow in the bathroom while you stood in the doorway in amusement, sandwich in one hand, beer in the other.

Go make yourself useful and make me a sandwich.
I already ate all the steak.
You know I don't eat steak.
Then I don't know what to make for you.
Grilled cheese would be fine.
I don't know how to make that.
Seriously?
It's ok I will figure it out.

Even though you enlisted the help of a girl friend, I was impressed with the fact I could ask for a sandwich and not be met with a FUCK YOU MAKE YOUR OWN.

The afternoon was spent visiting your friends, all whom I found to be good people. On the way home, you were decidedly quieter, falling asleep in the dark car. Yet I know your silence isn't due to anything I did; after all, when we stopped, you bought me a diet Pepsi without my even having to ask.

Upon arriving at home you are bleary eyed and have to be up early for work. You pulled me into an exhausted embrace, I had my high heels in my hands, so stood barefoot on my toes to kiss you goodnight saying

You look tired sweetie.
I am.
Get some rest babe. I will see you soon, ok?
Ok, good night.

I blew kisses out the window as we pulled away. Whether you saw them or not it doesn't matter, one way or the other.

Hey, you disgusting fuck face!!

2010-01-28T14:07:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I'm a dancer, not a provider.

I hate inside the club prostitutes, I do. But peep show girls, independent escorts and prostitutes- hey, they aren't hurting me and I support them.

I belong to an online community of sex industry women. I repost this because THIS ASSHOLE FUCK FACE is being a GIANT DOUCHE secretly recording girls in Las Vegas, San Diego and Los Angeles as WELL AS RELEASING THEIR PERSONAL INFORMATION. So I repost this warning for all providers in those areas and dude- if I ever hear your voice around or behind me, rest assured I am going to beat the everloving shit out of you and possibly wear a vial of blood around my neck as a trophy to show I beat your sorry ass.

"We have been notified that there is a guy going into peep shows, video taping the performances, then posting them online. He also posts names and other personal information he learns - the city they work in, where they're from, high school, graduating class, college, etc. Additionally he records encounters with San Diego and Vegas prostitutes. We recommend you take a look at him, hear his voice, and spread the word.

If you are in one of the videos, you should contact xHamster at: http://xhamster.com/contact.php. Provide xHamster with a direct link to the video and state that you did not grant DA5150 permission, written or otherwise, to film you nor to make a user submission to xHamster.

This link is to his video collection:
http://xhamster.com/user/video/DA5150/new-1.html

Please stay safe!"

The world is spinning.

2010-01-25T18:45:00.000-08:00

Sunday night tradition always leads to good things; after all we can get drunk on $1 triple wells and spend less than $20 to get shitfaced.

It started a month ago when you crashed into my life and kissed me mid-sentence, leaning in while you spoke, your lips still moving when they first touched mine so it was like you were putting your words in my mouth. We tripped all over each other talking that night, and we sometimes tell stories in tandem- alternating sentences and paragraphs while people look at us and are like

Wait, WHAT?

We link arms when we walk in the street, close-knit talking in each other's ears and grinning like we are full of secrets. Your eyes never stray from mine when you talk, so I never have to be like

HELLO ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME

and when I do occasionally ask that, maybe while you're fussing with your bracelets or rubbing a scuff off of your shoe, you look up at me and repeat verbatim exactly what I just said.

I ask why I even ask you things like

Are you listening?
Will you keep me in the loop?
Will you tell me when you're leaving?

You shrug and say you don't know. I know it's force of habit. You always give me an ETA call, or text or message online, and you are never late.

We ran into my boss last night and I introduced you as my boyfriend for the first time. It's been a month, I figured it was fair. You nodded and shook his hand, my boss bought us round after round after round, told us to help ourselves to the bottle. You poured the drinks like you were trying to kill me, and I danced around with glee.

What time we left I don't know.

Two in the morning no one is on I-45 and you are taking us flying down the highway at over 100MPH with me squealing

FASTER LET'S GO FASTER

as you let me blow my smoke out the car window.

You gave me your house key while you squealed away to go park the car, blowing in breathless less than five minutes later saying

I totally just sprinted the whole way.

You left early in the morning for a work appointment. When you came home you brought me breakfast, and even asked the restaurant

Are you SURE this is vegetarian?

We went back to bed watching Hulu, laughing. I fell asleep on you, when I woke up intermittently throughout the morning you were either holding my hand in your sleep or curled up around me.

I opened my eyes for good, rolled over and dropped kisses all over your shoulders.

You recounted a story as you cooked me lunch, and when you said

So K says, you had better by nice to J's girlfriend, she knows a lot of dancers and will hook you up with one of her friends if she likes you

all I heard was.

Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.

I like how that word sounds coming out of your lips. It was a shock to reality that whoa, yeah. I am your girlfriend. It HAS been a month. We ARE on the same page.

When I left you kissed me per usual and I told you to be careful per usual and you gave me a devilish grin per usual.

I like it.

And I like how you make me happy, easy and breezy, and don't ever make me want to cry. I never have questions or need any affirmation.

See you in a few days.

You say I dragged you, but I think you dragged me.

2009-12-17T18:24:00.000-08:00

You kissed me like you hated me so we shared a cab.

The cab driver was thoroughly disenchanted with our behaviour. You're wilder than I am, and you also do drugs, but I don't care because it isn't you I'm in love with. Don't get me wrong, you're a great friend. I also love that I can talk to you about the guy I AM in love with, and you offer sound advice.

You tell good stories. We layed in bed all afternoon, facing eachother while you smoked and I watched your sleepy eyes get sleepier.

I'm obsessed with your hair. I loved having it in my face and when I put my hand up the back of your head and yanked it, you pulled mine harder until my head was forced back so far I could look at you as you sunk your teeth into my lips.

It looked like I'd had a severe allergic reaction the next morning.

I slapped you and you returned the favour. You're only ten pounds heavier than I am but you put finger marks all over my body and made the roots of my hair ache.

You restrained me and I fought back, but just for fun to see if you could handle me.

You could.

You may have ruined me.

I fell asleep on your chest, and our friendship remains the same.

Sometimes, you just need to see your thoughts on paper.

2009-12-13T13:35:00.000-08:00

I'm barely eating these days.

Too much going on, my body doesn't tell me HEY STOP! WE NEED TO RELOAD.

As I type, it appears I have spent $13.95 at a buffet on mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, cottage cheese with mandarin oranges, salad, cauliflower with cheese sauce, scalloped apples and a pickle.

I am having moderate success- each bite is a challenge. Someone play airplane spoon with me.

Stress and crushes make my midsection look fantastic.

I worked last night with moderate success; since W left I am hard pressed for a new hustle buddy. It seems everyone is moving on.

I miss E more and more these days, but it appears her estranged abusive husband is back to stay and took away her phone, and L won't answer to give me updates.

I find myself lately in a position where I have to decide where my loyalties lie. People always open up to me, tell me things regardless of whether I ask or not, entrusting me with their indiscretions. I don't always agree, but after my years as a dancer to people who require discretion I am good at keeping my mouth shut.

When you feel pulled in one direction because you love a friend sosososo much, but in the other direction because Ijustdontdothat, what do you do?
It kept me up last night and I still don't have an answer.

Do you do this if the information you have could damage your friend?
Do you not do it because it's unethical?
If you don't protect your friend, does it make you awful?
But if you tell, does it make you a hypocrite?

I should however, tell my audience that there is no way that the person dishing the info would know who released it.
It isn't like she tells only me.
She tells most anyone who will listen.

So I suppose, even though their real name still sounds clunky in my mouth because I am not used to it, I will stand by my friend.

Sometimes I know the answer all along, and this blog is just a sounding board.

I don't give a damn what they say what they think.

2009-12-10T18:31:00.000-08:00

I worked last night at the little sister club to my club. I was going to hit up the Yellow Rose; somehow, I guess something in universe told me I needed to go elsewhere.

I walk in and get dressed to the nines. I hear your name called over the intercom, and I order a double shot.

You see me sitting at the bar trying not to stare and leer at me

Catherine.... I see you, my favourite redhead [my lights make my hair look red] who never checks in with me. You're next, baby.

You say my name like Caaath-rennnn and it makes me smile.

I shake my head no.

Yes.

I shake my head no.

Yes!

I shake my head no and grin, blushing up to the roots of my hair.

No means yes.

I walk up there.

Are you really putting me up next?

You pulled me into your arms,put your hand up the back of my hair and kissed my face and neck.

I have to, my beautiful, tall girl.
Heyy it took me an hour to do my hair. I smooth myself.

Hey, it takes me five minutes to do this. You ruffled your dark hair so it all stood on end.

I look like the guy from Scary Movie Three, you know with the vaccuum cleaner?
You did a crazy impression, I laughed and touched your arm.

Did you ever see that?
Haha. No.
You have to see it.

I stand back and turn around.

You think it's too much?
No baby, you look gorgeous. I love the black.

You ran your hand down the side of my silk dress and my heart rate doubled.

Let me pick my music.
No, we're going to do this, and this and this..
You're not even trying!
Everything I am playing has a message.

I did the stage, and few dances; loaded up on alcohol so that I could stand to be around you without getting strung out on my own adrenaline.

You've hit me, hard.

I walked up into the booth, I stayed there several hours. The time went by so fast; you are sick, and I rubbed your neck and shoulders and smoothed your hair off of your face. I grabbed you by the hips and pulled you against me, took liberty to your person patting you down for cigarettes.

She came up to the booth and kissed me.

I obliged, because I wanted you to watch. I ran my hand down the back of your jacket and demanded that you watch. I kissed her in the way I wanted to kiss you, I took all the sexual aggression out on her, looking over her shoulder at you.

This happened several times.

She left, and you kissed me on the lips. Not a make out kiss, and more than a peck with your hand on my face.

Can we go outside?
Why's that?
You know.
There's cameras outside.
Can we duck?
What do you mean?
Duck, under the desk.
I told you, there's cameras, I can get in trouble.
But you just kissed me now.
That's different, it will look like a peck between friends.

I stayed awhile longer, went and did one dance and gave the entire proceeds of that dance to you.

Call me tomorrow.
I know you're on little sleep, so when, like one?

You laughed.

More like four.
I will baby doll.

I called you today and you were getting your internet fixed, and said you'd call back later. I texted you and said to call when you were free, that I took the night off, and you said ok.

An open letter to you, you and my job.

2009-12-09T09:42:00.000-08:00

Dear work;

You remind me of an abusive boyfriend. You beat me and beat me and wring me out to dry; then we have a few good nights, you tell me you love me, and I'm in your arms again.

You ask me to wear that $350 silk dress that was given to me in Las Vegas; everyone tells me I look beautiful.

I want to tell them "I know", because I do, or I wouldn't be with you. I look in your mirrors and watch my brightbrightbright hair flow around my alabaster shoulders and go 'Hm, maybe the diet I was going to go on was stupid.'

You plague me with stress and nightmares, work. You fill me with the fear of going back into The Real World. You make me doubt my ability to be a Real Girl instead of a Fantasy Girl, and when I protest I can be you fill my garter with $20s and say

Come on you were made for this.

I wasn't. I was made to be a doctor, work.

We're breaking up in six weeks.

Respectfully,

Catherine V.

Dear You,

Yes you; With your dimples and taste for ethnic food. You fascinate me. Aloo ghobi and bahuna paneer never tasted so good.

But you make me wonder. You're simultaneously so mature and soulful, yet wild at heart. Maye you're like me, trying so hard to suppress your inner Wild Child and just Grow Up Already. It's so hard isn't it?

I love how your smile is a million watts bright and how you threw your arms around me from behind when I said I wished I had a jacket.

I also love how you had me home and in my pajamas by 11:30pm because you have a day job and go to college. I like how you're going at a molasses pace like regular people do.

You make me feel normal. I think I like it.

Love,

C.

Dear You-

You could be hazardous to my health.

Everytime I see you, I want to push that black hair out of your face and bite your bottom lip. I want to drag you by that shirt that matches your crisp blue eyes and throw you down on the couch and have my way with you.

You alway sneak up on me; slipping your arms around me while I sign my stage name in wet black ink on the claim sheet, turning me around and saying

You still look hot, baby

when I protest I am in my pajamas.

You say I make you blush, when in fact, YOU started it. You were the one would would pull me into hugs every time you saw me, and stand in front of your friends who came into our work with your arms around me, rubbing the small of my back.

I played Like Bodies Like Sheep and offhandedly said

I'd love to have sex to this song

and you shot me an offering look.

I don't want to keep it professional.

Love,

C

Silencio.

2009-12-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

My sister and I have always been close. So close in fact, we joke we were twins in a past life; we once convinced a very drunk man that we were, in fact, fraternal.

I haven't heard from her in weeks since her phone got shut off. He doesn't have a job so she works and works and works and works... sometimes, making less than $35 per day. He only wants sales jobs, but he isn't a salesman- his failure after they left Austin made that abundantly clear.

I've been having nightmares almost every night since.

This morning I woke up with my eyes burning and swollen from crying in my sleep.

In this nightmare, I had become complacent with the silence on her end. I was in a house, a big, beautiful house, location unknown, but it wasn't Austin. The house was brown wood and had huge picture windows, the garage was on the left hand side underneath the house; imagine a very beach-like house you would find on stilts maybe in St Petersburg or Venice Beach. When the door opened the stairs were in front and when you went up, there was an office to the right, and the bedrooms to the left- the bathroom in between.

My parents were staying with me, but they were out. I was in the office, typing an u kown document- I don't recall it.

I had my radio on.

The announcer interrupts with breaking news and says there is a car accident.

I turn up the radio.

The people are unidentified, but he reads my parents' license plate number.

Funny they were in the same car, because in real life they hate eachother.

I run to the spare room and throw myself onto the brown comforter and flip on the flat screen television. I need more information.

On the news, in video, is a report of my sister's death in a freak accident in a salon.

Yes, a salon.

I won't go into detail on how she was killed in the dream. I can't even hardly bear to write it.

I started screaming.

I started crying.

A few hours later a lawyer calls me and says I have inherited seven million dollars.

I slam down the phone.

I pick up the television and smash it.

I stand at the top on the stairs and scream

I HAVE ALL THIS BUT NOTHING THAT FUCKING MATTERS.

Then I woke up, sweating.

On the subject of extras..

2009-11-28T14:40:00.001-08:00

I told this story today and thought I would share it with the general public.

I haven't been asked for a hand job or blow job in well over a year. But I will tell you the story of "Snuggles", as we call him at my club, that I now swear I will never work for again.

So Snuggles is this tall, bald dude who always wears suspenders. One of my girlfriends calls him Leiderhosen.

I digress.

Snuggles likes to pay girls for hugs. Like sit on his lap with your arms around him, he tells girls he pays $150/hr for this. First time I was all "Sweet deal!" and he was completely respectful and I got paid. He doesn't talk though, and he doesn't drink so it's pretty boring.

So, on Tuesday of this week, I think? Snuggles comes up to me, takes my hand and asks if I am busy. Fuck no I am not busy. He hasn't seen me since I dyed my hair pink. We got to the corner and he goes

So you're the girl who likes all the wet, open mouthed kissing?
No dude, that isn't me.
Oh right. You're the one who likes me to finger her pussy?
Nope. Not me either.
The girl who loves it when I suck her titties?
Um. No.
Oh. No wonder I don't remember you.

I was throughly disgusted because Snuggles is SO GODDAMN UGLY it makes my skin crawl. He then proceeds to natter on for 30 minutes about his new house and how he has girls come over for anal sex.

I look at Snuggles and I say

So if you're so popular with strippers, why don't you have a girlfriend?
Oh, well I seem to only be popular with strippers. They don't like me out there in the real world, it's weird.
You don't worry about doing this with random chicks?
I only do it with girls who don't normally. I like to be special. And I use Purell in between dancers!

He does in fact keep a small bottle of Purell on his table.

Then he leaned over and kissed my boob, like two inches above my nipple. I looked at him coldly and made him pay me an extra $20. I then tore back to the dressing room, looking for wipes and almost wiped myself down with a Lysol wipe before the makeup artist screamed

THOSE ARE FOR TABLES HONEY NOT YOUR SKIN!!!

I told my manager. He said he will tell Snuggles to tone it down. Unfortunately, he spends so much money, and is so popular with a lot of girls, he won't throw him out.

Fuck a bunch of Snuggles.

She offered to share...

2009-11-17T01:37:00.000-08:00

and even though he has hitchhiked around the world, is incredibly intelligent and good looking, has one of the most beautiful musical names you could imagine

I. just. couldnt. do. it.

I miss you.

If you would just answer the phone...

2009-11-12T17:44:00.001-08:00

I'd marry you tomorrow on a moment's notice.

Sometimes, being a stripper sucks ass.

This isn't my story.

2009-11-11T17:07:00.000-08:00

She is my friend ad I wish I could kill him or beat him senseless.

She was just trying to get her money. That was all. He is one of our bosses, I stay out of his way because of the stories.

He is the only cloud in my beautiful, wonderful, safe club.

He is supposed to keep us safe.

She was just standing up for herself- trying to tell her side of the story. He kept cutting her off, telling her to be quiet.

He was the only man on duty and if L would have been there it wouldn't have happened.

I will freely admit- I hide behind L. If a man disrespects me in any way I can count on him or point him out and say
Yeah you see that man in the suit with the glasses? If you don't stop, I'm going to get him.

I have a strong personality and he is the only man I will diminuatively stand behind while he handles the problem- because it gets handled. I don't ave to smack away hands, yell and scream.
Because it isn't part of my job description anymore.
I never begrudge tipping him out because he is so kind.

He brought her into the office- pitch quiet brightly lit.

You owe me five dances, naked.
What? You can't be serious.
I am.
I'm not going to dance for you naked.
You owe me.
I'm not going to do it.

He looked at her and angrily said

You're lucky I don't kick your ass out of this club for good for not doing this. I should make you do it.

She fled, and burst into tears.

When she told me this story I was horrified because

HERE? NO WAY. That sounds like Las Vegas. I would have cried, or told someone.
I did cry.

I will never respect him again, and I hate him.
I don't know why she didn't tell.

A Lesson in Selectiveness.

2009-11-10T09:34:00.000-08:00

My father married my mother when he was twenty one. He was born on March 25th, 1957; my grandfather was on a submarine.

I was born when he was twenty five.

I am and will always be,a Daddy's girl. I spent the first six months of my life strapped to his chest while he did Young Guy Things like

Play cards
Make homemade fries
Go swimming
Teach me Beatles songs
Have his friends over
Write me postcards
Go on dates with my Mama
Telling me you girls are the best thing that ever happened to me.

He is a total bad ass.

I give my father a lot of credit for my sense of self esteem, my outgoing-ness... my wanderlust. He instilled in me a sense of self that is so deep rooted- I expect it of men.
He was/is the picture perftect dad- always playing with us, taking us tobogganing, always joking, aways smiling. He never spanked my sister or I, never screamed at us, never grabbed us- nothing. Yet, we respected him.
I remember being a small chid and waiting for him to come home from sea. I've been on the news twice you know, being down on the jetty screaming

DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY

as loud as my four and five year old lungs would allow.

He would scoop us up and kiss my mother.

Before my sister was born, when I was very tiny, no matter if I could read or not he would send me a postcard from wherever he was.

Dear sweetie baby. I'm in Japan, and even though you are four, these women are likely as tall as you. I miss you sweetie baby, be good for Mama. Love, Daddy.

I read those postcards years and years and years and years later; they still make my heart swell.

The day my sister was born I was four years, five months and twenty two days. I had been anticipating her arrival; the day she was born I woke up in the middle of the night to a lot of commotion and he said
Shhhhh. Everything is ok. Go back to sleep.
And carried me to my room.

She was born hours later, in the late morning. I was staying at his friend's house when he blew in the door saying

Catherine, you have a sister!!

With his hazel green eyes glowing and sparkling- she would later have the very same eyes, auburn hair and bright smile; a huge contrast to my blue-grey eyes and strawberry-blonde hair.
After all, we look like half sisters but have the same blood type- she is my soul mate.

Unfortunately, he had to go to sea when she was three days old; when he came back she cried because she didn't know who he was. He stopped going to sea when she was almost three. They had a lot of catching up to do.

When I started dancing, he was forty three. I told him only this year.

I expect a lot out of men. I expect them to kill bugs, cut the heads off snakes, hold doors, put their arm around me in the presence of dangerous people, carry me home when I am too drunk, take care of me, be understand and never abandon me; like he never did.
I thought I found it. I didn't. Maybe if I wouldn't have had my father I'd put up with a lot more and be less selective and more forgiving.

I spoke to my father this afternoon.

He doesn't sound old and his advice still rings true.

Catherine, I take no issue with what you do. But remember- only you have to go to bed with yourself at the end of the night. Don't do anything you keep yourself up over.
It makes sense.

To all you dancers and darlings who don't have excellent fathers; I feel for you. So I give you my father's advice, and I hope it helps you sleep better tonight, at least.

Strange things happen you know.

2009-10-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was walking the loop around the club when this short, fat Danny DeVito looking dude flags me me over. I go over, smile at him, give him the whole spiel.

I don't do dances he says to me, and I think I have been led on.
But, I want to arm wrestle you! I will give you $40 for each arm, if you beat me.

WTF.

I agree earnestly, and beat him with each arm; I could tell he wasn't letting me win because his arms were shaking. I pitch the VIP and he agrees enthusiastically even when I feel like I am slightly overcharging him (at my club girls set their own prices, no money goes to the club for VIP).

We get back there, I get settled.

I want you to restrain me.

I grab his hands and pin them against the wall, leaning my entire body weight into him, the wood on the walls biting into my hands.

Now hit me.

I must have wailed on this dude for a good half an hour; when I was done, my hands were sore and red. He thanked me and handed me a wad of cash, over $200. Then he went straight to my best friend and did the same for her.

Turns out he has a tall girl fetish in addition to the beating. And my best friend and I are the two tallest in the club.

She was awful, and I am glad she got fired.

2009-10-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

N was a girl that everyone connotates us strippers with: young, wearing neon bikinis, selling sex and proclaiming openly she goes home with customers for free, just because she likes the sex.

I hated her. A seething, burning hatred that had she not left, would have plagued me throughout my time in Austin.

The table was unconventionally good; my hustle buddy / Austin best friend W and I sat with one of the group, charming him with our wicked smiles and clever banter. The group was composed of five men, and one very wild woman. I hate women customers; they never spend and often give us dirty looks, or think they can get away with murder.
N plops down at our table with one of the men, openly underage drunk and announcing

That girl in the green dress hates me!

Meaning me.
Of course I do, you fucking whore. But I don't say it.

She sits on the customer, yelling, being obnoxious, he buys a dance. When she dances, she is so drunk, she tumbles the entire chair over onto the dirty carpet.

I once berated her for embarrassing me in front of a customer. Drunk and angry, I motioned her off her table and backed her against the wall.

Don't you ever, EVER embarrass me like that in front of a client, ever again.
What are you talking about?
Making fun of me, in front of a customer.
I was just trying to be funny..
It isn't fucking funny. I've been at this almost eight years, how long have you? Three months?
Catherine, I really don't want to have this conversation...
Tough fucking shit. DO NOT FUCK WITH MY MONEY.

I point my finger in her face, and she ducks around me while I stand there for a moment and think I will spontaneously combust.

Which bring us back to myself and W, minding our own business, until W's eyes grow wide and she gives me the look like

Oh my fucking god look to your right.

N is in the chair, in the middle of our main floor, and the female customer is eating her out.

Our customer turns to us.

My room mate is thinking of taking her home.

W's eyes go wide and she doesn't hesitate.

That girl is a fucking whore. She used to be homeless, and now she fucks customers every night for free. She even fucked Catherine's boyfriend's brother, out on the floor.

I nod in agreeance, and the man's eyes grow wide.

Do you think she has herpes?! My friend's face was all up in that.

I snort.

Undoubtedly. I mean come on. The girl goes home with random men every night. I wouldn't bring that whore into my home. She'd probably steal your shit.
Oh my god thank you for telling me.
You're cool, and your friend seems all right, so I don't want him to get his shit jacked, you know?
Oh no doubt. You girls are really cool for telling me that.

And W pipes in

You've got the two classiest girls in the club right here.

We take him to VIP for an hour, and have good clean fun; he enjoys himself for the time, and then leaves.

The next day J, who has become one of our busboys, comes up to me.

Catherine, when you get a minute, come find me.
I don't play that game. What's up?
Did you tell on N for drinking?
No, why? I don't talk to that fucking skank.
Because she told me you were the one that got her fired.

W starts laughing and I join in and reply

I wish it was me who turned her in. I fucking hate that girl.
I know, but why?
WHY?! Are you kidding me? She sleeps with customers for free, she's trashy, already got suspended once and they let her come back. Her doing that fucks with my money. Want to be a prostitute? Put up a fucking craigslist ad like the rest of them do.

My hands shake and I down my whiskey, and he looks at me, shaking his head... I know he's fucked her, and frankly I lost a lot of respect for him due to it.
Honestly, I lost my taste for him even before I met my boyfriend, when he told me that he felt N and I were equally pretty.
With her big nose, beady eyes, and thin lips? Compared to my round anime eyes, full lips and balanced features? Not to be a narcissist, but I am tempted to post pictures for comparison so you, my audience, can laugh your fucking face off.

To all the girls who do these things, a big fuck you from me. Want to be a prostitute? Go ahead- I'm not anti-prostitution. Just do it in a safe, respectable way... not in the club, hurting the girls who don't have to fuck for money.

The confusion is at an all time high

2009-10-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

because, my dears, M has returned.

Yeah. Whoa.

Honestly at our last meeting, which I shall now recount, I felt I would never hear from him ever again, because I made a goddamn fool of myself.

It was the last week of April, and I was on my way to work, my phone rings.

Hey Catherine, what are you doing?
I'm on my way to work, what about you?
I'm at the Mandalay Bay with some friends. I wasn't going to come, but I figured I would come and see you. I'm just here for a few hours.
Holy shit. Do you want to meet for a drink before I go to work.
No, you don't want to deal with this. Where are you working? Maybe we will stop in after the group breaks up a little bit.
Ok. I'm at Club S because my best friend wants me to come work with her. I'm sorry for how I've acted recently. I had to axe a lot of people out of my social circle.
Yeah, you were kinda freaking me out there for a minute.
I'm so sorry. I wasn't myself there for a minute. But I am back on track. [I had been hanging with this girl, A, who was questioning my relationship with M, who planted all sorts of nutty ideas in my head which strung me out pretty badly.]
Sounds good. Call me later.
I blow into Club S, shaking from head to toe, squealing at E and hugging her. She knows him, and adores him.

I work a few hours but my efforts are half hearted at best. I drink copiously from nervousness, and at 1am, he beckons me to the Hard Rock Casino.

Half drunk on liquor and half on anxiety I park my car into a spot on the fifth floor. I'm not dressed for this; I'm wearing my comfy going-to-work clothes. I feel embarrassed about my face full of stripper makeup and my converse shoes.

I sit down at a slot machine on the main floor.

Where are you?
We are just getting here, I'm walking towards you..
I see you.

His smile is warm, and his dark hair hangs in his eyes. I jump from the seat and hug him ferociously, kiss him firmly on the lips, my hands on his cheeks.

I'm so sorry I look like this.
You look fine. Let's go get a drink.
I'll buy the first round.
No, you won't.
Yes, I will M.
NO, you won't.
At least let me buy the shot before the beer.
All right, but that's it.

I shouldn't have loaded up on alcohol before meeting him. I get disgustingly drunk and clingy, asking for kisses in front of his friends, commenting on how his gambling sucks and would he like some help?
He is extraordinarily patient with me, indulging me, even though I ask the same things over and over.

Unfortunately, a bad experience with boys has left me in the throes of abandonment issues. Whether or not I choose to admit it, I am angry with him, despite the fact that I encouraged him to go on this trip.

After a few hours he walks me up to the parking garage; I can't tell if he is drunk or not. He kisses me goodbye, and I burst into tears. I cry the entire way home, sobbing til I am almost sick.

We text a few times over the next few days, and then he leaves on his six month trip.

Now, I hear from him three days ago. He got rid of the place in Los Angeles, and is staying in San Francisco with his brother. I tell him I will call back in two hours but I don't. I wait until after midnight and get no answer.

I've called twice since then. No reply. I call late at night because I don't have the guts to talk to him, much less without scotch in my blood.

My boyfriend is well aware of the situation; I don't lie to him or vice versa. He feels secure as he should, I love him and he knows it.

But sometimes, you can't help but wonder: What if?

Am I still the fun, breezy girl I was six months ago, biking to Marina Del Rey and splashing in the ocean with my shoes on?
Am I still the girl who soaked in the bathtub at the fanciest hotel in Las Vegas, with beer and the remote to the LCD on the bathroom wall?
Am I still the girl who exclaimed over flower shaped butter pats?
Am I still the girl he felt confident enough in to introduce his friends to on Saint Patrick's Day?
Am I still the girl he flew to Las Vegas for the fateful weekend in February?

I don't know.

Change ofplans can be good...

2009-10-15T16:33:00.000-07:00

He knocks on the door, even though it is unnecessary because he has a key and is here part time.
I open the door and forget my sense; he hasn't been home in two days. I jump up, wrap my arms around him and bury my face in the soft spot on his neck, right below his ear.

I missed you angel.
I missed you too sweetheart.

He smells like I imagine a man should, maybe it's due to my father; like smoke, beer and good cologne. He is tall and has broad shoulders; I feel like I could hide behind him for days, despite my strong personality. With him I feel safe, protected, wanted.

My father always smelled like scotch, smoke and royal copenhagen cologne.

I vault into the truck and we are already laughing, holding hands, sending looks back and forth, grinning at one another because we

KNOW.

We go to the theater and our movie is sold out.

Do you want to see another?
NO.
Come on. I'm sure something is good.

And we get tickets for Zombieland.

We have an hour and fifteen minutes to kill and he laments

I'm starving honey.
Let's go then.

We walk and he exclaims

THERE IS NOTHING DOWN THIS WAY

and I say

Let's go to Maudies I hear it's good.

We share an order of nachoes, and I buy him a shot of my favourite tequila.

The movie is fantastic, with our corona and popcorn with salt; we always get an extra bowl of it, it's our only vice. Aside from liquor and eachother.

I could never drink again and get drunk on his eyes.

We go to a local bar and exclaim over our favourite parts; he kisses me like he means it and I know he does... tequila and love are a deadly combination.

No bad days, the door exclaims with it's inscription and I say

Look honey it's our mantra, no bad days.

We drink, we laugh, he makes awful inside jokes that only we laugh at and then he looks at me with

those eyes

and I know.

He falls into me and we fall onto the bed and he is smiling at me and I always say

Open your eyes. Like the song says, I am going to beat you up like you owe me money.

and he does, the look of pure love and arenaline seeping trough his veins, he is like a drug, something I can get high on and never ever let go because it is so god damn beautiful.
I've lost ten pounds and he says

Lets see that new body of yours

and falls into me crashing like a gasoline fire, gasping for breath, touching me like I am made of glass, in waves of softness and intensity; We're drowining and wejustcantlet go.

I laugh til I think I will die and he grins at me and I say

You have skills baby doll.

He looks at me, sweat pouring down his beautiful face and over the curves of his body, and always says

You're amazing babe.

He has to leave.

Obligations, of course. I never question them. He never ever tells me a lie.

But we drink beer in the cab of his truck in the rain, and when he leaves I smile and wave from the balcony

because I don't want him seeing the tears in my eyes.

Do you want to hear a story?

2009-10-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

They're better if they're true.

I had something to look forward to. The best kind of day. The kind of day where I bounded out of my boyfriend's truck, wavily gaily at him and shouting

I LOVE YOU

after the truck and not caring who heard. The kind of day where I blew into the dressing room and grinned my best friend, dancing as I put on my makeup. She laughed and said she hoped my energy was contagious.

We sat at the bar together, and she actually did a shot with me. I wasn't sure if I should wait; but the mirror in front of me made it easy to see the door behind me. I knew who I was waiting for.

I recognised him immediately; he types and speaks and dresses the same. It's the kind of eloquence you don't find often in my neon universe, and I was grateful for it.

Conversation is easy and I was flattered when he said to me

You know, I love how you are obscurely brilliant. Obscure being a good thing.

Like I could take it any other way. Being told I am brilliant is the most high compliment to me, always has been. Way more powerful than beautiful or well-spoken.

My best friend came over to join us and we migrate to a quieter sitting area; I get upset at the VIP host because I feel like he insinuates to my company that more is for sale. No matter, we sit, talk and drink for the better part of two hours, and it is breezy; I notice that he talks with his hands.

He gets a phone call and says he has to run, but close my eyes. I do, and he puts and undetermined amount of cash into the side of my bottoms. He repeats the process for my best friend; she is thrilled that she is being included.

We exchange hugs, and he leaves.

I count the money, and I swear on my life, my vision got blurry from his kindness.

I went out.

2009-09-28T14:43:00.000-07:00

I dont go out; I work six days a week like the worst workaholic... even though sometimes, I hate what I do.

Tonight I went out with a girlfriend after another girl coworker of mine railed my new boyfriend; I wasn't ok with it but he acted like he was.

He is six years younger than me, and to her, that is a death sentence, even though I have made exceptions because he flashes his dark eyes at me so genuinely, I could swear he is made of sunshine.

We went out with my friend V, and she loved him; they had so much in common it made my head spin, sitting in the middle seat of the truck, grabbing onto his leg when we took a sharp right hand turn, trying to stay upright. We laughed we drank we danced, even though we dont know how to two step she swore she would teach us.

Dropping her off I was overcome with lust. I grabbed him by the shirt and put his lips on mine, and afterwards he hollered out the window

I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS WOMAN SHE IS AMAZING!

while I laughed and smoked my cigarette so low it burned my fingers.

We pull into the parking lot and again I'm all over him, pulling at his shirt, biting his pouty lower lip til I feel the blood rush to my cheeks an I can't stand it anymore because I have

FALLENFALLENFALLENFALLEN

into the deepest depths of love even though no one understands. After all, I'm a stripper and he is 21 and divorced. I joke we should break up with our friends and he grins at me, doesn't affirmate but doesn't disagree either.

Which brings me to our house. OUR house. Our new life, our kiss, our love walking up the steps until he says

When we gets up there don't even try to wear that skirt.

My eyes are locked on his, screaming with sweetness and love.

I laugh, not because it is funny but because I feel so goddamn good and he puts his perfect lips on my neck and we are

silent.

We drink a shot of mid priced vodka and I say it smells like the hospital, and he wrinkles his nose and says

Oh my god, really? Ugh.

Tomorow we will eat breadsticks and alfredo in bed.
I don't even care if we stain the sheets. Now the world knows my secret.

I hate Sunday nights.

2009-09-25T12:16:00.000-07:00

I never work them.

However after the last entry, my dear readers, I felt the hundred or two dollars I would make that night would be worth socking away.

I digress.

I circulated for some time, finally settling on an overweight paramedic to pass my time; my friend W and I had been in the back, calling her husband to come in and provide us with some entertainment it had been so slow. I have to say it was one of the best conversations I have overheard to date, simpy because she had to use my phone; the echo in it made him insist for fifteen minutes that it wasn't in fact her.

The paramedic told me his name was Steve. He was in his mid forties, and was contemplating going to medical school; I mysef having the same aspirations found this to be an acceptable conversation to pass my time.

I sat an hour.

He handed me $20.

I sort of stared at him in disbelief, but his smile was so genuine when he handed it to me I could tell he was serious, even if he did try to grab my boobs.

Hours later in a fit of frustration I was going up to tables I wouldn't normally; groups of guys drinking beers out of buckets, or the high pitchers that look like margarita blenders. I was talking to mexicans who didn't speak english, hoping my business spanish would get me by, but unfortunately "¿usted quiere una danza papi?" did not work to my advantage that night.

Maybe it's because I changed my hair.

A portly gentleman with glasses came by and touched my elbow, and I glanced up, but it wasn't him I saw first. I saw him sure, in my peripheral vision, but over his shoulder and to my right was an attractive blonde guy sitting with a few of what appeared to be his friends.

Excuse me? Do you work here?

I shook it of and stared at the portly gentleman like I had never seen him before in my life.

Yeah, yeah. I do, actually. Would you like some dances?

Absolutely.
They have to be in the VIP tonight. I don't like being out here in the open, plus they have the air conditioner on so high tonight its giving me goosebumps. It's much cozier in the back.
Sure, I don't see why not. How much are they?
Well, it's $30 to get in, the bracelet gives you unlimited entry. Then we can do song by song, you know, sort of, a la carte style..

I stopped to look him straight in the eye.

Or. We could negotiate a block of time, and you wouldn't have to worry, I'd be all yours.

I often pretend when I am convincing someone to do something that there is an invisible beam connecting my eyes to theirs, pulling them towards me.

I have to say it has been a successful visualisation technique.
He paid me $175 for a half of an hour.
I told him I would meet him out on the main floor.

But I lied.

In every sense of the word I am a confident person, and I have no problems approaching men I find attractive. I was going to hunt that one down because I wanted him, and I was going to get him.

Walking up to the table I sort of plopped myself down in the chair next to him, swinging my legs in his direction for optimum body language.

What ensued could have almost lost me my job. The conversation is hazy, so I won't quote it. I remember leaning forward with my hands on his face, electricity running through my blood, trying to hard not to lean in the extra inch because I know I am being watched. I tried so hard not to drag him by the shirt into one of the closets in the champagne room. Instead I came up with a better plan.

For one dance ( at a discount at that, $13 if I remember correctly) I would give him my phone number.

To me this system was a verifiction. If he really wanted to get to know me and wasn't one of those garden variety douchebags who comes into clubs looking to pick up strippers, he'd pay it. And if he paid it, I could trust him.

It worked.

Posting details would make me crass, even if I have been more candid in the past with encounters I have had with people.

But this isn't an Encounter. I have a secret.

This is a public service announcement.

2009-09-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

As far as strippers go, I am pretty straight laced. I don't and have not ever, done drugs. I don't dress promiscuously outside the club. I don't go to clubs but once a month. I work a regular 5 days work week at my job.

Oh, and I don't get shitfaced at work without a ride.

Which is why I was so goddamn surprised to get arrested for DWI at 1:30am, Wednesday morning, year of our lord 2009.

I actually didn't get pulled over initially for DWI. I got pulled over because, by my club, there is an on ramp to I-35 South that you can get on, if you drive the wrong way on the street for oh, ten feet. EVERYONE DOES IT. I have done it a million times. Why drive the extra three miles down to get on the proper way when you can do that? I mean honestly.

Patience was not something I was born with.

He pulls me over, and I am not concerned. I roll down my window.

Ma'am, you do realize you went to the wrong way down that road onto the on ramp, don't you?
Oh, Officer, I apologise. I didn't see anyone coming, so I thought I could do it safely. Here's my license and registration and insurance. I promise I won't incovenience you again.

He sneers at me.

Where are you coming from?

I turn around in my seat and point at the club, which is a mere 45 feet away.

Perfect Ten sir. I just finished my shift.
What do you do there?
I'm a dancer, sir.
I smell alcohol on you. Get out of the car.

I am in high heels and a short sun dress so a feeling of modesty comes over me and I cast my eyes to the ground.

MISS STARK! I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU SOME INSTRUCTIONS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!
yes, sir.
MISS STARK?
Yes, sir.
Good. Now follow this green light with your eyes, and don't move your head.

I follow that green light with Jedi like focus and try to contain my shaking, because at this point I am very afraid of this man.

STOP MOVING YOUR HEAD MISS STARK.
I'm not sir...
I SAID STOP MOVING YOUR HEAD.

This goes on for ten minutes.

OK. Now. Take nine steps towards me, heel to toe.

I comply.

I SAID HEEL TO TOE!
..I am heel to toe..
Are you arguing with me Miss Stark?
No, sir.

We repeat it several times, and I pass this section.

Now. CAN YOU STILL UNDERSTAND ME MISS STARK?!
Yes, sir.

My eyes are beginning to brim with tears.

Put your feet together, head back, and count to thirty in your head. When you think 30 seconds has elapsed, you tell me.

I put my head back, and I know I count fast like onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight so I decide to compensate for that by counting to 65.

Sir? I believe it has been thirty seconds.
Now?
Yes, sir.
Turn around Miss Stark. You're under arrest for DWI.

I am tall, but I am lean, he slams the cuffs on me so hard my wrists will be blue for days, and they pinch my skin. He forces me into the car, and I start crying and telling him I am scared.

Why are you scared? Do you have any drugs on you? DO YOU DO DRUGS MISS STARK OR HAVE YOU DONE ANY TONIGHT?
No. No sir, I don't.

He goes to my car and gets my purse and ransacks it, the contents strewn all over the hood of the police car. He then races through my car, and as I had said finds nothing.

A tow truck hasd come up and I start screaming.

NO! NO! DON'T TOW MY CAR WAIIIIIIIIT! I just moved here and you are taking me somewhere where I won't know where I am, WAIIIIIIIT! My friend works at my club RIGHT THERE! He will be off in a minute please go get him, please please please! Oh my god. Please? I am begging you!

He looks at me, but doesn't acknowledge me.

I start sobbing. I start crying for my sister. Hysterically, where I think I am going to throw up and the cuffs are biting harder into my wrists due to my trying to wipe the tears off of my face.

He gets back in the car, and suddenly I am angry.

HEY.

He looks at me but doesn't say a word.

HEY. You didn't even let me blow. I will blow for you RIGHT NOW.
I can't let you do that.
Oh yes you can. Give me the opportunity to blow, RIGHT NOW.
Ma'am we have to do that back at the jail.
AT THE JAIL.
Yes ma'am.
This is fucking horseshit.

When I get there, I meet another girl from my club, whom I don't know, who got arrested on her day off for an entirely different thing. We end up rooming together in the lockdown cell, crying huddled together, she trying to get me to eat when I tell her I am on a hunger strike. We call every bail bondsman we know, and since we are strippers, they say they can't help us.

We spend the night on tables with blue vinyl mattress covers, in a damp cell that runs about 68 degrees, which they tell us is for hepatitis b reduction. The cotton blankets they give us are full of holes, and we stuff our arms inside our shirts to keep warm.

The next day we are told we will be transferring to Delle Valley Correctional. I start hyperventilating. J doesn't know where I am and is likely worried sick as I was supposed to meet at his house last night. My sister knows I am here but I can't call her again; it's collect call only.

Sssh, ssh, Catherine. It's ok. I promise. It's better over there, they have TV and books, you can read. We will figure this out. Here, come next to me so we can be handcuffed together.
Thanks, L. Amazing how two people can bond overnight in a jail huh?
Ha! No kidding. Don't worry. We will see eachother at work, and we will spend lots of time together, you seem like such a good friend.
You too. Ok. I won't cry.

They lock me and L together and put us in the armoured paddy wagon. When we pull into the light of day, L starts to cry.

I didn't even do anything. I was set up. I don't know what I am going to do or who I am going to call.
L, if I get out first, I promise on my life, I will come and get you.

She looks at me, her big hazel eyes full of tears.

Do you promise? Let's promise eachother right now: whomever gets out first, willl come get the other one.
I promise you.
Ok, I promise too.

We pull up to the jail and they take us out. Suddenly my name is called.

Stark? You're going to minimum security.

L looks horrified as they uncuff me from her and she grasps in my direction. As I get back into the paddy wagon I look at her and yell

I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I WILL BE BACK FOR YOU L! DON'T WORRY!!

I'm going to work tonight, late, so I can go get her by Sunday.

I will write the second installment of the story tomorrow.

I want to do some shout outs.

2009-09-15T16:51:00.000-07:00

Even if shout outs are the gayest thing ever but seriously, these people need the love.

So, Amy at Bird's Babershop did my hair today. Here's their address:
2110 South LamarAustin, TX 78704 (map)
Walk in or call ahead
512-442-8800

That girl took my hair from a shitty Las Vegas white blonde to a rockin' Austin chocolate brown and hot pink, and I have never looked more bad ass in my life. Seriously. And she's going to be my neighbour. I mean really.

Want to hear the best part?

It was better than any dye job I have ever had from Aveda, or my girl in Las Vegas. Hell probably even better than Key Lime Pie in Atlanta, which is pretty fucking bad ass.

AND IT WAS UNDER $100.

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHIT.

So of course, I gave my lovely Amy a very sweet tip (you should too!). And this was for two colours, and considered corrective. And until two days ago she didn't know me from fucking Moses. Go see her.

Dear P.Terry's Burger place!
404 S. Lamar Blvd., Austin, TX 78704

Your veggie burger rocks my fucking face off! It's homemade too! And you use real cheese! Organic, locally grown tomatoes! ALL FOR FOUR FUCKING BUCKS!

I got one of these today on my way to see Amy. Cool, crisp tomatoes, nice crunchy lettuce, melty cheese and just enough bite to the home made, house made veggie patty.. oh WTF. It is SENSATIONAL. You can tell they don't just assemble them out of warming drawers like at mother fucking McDs. Oh and BK? I thought your veggie burger was ok, but now you can SUCK IT! P. Terry's is healthier, not name brand and cheaper.

Raspberries on you. Plus, P. Terry's has the coldest drinks and the best ice ever. Better than Sonic's ice. I shit you not.

Mr. Natural!
2414- A South LamarAustin, TX 78704

I had your BBQ sandwich for dinner and you got me to like mustard, which is a condiment I hate more than anything. You put pickles on my sandwich. And sprouts. I was skeptical. But goddamn if that wasn't one of the best sandwiches I have ever had. The staff could be a littler friendlier. They seemed annoyed. But the food was good and this is what my sandwich had on it:

Mustard. I hate mustard. But it worked and now I may reconsider my hatred.
Mayo. Just a skimming.
Motherfucking pickles. Again I was skeptical. They were crunchy and awesome.
BBQ wheat protein that wasn't chewy.
BEST BBQ SAUCE EVER.
Tomato. Local tomato. Is this an Austin thing?
Sprouts.
Mixed greens that still had crunch.
And it was on toasted wheat.

Go. Get one. NOW. They're $4.95.

Lastly, I feel like I have to once again say I love you to my club. Dude we even have wireless.

I love Austin more than life itself, but miss my sister dearly. Tomorrow, instead of sounding like an ad, we will get back to my regularly scheduled lamenting and over romanticising.

Sunday nights bore me to death.

2009-09-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

I've been wondering if I should change the name of this blog to Cofessions of an Austin Stripper.
Somehow I don't think it's as catchy. But it's true. I am no longer a Vegas stripper.

I've also never been happier. The bar back tells me I am pretty, and my amazing manager C plays naked photo hunt with me.

Last night was slow, only a few girls worked, and most made nothing. I was sitting at the bar with a girlfriend, one who, unforuntately, brings out the snark in me, shamlelesslt ridiculing an older stripper who had just started at our club. She's easily in her 40s, and for some reason I find this ridiculous and insulting, especially since she has six pack abs and lies saying she never goes to the gym.

What, is she putting her grandkids through college?
CATHERINE! You almost made me snort my vodka and coke through my nose! You're terrible.
She looks like Stiffler's Mom.
New stage name! Stiffler's Mom! I should go up to her and ask if I have seen her on MILF.com.
I don't know why she is embarrassing herself. All the other girls make fun of her.

The thing that makes me a bitch is that this older stripper likes me for some odd reason.

My regular came in, he is Turkish and French but raised in Austria and has an Irish name.
He leads me into the back corner, and I do many, many dances for him. And I don't like his requests, so I drink many, many vodka and tonics on a very empty stomach.

You know, I love having my skin touched, and my nipples pinched.

A request that always makes me feel sort of sick and I refuse to do. I joke with J that I wish he and I could switch bodies. His lines in the sand are much more lax than mine and based more on logic.

I'd totally do it. I'd make you so much money! You might come out of it a little dirtier though.

He has the sweetest face, but the most devilish grin.

After dealing with my regular there was no one left in the club. I made $200, likely the most of anyone that night. J rides with me sometimes, so after having a mixup with my manager that almost got him in trouble (oops! sorry J!!) I went to sleep in the car to wait for him to be off in an hour.He taps on the window and I startle, my phone drops into a glass of diet soda I have in my cup holder, but I am so sleepy and tipsy I don't notice for a few minutes.

I spend a lot of time at his place downtown. I love the big windows and the heavenly mattress, waking up and always putting a kiss on the back of his neck. I like how he always stirs, even just a little.

We go back to the condo last night and I am lamenting the loss of my phone and that I won't wake up at 8am to feed my parking meter. I sit on his lap and say

See. You can tell I'm getting tired because I get whiny and snuggly.
So go to bed.

I go into the bedroom but want him to come with me so I start whining, which is pretty unattractive, but he doesn't seem to mind.

J. Come heeeere.
I will, when the commercial is on.
Come onnnn. Just for a minute. Like one minute!
I will, hold on a sec.

He comes in and lays on me, gives me a kiss. I ask him to come to bed and he tells me he is making lasagna.

Sleep comes heavy for me, and when I wake up, I stare out at the cityscape and think to myself
I am so fucking lucky.

First Austin Clusterfuck:

2009-09-11T15:42:00.000-07:00

Not nearly as bad as LV clusterfucks.

I've been fortunate in Austin. The people here are so much friendlier, so much ore generous, that I can literally bound up to the door girl at the beginning of my shifts with

Hi baby doll! How are you? I am so happy to see you today!

and she never thinks I am on drugs.

I've become known as one of the easy strippers as opposed to the angry, vicious hustler stripper. Girls call me by name now and squeeze my arm and mile when I walk towards the dressing room. I don't drink hardly anymore at work, but they will sit at the bar with me and chat while I sip my organe juice and smoke my cigarette. The floormen walk help me play naked photohunt at the bar while I wait for my first customer. I never sigh and ask What time is it? When are my six hours up?

So last night I was surprised when things went down the way they did.

I was sitting at the bar with my friend S, she has a stage name that definitely describes her smile. We end up doing dances for a couple who seem nice enough... until the woman shoves her tongue in my ear and makes out with the side of my face... and until S takes a huge swig of her beer... which turns out the man has been spitting tobacco spit into.

I swore she turned green. Suddenylt the offending spit was all over the table, and she was crouched down, hand over her mouth.

Do you need water?

She nodded so emphatically his blonde waves bounced around her shoulders like tidal waves.

I don't run in stilettos noramlly, but I did tonight. After several solid sips of water, and a good tongue lashing, she tried to convince him to compensate her for the mistake... but he replied she would have to dance for it, and then stiffed her.

The floor is fairly dead, and I end up on stage which is fairly unusual. First stage in uneventful, so I migrate to the second. I talk to some of my coworkers while on the stage; no one is coming up, maybe it was to do with the rain. I get down, and a few girls look at me quizzically, but I think nothing of it.

I sit down with D, who has ordered a sandwich, and lightly rub my knee, which to my surprise is sticky.

Sticky?
Wtf?

I look down and my leg is covered in blood. And there's glass in it.

L! HEY L! OMG. L! THERE IS GLASS ON THE STAGE!!!

My manager L's head whips up, and looks at my leg, looks at the girl onstage, and rushes to get her off of it. I pick the glass out of my knees, it isn't deep. The door girl rubs me down with hand sanitiser, and tells me to be careful, and do I want a band aid. I decline. I'd rather not recount the story.

The rest of the night is uneventful, I leave with $200, which isn't too awful for a dready Tursday night. I get lost on my way home and realise I've been staying with J far too much.

I guess my point is, if this is a clusterfuck, sign me up. Because finally, I'm standing on my own two feet.

I have never felt so humiliated...

2009-09-04T14:03:00.000-07:00

........as I did last night.

There's a club closer to my house than my lovely current club here in Austin, with a good reputation. I would venture to say it's #2 in the city... this club and my club go back and forth with the title for #1; it depends on whom you ask. J suggested I go try it out, and I was fair game; a little hesitant, but none the less.

I go in last night, and the door girl greets me brightly.

Hi there! Are you here for the audition shift?
I am. Thank you so much.
Ok. Sign in here. Now you do now how this works right?
I'm not from around here, fill me in.
Well, you work the floor, get lap dances, but can't go onstage until after you participate in the amateur contest.

I turned my head sideways and narrowed my eyes at her a little.

Not to be a snot, but I'm coming from Las Vegas. I have also danced in San Francisco and Atlanta at large volume clubs. I'm hardly an amateur.
Everyone is required to do it. It's the only way to get hired. What's your name?
Catherine.
Oh, we already have a Catherine.

I rolled my eyes, heaved my bag up and trudged to the dressing room. The girls are cute enough, but I definitely stand out; Austin is way more alternative than Las Vegas, and I still look very Vegas. I get dressed and put my shoes on, and hit the floor at 10:00.

There is no one there.

I have a shot, go out to the back porch for a cigarette, talk to some of the girls, and the house mother.

There is no one there.

I go to the back and call J.
I need your help with an executive decision.
Sure, what's up?
This place is so dead. I don't know. I might stay til the contest but ugh. What would you do if you were me?
I'd come have a drink with me.
Haha, ok. Well. I'll keep you posted.
Cool. Talk to you later.

Finally around 11pm I meet a man who I find out if the Director of Engineering for a major company. He takes a shine to me, pays me handsomely, and promises he will cheer the loudest when it's my turn. I decide I like him, and go up to the backstage area.

Ok ladies, here's the order! Katrina [me for the evening]! Kris! Alicia! Aubrey Rose! Demi! You get sixty seconds to impress the audience.

The host goes on the stage and to my shock and horror he announces

WELCOME EVERYONE TO STRIPPER IDOL!!

What the fuck?
What the fuck.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.

It was canned. I and a few other girls did pole tricks, spun around, were graceful and professional. The girl who won had never danced before, and was dancing in Wal Mart lingerie.

She won $500. I had not even done one dance.

At that point, having been "voted off" Stripper Idol, I walked into the back, put on my clothes and marched straight up to the front desk. I looked that girl and the manager dead in the face and said clearly, and proudly

Thank you for the opportunity, but I am declining your job offer at this time.

And walked right the fuck out the front door.

I never thought I would do this, but this is an official endorsement:
Perfect Ten in Austin Texas (Round Rock neighbourhood) ROCKS MY FUCKING FACE OFF.
Catherine: W-Sa, 8pm - 2am.

All alone.

2009-08-31T18:32:00.000-07:00

Sort of.

I have two friends in Austin, R and J. My sister left today, had I talked to her I probably would have cried.

I spent the night with J last night after my manager told me I was too drunk to drive. He's terribly accomodating with me, sometimes I feel like I take advantage of him. He's also a stunner; tall and lean, with dark eyes and full lips, and he lets me drink red wine in his bed at the house he is staying at.

When I painted on my lipstick last night at work I noticed the colour was the same; he'd bitten my lips into the shade of lipstick I wear. I was tired but happily so, I played the afternoon back in my head, still smiling broadly thinking of the glasses crashing off the bedside table.

I went out on the floor and it was quiet, I bought a few shots of whiskey on bar credit. I talked to a man who tells me loves horror movies; He pays me $60 to sit and discuss them with him. I am disgusted when he says his favourite director is Rob Zombie.

His movies are all one big music video dude! There's no ambiance, it's all "boo!" factor. I mean, watch some Takashi Miike. That dude has style.
I've never heard of him.
Japanese. And epic. You want my horror movie tasting menu.
I would love that.

He hands me and extra twenty, and a Corona.

After awhile, I get te ball rolling, and I keep going up to the door girl to cash in my funny money, and each time she exclaimes AGAIN?? with a smile and I tell her I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB and she says Well, it loves you.

Time flashes by and suddenly it's been five hours and the club is closing. I feel buzzed but not drunk as I collect my things and do my tip out. When I'm leaving, my manager calls out to me.

Hey Catherine, come here.
Sure, what's up C?
I saw you drinking, I dont want you driving sweetie.
I'm fine, I swear. If I was too drunk, I wouldn't go.
No, darlin' seriously. Look, you can call a friend, or I'll get you a cab. I'll even pay for half of it.

I am astounded for two reasons. First of all, my manager gives me a shit about me?! In Las Vegas, you are a replaceable number. You quit? They don't care. And now I have this wonderful loving manager who KNOWS me?? Who wants me to be safe and cares if I come back??

Secondly, WTF?! He will pay for half it?

I watch in awe as he presses $25 into the cab drivers hands. The cab driver knows my manager by name, and speaks fondly of him on the ride home.

I call J and he answers fairly quickly and sounds alert.
Hey dude, I am so sorry, but my manager had me get a cab and I left my car at the club. Can you take me to my car tomorrow?
Sure, give me a minute, I'll come pick you up.

I throw my dance bag into the front seat and start talking about my night, the man with the horror movies, and how my manager actually cares. We pull up to his house, I kick off my shoes at the front door, we go upstairs and get into bed. I am positive I smell like whiskey, but he pulls me onto his chest anyway, and I stay awake for about 15 minutes of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. Exhaustion and alcohol pull me so deeply under, he says he is astonished I didn't wake up from his repeated dissolving into laughter, or the fact that he worked out for 30 minutes before going to sleep.

In the late afternoon we get up, I'm dehydrated and not feeling well due to a chronic medical condition. I take him to dinner and struggle through it, til we stop at my house to get my analgesics.

During the car ride, I thank him for helping me get acclimated.
Does that mean after you're done acclimating you're going to ditch me?
NO! Why would you think that?
Just the way you phrased it.
No, honestly? I'll keep having sex with you until you tell me you're sick of it.
Nice.

When we get there, he hugs me and I kiss him on the lips per usual.
If you need a place to crash, you know who to call.
Of course, I will keep you updated. See you later babe.

It all sounds terribly sweet, I know. But is it love? No. I was recently asked if I had feelings for J, and I said I was very fond of him. We discussed amongst ourselves, and he agrees. Do I love curling up with him at night, having fantastic sex in the afternoon and dancing with him? Absolutely. For dear readers, I have made an executive decision which may come as a shock to those of you who know me well:

I have no desire for a full time relationship.

I have been in a serious relationship back to back to back since I was fifteen years old, and at twenty seven, I believe it is time for a break. Now in a new city, essentially all alone, having driven BY MYSELF to get out here... It's time to just breathe, and make life a tasting menu.

foreign horror movie tasting menu.
Audition: Takashi Miike
Ichi the Killer: Takashi Miike
Suspiria: Dario Argento
Opera: Darion Argento
Shock: Mario Bava
Uzumaki: Higuchinsky
Freaks: Tod Browning

Not for whom or what you think.

2009-08-17T18:39:00.002-07:00

You're the only one who
Drags me kicking and screaming through fast dreams
You're the only one who
Knows exactly what I mean.

I dyed my hair tonight.

Yeah I know, I know uneventful. But for me it is a huge step.

I had platinum blonde hair because that is what my club in Las Vegas wanted. Not blonde? You better be tits on a twig. Over a size 4? No fucking way are you getting in. They want an army of paper doll strippers, all looking the same except for the clothes they are wearing.

They think this creates a sense of quality, but it doesn't. Since they all look the same, the girls fight amongst themselves. The non-white girls are lucky, they stand out more, but they are few and far between. It's an anthill teeming with bottle blonde ants, covering a carcass that doesn't have hardly enough left on it to feed them.

Some of the girls drive lambos they bought on credit so they could afford them. I cringe to think at their insurance bills.

I asked my manager here in Austin last night if, when I came back, I would still have my place in the club. He looked surprised, and even more surprised when I apologised for interrupting his text message he was sending.

Of course your job will still be here. I think it's after 30 days you go inactive in the computer. You're gone two weeks right? No problem.

In many clubs I sneer at the thought of tipping the manager; after all he gets paid. With L and A, I never hesitate to hand over my $10 to each of them. Even though the other girls tell me I don't have to, I often give them $15.

My epiphany came last night, sitting in the dressing room getting ready. I don't look like the other strippers. Most have facial piercings, most have tattoos. Not one has enormous cartoon fake boobs that strain against her skin and make it shine like plastic, like many of my coworkers in Las Vegas. One even has blue hair.

So, if I dyed some of my hair pink, would you feel like I was stealing your look?
NO! Not at all! That would be cool.
I can't believe you guys are allowed to have coloured hair like that.
Keep Austin weird!

My hair will no longer be a business decision.

The money, and my attitude, are triple better.

You're hot then you're cold, you're yes then you're no..

2009-08-13T01:04:00.000-07:00

You're in, then you're out.
You're up, then you're down.

Story of my fucking life.

This blog has become so much more personal than I ever intended it to be. It's also become more about my life than I ever intended it to be, as opposed to just my work experiences, which here in Austin, have been profitable and uneventful.

My sister, her other coworker R, and he and I go to a bar Monday night. This first bar is weird, they keep track of your drinks and cut you off accordingly. Everything else though, is fine, until we go upstairs for a shot of Patron, and they over charge us and give us teeny shots.

Are they going to serve you?
Yeah, I think so. But this is bullshit. Do you want to go somewhere else, would you prefer that?
Well. I know a place close by, we could walk. I know a lot of people there. And depending, that could be good, or bad.
So hit or miss?
Totally. But R could get in.

We walk and everything is the same. I share my cigarettes with him, and jokingly pinch him; he scratches my leg in an affectionate manner and we smile broadly at eachother. At the bar, we down many shots of tequila, and a pitcher of beer. I'm happy, the evening is warm and not too muggy, and we all sit around and laugh.

Halfway through the night he and R disappear. I go in and see them at the bar and I'm all

What are you kids doing?
Oh, we're just talking about work, sorry for taking so long!
It's cool. I'm just going to the bathroom, have your work talk.

I casually go back outside and then all of the sudden Jayne comes out with fire in her eyes.

Don't even mess with him anymore, fuck this. C'mon.
What? What's going on??
I was in the bathroom and he and R are in the bathroom stall together; I thought I heard kissing. And a dude at the bar said they were in there fucking!
OH. HELL. NO.

I see them again at the bar and I march up to him.

We need to talk. Come on.
Okay, I'm coming.

He follows me outside and my blood is boiling with anger and tequila, a deadly combination for me; at this point I am looking for a fight. I stand on my toes to get right in his face, and point my finger at him, jabbing him in the chest for emphasis.

WHAT THE FUCK??
What the fuck what?
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? You act all nice, you take me home, you fuck me and now you're in there with her right in front of my face?
Just let me say something...
NO I AM FUCKING TALKING, NOT YOU. SHUT UP.
Okay, okay.
What, do you think I am some kind of whore? Is it because I am a stripper? What the fuck is your issue? HOW DARE YOU do that right in front of my face. Who the fuck does that shit? I mean really. You know what?! You're not my boyfriend, and I'm NOT your girlfriend, and I understand you might fuck other people. But it is COMMON FUCKING COURTESY NOT TO DO IN FRONT OF THEIR FUCKING FACE!
What..? Who said we were fucking?!
My sister. And she doesn't lie to me, so don't you dare lie.
We weren't fucking, nothing happened! I'm so sorry.

At this point I am so angry I am afraid I might punch him. He'd never hit me back, but he has 80lbs on me, and four inches. However in my head on tequila I am 6'5" and 300lbs.

GET OVER HERE AND SIT DOWN.

He complies, rather meekly and sits across from me.

Catherine..
Don't you 'Catherine' me!
Listen.
FINE.
I don't know, maybe we should be friends. I'm not ready for a relationship and I don't want to hurt you.
HURT ME? HA! DON'T FUCKING FLATTER YOURSELF!
No, seriously. Come on.
What is the deal? I mean really. I don't need commitment. We could be friends and still enjoy the sex.
I care about you, and I don't want it to be just having sex. I want a relationship but just not now. I'm busy and I don't want to get hurt or hurt you.
Give me a fucking break. I'm a big girl, and I don't want a relationship either!

The rest is fuzzy. I tiraded for 45 minutes, saying not to shut me down and what is he so afraid of?!

He kisses me goodnight at the car.

The next night we go out with R again, whom I have apologised to. She was sick in the bathroom, and he was helping her out. We go to the same karaoke place he and I have been before; one of R's friends is turning eighteen and we have plastered temporary tattoos on her knuckles that read JAIL BAIT.

He shows up later with friends and beer, sits next to me in the booth. We talk and laugh, going our separate ways throughout the night to sing, socialise, drink and go outside to smoke cigarettes, which he brought for me when I texted asking for. He has made a chocolate cheesecake for the girl's birthday with a fake chocolate penis on top; when he cuts the cake I pull his forearm towards me to lick the cake off the fork he's using.

You know you can have a piece.
I know, but I'm watching my weight.

He drives Jayne and I home after my brother in law leaves at 1:30am- he gets up early for work. We get home at 5:30am, and we listen to the CD I made for him in his car, which is convieniently in the stereo. Jayne goes up first but he and I talk in the car for a moment; I don't remember what about, but I kiss him on the cheek when I get out of the car.

Jayne and I wake up around three so I text him

Thanks for being such a sweetheart and taking us home. You are awesome. :-) So much fun. And thanks for the smokes even if they did disappear!
No problem. I was wanting to tell you I tink we should be friends and that's it. I don't remember being misleading, but I am sorry if I was. I really Think you're cool, but I can't date you anymore. I hope we can still be friends.

The conversation is long. It got ugly. His texts got more and more upsetting; I wasn't confrontational in the least. More like "WTF? We were dating?" and "I feel like I am talking to an imposter." He is normally so sweet and kind to me; and there was no incident leading up to this. I apologised for yelling, and all was good. He wouldn't even give me a phone call.

Yes ladies and gentlemen; text message breakup.

OUT OF THE BLUE. Complete 180.

I talked to R about it for a good hour and a half and we drew the same conclusions: He is afraid of commitment, and not being available.

Apparantly she is going to have a Talk with him.

But I, my dear readers am not upset, for I know in a few days, he will be calling again.

Though maybe, I won't make it so easy.

Take it slow.

2009-08-10T16:06:00.000-07:00

Maybe we'll live and learn.
Maybe we'll crash and burn.
Maybe you'll stay. Maybe you'll leave.
Maybe you'll return.

I am in love with my freedom. I feel like take it slow applies to me in so many ways; I'm always running, always looking for The Next Big Thing, never satisfied with anything more than a moment. My relationship with Austin has been a whirlwind one, one where you're kissing on the first date and living together a week later.

My brain says WAIT!WAIT!WAIT! and my heart says GO!GO!GO!

When I have I ever been one to think with my head.

Driving my sister's car down I-45 at 7pm, the sun streaming in the windows which are all rolled down, my hair whizzing around me in a cloud of chaos, music blaring and singing at the top of my lungs I was struck by a thought. About how fucking lucky I am. How lucky that I can just pick up and go, watch myself blow smoke out the window in smoggy kisses into the night air, never worrying about whowillcover for me?

I started thinking about him, and the hours he logs, and how I want to burst into his work and say

Hey, let's go. NOW.

rip his work jacket off and toss it in the back, get in the car and drivedrivedrive. Sometimes, in his text messages and voice I can detect what I percieve to be a touch of longing sometimes, and a touch of sadness sometimes, and a touch of exhaustion all the time.

I bond with people over trips the way most people bond over tea, or beer. There's the old friend of my ex that drove with me from Atlanta to Seattle, incurring $400 worth of speeding tickets and a caffiene overdose that had us both in stitches. There's the drives with my ex from Orlando to Seattle, Seattle to Tampa, Tampa to Atlanta, Atlanta to New Orleans; making love in the car by the train tracks at night, sitting on bridges in the middle of nowhere, picking flowers and looking over the ocean. There's the ride from Tampa to Atlanta with my sister, where she turned an eight hour drive into a five hour drive, me screaming half in fear and half with delight. There's the drive from San Francisco to Monterey that was the final day of my four and a half year relationship. And who could forget from Atlanta to Las Vegas with my most recent ex, sleeping in a moving truck and buying bananas at gas stations to entice my terrified bunny to eat.

I take trips with people who matter to me. I take trips with people I want to KNOW. I want to know what their sleeping patterns are, what music they like, what state was their favourite to drive through, what they take in their coffee and what kind of toothpaste they use.

So I made a decision, and created for him, my two disc Road Trip Anthology, so he can maybe imagine me on the open road somewhere and maybe, know me a little more. I brought it to him at work today and was surprised at his level of enthusiasm; his eyes lit up and sent me tumbling down down down into that pit in the bottom of my heart that makes my body glow with warmth. I try and keep it professional for him, so I kiss him on the cheek when he hugs me goodbye instead of doing what I want to do, which is bite his lower lip.

Results best with windows down.

01. she won't let me fuck: afroman
02. crazy: gnarls barkley
03. mean mr mustard: the beatles
04. i will survive: cake
05. ridin dirty: chamillionaire
06. i fought the law: dead kennedys
07. mable: goldfinger
08. young man, old man: the dissociatives
09. all alone: gorillaz
10. ridin spinners: three 6 mafia
11. i wear my sunglasses at night: corey hart
12. she: green day
13. sugar in your gas tank: less than jake
14. diane: the hippos
15. wooly muffler: harvey danger
16. the plan: shaun of the dead
17. sixteen: homegrown
18. megalomaniac: incubus
19. bitches: mindless self indulgence
20. my vagina: nofx
21. flagpole sitta harvey danger
22. come on eileen: save ferris
23. jump on it: sir mix a lot
24. hope: suicide machines
25. tainted love: softcell
26. pole dance: three 6 mafia
27. i got a girl: tripping daisy
28. teenage suicide: unwritten law
29. surf wax america: weezer

He asked me if I wanted to watch tv.

2009-08-02T23:54:00.002-07:00

I said yes, but put my hands on sides of his face, stood on my tiptoes and kissed him instead.

This time it was our dark; not a rented dark in a semi-public place... he had picked me up from work an hour earlier. We nearly passed eachother until he caught sight of me on the bench outside and when he did, my painted lips burst into a grin. I slid into the passenger seat and kissed him on the lips, and it was as though I had done it my whole life, or maybe in a past life; I felt natural.

We went for some moderate quality mexican-esque food... I was too engrossed in my post-shift starvation and too enamoured with my guacamole to be a good breakfast date. Later, he would tell me that their guacamole was in fact half peas.

Which brings me back to the dark, me grabbing him by the hips and pulling him down onto me with no fear or regard. I strip off his shirt and it never ceases to amaze me how delicious he feels and smells, like I want to eat him alive.

I'm sorry, I probably smell like a strip club.
It's ok. I probably smell like a restaurant.
No. You smell good.
Yeah right.
I'm serious. You just smell like boy to me.
Well I guess that's a good thing.

It isn't how I expect it to be, in fact it's better... more like languishing in the early Sunday morning hours. He touches me like he is taking pictures with his fingers.

I loved putting my lips on his skin, his cheeks are made of velveteen even though the stubble on his chin was eating away at my skin. I put my hands under his head and want this to keep going and going and going because I'm spinning into oblivion and all of the sudden I am laughing with glee as I shake all the way down to my bones.

It is quiet.

For some reason I ask how everything was. Not because I don't have faith in my own prowess but because I was too caught up to even notice how he was. He all but rolls his eyes at me and flashes me a grin. I put on one of his tshirts and lay next to him in the bed, but take it off before I fall asleep on his shoulder with his arm curled around me.

The light peeks in from the curtains and I see in the night I have stolen all the blankets. I'm laying on my side but he is still curled around me, and every time I change positions it seems instinctual for him to as well. He laments getting up, and puts his head against my chest... I put my arms around him and kiss the top of his head.

A few hours later I am floating down a crystal clear river in an inner tube with his closest friends, our feet intertwined to stop everyone from losing eachother. We drink beer as we float, shouting RELOAD when we get to the bottom of our cans. At his insistance I am slathered in sunscreen, and I feel as light as the moon when I see the toasted Texans who populate the river. Everytime I look over at him I smile; he is all but reclined in his tube, beer in one hand, aviator sunglasses on, bandanna tied around his head. He lights cigarettes two at a time, passing one off to me and letting me hijack his beer when I am too lazy to reach over for another.

Four or five hours go past as well as over 30 beers between the six of us. We climb out and head to dinner; I order cheese enchiladas but am horrified when I think I see meat. Without question he uses his trained eye to hunt for the offending meat after I ask him to taste test it, and when he gives everything the all clear, I snatch the pickle that came with his sandwich.

In the van, we sit in the way back, and I rest my head on his shoulder when he opens his arms to me. Before I know it, he is resting his head on top of mine, arm slung across my body and we completely pass out.

Back at his house, I sit on his lap facing him, and become aware of my wild curly hair, and attempt to smooth it.

I must look a hot mess.
You don't look like a hot mess at all. You look more beautiful now than you ever have.
Liar.
No, I'm for real.
You must be one of those guys who thinks girls look prettier without all the makeup.
Yeah, I definitely like the natural look.
Well that works out, because I get sick of getting painted up for work all the time.

I lean against him and kiss the hollows of his neck. He smiles and affetionately calls me a devil woman.

On the ride home to my sister's we recount our adventures. He pulls up to her apartment.

Do know why I like hanging out with you so much?
Why?
Because with you, I don't feel like I have to try.
When you're getting to know someone, you shouldn't have to.

2009-08-02T23:54:00.001-07:00

In a few hours...

2009-07-29T03:10:00.000-07:00

I leave to go back to Austin. Back to my little sister to sleep on her couch, and listen to my brother in law make coffee in the morning. Back to the green. Back to the bats. Back to working in a location I love. Back to him.

Believe me when I say this decision was coming way before I met him. Yet, it certainly doesn't help to add some frosting to my cupcakes. Yet it doesn't mean I don't have a plan, or that I didn't buy garters to wear under my skirts, or that I won't walk up to him misted in a layer of Issey Miyake perfume and let him feel them under the skirt and make his eyes go saucery.

Seduction may be my business but it's better for pleasure.

My friend rolled my hair in rags so it will stay for a few days; I've decided to go simple. No more Las Vegas fashionista, with the bottle white hair sparkly nails short skirts and shitty attitude.

I want to live in sundresses, give up heat styling and glitter eyeshadow. I want to be free and laugh and drink and eat at Whole Foods and wake up smiling.

Wish me luck.

Sojou and beautiful men...

2009-07-20T20:13:00.000-07:00

can be the combination of a lifetime.

Let me start of by saying WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK.
For once, I'm not even sure where to start.

I was in Austin this week. My sister Jayne works in an awesome restaurant, she took me for my birthday on Wednesday. She tells me about her coworker, and how he is a total doll and she thinks we'd get along well. Our dinner is beautiful; the artistry that went into the plate we were given blew my mind; I held onto it to stare at it for fifteen minutes after the food itself was gone.

Between the end of dinner and dessert, her coworker comes out.

HOLY HELL WHAT A KNOCKOUT.

I was woozy from the combination of loratadine (for allergies), beer and good food. That made the connection I felt even more electric; my heart was slamming against my chest cavity. I smiled politely, he agreed to meet us later downtown for drinks.

A few hours later Jayne and I meet him at a bar named after a salacious fruit by myth. The owner of the bar is gay, and his partner cups my sister's cheeks and exclaims at how adorable she is.

Catherine, would you like a drink?
I would, thank you for asking.
What do you like?
Well, I really like vodka, vodka tonics, stuff like that. But let's do kamikazes, because Jayne doesn't like the taste of alcohol.
Let's do BOTH.

We get our drinks and follow him upstairs to a patio that overlooks the city, decorated with lights and sticky couples dancing in the hot air.

Then it happens.

So Catherine, you live in Las Vegas? What do you do?

I look at Jayne, and she nods her head to tell me yeah, it's ok. You don't have to lie.

Well, I'm a dancer at Club R.
Oh, ok. That must be fun. You must have some interesting stories. What else are you into?

What else am I into?
What?
No stereotypical questions that makes me want to rip every last hair out of my head?

We talked until 2am, the three of us did, laughing and drinking, recounting anecdotes. Everytime he got up to get another drink, I would pat the seat next to me as a hi you're awesome, I want you in my space.

We agreed to meet up the following night.

Jayne and I wore dresses that were light so they didn't cling to us as we walked down the dim streets the second night, music pouring out of the venues on 6th street. Jazz, rock n roll, 80s cover... the air was magnetic. We quickly crossed the street and he waved at us.

Upon greeting I wasn't sure about what level of touching I should be at. Should I hug him? Kiss him on the cheek? Instead I did nothing, except follow him up another flight of stairs, for three shots of liquor.

The room was magical; pretty upholstered couches, light misters, lanai furniture, curtains languishing in the windows. I sat on the couch next to Jayne and one of her female coworkers, he pulled up an upholstered cube right next to me. I hooked my foot around his leg, trying to appear nonchalant and accidental.

He left to go get change when Jayne looks at me and chortles with glee.
Catherine, we want to go DANCING! Do you want to go?

I looked at him inquisitively when he returned from the downstairs bar.
Do you dance?
Enough so that I don't look like an idiot. I'm assuming you do.
Of course, you know the whole professional thing and all. Don't worry, I'll make you look good.
I was counting on it.

The second bar is the antithesis of the first. Basement, first of all and though the music sucked, the company didn't. Jayne puts her head on his shoulder as a joke, and when he affectionately pats he leg, she dissolves into laughter. We get three shots of strawberry vodka, but I have to down Jayne's when she makes a face.

We dance until 2am, and I lament that no, I am not ready to go home.

Oh don't worry. I've got an afterparty in mind. Let's round everyone up and go get the cars.

We arrive at a karaoke place where he rents a private room for the eight of us. No one can read the remote, as it's in Korean but somehow we figure it out. He orders a pitcher of peach sojou (at my request, I felt special I got to pick the flavour) and a handful of beers. Jayne is drinking water at this point because she has to drive, but I shout and throw down shots with everyone else with a surprising amount of gusto. I sit in his lap and smoke cigarettes, put my face against his shoulder when I laugh.

Finally the sojou takes aold of me and it whispers to him
We should go in the hallway and make out.

He doesn't hesitate, and waves the we'll be right back at the group. My hand is in his and we go out into the hallway.

Suddenly, he is directing me into the empty karaoke room next door. I'm not resisting; my world is soft and glowing, until we close the door of the room and are met with total darkness.

I almost preferred it. I could concentrate on his softness of his lips, his hands and how he smelled like dessert. The booth is comfortable under my back and it is pitch dark and all I can hear is the impassioned breathing and my own blood rushing in my ears.

A knock is at the door. We stop, he opens it. A tiny Asian man with an accent, who I am assuming is the manager, urges us to leave the room. We comply, but not before closing the door once more, and I push him into the back of the door harder than I expect to and put my hands up the back of his shirt. I am momentarily concerned (I am always concerned about people hitting their heads) but since he doesn't protest, I figure everything must be ok.

Again, we link hands, and stroll back into our rented room as if nothing ever happened. Jayne gives me the all knowing look, and I grin right back at her; she knows she will get details later.

The oddest thing happens.

I hear from him the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
I see him without the social lubrication of alcohol. The comfort is still there.

Dear readers, give me courage, for I may be falling on my face.

Tonight, I begged for repentance..

2009-07-13T03:52:00.000-07:00

not from god but from myself.

Your friends are all making faces, when we walk in these places..

2009-07-07T08:28:00.000-07:00

am I to blame?
Why don't you blow blow blow blow, blow them all away?

He blew me away.

Seven in the morning Vegas time, and everything in my world is beautiful. I had been drinking but was by no means drunk... four shots in three hours is maybe lightly buzzed but more relaxed.

He flagged me down. He had given me twenty dollars on stage and boy was he handsome.

But I had no idea who he was.

I walked over and gave my favourite line

Hey there cupcake. Why don't you have any pretty faces keeping you company?
Because I wasn't ready until I met you.
Oh, is that so? You have a beautiful accent. Where are you from?
England, dear.
How many languages do you speak? I have European parents you know. I speak four, myself.
Just one love. And that's all I need.

His eyes burned into me like a fourth of July barbecue.

I wasn't phased, I knew I knew him but wasn't sure how, like perhaps I had seen his face in a previous life. He was gentle, he didn't touch me or even try; and his lips were as full as the moon.

You're amazing. May I please take your number?
I wish, but I can't dollface. It's considered solicitation of prostitution. Tell you what. I frequent X bar at X time. If we meet up, it's coincidence right?
Right.

And that dears, is how to score face time with one of the most beautiful people in existance.

Sometimes riding a mechanical bull seems like a great idea...

2009-07-04T11:40:00.001-07:00

until you realize you've worn a sundress with no underwear, in which case you have to decline a challenge.

I never go out. I honestly don't have the time, and things are getting pretty rough out here. I didn't break $200 for two weeks, so now I'm back on the Witching Hour Shift.

Thursday evening, I ask my friend M to meet me for a drink before work. She suggested a popular club, and I relented... I haven't been dancing for me in forever. Plus, it was only 11pm. So long as I was out of there by two, I could still make it to work right?

Wrong.

We go to the bar and start slamming shots of Jameson whiskey. They don't chill it, and the warm, stinging liquor makes my heart flop and my throat reject it. I force it down though; I love the buzz of it, how it turns me into a wild child.

I start texting the boy I like.

Are we cool?
Of course. Why wouldn't we be?
Because of how I act. I have no dating experience.
It's okay.
Why don't you come out? We are at Club S.
I'm on my way.

That statement is true. I don't have any experience other than long term relationships. There is one, but it was done to replace someone I truly loved in a time of heartbreak, but my heart was so broken I would marinate myself in vodka and verbally abuse him.

Twenty minutes later, I get the text that he is at the door. I push through the crowd, and see him on the sidewalk outside through the door. I throw my arms around him and kiss him on the lips, standing on my tiptoes, which is one of the things I like about him. We go inside, and the Jameson starts berating him for not drinking.

Come on, let me buy you a shot!
Oh no, I'm cool thanks.
Come onnnnn. One drink.
Nah, I'm okay.
Seriously? Let me get you something!
Ok, ok, ok. One beer!

He, unlike I, can adhere to the one drink rule.

The Jameson is becoming hard to swallow. I gag on my shots, something I never do, and when I can get in down, my mouth keeps watering so much I can't stop swallowing. I'm positive everyone think I am going to puke, but I really am fine; the 700 plus people, no air conditioning and warm booze has got my body craving cool and wet, not warm and burning.

I chain smoke cigarettes and try to get him to dance, my curled, damp hair swirling around me like whipped cream. He obliges, though impossibly drunk, I am difficult to dance with at this point.

Then. It occurs to me that I am wasted.

FUCK.
What? Are you ok?
God damn it. I drove. Do you think you could drive me home?

It is now 4:30 in the morning.

Of course.

I hug M good bye and tell her I love her, and hop into the passenger seat of his car. He takes the highway, which I never do. Even though he has been to my house multiple times I keep insisting he is going the wrong way.

My house mate is home when we get the and I lead him into my room, into my bed. He can never spend the night, he has obligations. I silently lament it, but this again goes with my lack of dating experience; I've never had someone leave afterwards.

I walk him to the door and kiss him goodbye. In my hazy memory of that moment, he tells me he is moving to Florida for work.

FUCK.

I don't remember getting into bed, or falling asleep.

I'm so sick I need a medical school education.

2009-06-10T20:43:00.001-07:00

Strip clubs in Las Vegas have promotional events on the weekends, sending their hottest girls out to the clubs in their tee shirts to dance on civilian poles so the other girls can glare at us. Normally I refrain from them… it’s in my best interest. Having pictures of myself dancing on a pole, my cell marinating in alcohol, strewn all over the internet and splashed on the pages of local magazines, could potentially ruin my reputation.

Earlier in the evening I had tried to convince E to ditch out on work and come to Jet, a club at the Mirage which lets girls in free on Mondays.

“Come on. It’s Monday. At it’s a slow club. You’re going to go to work, not make anything, and come home pissed that you didn’t go out. Just like last time.” I raised my eyebrows at her over the rim of my glass of pinot noir. It’s become our new tradition, to have a drink together before her night shift. She, much to my annoyance, left the club I was working at to go work at one I hated. Due to the fact that she had been my partner, I had not adjusted well, or even tried to adjust. I just tried my damndest to convince her at any opportunity I could, to come back to my club.

“I don’t know. I gambled some money today and lost it. I don’t want to miss out on any money.” She replied, picking at the Irish nachos she had ordered as a snack.“ I’ll go in late, like ten thirty. Then we can hang out for a couple of hours.”

I sighed, but conceded to her decision.

We left the bar around two hours later. The drive to my house was short, around four miles from the bar we were drinking at. I wasn’t drunk, but I’d had three drinks, and I was being paranoid because I had been too lazy to renew the tags on my car, so I drove a little slower than normal, making the drive fifteen minutes instead of ten.

The moment I opened my sliding glass door to join my roommate in a cigarette, my phone started beeping wildly with text messages.

Come 2 Jet. We are here.
When? I replied.
Now! U can’t miss us.

I threw on my expensive black Max Azria dress that I always wear when I want to look fabulous, and drove down there. The parking garage was a zoo for a Monday night; I’d always thought the Mirage wasn’t that popular. I found a spot then power walked, my black four inch heels clacking against the pavement, then against the cool marble of the casino floor.
I found the host, explained my situation, and he smiled at me, presenting me with a ticket. The club was packed, and I was thankful for my experience with crowds. Elbowing my way through, I spotted her bright blonde hair. E saw me as soon as I saw her, running up to me with her face lit up.

“Oh my god you made it! I’m so glad you’re here! I love you!” She exclaimed. I could tell she had been drinking, but she is a fabulous drunk so I didn’t mind.

“Of course I did! Let’s go sit at the table for a second, I’m going to pour a drink.”

I poured myself what turned out to be a very strong vodka and pineapple juice… the club was so dark it was hard to see the clear liquor blending with the ice. I took a deep sip, and, almost gagging, replaced what I had just drank out of the glass with a generous splash of juice. We sat there til I finished, laughing and telling stories. I love how when E gets drunk her head almost bashes into mine when she leans in to talk into my ear. The whole thing was remarkably relaxing.

We see the poles in the center of the room, and E says we should go dance on them and show these local girls what’s up. Grinning, I agreed; my dress wasn’t revealing, and went three quarters of the way down to my knees. What was the big deal?

I got up there and danced my proverbial ass off for a good forty minutes. My friend kept leaning into me saying “This is going to be something that we remember for the rest of our lives!” before she’d throw her hands in the air and dance like a mad woman. The music was great, and we were really one upping the other girls. I hadn’t looked into the crowd much, the strobe lights made it difficult to see. Then when the lights went to their normal colors, I saw them.

Photographers.

Lots of them.

“Come on, let’s get down and go have another drink,” I elbowed my her.
“After this song, I pinkie swear you!” She retorted gleefully.

I couldn’t wait. I hopped off the stage and made my way to the blonde, heavyset photographer I had seen last.

“What are you doing?” I asked.
She smiled.
“Oh, we are taking pictures for the club! We got some beautiful shots..”
I interrupted her. “How many did you get of me?”
She looked surprised. “A few. Not too many, I don’t think.”
Trying not to glare at her (after all it wasn’t her fault) and biting my lip, I asked where these pictures were going to be published.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Jet’s website, the club’s website, probably the Las Vegas Weekly.”
The room lurched, and I quickly went from irritated to begging her.
“Look, you have to delete those. I’m going into the medical field, I will never get hired at any hospital if those circulate. Please, please, please. I will even pay for them if I have to.”
She looked at me pensively. “If I get enough good shots, I will do what I can.”

I poured myself another vodka and pineapple.

Some of the most beautiful things are...

2009-06-04T14:44:00.000-07:00

unexpected.

Atlanta, 2005.

It was a busy Friday night despite the thunderstorms. Patrons were running in, damp from the valet station, and those unlucky enough to wait in line outside did so until they could squeeze water out of their shirts.

Sometimes it baffles me, the conditions people will wait in to see nude girls.

Fortunately it was a warm rain, but it was a humid, sauna environment inside the club; our air conditioner had been pretty sketchy all week. The packed in wet bodies created an almost solid air atmosphere. I felt like I was walking around in warm, loud, dark fog. Despite it, people were jovial, the girls onstage didn’t hesitate to remove their clothes like we did most nights… we were thankful to run around in our bare skin, though our hair stuck to our foreheads and our makeup was running.

I had made a decent amount of money thus far into the night. It was around eleven in the evening, and prime hours still had yet to come. During dances customers fanned me with table tents, and for once I can say I was grateful for the gesture. My regulars had come in, all three of them in the same night. I looked around and smiled, thinking about the new television I was going to buy in the morning if all went well. I heard my name called, strutted up onto the stage, and then it happened.

The power went out.

Now this may not seem like a crisis in a home situation. You sit in the dark with your family, wait a couple of hours and the lights come back on, no big deal. But in the most popular strip club in a major city, this is a huge problem. No lights. No music. No kitchen. No DJ to announce when we are next. No blow dryers, no straightening irons, no mirror lights. A huge “Awwwww!” went out across the crowd. In short, we were fucked.

I stood there, not knowing what to do. Should I keep moving, should I stop? Should I sit down? Having been in plenty of awkward positions, but never something like this, I had no clue what to do.

After a few minutes, several other girls came up on stage to keep me company. We sat in a circle, talking to the patrons. Ironically, they continue to tip us. I think in some way, they found it amusing, the group of naked girls sitting on a stage in the dark. I can’t say as I disagree with them. You would think people would have left, but truthfully, not many did.

Suddenly my manager runs up to the stage with a huge box in his hands.

“Here girls, line the stage, we’re going to make this work. Hurry up, ok?”

The box was full of candles.

We lined our forty foot runway stage with candles and lit them one by one. With four or five of us working, it didn’t take long. The customers cheered in approval as our DJ came up and sat at the foot of our stage with a guitar.

For the next two hours, girls danced by candlelight to acoustic music our DJ played with his guitar. The whole thing was beautiful, the light dancing of the girls’ curves. The customers were remarkable quiet, and those of us not onstage continued to go about the room selling dances, which proved to be astonishingly easy. The whole evening was relaxed and felt like such a treat; no booming music and people screaming over the normal din. Even the balmy Southern air felt soothing instead of stifling.

I was almost sad when the lights came back on. To this day years later, it is one of my fondest memories of this particular club. We were like a family always, but this night proved it to me over and over beyond a reasonable doubt.

I made $1500 that night without trying.

It is days like that which remind me that, sometimes, I love what I do.

Today I made three in...

2009-05-26T20:23:00.000-07:00

as many hours.

And it hurts.

You may say, Wow Catherine, $300 in three hours, that's amazing..

But there is a lot on my mind.

He was easy. His name was David and he was starstruck with my platinum blonde hair he couldnt stop touching and my huge eyes. He fawned on me, never touching, just eyes in awe, drinking in my presence.. he looked at me like I was the Mona Lisa.

But I wasn't there.

I am not going to lie, because I feel like may dancers lie and romanticise their jobs; making is seem easy peasy, like they don't have to deal with touch and grab, how it doesn't affect their personal lives, like it's an afterthought.

I know better.

In seven years, I have had one husband and two boyfriends. In seven years, I have lost one husband and two boyfriends.

It'ssogoddamnhard.

I normally wouldn't mention people that I know in my real life, but I have permission so hear me out.

He is beautiful. Amazing. Insane. Comes with a disclaimer. Adores me without question and treats me like gold.

He hates my job.

I try and I get a whole lot of Idontwanttotalkaboutit.

Please.NomoreIdon'twanttodiscussit.

At first I was bewildered. Why does it matter? Why is he making such a deal of something that is nothing to me? Whywhywhywhywhy???????

Then this evening, when dancing for someone with the same eyes and dusty blond hair as he and I share, I got it.

I felt like I had been electrocuted.

I have sixteen months left and I don't know if he can survive them.

I have had many men in my life. Not necessarily sexually, but men who have come and gone, been my friends, my confidantes, my gay boyfriends, my lovers, my fighters. I am a fighter by nature, crass and overbearing, sneering and shooting people down saying

I'm so sorry, I am happy with my current selection tell me I'm beautiful and I will tell you to fuck off leave me alone.

He touches me like I am made of glass and silk. Initially I was taken aback, doing the Dancer Reflex, pulling and pushing away, slinking away from his touch even though every cell in my body was screaming from the rooftops

YESYESYESYESYES!!!!

The hurt in his eyes was tangible. I had brushed him off, grabbed a wrist, due to the fact I wasn't used to being touched in such a sweet manner.

I felt like shit.

I touched his face and kissed him with everything I had in my body, wanting to kiss away my job, the hurt I may have caused him, the distance, the inconvenience, the timewehadleft.

I wanted him so much, I wanted his body all over mine, but yet I can't leave it behind, and I hurt him, unintentionally.

I hope he can forgive me.

What name do you prefer?

2009-05-24T22:03:00.000-07:00

This was asked to me this evening.

I had to think about it. I dance by my little sister's given name. But I danced by another name for four years. And another for six months. And Catherine isn't my given name.

I thought about it. It is alost like my identity is defined by the name I choose. 99% of the time, in Las Vegas, I am called by my sister's name. The only people who call me by my given name are my mama, my dad, my sister, my ex, the man I like, and my one or two "civilian" friends.

So what do I prefer?

I thought about it.

And I thought about it.

And I thought about it.

I don't know.

Sleeping on your own couch in 100 degree weather

2009-05-23T13:46:00.000-07:00

when your ex doesn't allow you to turn the thermostat down below 78 is vastly different than sleeping in a cool room with someone who possesses 1,000 thread count skin.

I hate sweating, I hate living with my irritating ex, but I love drunk texting.

It is just ohsosweet.

Yesterday was also eerily uneventful. I got in early, at three minutes after one, settling into a prime mirror spot that isn't often available. I had washed my hair the night before, but hadn't ironed it, so I proceeded to tackle the major task of conquering all the waves and curls in my mounds of hair.

After I am all made up, I look incredibly different. I have even had a coworker double take at me and say

Wow. I didn't know who you were until you did your hair and put your lashes on.

I walked out onto the floor and sat down with a coworker whom is considerably older than me, but who started dancing in the same city I did. I patiently nod my head and she goes on her tirade about not turning a profit or weeks and being stranded here in Las Vegas. Suddenly, I am very tired.

After a few hours, I meet a striking Norwegian man who gives me moon eyes so I sit down.

Hi sweetheart. What's your name?
Um, well, let's just say... for translation's sake.. James.
Well James, let's go have a dance.
OK. For sure.

We move to the couch area, and I stand up to take my dress off. He grabs my wrist, not firmly, but more as a gesture to stop me.

You know what? Can you just keep your clothes on? Maybe give me a massage for one song?

It was the most painless $40 I have ever made. I enjoyed his pretty smile, broad shoulders, and light lilting accent.

After James and I are parting ways, I spot another open lap and am heading towards him when one of my Brazilian coworkers grabs my arm.

No, no baby. Don't go to him. That man is mean, he insulted me, I wouldn't bother.
I'll keep that in mind. But I just want to try.

I don't remember his name. I don't think he gave it. He bought me shots, and he drank diet coke. I sat on his lap for half an hour, telling off colour jokes, some that shocked even me. He laughed, played along, and we drank til both of us had lazy eyes.

After a half an hour of no dance, he hands me $60.

I was surprised.

What is this for? Do you want me to give you some dances?
No. You made me laugh. Thanks for coming over. I mean it.

It must have been a full moon, because when I go back to the dressing room, I see my shoes have been taken.

I navigate the back roads of the city in my bare feet knowing full well I shouldn't be driving. The fact that it is still twilight outside helps; for some reason the dark makes me feel drunker.

My phone is still overhydrated, so only works while plugged in. I text him and tell him I miss him, to come this weekend. He says in a couple of weeks.

I wake up and feel stupid, maybe I sounded needy, maybe I sounded pushy, no one likes that. I send an apology and I get a text back, complete with smiley face:

You're thinking too much. :-)

Yeah, maybe you're right.

It's amazing how your attitude can change...

2009-05-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

when you wake up next to a cute boy with big blue eyes who can suicide drink you under the table.

I don't day drink. Ever, except when I work day shift, but even then it's dark inside the club so I deem it to be fake night time. I also haven't been sleeping. Nine hours in three days is not enough for me, but I've either been too stressed or too over tired to sleep.

Yesterday morning the door squeaks open , I can hear people laughing. He sits next to me on the bed, enthusaistic for me to wake up wake up!

Here, go get in the shower. I've got a brand new towel, they actually call it a bath sheet because it's so big.

I put on a shirt go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My lack of modesty makes me not consider closing the door, after all, I have underwear on and the tshirt is long enough to pass my hips. However as I am spitting into the sink I hear an Oh I'm sorry and for a moment am puzzled as to why.

I get dressed and go out to the kitchen where I am greeted with an offering of alcoholic beverages. It's nine in the morning and I have an empty stomach, but I drink two large glasses of champagne and orange juice and go outside with the other girls to sit on the steps and smoke.

I could go on and on. But I will give you the highlights. Yesterday I:

- bartered for alcohol with a plastic pigs nose.
- drank a concoction of godknowswhat from a plastic bag on the street from a stranger.
- helped carry a passed out girl down two flights of stairs.
- saw way more unsolicited penis than I have seen in seven years of dancing.
- sprayed someone in the face with aerosol sunscreen at their request.
- washed my face with beer.
- found a lost someone in a crowd of over 150,000 people.
- drank more Bud Light than I ever have in my whole life.
- pantsed someone.
- grabbed a guy dressed in drag's "boobs".
- saw my date inisist on eskimo kissing someone while wearing a plastic pig nose.
- ate the best pizza I have eaten outside of chicago.
- saw a guy in a cage that was shaped like a pig. (noticing the pig theme?)
- peed in the grossest port a potty I have ever been in.
- had my phone jump off the bed and land perfectly in a glass of water so now my screen is fucked.
- walked by a group of policeman with a full beer in my hand, outside of Vegas.
- napped from around 4:30 to 7, then fell back asleep at 10:30pm and woke up at 9am.

Points if anyone can guess what I was doing, considering my current location.

Amazing how not working changes my attitude for the better.

No rest for the wicked..

2009-05-16T05:49:00.000-07:00

so I must be pretty bad.

Ican'tsleep.

Yesterday's shift was pretty weak and uneventful. I didn't meet anyone memorable, I didn't make any memorable money. I didn't find a connection to anyone really, except for a cute man in glasses whom I danced for in the middle of the day, and only once.

All of my girls are gone.

S has gone to the morning shift, chasing invisible money. J comes in late, and we don't run into eachother much. Poor H, always rejected, dejected and behind on her bills has resorted to Malibu barbie doll extensions. L is on something, we aren't sure what, but her memory gets shorter and shorter.

And E has gone to another club.

She's broken my heart, though she invites me to go with her, I am afraid of change and expensive house fees. I feel secure where I am, know I can make money and itwillallbeok.

This, for me, is awful awful awful.

I miss E terribly. I saw her a few nights ago, we had a drink downtown and went to a tiny downtown club which has been a gold mine for her. She called me with promises of

Come on Catherine. I made a grand there the other night. They don't have any cute girls. No one said no to me. Just try it.
All right. I will see you at 7:30.

We had a drink after fending off perverts at the bar and I went in for the audition. The manager ushered me back to his office.

Pull up your dress. Are you wearing any underwear? I need to see if you have any tattoos.

My stomach made a knot and I knew this wasn't right. If I worked at the best club in the city, if my club's Reputation is so large all over the city, why is this happening to me?

Okay. Pull it up again. I need to see if you have any tattoos on your stomach.

Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I doing this? Why am I here in this little red office?

Do you have fat lips? Can I see? Some girls need to wear two pairs of panties.

I got the job.

I walked out on the floor and greeted E at the bar, her eyes sparkled and her dimples flashed. I ordered a stiff vodka tonic and sucked it down like I was parched.

Is that normal?
Is what normal?
Did he ask you to pull up your dress and if you needed to wear two pairs of bottoms?
....No. He did that?
Yeah.
Oh wow... I'm sorry girl. Let's have our drinks and then go talk to those guys, ok?
You go ahead. I'm going to smoke really quickly.
Are you sure?
Yeah.

I left at 1:30am with nine dollars in my purse.

I want to talk about sex baby. Let's talk about you and me

2009-05-08T00:54:00.000-07:00

let's talk about all the good things and the bad things, that may be.

Yeah. I'm going with that. And I do want to deviate from my usual night at the office sort of report and let you in because iknowyouwantit.

Everybody wants to know what turns the dancer on.

I was in a serious relationship for almost two years with someone who was safe and I was sorry. That all changed a sunny February afternoon this year when I was in a sour mood at work, and had my world flipped upside down.

That's a story for another time. It's a whiskey drinking story. Or, as my European grandfather says, a horoscope reading. Or as my mother says, a come to Jesus story. Or as my father says, here's your shot, sit down and tell me about it.

In short, I left the safe, and I'm not sorry.

Since that fateful day, I have three stories to tell.

one.

I walked in the door with no makeup and no high heels and not in a good state of mind. Sunburned from vacation, my skin tinged pink from my normal porcelain. The place was dirty and I loved it. My sandals stuck to the floor as I walked towards him with a sort of snapsnapsnapsnapsnap. I walked up to the bar and the woman doing the announcing said hey look here at the blonde that just walked in the door. You're being serviced with a bingo card.
He smiled at me and I was glad that he's an easy smiler. I loved the grit in this place and that we were playing bingo for stupid prizes like mormon calendars yet taking it so seriously.

We drank whiskey.
We drank whiskey.
We drank whiskey.

I batted my eyes, complimented his lips, suddenly I was leaning in effortlessly and it was soft, precise, comfortable. Nothing but darkness and softess spun around me and time didn't exist.

Do you want to go outside?
No. Look at this bar. It's almost four a.m. Nobody cares.

I remember being in the car and driving fast fast fast down the highway, talking and laughing watching the shapes painted on the noise walls zoom by me. I remember the bed against my back, sinking into it, how soft his hands were, how soft his face was. My dress fell to the floor.

In the sunshine the next morning I looked at him and grinned, almost nose to nose. I was so placid against his soft skin, like I'd lived there for days. I sit on his lap and topple him onto the bed, pressing my face into his neck, hoping I can convince him to won't you stay, just a little bit longer.

When I retrieve my car, I give him a last kiss before I opened the car door to get out of his.

I'll talk to you soon. Thank you. You're amazing. I'm glad we met.
My drive will be more pleasant because I met you.

two.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. Save me I hate him.
My phone was full of sent messages similar to this.

I'm dressed to the nines and all is not fine.

I get a phone call and take off my shoes. I push through the crowds, in my element; the parade of bottle plastic blondes with their collagen lips going to the bathroom hardly obstructs my path. My feet pad against the marble floors, and suddenly I am at the golden doors. They're heavy, and when I open them a whoosh of cold air conditioning slams me in the fact and brings me back to life.

This all takes forty-five seconds.

I am breathless.

Hello. Okay. The foyer? Good. Give me one second.

He is taller than I, even when I slip my heels back on. Somehow a handshake doesn't seem appropriate. I decide I love his outfit, smile and throw my arms around his neck like I've known him for years.

Hi. Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm sure you don't want to wait in that line for an hour. Want to go somewere fun?
Yeah, totally. Let's get out of here.

There's live music, even though I normally hate loud music, and we are over dressed. We drink mid priced beer, I hang my shoes off my toes and hook my foot around his leg. When he suggests the photobooth I squeal with delight; I kiss his cheek in one photo, and he surprises me by kissing mine in the next. He is sort of mysterious, with his soft-spoken nature and pretty kind eyes.

I talk. I talk. I talk a lot. He nods and listens, never making me feel stupid. I lean in.

...I suppose that situation could be awkward, but the only thing that is awkward to me right now, is wondering if you are going to kiss me.

He is not timid with me as I would assume by his demeanor. We drink the rest of our beers and drive in my car with the windows down, listening to mexican radio because we think it is just so damn hilarious.

I park the car, get out and he grabs my hand and we walk into the cheesiest hotel on the strip Las Vegas has to offer. We get lost in the tiny casino briefly, a man tells me to put on my shoes. The elevator door closes, and I press him into the wall of the elevator cabin, I can feel his heart beat into my chest.

His body surprises me. He is not bulky and muscular, but smooth, toned, and I can't resist nibbling his skin. He surprises me over and over, my hands in his beautiful dark hair. A moment later is an hour later, and I burst into laughter. Almost in stereo there was a

that was amazing.

three.

I'm on my phone telling my friend I'm going to throw up and I am at McCarran airport when he glides over to me. I'm expecting him. I'm wearing a viking hat.

His eyes widen and his lips burst into a smile, soon he is in my breathing distance and his arms are around me, his lips on my cheek.

I can smell his shampoo.

He comes from a different world than me but doesn't make fun of my college student car. He comes from a different world than me but doesn't mind looking up restaurants while I go to a quick class.

I don't know what to think.

The hotel is arguably the most lavish in Vegas. We lay on the bed and discuss our backgrounds, always inches away but never touching. He makes dinner reservations. I curl my hair and he offers me some tequila. We do a shot together. We always will after this.

I am painting on my makeup wearing my best black dress, coming into the bathroom doorway to chat intermittantly. One lash on, one lash off. Diddle diddle dumpling, Catherine's on.

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom I am speaking to his back. e is at the window, looking over the view of our 32nd floor suite. He turns around and his dark warm chocolate coloured eyes burn into mine. He crosses the room and stands inches from me.

I stop breathing.

Why don't we stop dancing around eachother?

His lips are on mine.

I am glad for his arm around me, I shake from the bottom of my feet, the inside of my belly, my normally confident shoulders are wavering.

Why are you shaking?
I don't know. I.. it's just nice I suppose.

We eat. The views are beautiful.
We dance. The girls are beautiful.
We drink. The world gets a glow.

Then I'm looking down on him, his shock of dark hair against the crisp sheets, and brush it out of his eyes.

I don't get out of that bed for 24 hours except to take a bath.

Normalcy is overrated....

2009-05-01T17:38:00.000-07:00

so I am back on nights until I run away to San Francisco for a few days.

I swapped clubs. I am an intermittant fixture at the original one. I will admit, I have done this for a reason. One, there are five blondes at this club I am at, and I am one of them. Two, sometimes I like being the big fish in a small pond.

I mean really. Who doesn't?

My hustle buddy is coming with me while I run away. I almost feel bad referring to her as that, as she is one of my very best friends. She is definitely my best dancer friend, and we did start as business partners... but still sometimes it's very unfitting.

My hustle buddy is one of the most beautiful women you will ever see in your life. A few inches shorter than me, a lot inches fuller than me in the chest, sparkly blue eyes, blond hair, dimples and peaches and cream skin. I remember the first night I saw her while I was sitting at the bar.

I bet that girl is so fucking full of herself. She doesn't even really dance that much on stage.

Those were the thoughts I immediately had, and I admit, out of jealousy.

One night she came down and sat at the bar next to me, and gave me a big smile.

Hi, I'm E. Nice to meet you! Want to share a drink? I only have four dollars with me, and the bartender is pouring them strong. I can ask him for an extra glass.

I obliged, and she was the nicest fucking girl I have ever met in my life.

No joke. And smart too!

We worked together more and more often, and it became apparant that this was a match.

For those of you in the civilian world, you know not of the magic a hustle buddy can bring you. She watches over you if you get too drunk. If she finds customers, she comes to get you and share. You can double team men and blind them with ideas of a threesome. Because after all, four boobs are better than two. More importantly, even when you're not working together, she is your support system.

That guy was such a fucking asshole. I can't believe he said that to me. And he didn't pay either!
It's ok! You're beautiful, fuck him. C'mon. Let's go have a shot and then get back out there.

I trust her with a lot more than I trust my civilian friends because she KNOWS. She understands why NO I AM NOT GOING TO GET OVER THE FACT THAT MAN TRIED GRAB MY BOOB. She also gets that YES, I DO DRINK AT WORK BECAUSE I HAVE TO HAVE SOME WAY TO KEEP MY SANITY.

Civilian girls justdontunderstanddd....

We have joked that we should work a night in San Francisco, because it's the busy season and there's money to be had. I'm not sure.

I am bringing her with me because she, like me, just needs a fucking vacation. It sounds so goddamn delicious to run into the arms of a boy I DO like, so refreshing to not have to fake the smiles, or wanting to rest my head on his shoulder when I get too drunk on vodka tonic and laughter.

Certainly she will dazzle his friends, she is so much fun. The kind of person you want to go play bingo with and giggle at all the whitehairs while taking it oh so seriously ourselves. But more importantly, I know she is a little lonely and stressed... I want her to find someone she likes too, even if just for whirlwind 72 hours.

San Francisco is my Las Vegas.

Before my shift tonight...

2009-04-23T00:52:00.000-07:00

I wanted to tell an ugly story.

Centerfolds, San Francisco, 2006

I spend my whole life on an airplane it seems. Back and forth, Atlanta to San Francisco. San Francisco to Las Vegas. Las Vegas to Atlanta. San Francisco to Las Vegas to Atlanta to Seattle to Atlanta.

If it's tiring to read, image how tiring it is to do.

I moved to San Francisco in May with my man, full of hopes and dreams. His career in Atlanta where we had been living was at a standstill, had basically slammed into a wall of twenty five dollars an hour. My job was fabulous. I was making a ton of money, taking us on fabulous trips in two different countries, contemplating going to Cabo San Lucas for my birthday, getting a real tan instead of a spray tan, being the only non bottle blond on the beach. But I did (and still do) have an insatiable taste for adventure. It makes my mouth water and my eyes glisten. So we found a palatial apartment South of Market for a whopping three thousand dollars a month, and moved.

I had heard through word of mouth that Centerfolds was the best club in the area. I knew a few girls that worked there that said you could make a grand on day shift. The dances were expensive: Twenty dollars for a bikini dance, forty dollars for a topless, eighty dollars for a nude. Some girls charged as high as a hundred dollars for one dance. VIP was a thousand dollars an hour. In Atlanta, it was ten dollars for a table dance, and I charged five hundred dollars an hour for my VIP, but it was flexible; newer girls charged three hundred fifty or four hundred an hour. At Centerfolds it was a set price, no negotiation. Take away my negotiation and you strip away my greatest strength.

I walked in to audition one afternoon, full face of showgirl makeup, hair in pigtails, pretty white dress with cherries printed on it. Now strippers are extremely superstitious, and this had been my lucky dress, so I figured it'd land me a job. The club was moderately sized, three levels, and had huge flat screen televisions with hardcore girl on girl porn on mute. The stage was blue granite and shimmered in the light. There were two poles instead of one and the stage was a third the size of my forty foot runway stage in Atlanta. Granite is unforgiving for falls. I would fall several times due to girls laying on the floor with body lotion on when I did my pirouettes on the tips of my shoes.

The manager Rick told me to get dressed and go upstairs and wait to be called. I met the daytime DJ, Freddie, who was extremely accommodating and played whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. You could even stake a claim on a song if you could choreograph a show to it.

"If you're happy, you make money, and if you make money I make money, so I want you to be happy." he often said.

I picked out a few songs I was familiar with: Personal Jesus, I Know What Boys Like and Three Libras for my grand finale. I had this in the bag.

I got up on the stage and quickly realized I had an issue. I had no room to move on this small, half moon shaped stage. I had no runway to strut up and down and shake my hips on. It was me, the pole, and five feet into the crowd, which consisted of five Asian men on their lunch break. I did the best I could. I had never relied too muchon pole tricks before. I’d been dancing five and a half years and hadn’t really done intense pole since my third year. Dancing in Atlanta will spoil you, make you feel like an entitled jeweled princess. Dancing in San Francisco makes you feel like a whore.

The audition, I thought was at least acceptable. I got down to talk to the manager.

Rick was disapproving.

"You know Catherine, you’re a beautiful girl." I nodded my head in anticipation. "But you don’t show enough. Why didn’t you bend over? Maybe spread it a little? Guys like it when you touch yourself. That’s how you make money here. I don’t know if this club is for you. Why don’t I call Roaring Twenties down the street and have them take you on?"

I was livid, but I decided to channel that into determination. I told him to call Roaring Twenties.
I stormed out, rejected and dejected, wondering what was wrong with me. How could I have been successful in Atlanta but not here? I had never been rejected for an audition before.

Little did I know Rick would be right.

I went to Roaring Twenties, which ended up being a shithole in the wall that was decorated to resemble the inside of a genie bottle. I liked the manager, but the girls there shocked me. Heavyset, stretch marked girls. Why had Rick thought I would fit in here? I was five foot eight, a hundred and twenty seven pound, blond, blue eyed, small breasted. How did I fit in with five foot four, hundred and fifty pound, thirty odd year old hispanic women?

I was so insulted I looked down at my hands and they were balled into fists. When I opened them I saw my fingernails had cut into my palms, leaving little half moons of blood.
I went back to Centerfolds the next day with a set jaw and fire in my eyes. I walked in and went down to Rick's office.

"Look Rick, I'm friends with Karma, who worked for you for five years, and she said you’d hire me. Let's do another audition."

Rick raised his eyebrows.

"Karma huh? She was a great girl, great on the pole, made a lot of money. All right. We'll give it another go. Come in at night for your first shift."

I called home on the way home and told my man the news. I was elated. The day flew by and I had visions of thousands of dollars in my hands, money in my savings account, beautiful clothes and furniture, the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed.

I was dead fucking wrong.

I went in to Centerfolds and put on that lucky dress. I fixed my hair in my curls and did my makeup beautifully. The girls were hardly friendly. They were stoic and business, all business.

They didn’t want to be my friend.

I walked up onto the main floor and sat down to watch the first set. I will never forget it. A beautiful girl named Menage, as in menage a trois, came on stage. I would later learn, Menage had led a hard life, leaving home at thirteen and becoming an under the table dancer so she could pay her rent. So very unlike I, who had started to break a social norm, to say I had done it, to beat the system. I would learn more and more about how hard these girls at this club had it as time went on.

Menage didn’t crack a smile at her audience. Her pole work was amazing, but her eyes were so lifeless and calculating. She layed down on the cold granite floor, her eyes on the ceiling, and spread her legs wide open. She traced around herself with a few fingers, gave herself a little slap, rolled over and gave a from behind shot.

My eyes almost fell out of my head.

I watched in horror as the sets got worse and worse. Girls doing finger penetration, licking their own nipples, pinching and pulling body parts, doing pole work fully nude, which in Atlanta, had been strictly forbidden. We hadn’t even been allowed to be on the floor nude, or bend over past ninety degrees. Touching ourselves in that manner would get you fired immediately. I looked at the pole that I had to climb and began to feel dizzy.

My name was called. I walked behind the stage to exit through the little purple curtain in the back. The girl who had gone on before me actually gave me a warm little smile.

"They're tipping out there, you'll do fine."

Well of course they are tipping.

I walked out and I could feel the unforgiving nature of the granite beneath my shoes. I didn’t have my runway to do my normal walk straight out toss my head smile and wink. I flashed the audience a huge grin, and walked to the pole to the right the other girl hadn’t danced on, and obeyed my own rules for the first two songs. The audience didn’t seem to notice until my third song. I had always been taught if you didn’t feel you were adequately tipped, you didn’t have to remove your bottoms.

Looking out to the back wall I saw Rick watching me. I smiled at the audience again, tossed my hair, and unsnapped my bottoms, winding them around my wrist like a 90s scrunchie the way I always had. I danced a few moments and felt Rick's eyes on me, thinking 'look at this girl she can’t handle it, she doesn’t belong.'. I was so lost in my sense of pride to prove myself, that I gathered my nerve and bent all the way over. Hoots and hollers ensued, the tips came flying. I felt distasteful, like now I was one of those girls I had frowned upon for dancing so filthy. I barely remembered to pick up my tips as I felt the stage and went straight for the bathroom.

I never throw up, but I wanted to so badly, I sat on the cold marble floor and spit into the toilet for thirty minutes.

I began making excuses not to go to Centerfolds. My man was indignant, telling me I was making a big deal out of nothing, suck it up, this is what you wanted. What I had wanted? He was now sitting pretty at a good position at a major advertising firm three blocks away on Market Street. What did he know about what I wanted?

One night after an exceedingly bad fight with him, I stormed out early, walked the twelve blocks up to North Beach, bought a bottle of liquor and stashed it in my bag. There was no drinking at Centerfolds, but girls snuck booze in all the time. Tonight, I figured, fuck it, I won’t make any money, but I will get five sheets to the wind by twelve.

I went to the dressing room and pounded half the bottle.

There were rumors of sex shows at Centerfolds but I had never seen one. This was a Friday night, the club was packed, and there were volunteers. I'd been letting Paris, a petite nineteen year old dancer, have little sips out of my liquor bottle. She and I had marginally bonded over a mutual hatred of plastic surgery. I never expected to see what I saw that night.
The tickets were five dollars each. If a man went up with a dancer he could get in for free. I snuck in and sat in the back, figuring it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. After all, I had done double VIPs in Atlanta, "two girl" shows, where we made moon eyes at one another and patted each other’s backs, or maybe gave a light slap on the ass. Those I always did with my best friends, so it wasn’t such a big deal anyway. How bad could this really be?

I sat in my barstool and the curtain opened. There, in the showers, with two hand held nozzles, were Paris and another nineteen year old named Josephine. They sprayed shaving cream on one another, massaging it into each other’s breasts, the men sticking dollars on their breasts and ass. Every once in awhile a man would get overzealous when Josephine got into doggy style position to give them a good view, wiping the dollar like toilet paper through her crotch. Paris would glare at them, threaten to spray them, and the show went on.

I was motionless.

The bouncer whispered to the girls and they nodded. He went to a small locker and brought out a neon pink, individually wrapped double ended dildo. Paris ripped the lube packet open with her teeth and poured the contents onto the head on it. Josephine laid on her back and for a few minutes, it was just Josephine receiving. Then as the men made a circle, cheering, half drunk from coming from other club, throwing dollars and fives and tens, they both climbed onto to the massive thing, and gave a real show.

Now to me with this there is a fine line into prostitution. Is it, because you’re having sex for money? Or is it not, because you aren’t having sex with the customer? I don’t know the answer. All I know is the room started spinning and I fled. I went downstairs and stripped off my clothes. I packed them into my suitcase and left the club without tipping out. The cold misty evening San Francisco air brought me back to earth. I was seeing stars, my throat was parched, I tasted blood in my mouth, and for once, there was, from biting my tongue so hard in horror. I got in the taxi in a daze, gave him directions, and went home.

Punching the code into my building took too long, as did the elevator. I clicked my key into the door. It was only one. I wasn’t expected home until four thirty minimum. I was going to catch it.
After opening the door, I noticed it was all dark in my apartment. I closed the door, leaned against it, slid down and sobbed. Sobbed straight from my gut, all that hurt I had for those beautiful girls, selling their souls like that, all the hurt I had for all those hard girls, all the hurt I had for myself and what I had gotten myself into. I cried so hard my throat hurt, and my man came down from upstairs.

He looked at me and was alarmed.
"What happened? You’re home early! Are you okay?"
I could barely choke out what had happened, and threw my arms out for consolation. He ignored them.
"Please, I can’t do this, I can’t work there, I can’t watch those girls do that, I’m miserable. Please, let me go back to Atlanta, just for a week, I need to do this." I pleaded and snuffled, my eyes turning green from the crying. I knew he'd understand. He loves me, he wants me to be happy.
The reaction I got came from left field.
"Well", he mused "Is it mandatory?"
I was shocked.
"No, you have to volunteer, and if you do it, you don’t have to pay your house fees."
He rolled his eyes.
"Then what are you complaining about? Just don’t do it. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. San Francisco is your home now. You need to work here. You can’t be running off to Atlanta every time you feel like it. You should be here with me. It isn’t good for you to be away from me so long. Now go get in the shower and come to bed. And wash your hair, it smells like a strip club."

Three a.m. is the witching hour...

2009-04-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

And they won't let me work proper nights (9pm shift) unless I get fake boobs, which I don't want.

C'est la vie of a five foot eight lanky A cup'ed girl.

I walked in at the witching hour last night, welcomed by wall to wall, standing room only drunk men. Celebrating, mourning, some with their girlfriends. One of said girlfriends ran up and kissed me on the cheek; she said she'd never seen a girl as beautiful as me. Sweet for sure, but I am no aphrodite.

She doesn't see what I see. The crooked smile, the eyes too big for the face, the horrible Ottawa Valley accent that comes out after two point five drinks.

Which is why I didn't understand Leonard.

Leonard was thin, almost unbearably so. His New Yorker accent grated on my nerves, but his smile was big and grinning. He bought me a vodka and tonic and we discussed the meaning of life.

Side note to say: I have only discussed the meaning of life with Him, and we will get into That Guy, at a later date.

He hands me two crisp one hundred dollar bills.

Catherine, I want to know you. Let's go somewhere more private.

Okay. Come with me, take my hand. The rooms are open, we will have some fun.

Beautiful liar.

The rooms are smoky, loud, crowded with women. I can smell the perfume of the woman in the next "room" over, and her giggle seems like it's in stereo. Yet Leonard pays this no mind. He gently puts his arm around my waist, giving me doe eyes I thought only women could give. My subconscious warns me.

You know what they say about the easy sell. This is going to be a nightmare.

Yeah, shut up. IknowIknowIknow.

We sit in the room and I begin to dance. Leonard doesn't touch me, but sits with a dreamy expression on his face. He looks at me, but it feels.. comfortable.

Maybe there is such a thing as an easy sell.

Suddenly, his phone begins to ring, and I hear the one sided conversation.

My friend is at the front door, by the cigar humidifier. Please don't go. I'll be right back.

Ok, dear. I promise, I will sit right here. I have a friend for your friend you know. Let's have a party.

He leaves and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Leonard doesn't return.

The bouncer tells me my time is up. I sit there, like a bride left at the altar, and shake my head in agreeance.

I know. He was drunk. Maybe I will catch him on the floor.

I float the bouncer a twenty for his help and for not kicking me out of the room.

I walk out in the chaos, and suddenly it strikes me. I look into my clutch purse and there they are like a dream: The two crisp one hundred dollar bills that I made for ten minute's work. They feel and smell new but I can't help but lament that Leonard ditched me; it would have been more work, but he was so sweet, it seemed like vacation.

I navigate the Las Vegas highways in blinding sunlight at 9:45am.

I can't believe I have become a night creature again.

It isn't personal, you know.

2009-04-18T19:27:00.000-07:00

I work in a very famous Las Vegas strip club. One could say it's the most popular, now that Crazy Horse Too is defunct. And I've got a lot to say.

But it isn't personal.

You may be wondering why I feel like sharing, if it isn't personal.

Partially because I need to get it off my chest. Partially for educational purposes. And maybe, just partially, a feeble attempt to humanise the dancer population, so it might be just a little bit easier on us.

I sometimes find myself stuck in the cracks between full flavoured dancer and civilian girl, even though I have been doing this for more years than I can count on one hand. Some days I am ON, drinking, dancing, laughing, batting my eyelashes and telling you what you want to hear. These are the days you'd love to meet me; the days I'll threaten to drink you under the table on your own dime, platinum blonde waves hanging in my big anime eyes, my lips polished an impossible red. I will swear that I love you, that you're special, that I have never allowed such conduct with anyone else. Even though its a lie, and you're in my office (which admittedly has a better view than yours, Mr. Executive). That world is mine.

I sometimes find myself cowering, in situations where I hopelessly look up into the cameras into the VIP room, hoping the man who is paid to monitor them will see my gazing into his eyes with exasperation and sadness. I found myself doing exactly that two weeks ago.

She is louder than I am, more outgoing than I am. I wouldn't say prettier, just cute in a different way. She doens't fix Her hair into elaborate hairstyles, or spring for exensive outfits. As a matter of fact, She wears the same outfit every day, in different colours. She likes me, and most days I like her. She makes more than any of us, maybe twice as much as I do. So I can't say as I protested when She invited me into the room with Her and two other girls I barely knew.

The curtains were drawn, the bottle was opened, I sat on his lap. She, genuinely infatuated with Her customer (She later confided in me), the other two girls were strangers to me. I was given a scotch and coke and drank deeply, closing my eyes, as if to get a moment of privacy before I had to deal with the situation at hand.

He wasnt wearing any underwear. I could tell this immediately through his thin pants, and I could feel him nudging me, perhaps involuntarily. He told me I was beautiful, and I feigned flattery; these tpes of comments are common in these places, and I have only believed it once. I sat and talked, stroking his face, looking into his eyes, hoping to melt him to molasses and make the time speed away from him. I wasn't so lucky.

I stood up the folowing song and began to dance. Swiveling my hips, smiling, rubbing my cheek against his. I thought I was in the clear, this would be easy. Then I turned around.

All of the sudden his arms were around me, yanking me into his lap with such a shock I nearly fell off my shoes. He gripped his arms around my waist, fervently trying to kiss my neck and shoulders in such an urgent way I felt like a lion's dinner. I looked up into the camera's globe on the ceiling and begged with my eyes. I begged for salvation, someone get the bouncer, my coworkers aren't helping me, letgoletgoletgopleaseletgo.

I squirmed and tried to play it off by squealing in mock glee, but it seems to itensify his need to put his mouth on my body. All of the sudden I found my nerve, and pulled away, citing a trip to the bathroom.

Too much scotch. It goes right through me. I'll be back in a minute darling.

In the bathroom I washed myself with baby wipes. I looked into my own eyes in the mirror for a few moments, collecting myself. In the stall, I closed my eyes, rested my cheek against the cold granite of the stall wall. It will be ok. Everyone has a bad day. At least you're getting paid.

Upon my return, he was drunker, less coherent. I lit up a cigarette, bummed from a coworker, and we all made group conversation. In seemingly a moment, this whole hour was gone and I was free.

Recounting my uncomfortable experience to Her, She seemed unconcerned.

Don't worry Catherine. I'm not a dirty dancer. I will let them have a touch here, or a lick there. Maybe these VIPs are just too rich for your blood.

I doubt that's the case. Maybe my tolerance is lower, from being at my home club, being plucked off a side stage into a warm bouncer's arms when I was being harassed, when they tried to yank off my panties.

But I must admit, sometimes, I wonder if She is right.