I am slightly irritated with myself when I think back to my reasoning for auditioning at the Lusty Lady. I was trying out my "transient writer" phase in which I imagined I would simply rack up as many interesting experiences as possible and this would make me a better/more controversial/more interesting writer. But the truth is Hunter S. Thompson did that a long time before I thought about doing it and probably a lot better than I ever could. Besides, he's dead and kind of an asshole. It turns out "having an interesting/controversial experience" isn't really what I get out of dancing. And instead of it making me feel more subversive and daring, it actually makes me feel too normal and prudish.
As I've mentioned before, I work at Hot Chick Mecca. I'm surrounded by the naked bodies and quick-witted minds of dozens of beautiful women. (Yeah, I crush hard sometimes.) While I can't say exactly how many of these women work in the sex industry beyond dancing at the Lusty, many of those that I've really befriended have or currently do work as dominatrixes, escorts and porn stars. In their personal lives most of them are in polyamorous/open relationships and those relationships lie somewhere on the LGBTQ spectrum.
I look like fucking Holly Hobby in comparison.
My relationship is generally heterosexual, decidedly monogamous (that whole me with girls thing is still being worked out) and I have not participated in any sex work outside the Lusty. Despite my doubts when I first entered the world of sex work that such a mainstream lifestyle wasn't right for me, I now stand firm in my choices. What bothers me about this is not that I stand out in this group or that I might come across as too "normal", but that people who are judged for their "abnormal" choices are so quick to pass judgement on mine. More than one person has suggested that by choosing to have only partner I must be settling or conforming. Still more have commented on its pace, questioning why I would live with someone I have only been dating for 9 months. I don't feel as if I should have to justify my decisions simply because they don't match up to someone else's expectations.
Now this is starting to turn into a bit of a rant but I do think I have a solid point. There is no such a thing as "should be". Nothing should be anyway. And furthermore, I don't believe that there is a universal prescription for happiness. I would not feel fulfilled in a polyamorous relationship, just as many others would not feel fulfilled in a monogamous one. Here's my point: it's ok to be a stripper. Or a porn star. It's ok to be poly. It's also ok to work a day job. Get married. Have children. Shit, it's ok to do/be all those things at once. But I don't think it's ok to dog any of those decisions because they don't happen to look like our own. We're all intelligent human beings (ok there are some exceptions. many exceptions) and make conscious decisions about our lives, our bodies and our relationships. Let's respect that.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The L Word
When I was a little girl my father built a playhouse for me in our backyard. But it was no ordinary playhouse with four walls and a door. A carpenter by profession, my father built his daughter the Taj Mahal of playhouses, complete with balcony, tire swing, mega slide and my very own yellow brick road leading to its entrance, inspired of course by my favorite movie. ( I insisted on being called Dorothy until the age of six. My interest in The Wizard of Oz bordered on an unhealthy obsession) I loved my fortress, obscured the neighboring cherry and apricot trees. Tucked in the far corner of our mammoth backyard, what I cherished most about my hideout was its complete privacy. For hours my friend Hannah and I would play, blithe to the thought of adult invasion. For a while our play was limited to the customary games of a child's imagination but with time we evolved and so did those games. Soon our favorite game was sex. Now when I use the word sex I don't mean to suggest that we yet had a name for our curious explorations or that it resembled what comes to mind when I now think of sex. But Hannah and I spent many afternoons testing the novel though slightly bewildering reactions we could elicit from each other's bodies.
One afternoon I managed to finally ask the question that had hung heavy inside me for months.
"Hannah, do you think this means we're gay?" I asked.
She considered.
"Yes", she said, without passion
Gay. A word meant for a small metal box. A word like cancer. Or dead. I felt it stitch itself to me like my own Scarlet Letter, shameful and consuming.
Through high school and into college I fell in love with my fair share of both girls and boys. I remember my first visit to a strip club with a college boyfriend eager to see my lesbian tendencies in action. I fell hard for a dancer named Lucy, a heavily tattooed, platinum blonde Suicide Girl with red lips and milk skin. I even remember how she smelled, sweet and unearthly. Later that night while that boyfriend and I lay sweaty beside each other after sex, he told me he loved me for the first time. But all I could think of was Lucy, how her skin felt just barely brushing mine, soft as breath.
And now I work at San Francisco's Holy Grail of beautiful women, beautiful women who are either solely or mostly interested in other women. No seriously, if you're familiar with Adrienne Rich's idea of the Lesbian Continuum, I'm pretty The Lusty Lady occupies its very own spot on it. When I first started out at Lusty I was overwhelmed (understatement) by the sheer magnetism of my fellow co-workers. They're gorgeous, talented, driven and sometimes a little bit crazy (in the best of ways). And while I remain committed to my monogamous heterosexual relationship I can't help but fantasize about the women I just happen to dance naked with. Lately my subconscious has been bombarding my dreams with all of these highly erotic fantasies, featuring more than one of my co-workers. Honestly, I have no idea where to go with this. The seduction of women eludes me far more than the seduction of men and sometimes I just don't feel up to the challenge convincing someone that they want to get it on with me. Not to mention the fact that my boyfriend is more than a little hesitant to give me the green light to frolic in Luscious Lady Land.
But I can't turn this off. And more so, I don't want to. This part of my sexuality has been active since the very inception of my sexuality itself. I wouldn't know how to turn it off or suppress it if I tried. And so the internal struggle ensues...
One afternoon I managed to finally ask the question that had hung heavy inside me for months.
"Hannah, do you think this means we're gay?" I asked.
She considered.
"Yes", she said, without passion
Gay. A word meant for a small metal box. A word like cancer. Or dead. I felt it stitch itself to me like my own Scarlet Letter, shameful and consuming.
Through high school and into college I fell in love with my fair share of both girls and boys. I remember my first visit to a strip club with a college boyfriend eager to see my lesbian tendencies in action. I fell hard for a dancer named Lucy, a heavily tattooed, platinum blonde Suicide Girl with red lips and milk skin. I even remember how she smelled, sweet and unearthly. Later that night while that boyfriend and I lay sweaty beside each other after sex, he told me he loved me for the first time. But all I could think of was Lucy, how her skin felt just barely brushing mine, soft as breath.
And now I work at San Francisco's Holy Grail of beautiful women, beautiful women who are either solely or mostly interested in other women. No seriously, if you're familiar with Adrienne Rich's idea of the Lesbian Continuum, I'm pretty The Lusty Lady occupies its very own spot on it. When I first started out at Lusty I was overwhelmed (understatement) by the sheer magnetism of my fellow co-workers. They're gorgeous, talented, driven and sometimes a little bit crazy (in the best of ways). And while I remain committed to my monogamous heterosexual relationship I can't help but fantasize about the women I just happen to dance naked with. Lately my subconscious has been bombarding my dreams with all of these highly erotic fantasies, featuring more than one of my co-workers. Honestly, I have no idea where to go with this. The seduction of women eludes me far more than the seduction of men and sometimes I just don't feel up to the challenge convincing someone that they want to get it on with me. Not to mention the fact that my boyfriend is more than a little hesitant to give me the green light to frolic in Luscious Lady Land.
But I can't turn this off. And more so, I don't want to. This part of my sexuality has been active since the very inception of my sexuality itself. I wouldn't know how to turn it off or suppress it if I tried. And so the internal struggle ensues...
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Girl in the Mirror
Patient blog followers, I humbly ask your forgiveness for my extended absence. I promise to be more diligent with my updates and insights from now on.
I am wistful when I think back to when I started this blog. It was the summer after I graduated college. I felt something like a female Kerouac; clever, cocky and ready to break some hearts. But I'm not that woman anymore. She was so confident, so sure that her education, youth and verve would be enough to get here there, wherever she decided there might be. She was hungry to write and fuck and see the world and she never thought for a second that she would lose her grip on that feeling. She imagined herself spending every spare hour in cafes, feverishly pecking at the keys of her laptop, trying to spit out the words as quickly as they came. She imagined some tedious day job working as a nanny for the children of East Bay yuppies would be worth it as long as she was able to clock out at 5, come home and bleed red all over some paper. That girl is gone. And god damnit, I miss her.
But Eve never left. Eve is still here. When I walk on stage, I can feel their eyes roaming my thighs, the sweep of my breasts. The adrenaline floods my veins, metallic and quick. I'm back, I think. I watch myself in the mirror, a reflection of a reflection. My body moves without permission from my brain and I become my own voyeur; I fall in love with the girl in the mirror.
But when I put my clothes back on, I take off the cloak of certainty and control. I can't find her outside the doors of the peepshow. But I know she can't have gone far. I know she's waiting for me somewhere, pen in hand, feet on the ground.
I am wistful when I think back to when I started this blog. It was the summer after I graduated college. I felt something like a female Kerouac; clever, cocky and ready to break some hearts. But I'm not that woman anymore. She was so confident, so sure that her education, youth and verve would be enough to get here there, wherever she decided there might be. She was hungry to write and fuck and see the world and she never thought for a second that she would lose her grip on that feeling. She imagined herself spending every spare hour in cafes, feverishly pecking at the keys of her laptop, trying to spit out the words as quickly as they came. She imagined some tedious day job working as a nanny for the children of East Bay yuppies would be worth it as long as she was able to clock out at 5, come home and bleed red all over some paper. That girl is gone. And god damnit, I miss her.
But Eve never left. Eve is still here. When I walk on stage, I can feel their eyes roaming my thighs, the sweep of my breasts. The adrenaline floods my veins, metallic and quick. I'm back, I think. I watch myself in the mirror, a reflection of a reflection. My body moves without permission from my brain and I become my own voyeur; I fall in love with the girl in the mirror.
But when I put my clothes back on, I take off the cloak of certainty and control. I can't find her outside the doors of the peepshow. But I know she can't have gone far. I know she's waiting for me somewhere, pen in hand, feet on the ground.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Burnout!
In the land of Lusty, we must be wary of many things. Beware of cheapskate custies that want to cram 3 or 4 guys into a booth only to save themselves from having to spent an extra dollar. Beware of custies with cameras (which, by the way, are strictly forbidden in the theatre) who will try to run off with a naked picture of you. Beware of walking to your car alone at night. If it's an issue, be sure that every Lusty, new and seasoned, has had the point beaten into her head. But the cardinale warning, the one thing which is practically guaranteed to effect every Lusty at some point: Beware of burnout!
While most of us love our jobs, our co-workers and our customers, it's not enough to save us from occasionally feeling consumed by the sex industry. There are signs posted in the dressing room warning us to watch out for it, even a poster with specific examples for how to combat the evil monster. I don't know when exactly it happened, how it crept up on me with such stealth but here I am, fed up, exhausted and completely burned out.
It kind of started occuring to me last week when late nights at the Lusty coupled with the 9-5 job I have 3 days a week caused me to be away from home for two days straight. Thursday I worked from 9-5, took a mandatory class from 6-8 and then started work at the Lusty at 11, closing at 3 am. The next morning I went to my day job again from 9-5 and then started my shift at Lusty at 8:30, closing again. On Saturday, when I was finally back to my own bed, I slept into the late afternoon before I worked again at 6:30. Rhys picked me up at 11 and we went out for drinks with a friend. I felt fine drinking beer and hanging out. I was going strong and enjoying my company when last call came and they turned the lights on. We walked hand in hand to the car, me drunk as a skunk. At some point, Rhys says something in passing about stripping, something innocuous, something I have no memory of, something that really shouldn't spark a nervous breakdown. But within minutes I am sobbing, wondering why I bothered with college at all, why I thought working a job that keeps me away from home for days at a time was a good idea, wondering when I will ever feel like an adult. After my hysterics in the car have ended, we are finally home. I am ready to crawl into bed and let sleep do the job that the alcohol was supposed to do and make me forget about all of this. But Rhys insists I take off my makeup. This seems odd to me but when I concede and get a look at myself in the bathroom mirror I understand his insistence. Running from my right eye, down my cheek and spreading across my throat is a very unattractive black tear stain. I have to laugh; goth teenagers would kill for this kind of realism. I wash my face and finally climb in bed.
Since that night I have quietly endured my burnout, always quite aware of its presence but unsure what can be done about it. While the bulk of my income does not come from stripping, its addition to it is completely necessary right now. I would love to take some time off to regroup and remind myself why I love working as a Lusty. A year ago I would have told my mother about this and she would have insisted that I take a break while she supplemented my income. As guilty as I might have felt, I would have accepted. But what excuse do I have any more? This chaotic schedule is the bed I've made and now I must lie in it. This is real life and in real life the rent is due on the first of the month.
While most of us love our jobs, our co-workers and our customers, it's not enough to save us from occasionally feeling consumed by the sex industry. There are signs posted in the dressing room warning us to watch out for it, even a poster with specific examples for how to combat the evil monster. I don't know when exactly it happened, how it crept up on me with such stealth but here I am, fed up, exhausted and completely burned out.
It kind of started occuring to me last week when late nights at the Lusty coupled with the 9-5 job I have 3 days a week caused me to be away from home for two days straight. Thursday I worked from 9-5, took a mandatory class from 6-8 and then started work at the Lusty at 11, closing at 3 am. The next morning I went to my day job again from 9-5 and then started my shift at Lusty at 8:30, closing again. On Saturday, when I was finally back to my own bed, I slept into the late afternoon before I worked again at 6:30. Rhys picked me up at 11 and we went out for drinks with a friend. I felt fine drinking beer and hanging out. I was going strong and enjoying my company when last call came and they turned the lights on. We walked hand in hand to the car, me drunk as a skunk. At some point, Rhys says something in passing about stripping, something innocuous, something I have no memory of, something that really shouldn't spark a nervous breakdown. But within minutes I am sobbing, wondering why I bothered with college at all, why I thought working a job that keeps me away from home for days at a time was a good idea, wondering when I will ever feel like an adult. After my hysterics in the car have ended, we are finally home. I am ready to crawl into bed and let sleep do the job that the alcohol was supposed to do and make me forget about all of this. But Rhys insists I take off my makeup. This seems odd to me but when I concede and get a look at myself in the bathroom mirror I understand his insistence. Running from my right eye, down my cheek and spreading across my throat is a very unattractive black tear stain. I have to laugh; goth teenagers would kill for this kind of realism. I wash my face and finally climb in bed.
Since that night I have quietly endured my burnout, always quite aware of its presence but unsure what can be done about it. While the bulk of my income does not come from stripping, its addition to it is completely necessary right now. I would love to take some time off to regroup and remind myself why I love working as a Lusty. A year ago I would have told my mother about this and she would have insisted that I take a break while she supplemented my income. As guilty as I might have felt, I would have accepted. But what excuse do I have any more? This chaotic schedule is the bed I've made and now I must lie in it. This is real life and in real life the rent is due on the first of the month.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
What's the color of laughter?
I'm sitting in a cafe, trying for the life of me to concentrate while an overall-clad mother and her litter of screaming children order caffeinated beverages, quite unnecessarily. A farmer's market is taking place across the street. I desperately want to partake in this gathering but I have promised myself that today I will write. For days now, writing has come second, along with just about everything else (more often than not this includes sleep) to day trips up the coast, movies at the drive-in and too many glasses of red wine. These weeks race past me in an intangible hurry. I feed off of single moments, clutching the last until I can get my hands on the next. In many ways, everything is simplified. There's no room to dissect or question and no need to either. But every so often my inner LabelMaker rears its troublesome head. I manage to push it back before the weight of its questions can descend on me but those questions always resurface. What is this? What could cause my finely-tuned focus and drive, not to mention my guarded walls, to fall to pieces?
Maybe the increased blood flow to other body parts (I'm talking about my heart, in case some of you have dirty minds) is impeding the blood flow to my brain. I can't recall crucial vocabulary, remember to bring my cell phone and oh yeah, GET TO WORK ON TIME. Last night I did, what is at least to me, the unforgivable: I showed up an hour and a half late to work. In my defense I wasn't aware that I was missing work until 15 minutes into my shift and the drive from my house to the Lusty is quite sizable. But really, there is no excuse. My head has been in the clouds for days. Certainly the fact that I keep choosing sex over sleep isn't helping the matter. But more than that, this man has done my brain in.
We went out for Mexican yesterday on his lunch hour. We sat across from each other in monumental wooden chairs in front of an equally monumental wooden table, making physical contact nearly impossible. Sitting across from him like that, feeling confined like a toddler in a high-chair, I came upon a new understanding of the word attraction. In general, I use the word to describe someone good-looking, as in "I'm attracted to that hot guy in my fiction class and I want to bone him". But I've never thought about the word in its most literal context. Being drawn to something or in my case, someone. I am attracted to Rhys, drawn to him. On only our second meeting I remember feeling this strange new sensation for the first time. We sat on opposite ends of my living room, smoking a bowl and listening to only fragments of good songs. It was all I could do to stop myself from walking across the room, sitting on his lap and pressing myself to him. I wrote it off, attributing it to the pot. But everytime I am face to face with him, that same magnetic tug grips me and reels me to him. This happened again at lunch yesterday, but this time it hurt. I didn't want to be sitting 3 feet from him. Even straddling him in front of other diners and shoving my tongue down his throat wouldn't have sufficed. What does it mean when touching someone, kissing them, even fucking them doesn't bring you close enough?
Writing this, I think of Rhys' reaction. He will laugh, I am sure. Like when I told him the tarot card reader I saw last year predicted that I would meet him. Magnetic soul connection? Please. I'm pretty positive this will not jive with his rational existential ideology. But I will sit back, resist the urge to defend my hippy tendencies and keep mum. It is what it is. I can certainly agree with the existentialists on that one. Whatever this phenomenon is, it reminds me that of all the beautiful things to be witnessed in this life, the best of those will defy all logic.
Maybe the increased blood flow to other body parts (I'm talking about my heart, in case some of you have dirty minds) is impeding the blood flow to my brain. I can't recall crucial vocabulary, remember to bring my cell phone and oh yeah, GET TO WORK ON TIME. Last night I did, what is at least to me, the unforgivable: I showed up an hour and a half late to work. In my defense I wasn't aware that I was missing work until 15 minutes into my shift and the drive from my house to the Lusty is quite sizable. But really, there is no excuse. My head has been in the clouds for days. Certainly the fact that I keep choosing sex over sleep isn't helping the matter. But more than that, this man has done my brain in.
We went out for Mexican yesterday on his lunch hour. We sat across from each other in monumental wooden chairs in front of an equally monumental wooden table, making physical contact nearly impossible. Sitting across from him like that, feeling confined like a toddler in a high-chair, I came upon a new understanding of the word attraction. In general, I use the word to describe someone good-looking, as in "I'm attracted to that hot guy in my fiction class and I want to bone him". But I've never thought about the word in its most literal context. Being drawn to something or in my case, someone. I am attracted to Rhys, drawn to him. On only our second meeting I remember feeling this strange new sensation for the first time. We sat on opposite ends of my living room, smoking a bowl and listening to only fragments of good songs. It was all I could do to stop myself from walking across the room, sitting on his lap and pressing myself to him. I wrote it off, attributing it to the pot. But everytime I am face to face with him, that same magnetic tug grips me and reels me to him. This happened again at lunch yesterday, but this time it hurt. I didn't want to be sitting 3 feet from him. Even straddling him in front of other diners and shoving my tongue down his throat wouldn't have sufficed. What does it mean when touching someone, kissing them, even fucking them doesn't bring you close enough?
Writing this, I think of Rhys' reaction. He will laugh, I am sure. Like when I told him the tarot card reader I saw last year predicted that I would meet him. Magnetic soul connection? Please. I'm pretty positive this will not jive with his rational existential ideology. But I will sit back, resist the urge to defend my hippy tendencies and keep mum. It is what it is. I can certainly agree with the existentialists on that one. Whatever this phenomenon is, it reminds me that of all the beautiful things to be witnessed in this life, the best of those will defy all logic.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Ladybugs
I have been trying for days to formulate a blog entry on the topic everyone loves to talk about: sex. But every angle I tried to come in from came out wrong. Chalk it up to my considerable dry spell (who would have guessed a Lusty would subject herself to such undue torment) or the fact that I am bombarded with the sexual proclivities of others at work. Either way, despite being in such a hyper-sexual environment all the time, I can't seem to formulate a worthwhile discussion about sex in the sex industry. In the mean time I write about the things I can't seem to stop talking about.
Lately the dressing room of the Lusty Lady is abuzz with summer romance. If it's not a booth book entry (our collective journal, kept in Private Pleasures) about some Lusty-on-Lusty romance it's one of the ladies in the dressing room, nervously preparing for a date with her newest love interest. This comes as no surprise to me now. How could these beautiful, intelligent, fierce and sexy women not have a million people knocking down their doors for dates? But I didn't always imagine the love life of a stripper to be quite so active. When I started working at the Lusty Lady two months ago I couldn't help but question how my new line of work would affect my love life. At this point I had adopted what I saw as a necessarily apathetic view on relationships. It seemed to me that the more I thought about or wanted someone special in my life, the further my path would stray from it. So I stopped giving a shit about meeting someone. Furthermore, it seemed silly to make an important decision based on the opinion of someone I hadn't even met yet. I decided that my life could not be lived in fear of what someone, someday might think of my decisions. When any one of my friends asked about the impact the choice might have on potential dating partners, as many have, I would tell them that it was a choice made for me and anyone who couldn't accept it ultimately wouldn't be able to accept all of me. Maybe this sounds selfish but I stand by this logic. I have seen the consequences of living one's life for someone else. I've seen more than one girl from my high school graduating class flee her out-of-state college to be with her boyfriend back home or alienate her friends to devote herself to him. Maybe I am wrong, but I think the stakes are higher for women. We live in a world that encourages us to be good wives, girlfriends, caretakers. Not that these roles are bad ones but they threaten to be when they become our only roles. My stance may seem stubborn but I think a less stubborn outlook would have much larger implications for my life than are apparent at the moment.
There's this part in the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun" when the eccentric blonde woman tells Diane Lane's character how she used to hunt for ladybugs as a girl. She would search and search in the grass and find none, eventually get tired and fall asleep. But when she woke up the ladybugs were crawling all over her. That story popped into my head today as I was trying to focus on writing this blog. But I can't seem to focus on much of anything today. Well, that is other than when I'll get to see him next, how his hair smells when it's still damp from the shower or how my scalp starts to tingle when he kisses me very very slowly. Yes, I met someone. Someone whom though I've only just met him seems worthy of more than just a mention in my blog. Someone who makes me laugh when we're together and smile stupidly when we're apart. Someone who surprises me, who intrigues me more and more every time I talk to him. Someone who didn't run for the hills when I told him that I work at a peepshow. That will have to be all for now as I'm sure I could easily get ahead of myself. But I feel as if I have just woken up from a very restful sleep and now there are ladybugs, lots and lots of ladybugs
Lately the dressing room of the Lusty Lady is abuzz with summer romance. If it's not a booth book entry (our collective journal, kept in Private Pleasures) about some Lusty-on-Lusty romance it's one of the ladies in the dressing room, nervously preparing for a date with her newest love interest. This comes as no surprise to me now. How could these beautiful, intelligent, fierce and sexy women not have a million people knocking down their doors for dates? But I didn't always imagine the love life of a stripper to be quite so active. When I started working at the Lusty Lady two months ago I couldn't help but question how my new line of work would affect my love life. At this point I had adopted what I saw as a necessarily apathetic view on relationships. It seemed to me that the more I thought about or wanted someone special in my life, the further my path would stray from it. So I stopped giving a shit about meeting someone. Furthermore, it seemed silly to make an important decision based on the opinion of someone I hadn't even met yet. I decided that my life could not be lived in fear of what someone, someday might think of my decisions. When any one of my friends asked about the impact the choice might have on potential dating partners, as many have, I would tell them that it was a choice made for me and anyone who couldn't accept it ultimately wouldn't be able to accept all of me. Maybe this sounds selfish but I stand by this logic. I have seen the consequences of living one's life for someone else. I've seen more than one girl from my high school graduating class flee her out-of-state college to be with her boyfriend back home or alienate her friends to devote herself to him. Maybe I am wrong, but I think the stakes are higher for women. We live in a world that encourages us to be good wives, girlfriends, caretakers. Not that these roles are bad ones but they threaten to be when they become our only roles. My stance may seem stubborn but I think a less stubborn outlook would have much larger implications for my life than are apparent at the moment.
There's this part in the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun" when the eccentric blonde woman tells Diane Lane's character how she used to hunt for ladybugs as a girl. She would search and search in the grass and find none, eventually get tired and fall asleep. But when she woke up the ladybugs were crawling all over her. That story popped into my head today as I was trying to focus on writing this blog. But I can't seem to focus on much of anything today. Well, that is other than when I'll get to see him next, how his hair smells when it's still damp from the shower or how my scalp starts to tingle when he kisses me very very slowly. Yes, I met someone. Someone whom though I've only just met him seems worthy of more than just a mention in my blog. Someone who makes me laugh when we're together and smile stupidly when we're apart. Someone who surprises me, who intrigues me more and more every time I talk to him. Someone who didn't run for the hills when I told him that I work at a peepshow. That will have to be all for now as I'm sure I could easily get ahead of myself. But I feel as if I have just woken up from a very restful sleep and now there are ladybugs, lots and lots of ladybugs
Saturday, July 24, 2010
I Guess This is Growing Up
I will start this posting with a disclaimer: this particular entry has very little to do with stripping. Yes, the blog is named "The Introspective Stripper" and yes, I intend to explore my own experience of the sex industry in writing it but that's was never the only thing this blog was meant to be. It is not just the experience of stripping that I find worthy of documenting, it's everything about this moment in time and my place in it. I hope for my job at the Lusty to be a feature of my post-collegiate story but not its raison d'etre. I also hope that this will not deter you from reading further.
My parents, being the hippy recluses that they are, decided to move from the bay area, to a small community much east of here, when I went away to college. I took this in stride considering I have always harbored a dispassion for my hometown anyways. Who wouldn't rather visit a majestic lake house than a house in Redneck, USA? That being said, I see them on a regular though not constant basis. Yesterday, this time being the middle-aged rockers that they also are, the two of them took the day off of work and drove to Oakland to see Aerosmith and Sammy Hagar at the Oracle Arena. Unfortunately I had to work ( last night being another blog entry entirely) so I could not partake. My mother left me a voice message during Aerosmith's performance of "Dream On", which was a nice consolation. I left the key under the mat for them and they crashed at my place.
In the morning we enjoyed a leisurely coffee on the back patio. My mother and I invented a story about some fundraiser event that I promised Kira I would go to, which prevented me from going to the concert with them; the cover story I told my still-out-of-the-loop father. I expected that we would spend the day together, go out for lunch, maybe spent some time just exploring record stores and head shops in Berkeley, things we used to do when I lived at home.
For lunch we went to an old standby, a Chinese restaurant in Orinda that we've been frequenting since I was in diapers. We sit in a booth in the back of the restaurant, ordering hot tea and three different prawn dishes. The huge French windows overlook the golf course across the street where the old money of Orinda spends its weekends. We talk about things trivial and profound, the stage antics of Steven Tyler and my aunt's progressive cancer. I feel wrapped in the security of our trio. As an only child, I've become accustomed to my parents' peer-like company but, contrary to popular opinion about only children, never their undivided attention. My parents are the sort of fifty-somethings that you might be surprised to hear are actually parents. Their physically demanding and time-consuming professions coupled with their propensity for things like classic rock concerts, waterskiing and cave spelunking tend to make them appear ageless, which I'm sure to some must also equate to childless. The truth is, their lives have never been defined by parenthood. As much as both of them will tell me the opposite, that having me gave their life profound direction, I still don't believe it. I am reminded of this when my father says they will be heading back home after lunch. I try to convince them to stay but the more I negotiate with him the more I feel like a child asking for a later bedtime. This is fucking ridiculous, I say. Shouldn't it be them wanting more of my time and not the other way around? Though I try not to show it, I am indignant as my father explains how exhausted they are and how much they need proper restful weekends at their age. I think of them rocking out at the Oracle the night before and the regular grueling Sunday hike that they will take the next morning and I grow even angrier. Since moving back to the bay this is the first time my father has come to visit me and it took his favorite band being within a 30 mile radius for that to happen.
My mother returns from the bathroom and I guess some strange maternal spidey-sense kicks on because she can tell I am pissed off. "What's wrong, what's the matter?" she keeps saying while pinching my side, trying to make me laugh. I excuse myself to the bathroom and can't even hold back the tears until I reach the door. I'm crying and feeling sorry for myself when I realize the irony of where we are. When I was a kid my father and I went on semi-regular outing, presumably to give my mother a reprieve from both of us. One night we were at this very same restaurant seated next to those giant windows, when I told my father nonchalantly, in the way only a 5-year-old can, that I thought he hated me. My father, ever the wordsmith, sat speechless. I don't remember what happened afterwards or even why I thought such a thing but the crystal clear memory clings on tightly. Looking at my tear-stained reflection, I feel like that 5-year-old again.
I return to the table and make some lame excuse for why it took me so long. They drop me off back home and I thank them for lunch and for taking the time to see me. When they drive off I make a childish vow not to answer their phonecalls. It's both funny and sad to me that even after graduating college and becoming financially independent, some of my childhood demons refuse to leave and all I can think to do at the moment is put them in writing.
My parents, being the hippy recluses that they are, decided to move from the bay area, to a small community much east of here, when I went away to college. I took this in stride considering I have always harbored a dispassion for my hometown anyways. Who wouldn't rather visit a majestic lake house than a house in Redneck, USA? That being said, I see them on a regular though not constant basis. Yesterday, this time being the middle-aged rockers that they also are, the two of them took the day off of work and drove to Oakland to see Aerosmith and Sammy Hagar at the Oracle Arena. Unfortunately I had to work ( last night being another blog entry entirely) so I could not partake. My mother left me a voice message during Aerosmith's performance of "Dream On", which was a nice consolation. I left the key under the mat for them and they crashed at my place.
In the morning we enjoyed a leisurely coffee on the back patio. My mother and I invented a story about some fundraiser event that I promised Kira I would go to, which prevented me from going to the concert with them; the cover story I told my still-out-of-the-loop father. I expected that we would spend the day together, go out for lunch, maybe spent some time just exploring record stores and head shops in Berkeley, things we used to do when I lived at home.
For lunch we went to an old standby, a Chinese restaurant in Orinda that we've been frequenting since I was in diapers. We sit in a booth in the back of the restaurant, ordering hot tea and three different prawn dishes. The huge French windows overlook the golf course across the street where the old money of Orinda spends its weekends. We talk about things trivial and profound, the stage antics of Steven Tyler and my aunt's progressive cancer. I feel wrapped in the security of our trio. As an only child, I've become accustomed to my parents' peer-like company but, contrary to popular opinion about only children, never their undivided attention. My parents are the sort of fifty-somethings that you might be surprised to hear are actually parents. Their physically demanding and time-consuming professions coupled with their propensity for things like classic rock concerts, waterskiing and cave spelunking tend to make them appear ageless, which I'm sure to some must also equate to childless. The truth is, their lives have never been defined by parenthood. As much as both of them will tell me the opposite, that having me gave their life profound direction, I still don't believe it. I am reminded of this when my father says they will be heading back home after lunch. I try to convince them to stay but the more I negotiate with him the more I feel like a child asking for a later bedtime. This is fucking ridiculous, I say. Shouldn't it be them wanting more of my time and not the other way around? Though I try not to show it, I am indignant as my father explains how exhausted they are and how much they need proper restful weekends at their age. I think of them rocking out at the Oracle the night before and the regular grueling Sunday hike that they will take the next morning and I grow even angrier. Since moving back to the bay this is the first time my father has come to visit me and it took his favorite band being within a 30 mile radius for that to happen.
My mother returns from the bathroom and I guess some strange maternal spidey-sense kicks on because she can tell I am pissed off. "What's wrong, what's the matter?" she keeps saying while pinching my side, trying to make me laugh. I excuse myself to the bathroom and can't even hold back the tears until I reach the door. I'm crying and feeling sorry for myself when I realize the irony of where we are. When I was a kid my father and I went on semi-regular outing, presumably to give my mother a reprieve from both of us. One night we were at this very same restaurant seated next to those giant windows, when I told my father nonchalantly, in the way only a 5-year-old can, that I thought he hated me. My father, ever the wordsmith, sat speechless. I don't remember what happened afterwards or even why I thought such a thing but the crystal clear memory clings on tightly. Looking at my tear-stained reflection, I feel like that 5-year-old again.
I return to the table and make some lame excuse for why it took me so long. They drop me off back home and I thank them for lunch and for taking the time to see me. When they drive off I make a childish vow not to answer their phonecalls. It's both funny and sad to me that even after graduating college and becoming financially independent, some of my childhood demons refuse to leave and all I can think to do at the moment is put them in writing.
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