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.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Good Company
**Unless otherwise noted, all names have been changed to protect the identities of my nearest and dearest.
On Tuesday evening I shuttled myself and an enormous bag of groceries, including a zucchini the size of a newborn child, to Kira and Michael's apartment. I'd been dying to try out this risotto recipe but hesitant for the reason I'm hesitant to try out any recipe that threatens to be incredibly delicious: I'll eat the whole damn thing by myself. So I managed to convince Kira (my co-worker at the Lusty Lady, the one responsible for my induction whom I've known since childhood) her live-in boyfriend Michael and our mutual friend from high school, Bree, to allow me to test my experiment on their taste buds. I start chopping things, trying to acquaint myself with the narrow kitchen without smashing too many elbows or glass cabinets. It's just me and Michael for a while, both of us working on our contribution to the meal (his being this boxed cookie/brownie thing that I would almost rather fast forward to and skip this risotto business).
In an hour everyone sits around the table nibbling french bread and drinking wine. That is, everyone but me. I have somehow underestimated just how long this dish will take so while the other four (Bree brought her new beau, Kip) wait patiently, I continue stirring the stubborn rice , getting drunk on an empty stomach and from barely two glasses on wine. I walk back into their dining room/living room and it occurs to me that I am the fifth wheel. Kira walks over to John, who is seated, puts her arms around his neck and he buries his face in her shirt. Bree is sitting on Kip's lap.
"So I hear you and Michael have been together for 3 or 4 months" Kip says to Kira. He is joking, of course. I'm sure most people have forgotten exactly how long the two of them have been together, though I know it's over 8 years; forever when you're only 22. We all laugh. It's then that my lack of partner becomes apparent to everyone else so Kira and Bree sandwich me in a double-hug. Despite the obvious imbalance, I feel very much unlike a third wheel.
"So I guess you and I have a history now," Kira says. At this point, not a week after the fact, I am still unsure how to feel about this. We exchange looks, both of us amused by the bizarre truth of her statement. Bree's ears perk
"Wait, what?" The three of them are now looking at me and Kira.
"Yeah, we told you. I trained Eve to work in Private Pleasures. We had a Double-Trouble last Wednesday." Bree has that look on her face, the one I've known since high school, the one that says she's intrigued but gearing up to be shocked. I can't disappoint her.
"Yup, Kira fucked me with a giant dildo," I say, and return to the risotto. I hear a screech back at the table and when I go back Bree is pacing the apartment in a very entertaining panic. Precisely the reaction I was hoping for.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says. "I just got this immediate visual and I needed to walk away from it." Normally I might feel bad for Kip, seeing as this is our first meeting and I'm already revealing the unusual nature of my profession but he seems unfazed, as if normal people have these sorts of conversations at dinner parties. But I have decided that I am indeed, not a normal person. I say this very thing to Kira a few days later and she doesn't disagree. But instead of unnerving me, the thought comforts me. I have made it this far in my life, living in a world that does not condone the abnormal, and have not caved in to doing that which is expected of me. I am happy to have friends who, despite brief yet high-pitched reactions to certain oddities of mine, can actually revel in those oddities with me.
On BART going home I get a text from Bree. I'm pretty sure you left your underwear in the backseat of the car. My friends definitely deserve some type of medal.
On Tuesday evening I shuttled myself and an enormous bag of groceries, including a zucchini the size of a newborn child, to Kira and Michael's apartment. I'd been dying to try out this risotto recipe but hesitant for the reason I'm hesitant to try out any recipe that threatens to be incredibly delicious: I'll eat the whole damn thing by myself. So I managed to convince Kira (my co-worker at the Lusty Lady, the one responsible for my induction whom I've known since childhood) her live-in boyfriend Michael and our mutual friend from high school, Bree, to allow me to test my experiment on their taste buds. I start chopping things, trying to acquaint myself with the narrow kitchen without smashing too many elbows or glass cabinets. It's just me and Michael for a while, both of us working on our contribution to the meal (his being this boxed cookie/brownie thing that I would almost rather fast forward to and skip this risotto business).
In an hour everyone sits around the table nibbling french bread and drinking wine. That is, everyone but me. I have somehow underestimated just how long this dish will take so while the other four (Bree brought her new beau, Kip) wait patiently, I continue stirring the stubborn rice , getting drunk on an empty stomach and from barely two glasses on wine. I walk back into their dining room/living room and it occurs to me that I am the fifth wheel. Kira walks over to John, who is seated, puts her arms around his neck and he buries his face in her shirt. Bree is sitting on Kip's lap.
"So I hear you and Michael have been together for 3 or 4 months" Kip says to Kira. He is joking, of course. I'm sure most people have forgotten exactly how long the two of them have been together, though I know it's over 8 years; forever when you're only 22. We all laugh. It's then that my lack of partner becomes apparent to everyone else so Kira and Bree sandwich me in a double-hug. Despite the obvious imbalance, I feel very much unlike a third wheel.
"So I guess you and I have a history now," Kira says. At this point, not a week after the fact, I am still unsure how to feel about this. We exchange looks, both of us amused by the bizarre truth of her statement. Bree's ears perk
"Wait, what?" The three of them are now looking at me and Kira.
"Yeah, we told you. I trained Eve to work in Private Pleasures. We had a Double-Trouble last Wednesday." Bree has that look on her face, the one I've known since high school, the one that says she's intrigued but gearing up to be shocked. I can't disappoint her.
"Yup, Kira fucked me with a giant dildo," I say, and return to the risotto. I hear a screech back at the table and when I go back Bree is pacing the apartment in a very entertaining panic. Precisely the reaction I was hoping for.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says. "I just got this immediate visual and I needed to walk away from it." Normally I might feel bad for Kip, seeing as this is our first meeting and I'm already revealing the unusual nature of my profession but he seems unfazed, as if normal people have these sorts of conversations at dinner parties. But I have decided that I am indeed, not a normal person. I say this very thing to Kira a few days later and she doesn't disagree. But instead of unnerving me, the thought comforts me. I have made it this far in my life, living in a world that does not condone the abnormal, and have not caved in to doing that which is expected of me. I am happy to have friends who, despite brief yet high-pitched reactions to certain oddities of mine, can actually revel in those oddities with me.
On BART going home I get a text from Bree. I'm pretty sure you left your underwear in the backseat of the car. My friends definitely deserve some type of medal.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Great Divide
I write this blog in the most decadent of summer hazes. On this day, birthday of our great nation, I am spending the day with my family on the lake. We move between the house and dock, eating watermelon and avocado by the handful and staying in the water until our fingertips prune and our skin burns. The adults sneak off to the guest house at night to smoke pot while the kids play boardgames and pretend not to notice. I am the only one without the designated role to play. I am daughter, niece, granddaughter, yes, but I am not child or parent. I can hole up in my mother's office, reading my book or napping and it will be hours before anyone notices I am gone. I mention this not with self-pity or sadness but with fascination. I am not responsible for anyone nor is anyone responsible for me. There is something incredibly liberating about that idea but also something slightly terrifying.
When I visited here two weeks ago I came with the mission of telling my mother that I've been working at the Lusty Lady. It took me nearly the whole trip to work up the courage to say it yet her reaction was exactly what I had expected. "It's your life" she said, "You need to do what you need to do." I hate this. My parents are notorious for their neutral reactions, their dispassionate approval of whatever I choose to do. Most children, I realize, would thank their lucky stars that their mother didn't write them out of the family will or question what she did wrong as a parent but not me. Even when I confess that with my college degree I have decided to work as a stripper, I still cannot illicit more than moderate approval from her. When I was younger I was convinced that these reactions were either some neo-hippy parenting technique or a genuine disinterest in me. Now I know neither of those is the case. I think more than a well-considered method of child-rearing or failing to give a shit, my parents have just surrendered to the fact that they will never quite understand me. Like my decision to live in the UK, like my compulsive wanderlust, like my preference for intellectual rather than physical labor, the two of them probably figured long ago that the differences between us are too much for them to pass judgement on or to try to change and they have merely decided that to do so would be pointless. Whether this is just another misreading of their actions or not, I don't know. But I am content with this for now.
Last night my mother and I brought our Scrabble game out on the porch to watch the sun set on the water. The pink sky silhouetted the pines and we could hear squeels of laughter from the neighbor's dock. "I'm training to be in Private Pleasures this week. You know, the one-on-one booth," I told her. She just looked at her tiles. "I'll make a lot more money," I said, hoping that this might make it sound better. "I don't want to think of men jerking off to you. How would you feel if it was your daughter?" She says this without scorn or even annoyance. "I don't know, I'm not a P-A-R-E-N-T," I say, and lay down the tiles. Double word score. 16 points. She laughs. "Besides, men are going to jerk off thinking about me anyway. At least this way, I'm getting paid for it, right?" I think in some odd way this is logical to her, maybe it even consoles her, because her face changes a little and she says," You're right." It may not be much but I'll take it.
When I visited here two weeks ago I came with the mission of telling my mother that I've been working at the Lusty Lady. It took me nearly the whole trip to work up the courage to say it yet her reaction was exactly what I had expected. "It's your life" she said, "You need to do what you need to do." I hate this. My parents are notorious for their neutral reactions, their dispassionate approval of whatever I choose to do. Most children, I realize, would thank their lucky stars that their mother didn't write them out of the family will or question what she did wrong as a parent but not me. Even when I confess that with my college degree I have decided to work as a stripper, I still cannot illicit more than moderate approval from her. When I was younger I was convinced that these reactions were either some neo-hippy parenting technique or a genuine disinterest in me. Now I know neither of those is the case. I think more than a well-considered method of child-rearing or failing to give a shit, my parents have just surrendered to the fact that they will never quite understand me. Like my decision to live in the UK, like my compulsive wanderlust, like my preference for intellectual rather than physical labor, the two of them probably figured long ago that the differences between us are too much for them to pass judgement on or to try to change and they have merely decided that to do so would be pointless. Whether this is just another misreading of their actions or not, I don't know. But I am content with this for now.
Last night my mother and I brought our Scrabble game out on the porch to watch the sun set on the water. The pink sky silhouetted the pines and we could hear squeels of laughter from the neighbor's dock. "I'm training to be in Private Pleasures this week. You know, the one-on-one booth," I told her. She just looked at her tiles. "I'll make a lot more money," I said, hoping that this might make it sound better. "I don't want to think of men jerking off to you. How would you feel if it was your daughter?" She says this without scorn or even annoyance. "I don't know, I'm not a P-A-R-E-N-T," I say, and lay down the tiles. Double word score. 16 points. She laughs. "Besides, men are going to jerk off thinking about me anyway. At least this way, I'm getting paid for it, right?" I think in some odd way this is logical to her, maybe it even consoles her, because her face changes a little and she says," You're right." It may not be much but I'll take it.
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