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.
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