I haven't written in awhile because I have been trying not to think about work. Writing about work when I'm banishing it from my mind doesn't help... at all.
Jamie and I have been going through a rough patch. Nothing too serious, but one that needed to be dealt with sans work. So I haven't gone in.
I am now writing because I am dealing with the fact that tomorrow I am going to work. Because I need to get my ass in gear and make money for bills. Yuck.
Anyways.
I took a non-fiction writing class last year where I wrote about my job extensively and it was cathartic. I didn't just write about my job, I wrote about me. It wasn't supposed to be a memoir class, but I turned it into one. What can I say I'm egocentric. (If you haven't guessed that already. I have blog entirely devoted to myself. I'd say that's a bit more than egocentric, probably closer to completely self-centered.) I liked writing about my past and my issues. It helped me process them, and my classmates were shocked by some of the things I said. I like getting things out there to be talked about. Especially the things people don't want to, or don't like to talk about. I want to call everything and everyone out and say these things happen to people. It's not just something you hear on the news. These things happened to me! You know me! They're awful things and painful things. Let's talk about it. Let's change this, so that your daughter, sister, brother, nephew, cousin doesn't have to go through it.
My professor was visiting the college just for that class. She is an author who writes memoirs.
My professor from this class pulled me aside and told me that I had a voice. I had a voice that had something to say. She asked me if I was going to write a book. I said "No, of course not." I had never thought about being a writer. I was a reader. I'm a literature major. Not a creative writing major. I'm a terrible writer. I get in front of a computer screen to write, or even a pad of paper, and I think "Well shit." The last day of class, after we were all finished, my professor pulled me aside again. She told me "You need to write that book. You may hate doing it, but you have to. You have no idea how important what you have to say is. No one has said it the way you are. Write that book. You may not know it yet, but you are a writer. People will know your name." I gave her a smile, and told her it was great getting to know her. The last thing she said to me as I walked out the door was "I'll read it someday. Write that book."
I left thinking. That's a novel idea. Never gonna happen.
Ever since then I have read more and more memoirs. I love them. Most of the people that write memoirs become famous first for something and then write a memoir telling their story of how they got there. Some of their stories are interesting. Some are pretty boring. My favorite memoirist is Aayan Hirsi Ali. I've read all of her books. If you don't know her, go look her up. Right now I'm reading Salmon Rushdie's new memoir. Very recently I read Firoozeh Dumas' memoir. Out of all them hers' got me thinking the most. Aayan Hirsi Ali and Salmon Rushdie are both extremely well known. They have both done incredible things and have experienced incredible hardships. Firoozeh Dumas' hasn't. At least in the context of most "incredible things." She has not had a fatwa put on her, or been a member of parliament. But she wrote a best selling memoir.
The last year ever since my professor told my to "write that book" I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Any time I thought seriously about it I have always thought 'where would I start? I don't know the first thing about writing a book. I only know analysis papers. Even if I wrote a book how would I even get it published. No one would be interested in it." Anyways. All of these things are still true.
An hour ago Jamie was sitting at the computer playing video games. I had just finished my third book this week and started in on Salmon Rushdie's memoir Joseph Anton when I was suddenly struck with exactly what I wanted to say in the prologue of my memoir. I don't know why or where it came from, but now an hour later I have three pages saying things that I have always wanted to say but never knew how. I don't know if it will ever be published or read by anyone but myself. What I do know is that I am writing THAT book.
Or at least I'm going to try.
Showing posts with label Abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Abuse. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Shame
Have you ever felt shame? I'm not talking about the shame of disappointing your parents. Or the shame of showing up to prom in the same dress as three other girls. Or the shame of getting a good grade.
I feel a deeper shame. A haunting shame. This shame runs deep. It's not a one-way shame, but a shame that strikes at every turn. This shame does not rest; it follows. This shame is my shadow. It follows closely behind. Attached to me. Unlike a shadow, it does not fade at night. As the dark grows stronger so does my shadow. It grows strong enough to walk before me. I become the shadow to my shame.
This past year in class I read a book called La Honte is a French novella, memoir, history. It was unusual. And honestly, I wasn't a big fan. It's great and all, but it hit too close to home. (The title translates into English as "Shame." I've never been able to admit it until today. My life has been driven by shame. I have felt shame for all the pivotal moments in my life. The moments, the defining moments that make me who I am. Finally I have been able to grasp at my shame. At 21 I've had pain in my life that I would never wish upon any one. This pain was hidden then covered then buried. My pain walked hand-in-hand with shame. Except I never knew I was ashamed. Shame was the shadow to my pain.
For the first time in my life I have had no choice but to accept my pain and deal with it. I have been swept over with emotions that will not stop. I can't make them stop. Even though I bitterly want it to all stop. For me it has always been easier not to feel... Anything.
The first time I felt shame lasted nine years. I suffered from depression. The first time I felt shame was when I was awake at late one night at eight and hoping that I would go to sleep and never wake up. All I knew was children were supposed to be happy and hopefully, and I was neither. I buried the shame and lived with the pain. I tried to end it all several times. This added to my shame.
At fifteen I was felt up by one the heads of my school. Shocked and hurt I told my mom. She's never been the shining ideal, but this was the moment when I felt most alone. Completely stranded in normality. Abandoned among the people who "loved" me. When I told her she responded with "Let's wait and see if it happens again. Then we'll report it." This came from the woman who was supposed to protect me. Who had always said that she would kill anyone if they touched me without permission. She let me down in the biggest way possible. I lost all trust in her. I promised myself that I would only count on myself. I made a vow that I would never depend on anyone for anything. I ran. This was the moment that my life changed forever. This was the first time I felt sexualized.
At fifteen I was ashamed that I didn't want to live. I was ashamed that I had tried to off myself twice. I was ashamed I had failed twice. I was ashamed my school administrator had touched me. I felt ashamed that my mother, was no mother at all.
At seventeen I decided that I had enjoyed my last birthday. It wasn't worth it to me anymore to keep trying. My entire life I had battled alone and I didn't want to any more. My mother had abandoned me two years before, but I had to see her face every day reminding me what I was worth. I felt unloved and unworthy. At seventeen I met the boy that would change my life irreparably.
Clay was fifteen and I was seventeen. Long story short he told me he loved me. I didn't love him, but I wanted someone to love me. Two months into our two year relationship he bent me over an ottoman and raped me. After he was done with my underwear still around my knees he put an elbow on my back and called his three best friends telling them he'd lost his virginity to the girl he "loved." For the next two years it was constant. If I didn't "willingly" have sex or blow him, he'd hit me til I did. Or threaten to tell my mother we'd had sex. (At this point in my mother's brilliant parenting career she had said that if I had sex in high school I would be kicked out on my ass with nothing.) For two years I stayed with him. He said he loved me... Plus who was I going to tell. All of our friends knew about our fantastic sex life. What would my mom say? "Well we'll see if he rapes you again... Then we'll talk about reporting it." No one was going to believe me. I was ashamed that my virginity was gone. I've never been a save sex for marriage person, but I wanted it to be special, or at least consensual. I felt shame that my boyfriend raped me. I felt shame for staying with him the first time it happened and the second. I felt ashamed that I was so dependent on the words "I love you."
At the end of our relationship I cheated. I slept with someone else. I needed to say "yes" for the first time. I slept with a guy friend, he ended up saying "I love you" and I ran. I was ashamed that I had cheated. I felt pain because this was the first time I had had sex and it was with a random guy.
I gave myself a vacation in California the summer I graduated high school. I ran from the pain and the shame. I drowned myself in men. Men that I would never talk to or see again. Except I actually fell in love, as ridiculous as that sounds. He lived 2500 miles away. I was taking no chances after the last boyfriend. I went off to college with my very cute, loyal, long-distance, Navy boyfriend. Things were looking on the up-and-up for me. I made friends with one of my dorm-mates. He was from Iowa, sweet, quiet, easy-going, and a wrestler. Long story short, I'd never been friends with jocks and I shouldn't have started in college. He and I were best friends. My boyfriend new about him and was happy I had been making friends. It became a campus wide non-secret secret that he wanted to be much more than friends. We had a sit down and talked about how I was not going to be with him because I loved my boyfriend. We came to an agreement, and I went home with him for a weekend because we were friends. Well my best friend raped me in his house, in his bed, while my long distance boyfriend called to say goodnight. I really know how to pick 'em. None of my friends at college believed me. I'm a bubbly person to everyone, and they decided to tell everyone that I was giving him blue-balls and leading him on. They told everyone that we'd had sex and before I'd even got back to campus I had no friends left. I was so broken and hurt and alone that I cut off the one person that cared. I broke up with my long distance boyfriend so that I wouldn't have to tell him I'd been raped. Everyone was saying I cheated on him and at the time it was easier to say goodbye and accept a lie than to tell the truth.
At nineteen almost every nightmare I had survived hit replay in reality. This time it was set on fast forward. Instead of taking eleven years for everything to come to itself pain filled, shameful climax it took two months for my life to go from normal and happy to completely alone. Due to my reality replay being on fast forward I cried for one night, said "I've been raped before. This is nothin," I made new friends, and moved on. Actually I just buried the new pain and shame way down deep with all the same-old, same-old.
True to form. I got myself a new boyfriend. This one also changed my life irreparably. Meet Jamie, the man sleeping in bed next to me right now. We survived five months when I had to take my job.
Jamie and I have been together over a year and a half. I've been stripping for over a year. Most of our relationship has been throughout the stress of my job.
In the last two months I have worked my ass harder than I have ever worked. I have put up with so much bullshit that when I was in London for the first time in a year and really my whole life I had a moment to step back and look at my life with the support of someone who truly loves me. I delayed my complete and total break down until after we got back from London. In London I was surrounded by literature, and the book I kept going back to was the book I distinctly argued against in class La Honte.
London is the city of the modern world and history. It was my dream city. I loved every minute. But I often caught myself thinking "God. I hope they don't find out about my job." I've never not told people what I do. I would rather own up to it than hide from it. In London I was haunted by my job. It was always in the back of my mind. Shame. It started on the first day in the plane. These elegant British women started up a conversation and all I was hoping was for them not to ask what I do. I blended into the British sophistication of London, but I felt like a was a cheap, fake. Lesser. Lesser because I had bought my ticket, bought my dinner, bought my nice clothes, paid for my hotel with dirty money. Painful money. Secret money. Shameful money. I hurt. I knew why I was there. I was there because I had taken off my clothes, let men touch my body everyday, one hundred hour weeks, for a month.
Before we left for London, when I was working those hellish days, I started eating less. I slept less. I woke up earlier. I thought it was because of my work schedule. I forgot. I had run so far away from my past that I had forgotten the pattern. When I was in London I didn't eat much more. The shame and pain of my job were eating away at me. It took me four days to completely lose my composure. I haven't really stopped crying sense. I've gone into work three days. All I feel is broken. Everything that I have worked my whole life to hide, cover, and bury won't stay locked away. Anytime anything remotely mean is said I cry, unless I'm at work and then I just get mean. Jamie is trying his hardest for me, but even when he's sweet I can't stop myself. Before brushing our teeth and crawling into bed, he hugged me. I couldn't stop crying for fifteen minutes. All I could think of was that he deserved better. Than being close to him hurts so much I can barely breathe, but I can't let go of him. All I can do is cling to him because with him is my last shred of sanity.
For the first time I can truly say that I am ashamed. I am ashamed of who I am. I am ashamed of my experiences. I am ashamed of what I do. I am ashamed of my pain. My logic and intelligence tell me that everything I am ashamed of I shouldn't be. I am not at fault for my depression. I am not at fault for either of my rapes. I am not at fault for my mother's inability to parent. And I am most certainly not doing anything wrong by stripping. I can't help what I feel though.
I'm broken. I'm empty. I am still the shadow to my shame.
I feel a deeper shame. A haunting shame. This shame runs deep. It's not a one-way shame, but a shame that strikes at every turn. This shame does not rest; it follows. This shame is my shadow. It follows closely behind. Attached to me. Unlike a shadow, it does not fade at night. As the dark grows stronger so does my shadow. It grows strong enough to walk before me. I become the shadow to my shame.
This past year in class I read a book called La Honte is a French novella, memoir, history. It was unusual. And honestly, I wasn't a big fan. It's great and all, but it hit too close to home. (The title translates into English as "Shame." I've never been able to admit it until today. My life has been driven by shame. I have felt shame for all the pivotal moments in my life. The moments, the defining moments that make me who I am. Finally I have been able to grasp at my shame. At 21 I've had pain in my life that I would never wish upon any one. This pain was hidden then covered then buried. My pain walked hand-in-hand with shame. Except I never knew I was ashamed. Shame was the shadow to my pain.
For the first time in my life I have had no choice but to accept my pain and deal with it. I have been swept over with emotions that will not stop. I can't make them stop. Even though I bitterly want it to all stop. For me it has always been easier not to feel... Anything.
The first time I felt shame lasted nine years. I suffered from depression. The first time I felt shame was when I was awake at late one night at eight and hoping that I would go to sleep and never wake up. All I knew was children were supposed to be happy and hopefully, and I was neither. I buried the shame and lived with the pain. I tried to end it all several times. This added to my shame.
At fifteen I was felt up by one the heads of my school. Shocked and hurt I told my mom. She's never been the shining ideal, but this was the moment when I felt most alone. Completely stranded in normality. Abandoned among the people who "loved" me. When I told her she responded with "Let's wait and see if it happens again. Then we'll report it." This came from the woman who was supposed to protect me. Who had always said that she would kill anyone if they touched me without permission. She let me down in the biggest way possible. I lost all trust in her. I promised myself that I would only count on myself. I made a vow that I would never depend on anyone for anything. I ran. This was the moment that my life changed forever. This was the first time I felt sexualized.
At fifteen I was ashamed that I didn't want to live. I was ashamed that I had tried to off myself twice. I was ashamed I had failed twice. I was ashamed my school administrator had touched me. I felt ashamed that my mother, was no mother at all.
At seventeen I decided that I had enjoyed my last birthday. It wasn't worth it to me anymore to keep trying. My entire life I had battled alone and I didn't want to any more. My mother had abandoned me two years before, but I had to see her face every day reminding me what I was worth. I felt unloved and unworthy. At seventeen I met the boy that would change my life irreparably.
Clay was fifteen and I was seventeen. Long story short he told me he loved me. I didn't love him, but I wanted someone to love me. Two months into our two year relationship he bent me over an ottoman and raped me. After he was done with my underwear still around my knees he put an elbow on my back and called his three best friends telling them he'd lost his virginity to the girl he "loved." For the next two years it was constant. If I didn't "willingly" have sex or blow him, he'd hit me til I did. Or threaten to tell my mother we'd had sex. (At this point in my mother's brilliant parenting career she had said that if I had sex in high school I would be kicked out on my ass with nothing.) For two years I stayed with him. He said he loved me... Plus who was I going to tell. All of our friends knew about our fantastic sex life. What would my mom say? "Well we'll see if he rapes you again... Then we'll talk about reporting it." No one was going to believe me. I was ashamed that my virginity was gone. I've never been a save sex for marriage person, but I wanted it to be special, or at least consensual. I felt shame that my boyfriend raped me. I felt shame for staying with him the first time it happened and the second. I felt ashamed that I was so dependent on the words "I love you."
At the end of our relationship I cheated. I slept with someone else. I needed to say "yes" for the first time. I slept with a guy friend, he ended up saying "I love you" and I ran. I was ashamed that I had cheated. I felt pain because this was the first time I had had sex and it was with a random guy.
I gave myself a vacation in California the summer I graduated high school. I ran from the pain and the shame. I drowned myself in men. Men that I would never talk to or see again. Except I actually fell in love, as ridiculous as that sounds. He lived 2500 miles away. I was taking no chances after the last boyfriend. I went off to college with my very cute, loyal, long-distance, Navy boyfriend. Things were looking on the up-and-up for me. I made friends with one of my dorm-mates. He was from Iowa, sweet, quiet, easy-going, and a wrestler. Long story short, I'd never been friends with jocks and I shouldn't have started in college. He and I were best friends. My boyfriend new about him and was happy I had been making friends. It became a campus wide non-secret secret that he wanted to be much more than friends. We had a sit down and talked about how I was not going to be with him because I loved my boyfriend. We came to an agreement, and I went home with him for a weekend because we were friends. Well my best friend raped me in his house, in his bed, while my long distance boyfriend called to say goodnight. I really know how to pick 'em. None of my friends at college believed me. I'm a bubbly person to everyone, and they decided to tell everyone that I was giving him blue-balls and leading him on. They told everyone that we'd had sex and before I'd even got back to campus I had no friends left. I was so broken and hurt and alone that I cut off the one person that cared. I broke up with my long distance boyfriend so that I wouldn't have to tell him I'd been raped. Everyone was saying I cheated on him and at the time it was easier to say goodbye and accept a lie than to tell the truth.
At nineteen almost every nightmare I had survived hit replay in reality. This time it was set on fast forward. Instead of taking eleven years for everything to come to itself pain filled, shameful climax it took two months for my life to go from normal and happy to completely alone. Due to my reality replay being on fast forward I cried for one night, said "I've been raped before. This is nothin," I made new friends, and moved on. Actually I just buried the new pain and shame way down deep with all the same-old, same-old.
True to form. I got myself a new boyfriend. This one also changed my life irreparably. Meet Jamie, the man sleeping in bed next to me right now. We survived five months when I had to take my job.
Jamie and I have been together over a year and a half. I've been stripping for over a year. Most of our relationship has been throughout the stress of my job.
In the last two months I have worked my ass harder than I have ever worked. I have put up with so much bullshit that when I was in London for the first time in a year and really my whole life I had a moment to step back and look at my life with the support of someone who truly loves me. I delayed my complete and total break down until after we got back from London. In London I was surrounded by literature, and the book I kept going back to was the book I distinctly argued against in class La Honte.
London is the city of the modern world and history. It was my dream city. I loved every minute. But I often caught myself thinking "God. I hope they don't find out about my job." I've never not told people what I do. I would rather own up to it than hide from it. In London I was haunted by my job. It was always in the back of my mind. Shame. It started on the first day in the plane. These elegant British women started up a conversation and all I was hoping was for them not to ask what I do. I blended into the British sophistication of London, but I felt like a was a cheap, fake. Lesser. Lesser because I had bought my ticket, bought my dinner, bought my nice clothes, paid for my hotel with dirty money. Painful money. Secret money. Shameful money. I hurt. I knew why I was there. I was there because I had taken off my clothes, let men touch my body everyday, one hundred hour weeks, for a month.
Before we left for London, when I was working those hellish days, I started eating less. I slept less. I woke up earlier. I thought it was because of my work schedule. I forgot. I had run so far away from my past that I had forgotten the pattern. When I was in London I didn't eat much more. The shame and pain of my job were eating away at me. It took me four days to completely lose my composure. I haven't really stopped crying sense. I've gone into work three days. All I feel is broken. Everything that I have worked my whole life to hide, cover, and bury won't stay locked away. Anytime anything remotely mean is said I cry, unless I'm at work and then I just get mean. Jamie is trying his hardest for me, but even when he's sweet I can't stop myself. Before brushing our teeth and crawling into bed, he hugged me. I couldn't stop crying for fifteen minutes. All I could think of was that he deserved better. Than being close to him hurts so much I can barely breathe, but I can't let go of him. All I can do is cling to him because with him is my last shred of sanity.
For the first time I can truly say that I am ashamed. I am ashamed of who I am. I am ashamed of my experiences. I am ashamed of what I do. I am ashamed of my pain. My logic and intelligence tell me that everything I am ashamed of I shouldn't be. I am not at fault for my depression. I am not at fault for either of my rapes. I am not at fault for my mother's inability to parent. And I am most certainly not doing anything wrong by stripping. I can't help what I feel though.
I'm broken. I'm empty. I am still the shadow to my shame.
...
Yesterday I had a man who asked me if I had a boyfriend. I wasn't in the mood to play nice-nice, so I told him the truth. His response was "Who would ever want to date a stripper. You're hooker with the added benefit that you can dance. You're someone else's trashy left-overs. Who would ever want you."
Friday, May 4, 2012
Relationships
Because I strip and I have a curious mind, I have done a lot of research on stripping. I have read a lot of books and articles about stripping.
It's interesting how all the scholarly material is done about the client-stripper relationship, the stripper's relationship with herself, the stripper's personal history. If you think about each one of these things the research done isn't overly surprising. I'll sum it up for you.
The client-stripper relationship is interesting. There are two types of guys that go to the club. 1) The kind that go regularly. 2) The kind that go with a group for a social outing. The first kind is not what the public usually expects. These men are in a few different situations, but tied together by the bond of loneliness. They are usually single workaholics, men that travel and are away from their families or don't have families, or men that are older and don't like their wives anymore. These men want attention and don't have anyone else to get it from. These men develop a bond with a certain girl and only go into the club for that girl. The relationship is not based on anything sexual. It becomes a companionship. These men are so lonely they will pay to feel loved. (For the strippers this is how we make our big money. We develop regulars on certain days and we cultivate the bond they feel for us. We may or may not care for them, but they care for us. Because of that we are able to milk them for money. It's not nice, but it is the way it works.) The second kind are there because of their friends. They don't come that often and when they do the "group" mindset takes over and they aren't usually very kind. They are there to make women feel like sexual objects and use us. They may get a dance or two, but they tip well at the stage. They want the girls to flirt and flatter and lead them on. They usually expect us to go home with them because we're "easy."
The girl develops a relationship with herself throughout her carrier. She either becomes more sexual or less sexual depending on the girl. Though there is almost always some self loathing at one point, there is always a confidence boost because of the job. The girl become more empowered. Girls that do it to put themselves through college and keep their goals in order and stay grounded tend to be more successful than other women. This is because we know how to read a crowd, a group, and a person. We know how to make a sale to the crowd, group, and person. We know what works for us and what doesn't. We can handle rejection, and we don't take it personally. We are determined. There isn't a lot that can tear us down either.
The personal history of strippers tends to be fairly similar. Girls tend to have similar histories of little familial support. There is usually some form of abuse. Many girls have been sexually abused to some extent by someone. Usually the girls start with little to no self-confidence. A lot of girls have no sexual identity when they start. Other girls are forced into it by circumstance. No money, they have children as teenagers, they need money immediately. They have a drug addiction. And other reasons. There's usually some kind of troubled past.
I find it interesting being a part of this community because I can see the validity of all of these in one way or another. I can also explore the complexities and how all of these relationships intertwine to make a complicated situation, more so.
What I find even more puzzling is the lack of research done on the relationship between strippers. I find this to be one of the more complicated relationships. For me, I feel the other relationships are fairly common sense. While dancing I have encountered two ideologies when it comes to friends. First group, and also the more commonly thought ideology, don't make friends at work. Second group, friends help you make money. There is a lot of people and strippers that are loners at work. They have their "sort of friends," but no one they are close to . They do this because it can be hard to compete against your friends for money. These girls look at everyone else as their competition. Sometimes they do really well. Friends can be distracting at work. Like anything else, if they're having a bad day you want to be a good friend and help. This can mean losing out on dances which means losing out on money. Second, friends help you make money. Allies can point you in the direction of money.
I don't believe in the first ideology. In the beginning I was alone at the club because I was the new girl and going through my hazing. I did not make nearly as much money as I do now. Being completely alone at work can have an adverse affect. You don't have anyone to look out for you and make sure you're safe.
I am a sincere believer in the second ideology. Friends make work fun on slow days. Sometimes you can tag team and do one dance with two girls. More importantly, not every guy is going to like every girl. I have friends that are both similar and different from me at work. When I know a guy won't go for me, but I think he would like one of my friends. I point my friend in his direction. If I dance with a guy that isn't picky and has money I will send all my friends his way. If I can't make money off of a guy, I would rather have my friends make money off of him than a bitch I don't like. I also know that my friends will do the same thing for me. If they see someone that is looking for a girl like me they point me his way. I make more working in a team. I also feel safer knowing that there are a few girls that actually care about me as a person, and want to make sure that nothing bad happens.
The relationship is complicated between strippers. I could write a whole book on it. I'm really not joking about that. Strippers cause so much drama within the group. I will leave on this note. The bouncers stop more stripper fights than any others...
It's interesting how all the scholarly material is done about the client-stripper relationship, the stripper's relationship with herself, the stripper's personal history. If you think about each one of these things the research done isn't overly surprising. I'll sum it up for you.
The client-stripper relationship is interesting. There are two types of guys that go to the club. 1) The kind that go regularly. 2) The kind that go with a group for a social outing. The first kind is not what the public usually expects. These men are in a few different situations, but tied together by the bond of loneliness. They are usually single workaholics, men that travel and are away from their families or don't have families, or men that are older and don't like their wives anymore. These men want attention and don't have anyone else to get it from. These men develop a bond with a certain girl and only go into the club for that girl. The relationship is not based on anything sexual. It becomes a companionship. These men are so lonely they will pay to feel loved. (For the strippers this is how we make our big money. We develop regulars on certain days and we cultivate the bond they feel for us. We may or may not care for them, but they care for us. Because of that we are able to milk them for money. It's not nice, but it is the way it works.) The second kind are there because of their friends. They don't come that often and when they do the "group" mindset takes over and they aren't usually very kind. They are there to make women feel like sexual objects and use us. They may get a dance or two, but they tip well at the stage. They want the girls to flirt and flatter and lead them on. They usually expect us to go home with them because we're "easy."
The girl develops a relationship with herself throughout her carrier. She either becomes more sexual or less sexual depending on the girl. Though there is almost always some self loathing at one point, there is always a confidence boost because of the job. The girl become more empowered. Girls that do it to put themselves through college and keep their goals in order and stay grounded tend to be more successful than other women. This is because we know how to read a crowd, a group, and a person. We know how to make a sale to the crowd, group, and person. We know what works for us and what doesn't. We can handle rejection, and we don't take it personally. We are determined. There isn't a lot that can tear us down either.
The personal history of strippers tends to be fairly similar. Girls tend to have similar histories of little familial support. There is usually some form of abuse. Many girls have been sexually abused to some extent by someone. Usually the girls start with little to no self-confidence. A lot of girls have no sexual identity when they start. Other girls are forced into it by circumstance. No money, they have children as teenagers, they need money immediately. They have a drug addiction. And other reasons. There's usually some kind of troubled past.
I find it interesting being a part of this community because I can see the validity of all of these in one way or another. I can also explore the complexities and how all of these relationships intertwine to make a complicated situation, more so.
What I find even more puzzling is the lack of research done on the relationship between strippers. I find this to be one of the more complicated relationships. For me, I feel the other relationships are fairly common sense. While dancing I have encountered two ideologies when it comes to friends. First group, and also the more commonly thought ideology, don't make friends at work. Second group, friends help you make money. There is a lot of people and strippers that are loners at work. They have their "sort of friends," but no one they are close to . They do this because it can be hard to compete against your friends for money. These girls look at everyone else as their competition. Sometimes they do really well. Friends can be distracting at work. Like anything else, if they're having a bad day you want to be a good friend and help. This can mean losing out on dances which means losing out on money. Second, friends help you make money. Allies can point you in the direction of money.
I don't believe in the first ideology. In the beginning I was alone at the club because I was the new girl and going through my hazing. I did not make nearly as much money as I do now. Being completely alone at work can have an adverse affect. You don't have anyone to look out for you and make sure you're safe.
I am a sincere believer in the second ideology. Friends make work fun on slow days. Sometimes you can tag team and do one dance with two girls. More importantly, not every guy is going to like every girl. I have friends that are both similar and different from me at work. When I know a guy won't go for me, but I think he would like one of my friends. I point my friend in his direction. If I dance with a guy that isn't picky and has money I will send all my friends his way. If I can't make money off of a guy, I would rather have my friends make money off of him than a bitch I don't like. I also know that my friends will do the same thing for me. If they see someone that is looking for a girl like me they point me his way. I make more working in a team. I also feel safer knowing that there are a few girls that actually care about me as a person, and want to make sure that nothing bad happens.
The relationship is complicated between strippers. I could write a whole book on it. I'm really not joking about that. Strippers cause so much drama within the group. I will leave on this note. The bouncers stop more stripper fights than any others...
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Mexicans!!!
I want to put a disclaimer on this. I am NOT racist. I know at the end of this I am going to seem like a huge hypocrite. Keep in mind that I do strip. Safety is a huge factor for me. At this point I don't care who I discriminate against as long as I stay safe. I have several Mexican friends, who I have told these stories to, and they agree with me. Anyways, here is my highly offensive post against Mexicans... Don't hate me.
I started stripping very idealistically. I'd heard stories about people being discriminatory against certain races. I said to myself "I won't do that. I'm accepting. I'm not racist." I've already told my story about the Mexican trying to force me to blow him on my third day. That should have been a clue to me, but it wasn't. There's also the memorable encounter of the three Mexicans trying to steal things off of my person... Shoe... Ring.
Other memorable moments:
There was a private dance with a guy who was very rough with me. I stopped the dance short because he would not ease up and I couldn't take it. And I'm a tough cookie. I can deal with a lot of pain. I went straight up to the dressing room after. I don't bruise easily, it takes a lot of force. I already had five distinctive bruises on each boob. Where each finger grabbed me, they left their mark. The physical symbol of how painful my job is. When I got home Jamie saw as I was in the shower. He cried for me. There's a point where there are no more tears to cry.
One guy kept trying to rip, I do mean rip, my underwear off.
One didn't understand that "DON'T touch my pussy." Means don't touch my pussy. I did learn how to say it in Spanish, the Mexican slang version though.
I never thought I would say "No you may not smell my vagina." (This is not just particular to Mexicans, it's particular to most guys. I just have to say it more often to Mexicans.
One guy was not satisfied with me being in underwear for our private dance. He asked for a refund.
One guy refused to pay and the cops got called. I never did get that money.
There was one that scratched me so hard my back bled. I had to have my friend wash my back for me, it hurt so bad. He was smart enough to do it at the end, so he got his money's worth.
I was sitting with my back to someone in private dance. All of a sudden he bit me so hard on the neck I had a bruise and teeth marks for days. I'm still surprised he didn't take a chunk out of my neck.
One guy grabbed my nipples really hard and twisted them. I told him "Stop," so he did it again. And I did it to him. His response was "Why'd you do that." I told him because he did it to me. I made him tip me forty bucks because I'd had a bad night, and that was the last straw.
I do dance with some Mexicans. They're the ones that I know. They also know not to mess with me. There are some very respectful men. I hate to lump all Mexicans into one group. But I have found that at work it is safer for me to ignore them as a group completely than take a chance on the few good ones. I want to also say, that I'm not making the statement "Mexican" and meaning anyone from South America that speaks Spanish or men that were born in the US and whose parents/grandparents were from Mexico. I am talking about actual Mexicans. The ones who have only been here for a few years, and are planning on going back to Mexico. I do get to know them a little bit before going back to private dance.
I'm not racist, outside of the club. When I'm in the real world race/color does not matter to me at all. But inside the club it does. I would rather offend someone than go home with a bruise because of someone else. It's not nice to me or my boyfriend. I don't want visible symbols of someone's brutality going home with me.
I started stripping very idealistically. I'd heard stories about people being discriminatory against certain races. I said to myself "I won't do that. I'm accepting. I'm not racist." I've already told my story about the Mexican trying to force me to blow him on my third day. That should have been a clue to me, but it wasn't. There's also the memorable encounter of the three Mexicans trying to steal things off of my person... Shoe... Ring.
Other memorable moments:
There was a private dance with a guy who was very rough with me. I stopped the dance short because he would not ease up and I couldn't take it. And I'm a tough cookie. I can deal with a lot of pain. I went straight up to the dressing room after. I don't bruise easily, it takes a lot of force. I already had five distinctive bruises on each boob. Where each finger grabbed me, they left their mark. The physical symbol of how painful my job is. When I got home Jamie saw as I was in the shower. He cried for me. There's a point where there are no more tears to cry.
One guy kept trying to rip, I do mean rip, my underwear off.
One didn't understand that "DON'T touch my pussy." Means don't touch my pussy. I did learn how to say it in Spanish, the Mexican slang version though.
I never thought I would say "No you may not smell my vagina." (This is not just particular to Mexicans, it's particular to most guys. I just have to say it more often to Mexicans.
One guy was not satisfied with me being in underwear for our private dance. He asked for a refund.
One guy refused to pay and the cops got called. I never did get that money.
There was one that scratched me so hard my back bled. I had to have my friend wash my back for me, it hurt so bad. He was smart enough to do it at the end, so he got his money's worth.
I was sitting with my back to someone in private dance. All of a sudden he bit me so hard on the neck I had a bruise and teeth marks for days. I'm still surprised he didn't take a chunk out of my neck.
One guy grabbed my nipples really hard and twisted them. I told him "Stop," so he did it again. And I did it to him. His response was "Why'd you do that." I told him because he did it to me. I made him tip me forty bucks because I'd had a bad night, and that was the last straw.
I do dance with some Mexicans. They're the ones that I know. They also know not to mess with me. There are some very respectful men. I hate to lump all Mexicans into one group. But I have found that at work it is safer for me to ignore them as a group completely than take a chance on the few good ones. I want to also say, that I'm not making the statement "Mexican" and meaning anyone from South America that speaks Spanish or men that were born in the US and whose parents/grandparents were from Mexico. I am talking about actual Mexicans. The ones who have only been here for a few years, and are planning on going back to Mexico. I do get to know them a little bit before going back to private dance.
I'm not racist, outside of the club. When I'm in the real world race/color does not matter to me at all. But inside the club it does. I would rather offend someone than go home with a bruise because of someone else. It's not nice to me or my boyfriend. I don't want visible symbols of someone's brutality going home with me.
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