I was mistaken. It wasn’t as easy to turn off the faucet as I’d thought it would be. Unfortunately, I actually had begun to invest in hope, and that was a mistake (although, in my defense I was pulled along the path, like a puppy on a leash). Given everything I know about this person and all the huge red flags waving in my face, it really is my own fault in the end. Yet, I earned these tears. I begged for them. Now I have them, and I hate him for it… well, no one said desire was reasonable.

Have you ever known someone was a mistake (in terms of being a match for you), but you went along with the fantasy anyway, hoping your instinct was faulted (yet realizing resentfully that your little voice is never wrong)? The best description I have for these last FIFTEEN MONTHS is this: Imagine standing on a street and looking down its length for several blocks. You can see potholes, broken glass, nails, burned out red lights, jay walkers, car jackers, drunk drivers, and maybe even a live power line waving around in the road with sparks flying out of it… Walking this road with this man is like that for me: Looking at a horrible obstacle course and taking it anyway, knowing the dangers and perils, looking squarely at them and deciding to continue down the street anyway. Despite the danger. Despite the stupidity. Despite a sense of self preservation. Fuck potholes - I saw this bridge was out miles ago, and I drove off the end of it anyway.

Yep, if I’d have not severed nearly all contact with this man on my birthday two days ago, that is the road I may have wound up on. Thank the Goddess that I turned down a side street only a couple blocks down. I do not deny that he is beautiful. I do not deny that I miss his strange and fleeting presence in my life. I do not regret opening myself to possibility.

Although this man has hurt me worse than anyone in the last two years since my last relationship ended, I thank the universe for him, because he cracked through my walls. He reminded me that it can be wonderful to hope, but he also reminded me that there is a difference between dreams and reality.

Pay attention. Why pay? Why can’t knowledge simply be free? Everything has a cost. The intensity of the last four months, coupled with the firey burn out of the last four days, has cost me the rest of the trust I’d saved back up. I might criticize and say this man is tragically broken somewhere in his heart if he cannot accept love, but that would be hypocritical on my part. Rather I should look at the need to criticize him for “leading me on,” and apply it more to myself for being willing to be led.

I cannot speak for other entertainers, but I myself am riddled with issues surrounding my appearance. I was anorexic for eight years. Then I developed a good strong case of Body Dysmorphic Disorder, which I still struggle with. Perhaps it’s because of what I do, but insecurities about my body take a disproportionate amount of brain space. I see myself as bird chested with a pot belly, spindly limbs and a huge head. I really don’t think I’d be able to draw an accurate picture of myself.

At any rate, what is meant as a sideways compliment can often create an uncomfortable situation for me: If I lie and reply, “Yes, of course I know I’m hot…” well, that just doesn’t feel right. If I opt for honesty and reply, “No, I think I’m rather repugnant…” well, that just looks like fishing for flattery. I generally opt for, “I only know what you tell me.” It’s reassuring that other people find me attractive, but until I see what they see, I’ll be second-guessing.

I try to be very kind to people when they think they’re in love with me, because I know that it’s easy to fall very deeply into a fantasy. But that’s what it is. I know this. And yet, right now I find that I am caught up in something that cannot be.

I’m lucky in that I know this man, and we have conversed at length. He is absolutely my physical type. He is so sweet, hardworking, and charming. I just want him for myself. I just love him. And yet, today, he chose to stay with a jealous, controlling boyfriend. I got relegated to “dude” status. Yes, that’s a demotion from “stud.”

So, know this: I know exactly what it’s like to get wrapped up in a fantasy. I’m not mad. I was lucky that the object of my affection was such a nice person. I told him today not to text me again for a while. Too many windows in my heart were opened up for the first time in a long time. I have to close them back and shutter them tight again. I’m lucky that I know how.

I worked this weekend at a really beautiful club, which was more like a gay entertainment complex than a club. It had at least four sections, not to mention an outdoor patio area more akin to an enclosed football field. It was huge! The people were friendly, the place was well-designed and clean, and they even had a shower area for the dancers behind plate glass. Very cool.

I was, however, accused this weekend of being a player (excuse me, “playa”) by someone whom I can only think of as what is referred to as a wigger/wigga/whigga. This patron took it upon himself to “fall in love with me,” making it a huge point to repeat incessantly that he liked me because of my smile, eyes, and mind (and that my body is simply icing on the cake). Interesting, since it was too dark for him to see my smile or eyes all that well and I hadn’t said more than five words (I do admit, however, that they were multisyllabic words nonetheless). He then asked how he might get to know me better (so of course, being the self-promoting gangsta that I am, I referred him to an earlier posting on this blog: see Gay-sek-shul, Bi-sek-shul, Buy-sek-shul, and Pay-sek-shul below). (Oh, sorry for all the parentheses in this blog: Parentheticals iz gangsta)

He said that since I am a stripper (see blog entry entitled Exotic Dancers vs Strippers) I must therefore also be a player (as in someone who plays with other people’s feelings), and he would thus not be able to trust me with anything other than his penis. (insert pregnant pause) It was difficult, but I maintained decorum. Oh, the absurdity I tolerate whilst on my quest to rock out with my cock out…

I have been doing bookings more and more at clubs that bring me in as a special performer, and I have been running consistently into the same challenges at all these venues that do not normally have exotic dancers. Here are some suggestions for managers/owners who do not have experience working with male entertainers:

1. Avoid scheduling male dancers the same night as female impersonators. These two very different types of performers do not attract the same kind of crowd, and since queens are consistent headliners more often than strippers it will be a crowd that is not receptive to anything except cabaret. I cannot say this more clearly: Do not put kings and queens on the same stage on the same night.
2. Be sure that there is a place of prominence for the male dancer(s). Putting us on the dance floor kills our ability to make money. We need to either be higher than the rest of the crowd, more brightly lit, or both. Also, patrons should not be allowed to get on the stage/pedestal/podium - it distracts from the dancer.
3. ADVERTISE. ADVERTISE. ADVERTISE. Put notices up in your club weeks in advance. Put the word out several times on your Myspace profile. Make announcements in various print and radio media. ADVERTISE. If we’re not regulars, how else will anyone know we’re coming?
4. Create a private place for private dances. If you do not do this, expect to pay a higher booking fee to make up for the straight out loss of revenue.
5. Provide an emcee who will educate the crowd about tipping. I find it is extremely intimidating for people who aren’t used to it to tip male dancers. Many patrons who have rarely or never seen male dancers are completely terrified of tipping - they must be encouraged via the p.a. system to get up and tip!

There is an art to giving a good lap dance, but there is also an art to receiving them. There are some people to whom I greatly enjoy giving dances, because they are so good at getting them. That might seem strange, but here are a few considerations while receiving your lap dance:

1. It may seem like a no-brainer, but please shower before you come to the club.
2. Brushing your teeth is good too.
3. The first few times you get a dance from an entertainer offer the cash up front. Once the dancer knows you, he’ll be more likely to be relaxed and let you pay afterwards.
4. Try to keep your knees closer together - it helps the dancer remain balanced while he’s standing over you.
5. Every person and place has different rules. Ask what type of touching is appropriate.
6. Wear khakis or some other soft material - denim hurts. (see strip club etiquette)
7. Avoid trying to put your fingers where they shouldn’t go. You may get an unexpected smack, or worse.
8. It’s usually offensive to negotiate - if you get quoted something you feel is truly ridiculous you can say something, but $20 for a song is pretty standard (yes, that’s $20 per song - expect to pay more per song if the dancer is wearing less). Don’t act like you’re in a Turkish market: This isn’t a rug you’re trying to dicker for.
9. A brief hug and some light chatting afterwards is acceptable, but avoid extending it into a conversation - the entertainer probably has to get situated or re-primped, and the club owners expect us to be walking around talking to people or on stage dancing. It’s not intended to be rude when we have to frolic off after your dance is completed.
10. Saying “thank you” is very endearing.

It’s natural, I think, to want to make as much money as possible, given that cash is the life’s blood of the economy we live in. I may not like it, but money is necessary. Sometimes I get so tired of chasing after a buck, but then I realized something today: I enjoy what I get paid to do, and that isn’t something to take lightly.

Often, entertainers (especially strippers, see differentiation below) will exaggerrate how much they make. We often claim to make a ridiculous sum of money, and some very well may; however, for the most part people say they make $x, when in fact it’s probably closer to $1/2 x, or even $1/3 x. Why the inflated claims? Because we don’t want to seem unattractive - if we admit to making only $1/3 x, then that must mean we’re ugly or unsuccessful. So, you end up with lots of bogus numbers when you try to get a feel for how well the night has been going (i.e. is everyone having a “good/bad/slow/busy” shift, or is it just me?).

I had been getting frustrated, because I know what I make, and I’m pretty candid about it if another entertainer asks. When I would try to check in with people, rather than simply saying, “I’m doing alright/good/bad tonight,” they’d said, “I’m already at $ridiculous!” I finally realized how much some people lie when a young stripper I know in Charlotte claimed to have made $1,500 one weekend at Chaser’s. <stifles laughter> Mhm, you better make that money, baby… (how do you draw an eye roll emoticon?)

Anyway, this is what I realized: The fact that I make any money at all, let alone more than I need, is a real reason to celebrate and be thankful. An entertainer I know from Swinging Richards, Carlos, brought that into my mind last weekend. He said, “If I make $200, I’m happy. If I make $400, I’m happy. Being greedy or attaching the amount you make to what you yourself are worth is only going to be a reason to be upset.”

He’s right. All the affirmations I receive from what I do have a whole new value now. When someone compliments me by saying something nice, or by giving me a tip, or by giving me a private dance, I have to simply accept that all these little niceties add up to a big truth (a truth that is sometimes difficult to accept): I am attractive. I am nice. I am doing a good job.

Whether anyone who gives me affirmations reads this or not, I want to send a thought out to them and to the Universe at large: THANK YOU. I am so grateful that I have the opportunity to do something that I enjoy, and I am sincere when I say that I am finally beginning to feel content with myself. Again, thank you.

How’s this for a little verbal exchange I had this weekend: “I don’t tip dancers.” “That’s why we don’t talk to you.” “Why do you degrade yourself this way?”

Wow. Let’s look at that scenario again… who do you think is feeling degraded by being in that club? It’s rather funny to me that so many people assume that being an entertainer is degrading. Hell, my mother even told me I should do it, so what’s a total stranger’s disapproval worth by comparison? How do you know I don’t derive satisfaction (and dare I say it?) pleasure or even pride from what I do?

Before you presume that all dancers must be pitiful, drug-addicted, broke, homeless miscreants, consider the following: I make in a night what many people make in one-three weeks; I drive a sweet convertible; I pay all my bills; I eat organic food; I have a personal trainer; I donate time/money to my community; I love my work; I have underwear that costs more than your outfit; and everyone in my family, all my friends, and my day-time job boss know what I do, and none of them have a problem with it. Sounds like I’m in a downward spiral. My life really sucks.

Hahahahahahahaha - I wish everyone loved their life as much as I love mine. If you think I’m degrading myself, maybe you should re-examine what it is you think you want from your own job and stop worrying about mine.

Wow, I’ve come down with the type of lowgrade flu/cold that makes you move in slow motion… But, gotta shake it for the car payment… It took me about an hour to finally get the gumption to get out of bed. This is one of the least sexy sensations I’ve had in a while - people don’t always appreciate how hard it is to look perky at 2 a.m. I think I’m wearing my glasses tonight. Ugh, I’m having a stripper melt down…

Okay, first let me say this: I use a little oil. Why? Because it helps my skin and musculature show up better under the glaring lights onstage. I prefer Neutrogena’s light sesame bath oil. It’s really thin, it works like a liquid lotion, it absorbs readily into your skin, it has no fragrance and it doesn’t clog pores. I apply it conservatively, and I try to make sure it’s all completely off my hands before I go onstage and touch the pole.

OILY STRIPPERS WORK MY NERVES! (see my post below about the difference between exotic dancers and strippers) Stripper, you do not need ¼ bottle of that dollar store baby oil on your body! It does not help you that much, and you get it all over the damn pole, so that my narrow ass flies off it later like I’ve been slung out of a catapult… I did not come up in the club to look like Gonzo on “The Muppet Show” being shot out of a canon by Miss Piggy. Not to mention that your greasy sweat drips on the floor and I look like an asshole later when I’m slipping across the stage like a drunk. Keep your damn mineral oil to yourself!

Speaking of Miss Piggy…

(Sorry, y’all… just had to get that out of my system.)