I worked the last three nights in a row and I'm contemplating going in tonight even though Texas plays at 7 . . . we'll see how that works out. Last night was fun for me when I got to do a couple of doubles with Roxie, a very funny blonde cutie at the club.

There are so many pregnant strippers in this club now. The two really, really pregnant ones have stopped now; I think they're at about six months. But several more are just pregnant, and a couple are around three or four months, I think. That's like, 25% of the dancers who work there. They were all talking about it after closing on Thursday, about how it might be contagious, hah hah, and one of the bartenders said, "Girls, don't let them breathe on you; don't drink out of their glasses. It might something in the air." "Yeah," I said, "Their legs!" ThankyouI'mhereallweek. I actually heard that from a manager at another club years ago when another pregnancy epidemic broke out.

Do you know one topic strippers are very knowledgeable about? Prescription drugs, specifically antipsychotics, antidepressants, and other psychopharmaceuticals. I heard one dancer give a very concise rundown on the different prescriptions used for bipolar disorder and ADHD last night, and it was very impressive. More impressive than that is a dancer who actually has bipolar disorder treated because there's quite a few who don't. Anyhow, the conversation quickly devolved into the recreational use of Adderall and Xanax. I was so pleased to hear the knowledgeable dancer refuse a request to purchase one of her Xanax prescriptions. "I really am crazy. I need it." She's not crazy, actually, she's being treated for a manageable mental illness.

As am I; I've dealt with anxiety and depression since I was about 15. Mainly depression, tilting much more towards anxiety around 2002. I have taken Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Celex, Zyprexa, Lexapro, Xanax, and Klonopin. They have helped me when I really did feel crazy, as did therapy, which I'm a big proponent of.

But I feel uneasy staying on them longterm so usually I will taper off eventually, then six months later ask for the drugs again. Now, I don't drink anymore and I don't smoke pot or use any other drugs that don't come from the pharmacist, which are ways to self-medicate that lots of anxious and depressed people use. I did drink a fucking lot between the ages of 22-26, then I stopped. Never smoked a lot of pot, and, as I'll always proudly state, I am a stripper who has never done coke.

However, I have enjoyed the occasional recreational use of Valium and Xanax. Very, very occasional; I can count the occasions on my fingers. But I enjoyed the nice, floaty, stress-free feeling you get from benzodiazepines. When I was talking to my doctor earlier this summer and she said, "You sound like a good candidate for Klonopin," I did the happy dance inside, and said, "Huh. Klonopin, you say?"

I haven't turned into a pill junkie, though, because it's a low dose and doesn't give me anything like a narcotic feeling. I don't want to take more and have that, because I much prefer, oh, you know, functioning to being high. I don't plan to stay on it forever but it's been tremendously helpful so far.

Other drugs I take, in case you're interested, include a daily antihistamine and nose spray and hormonal birth control.

Back to our future pharmacist, I was so pleased to hear her caution the other strippers against the recreational use of antipsychotics and Adderall. It was very conscientious of her.

There is some violent allergen native to Cincinnati that is making me ill. It is some form of dust, mold, or plant product that irritates me more than anything ever has in my allergy-addled life. And I lived in Austin, an allergy mecca. I've had asthma, which hasn't affected me since I was 12, recur since moving here. My sinuses feel like small troughs of cement. My lungs hurt. In part, I blame the old building we're in, which the aspiring gentrifier/slumlord owner didn't sufficiently clean or refinish, leaving brick dust to sift down by the bucketfull from the charmingly unfinished walls into the cracks of the unfinshed wood floors. Fuck this, I'm moving into the most generic, airtight place we can find in Portland.

Saturday night I felt so crappy at work that I left after an hour, abandoning the promise of a pretty good night and without saying goodnight to any customers or dancers (I told management, of course). Since then the only productive thing I've done is transcribe an hour's worth of tape for a story I have a Wednesday deadline on.

Fortunately last Friday was a good, productive night for me and carried my ass through the rest of the week. I lucked out; it was a crazy, busy night, and plenty of the other girls had the kind of frustrating night where the club was packed but they couldn't sell a dance and all the guys were assholes. My night was perfect; everyone was cool, they all tipped really well, and I didn't even have to try to sell. It was lovely.

Also, the bicurious seem to have it in for me lately.

Wednesday night was very, very slow. Deadly slow. I went up around 11 p.m. with three customers at the tip rail, two of whom were a less-than-enthusiastic couple, an older man and a very attractive, very aloof, very much younger blonde. I didn't think they were interested at all as they "shared" the tip (this is when a couple tips you a dollar for both of them; not happy time for dancers). But they did request a dance later much to my shock. I was much, much more shocked when Blondie got very into the dance. Very into it. It was actually the highlight of my night--she's quite attractive, I'm not sure if she's going to get into it, I'm trying not to be awkward, then she busts out with, "I just want to bite that thang!" when I lean in. Fortunately she didn't, but I was pleasantly surprised with her response.

Then she propositioned me! A first in my career. I have never, ever been solicited by a woman. "Name your price. I'm sure [my date] will match it," she said. "Oh, I'm sure he'd do a lot of things to keep you happy," I said. Of course I didn't name a price. She could have been undercover . . .

They persisted later. Lovely people, I'm sure, but battling off a couple that's hitting on you is twice as exhausting as battling off one guy. Though I have to admit, if the deal was that I just did her, and I got a decent price, and I was 21, and a little drunk, I might have taken them up on the deal. She was definitely hot enough for me.

"I could lick your armpits and have a picnic."

Why Rolling Stone has the best drug coverage in the nation: "'And my cat Titty Bar Bob had broken his back, and he got addicted to these painkillers. He'd crawl up the sides of the wall to get to them. It was a weird summer.'"

Frequently I’m asked by customers if I get turned on while I’m dancing. “Sure, baby, all the time,” accompanied by an eye roll while I’m turned away from him is my common response if he’s a 20 Questions customer. “No, never, I’m always thinking about laundry,” or, stolen from Jo Boobs, “Well, money makes me horny and I’m making money while I’m dancing,” are my smartass answers. Or, on the rare occasion when I really am getting into the dance, the music’s good, I’m feeling hot, and the customer is pleasant and enjoying himself, I will honestly answer, “Yeah, can’t you tell?”

Anyhow, everyone knows it’s our job to focus on turning on the customers, so we don’t really think about our own responses. That would be like the massage therapist focusing on how good massaging your knotted shoulders makes her hands feel; totally besides the point. You, the customer, are to relax and enjoy. You can sit there and stare and lust and think dirty thoughts all you want, and it’s okay, because that’s what we’re there for.

But on my nights out, and I know I’ve mentioned it before, the equivalent experience for me is getting to watch a hot, talented man get on stage in tight pants and completely knock out his audience with highly choreographed moves, a wicked smile, and tons of charisma.

Oh yes . . . . . . I went to see Franz Ferdinand on Friday in Philly. This is the equivalent of the stripclub visit for me. I get to enjoy the rock show, which provides me with visual and aural stimulation. I get aroused by looking at attractive members of the gender of my choice. I enjoy the way they move, the way they look, and the way they sound. It doesn’t hurt that Franz is probably at the top of their game at this very moment, with the rare non-disappointing second album just out, a perfectly honed image, and insanely great stage presence.

And I almost squealed when Alex looked right at me when he was singing "Do You Want To?" I love it when the 17-yr-old in me is touched.

Sadly, try as I might, I can’t get Alex Kapranos to sit on my lap and tell me I’m hot, but the show was enough. Strippers have nothing on rock stars when it comes to sex appeal. And although Mr. Wayward suggests that being in the audience at a concert doesn't require that I suspend my disbelief to believe the band is actually rocking my ass in the same way a customer might want to suspend his and truly believe that I am highly aroused while dancing, I disagree. I am completely believing, in the moment, that the object of my attention is performing for and available to me.

Is there anything hotter than listening to Kapranos moan sexually ambivalent songs like “Michael” or “Do You Want To?” Well, yeah, there is, but it is in my head and not fit to share with the gentle heterosexual men reading. But it works for me (and a great many others) and I still haven’t washed the panties I wore Friday night if anyone wants to tender an offer.

The stripper stereotype guys were back on Monday, which was a dead, dead night in the club. How dead? I left with $75. One of the other girls made $13. It was insanely slow.

Tuesday was better, thankfully. I have turned in a list (I made a little spreadsheet in Excel, if you want to know) of songs I would like them to try to get on the jukebox, since the most current thing on there is from a year ago.

Last night I was heading in when I had a blowout on the highway. Thankfully it wasn't too far out of the city and it was before the big curve in the road, so I was relatively safe. Then a couple of nice men from Kentucky stopped to help me. One said, "I never leave a woman on the road." Words to live by, those. We got the spare on, but it was too late for me to get the tire fixed, and I couldn't drive the 60-mile roundtrip to work and back on a spare, so it was back home. I really didn't want to work last night, so I felt very guilty, as though I'd popped the tire with my mind.

I'm a little alarmed at some of the news I've heard about Blogger deleting porn blogs; I use my own hosting, so I know nothing will disappear forever or anything, but I've just been downloading Moveable Type in case I need to make a change. I mean, there's no penetration on this blog, but when a mainstream e-business gets sketchy about working with naked people, they tend to cut a wide swath (fuck you, PayPal).

So I was dancing for some older guy last week and I turned around and sat on his lap, standard move #1 for a lapdance, and he tells me, "Whoa, honey, take it easy. I want to be able to walk out of here." Hah. That is the first time I have ever had a customer request that I be careful not to arouse him. I almost asked if he'd like me to put my dress back on in case the sight of my half-naked body was too much for him. Actually, it was kind of sweet, but when you're at work in the strip club, stripping, because you're a stripper, and someone says, "Hey, don't be too sexy," it's kind of hard to know what to do. I guess I could have started doing the Charleston.

We are going out to the east coast for a couple of days to do some family things (and see Franz Ferdinand on Friday in Philly, yay) and I will be back at work next Tuesday night.

Approximate date for the move to Portland is around Thanksgiving.

and hoooooooooooook 'emmmmmmmm!

(no thanks to Penn State for hurting our BCS numbers by beating OSU)

Big day today; UT might finally beat OU for the first time this century.

Wednesday night at work I stopped to talk to a few guys by the stage, one of whom asked me if I had any tattoos.
"No, though I have a birthmark."
"Do you have any kids?"
"Nope."
"Do you smoke?"
"Do I smoke what?"
"Cigarettes."
"Yeah, sorry."
"Wow, though, two out of three. See, we were looking for a stripper who didn't have any tattoos, didn't have any kids, and didn't smoke."

Ahhh. Now, that's sort of juvenile and jerky, but also pretty funny. Everyone has their own set of stripper stereotypes, and which ones prevail depend on what part of the country you're in. For instance, were I in California, I could replace those with a stripper who didn't have a bellybutton piercing or fake boobs. In New York, an American citizen. In Austin, one who didn't smoke pot.

I think I won anyway because I have real boobs and a college degree (and no tattoos, no kids, a husband who works, no abuse in my background, sober, etc).

I heard a new colloquialism yesterday: "He could fuck up a two-car funeral."

There are two really pregnant girls working at the club right now; actually, one of them had her last night yesterday, and one will be there four more weeks. I'm of a divided mind about having visibly pregnant girls in the club. I don't have a problem with pregnant women being sex objects. It's not the most unusual fetish in the world, either. But it can't be the best environment to be in at five months along. Ultimately, though, these dancers are economic realists. Without other options, there's no way they could earn enough to get through the pregnancy at some fast food or retail job. Though, I have to admit, I reflexively think the time to worry about that is before getting knocked up.

I come from and socialize in a culture where kids are planned. My parents were married four years before I came along: They had two, then Dad was snipped. This is pretty common amongst my friends and family. I personally would never consider having a kid unless I was in amazing physical and financial shape. And, you know, actually wanted one. So from this position, I often shake my head at my fellow dancers, for whom kids are something that just happens rather than a pre-planned life event. It's a totally different mindset, and, of course, the way the world was for most women until recently. And they cope the best they can.

But I'm just going to make sure my NuvaRing prescription is filled . . .