The day that pile of money landed on my stage was also a day when I'd hauled my laptop into the club. There was a project with a deadline, the deadline had passed, and the real deadline was that night. It was a Sunday, though, and I figured I could multitask by doing stages, a few dances, and spending my downtime in the dressing room hacking into the club's wireless network (what the hell is up with passwords that are the same as network names?) and finishing up the work. But no, some athletes and assorted entourage members came in and made it rain. I hope that explanation satisfies everyone, because I don't like to name names. More on that separately; I have been meaning to expound on my view of stripper-client confidentiality for some time.

Yesterday was similar. With my head buzzing from hours spent in front of the computer, with concepts and images and phrases still on my tongue, in my head, and in my fingers, it was time for a sudden change of gears, time to focus on the pretty instead of the smart part of me. I had to start thinking about outfits, makeup, music. It was grating and so sudden that I actually experienced a little stage fright, since I'd been so very far out of performer mode for the previous three days.

And yet . . . once I got to the club it was suddenly very relaxing to be there. My brain was allowed to slow down. It was forced to. I had to stop thinking for a while and focus on the moment. It was like this when I would work after an intense class or after finals. What does that say about me when being stripperfied is relaxing? Probably that I don't mentally relax enough, appearances to the contrary.

It was a mediocre night; decent enough for me thanks to some really nice foreign visitors and a crazy man who sang along (correctly 80% of the time) and identified the following songs correctly: "Go Insane," by Lindsey Buckingham, "Dance This Mess Around," by the B-52s, "Arthur's Theme" by Christopher Cross, and "Captain of Her Heart" by Double. He didn't get Big Black's "The Model." Oh, and lest you think I put a bunch of terrible music on the jukebox, the Christopher Cross and Double were not put there nor played by me, though I appreciate the perverse impulse that made Satori do so. The same one that made her put John Denver on there. She thinks Steely Dan fits into the same category of music to play for an apathetic crowd, but I have to disagree there.

I can't just let a rambling, and truth be told, more personal than usual post stand alone like that today. Life isn't like that; even when it's serious there are funny moments. And oddly, though my mood has been bad lately, my money has been good. I feel like a big faker sometimes smiling, thinking, "Oh, lord, please don't let my smile look too fake. These people deserve to have fun tonight, and not have a depressed stripper bring them down." It's such a weird thing, working in the social world, trying to put on my extrovert skin.

But some people make it easy. Some people are hot couples who let me occupy all of the time I have between two stage sets by dancing for a beautiful woman. I got to the point where I didn't feel I was working, and kind of wished I weren't, since it was just too much fun to play sexily with her. Rarely do I get to dance for a woman like that; not a housewife out for a little fun, not a giggly girl getting her first dance, but a gorgeous grown woman fully inhabiting her own sexuality.

And they didn't even ruin it by giving me their hotel key, though I think that would have been one of the harder offers to turn down (unlike the guy earlier in the night, whose rather unoffensive dirty talk was delivered in a tone that made me uncertain of his sexual orientation).

Speaking of which, I joined two guys at their table and started chatting with one, who pointed to his friend and said, "His ex-boyfriend was --"
"Hey, you just outed me at Mary's!" exclaimed the friend.
"Oh, please, you think you're the first? We're three blocks from the drag show," I told him. It's true, too, I have seen transvestites, transsexuals, and garden-variety gay guys and lesbians all at the rack at Mary's.
"Oh, good. I'm just going to hang out and look at all of these men with their hard cocks after they get all excited!"

Have I mentioned how much I love Mary's lately?

Some of my days are nights

On the rare Portland day like today, that is, one with sunlight, I walk at least as far as my bank and the grocery store to get some sunlight. Despite not awaking until noon most days, and spending a great deal of time indoors, I think the lack of sun may be triggering some delayed SAD in me. Or my meds need to be adjusted. Last week was a hard one for me. When you have successfully come out of or tamed depression and anxiety, the utter relief is also accompanied by dread; it will come back, and it may be worse than before.

Other factors in my life make me a more stable and happy person now than I was the last time I got sucked into that particular cave of my psyche, but it's still terrifying to me. Compounding it is my uncertainty about the cause; is it just my brain, or is it the existential crisis of any 31-year-old woman uncertain about what to do next? In other words, am I depressed because of a chemical imbalance, or am I depressed because I have things to be depressed about? The two who are close to me who I've spoken about this with say it doesn't matter, but I think it does.

So I am seeking a stripper-friendly, kind therapist and shrink in the area. I have no desire to ever get back to the worst I was. In my family history there are premature deaths from alcohol, suicide, and misadventure; there are also little emotional deaths no less permanent from stubbornness and pride. A great deal of my hope comes from seeing our condition improve with each generation and with my own small victories. It comes along with many wonderful positive traits, this particular struggle, and is a part of me as much as the color of my eyes or the tone of my skin. I only wish it were as easy to change, if only superficially.

This is what $472 in singles looks like

The picture is blurred from my happy dancing behind the phone. Most profitable eight minutes I've ever had at work.

Oh, it was such an awful weekend, but things started looking up on Wednesday night. It's interesting how, when one of the clubs where I'm working bites big time, the other one usually steps up. This week it's Mary's turn to pay the bills. And this one is an extremely onerous tax bill, a nasty check I wrote to pay my Jan 15th quarterly.

Why, yes, I pay taxes. I am part of that 10% of strippers who understands the concept of being self-employed and its application to the IRS. One of the things that blows my mind is how this is rarely, if ever, explained to new dancers. I mean, they are given the paperwork to fill out when they have their IDs photocopied, but there's no "So now you don't have proof of income unless you pay taxes" pamphlet that's given out. I've seen this bite people in the ass more than once, because it's the IRS, and they can pretty much do whatever the fuck they want to do.

I don't want to make myself out as being more responsible than I am, because I am not. I am not responsible at all. For instance, I actually did not file for three years once. Then I discovered that after the three year mark, if you are caught not filing, some extra bad things can happen. Also, it would have been unfair to Mr. Wayward to bring this into our marriage, so I had to get straight with the IRS. I went back and combed through all of my bank accounts and records, filed, and paid a shitload of back taxes. It sucked, and it still sucks, because I am on the hook for it for, oh, $12K still. So I speak from experience when I tell strippers to file.

Self-employment does open up a lot of deductions employees can't take, though there's something called the "housewife test" that either an IRS employee or accountant came up with. It applies to everything from shoes to breast implants, and it goes like this: If it is something that a "housewife" (I kind of hate that term, indicating that what we're compared to isn't other working women but this mythical creature who, instead of housework and childcare is out there having light lunches and getting pedicures all day) would spend money on, it isn't a viable deduction.

Gym membership? No. Lots of people buy those. Highlights? No. Neon pink clip-in hair extensions? Yes. Bra and panty set? No. Fishnet dress? Yes. Breast implants under 1000 ccs? No. Ginormous breast implants over 1000 ccs? Yes, because no one besides strippers and porn stars, and few of those, get fake titties that big. In fact, the biggest breasts I personally know top out at 800 ccs.

I need to find out about continuing education deductions, as I'm taking a six-week pole dancing class (advanced dancer technique) starting Sunday. But none of these really make up for paying the self-employment tax. Though I do believe in paying taxes, I hate what the government is spending money on right now, namely, not this country.

So. Mary's on Wednesday was like Mary's on an extremely packed Saturday; there were a ton of out-of-towners from all over, so I'm guessing all of the Broadway hotels were packed. They were generous with me and each other. At one point someone bought the (packed) house a round, tying up the bar for a good long while. The last time I saw someone do that, there were eight people in there. This time there must have been 80. It was exhausting but fun. I'm thinking today's afternoon shift will be considerably more mellow, but it is Friday, so anything could happen.

I got my boob bedazzled

Sunday afternoon was the lovely wedding reception of one of my Mary's coworkers, esteemed contortionist and pole monkey Blaze, who can also be seen most Sundays at Sinferno. As befits a petite tattooed whirlwhind of a gal, it was held at the piercing parlor responsible for many of her body modifications, Straight to the Point. It was pretty much the most fun stripper wedding I've ever attended, and I came away from it with some marital aids and a piercing. It's been, oh, ten years since the last time I had something pierced, but I just couldn't resist the peer pressure (although closed for the occasion, the staff was still on hand to ornament those who wished to be poked).

I spent some time talking to a couple of women who'd know Blaze before she was a dancer. "She was just the most wholesome wife and mother, just this cute little thing, and one day she calls me up and says, 'I'm dancing,' and I asked, 'What kind of dance are you doing' and she told me 'Naked! Come and see me!'" And here she is marrying another lady, and having the time of her life.

After the first couple of hours, the men were kicked out and the Pure Romance saleslady set up. I was one of two women there with any interest in anything that might involve a penis. Though everyone liked the glittery body paste, which she told us also made her kid's Tooth Fairy money very sparkly.

Then my turn under the needle came. They call these piercings anchor piercings, since the post of the jewelry screws into a small, flat foot under the surface of the skin. I think it's something they're still perfecting. But oh, it looks so pretty. I watched a couple before it was my turn, and one of our friends videotaped the whole thing. First the needle goes in, then the piercer makes a small space, then the anchor/base/foot goes in, and finally the post with the jewel is screwed into the base. In total I would say the whole process took about thirty seconds. It hurt while she was doing it but that wasn't very long. She did ask me beforehand if I had implants (no), though I am not sure how the piercing process could possibly go deep enough to hit one. I was told to spray it with sterile saline several times a day, keep it clean, and keep it from being moved about. As far as picking the location, I saw a dancer at the Acrop with one on her breast, so I'm just copying her because it looked so pretty.

Here is my bedazzled boob (pics are somewhat safe, no nipple). These pictures are from Wednesday, three days later. There is a little bruising as you can see, though I have been taking arnica. The redness around it isn't because of the piercing but rather from the bandaids I keep over it while I sleep. My delicate breast skin hates adhesives of any kind, which is one reason I despise working anywhere that requires liquid latex.










On Tuesday night I worked at Mary's with one of the other girls who'd gotten pierced at the party (same type, different location). We had an entertaining time explaining the process to curious customers. Oh, also, it was a pretty terrific night, like the kind of night I used to have there all the time. It's been iffy there for so long that I was just thrilled with the results. During my second set of the night a customer handed me a $50, I got $20s on stage again, and danced for one of the cute young guys who used to be a regular there. And the jukebox was fixed! It has a light in it again so we don't have to point a flashlight at the cards anymore.

How far away can you be and still tip a stripper on stage?

Yesterday a customer tipped me from very, very far away. Nearly 3000 miles, in fact. One of Mary's most beloved regulars recently decamped for the East Coast, and he must miss us as much as we miss him, because the bartender came over yesterday to the other dancer and myself as we were changing places to hand us each a $20, telling us, "Mr. Good Bourbon called and had me charge tips for you guys on his credit card over the phone." Doing something I've never seen before in my stripping career is pretty hard, but this man did it. Way to make us smile from a continent's distance!

I am a fish with lungs spiritually

Tell me if I overreacted, friends. As you can see by my sidebar, I read a lot of other stripper blogs. Not every one is written impeccably, but they all have stripper stories, which I like to hear. I also am interested in the way other dancers handle life its ownself. But it's like a virtual dressing room over there; I'm not going to always agree with everyone, and such was the case with one entry yesterday on CaseyDancer's blog (the one that ends with a plea for a book deal):

I always said I don't want a mate who is "OK" with me stripping - only a creep would be "OK" with that!

You can read my response and hers in the comments that follow. Here's the kicker of her response:
Sure, strippers can marry & have boyfriends, but I don't believe their level of spiritual intimacy can evolve to the degree I'M looking for, while she's still stripping. So, any man who is "OK" with it, in my eyes, just isn't very evolved. Hence, a "creep".

I can't imagine the pain it must cause her to feel this while while both dancing and in a relationship! To believe that only a guy who hates her job is not a creep; to believe she is harming her own spirituality by dancing, to have spent 22 years in an industry catering to and employing those she sees as fundamentally flawed. How awful for her.

Now, I just asked Mr. Wayward if it's true we're not spiritually evolved. His response?

"It depends on the form of spirituality you choose. I'm highly spiritually involved."

"That's true," I said, "You do have a fully formed life philosophy. What do you call it again?"

"I'm an existentialist."

And it's true, we do create our own meaning (or not; sometimes there's a dash of nihilism in there, for me).

What a fitting way to end a day that started at the D2 like this:

Guy at bar: "I had this great professor in Europe who would talk about the differences between the ways men and women act in stripclubs; women would be rambunctious and men, he said, sat there 'with a nearly religious reverence.'"

Me: "A professor actually said that? How fabulous!"

GAB: "Yeah! He was great! So, you're familiar with Freud's theory of sublimation, right?"

Me: Nodding, like it's the most natural thing in the world for a customer to ask. And because I've read a book about sex. Or two.

GAB: Goes on for, like, fifteen minutes about Freud, European attitudes about America, etc. etc.

So that was the morning. The in between part was fine, especially the parts where we had goodlooking tradesmen in (carpenters, glaziers) spending money. And the part where I got a mystery $20 on my stage from a guy who left immediately after. He was like the stage tip fairy, dropping a $20 and disappearing. I do love the weekend day shifts at the D2, I really do. Nights are full of partiers and groups, but the days bring in the mellow, more mature, spendier guys on the weekends. Let's hope for a continuation tomorrow.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Portland institution that is Mary's Club, it sits on SW Broadway Street, anchoring the last remaining ungentrified block of the street. Everywhere else it's boutique hotels, trendy restaurants, and shopping. On this block it's a strip club, a Mexican restaurant, a convenience store with bars on the windows, and an SRO hotel, the Stewart. Those crazy people I sometimes talk about who come in? That's one of the reasons.

Tonight one of the waitresses was talking to a woman on the sidewalk when I pulled up; I missed their conversation, but the woman was still standing by the door when I walked in, muttering, "It's mine now! Mine!" Apparently she'd gotten into a shoving match with another woman over the panhandling rights for the corner of Broadway and Ankeny and had pushed the other woman into the gutter, securing rights to the corner. But not the doorway to the club, which is why the waitress was talking to her.

I had some empathy for her at one point during the night when it was so dead only one customer was in the bar for at least 50 minutes. To make matters worse he was sitting at the rack tipping the minimum $1 a song, so we couldn't even be completely lazy and sit and talk to each other.

"Is it bad that I want him to leave? That I would rather have no dollars than three dollars?" I asked one of the other dancers. "We should play two minute songs," she said, "so we can at least make the most of it."

I did get to see and talk with my fun obscure music fan about some Amarillo Records artists we'd been listening to, and he tipped me really well, and then got too drunk too quickly and excused himself. He's always a bright spot on nights like this, a night where I presume all of Portland is still nursing its New Year's Eve hangover.

First night naked in the '08

I did work a double on Sunday; I was scheduled at Mary's for the night, but those Sunday day shifts at the D2 are just too good for me to pass up. I had a great time in VIP with a fabulously laidback gentleman, and then went from a comfy couch to a stage in front of a bunch of drunk hipsters, but it's all good. Tonight it's Mary's, and I am happy because this CD I burned almost a month ago is finally on the jukebox. Have I mentioned that the light in the jukebox is out? And they can't figure out how to fix it, so we have to use a flashlight to read the tracks. My bartender pointed to this by way of explaining to one of the neighborhood cops why there isn't a large fancy television for watching football in the bar.

My new CD, commentary perhaps to be added later:

Mary’s December 2007

1. Stripper – The Office (soundbite where Michael Scott asks, "Stripper? Should I tell my girlfriend that you danced up on me?")

2. 2 Hearts — Kylie Minogue

3. D.A.N.C.E — Justice

4. Sad Sad City — Ghostland Observatory

5. Let’s Make Out — Does It Offend You Yeah?

6. Dance This Mess Around — The B-52s

7. The Night Starts Here — Stars

8. Ever Fallen In Love? — The Buzzcocks

9. Only Lovers Left Alive — The Long Blondes

10. The Devil — The Rapture

11. Gimme Some Money — Spinal Tap

12. Baby Ate My Eightball — Super Furry Animals

13. Shake the Sheets — Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

14. The Model — Big Black

15. Sister Christian — Night Ranger

16. Drivers Seat — Sniff N’the Tears

17. Golden Apples — Country Teasers

18. Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground — White Stripes

19. W.A.N.D. — Flaming Lips

20. Kool Thing — Sonic Youth

Happy New Year!

A woman jogged past me when I was standing on the sidewalk this morning smoking a cigarette. I chuckled to myself when I saw her coming, thinking, "How funny. Here I am indulging in the number one habit people try to give up on this day, and there she is being all healthy, having an early morning run on New Year's Day. Heh." Then she passed me and coughed one of those sanctimonious little fake coughs that people use to let you know they are offended by the cigarette smoke.

Now I will be served delicious baked French Toast in bed and watch bowl games.