Miss ND isn't having a lot of luck with her stripper bookings this week. First she had a cancellation called in last Wednesday, which is why I'm here for a second week, then one of the girls missed her train into town, not arriving until Tuesday, and finally, after work on Tuesday the third dancer, too timid to talk to her, left a note telling Miss ND she had to return home to attend to family matters. Fortunately there's a fill-in; I've worked a shift here before with only two dancers and that equals thirty-minute stage sets, and, well, fuck that.

Three drinks were spilled railside last night during my last set; people were very, very drunk. 22-year-olds were trying to crawl over the rail onto the stage, some jackass asked me to pick up his beer bottle without using my hands, and a seventy-year-old man waggled his tongue at me. I no longer even have the mental energy to get pissed off at idiot customers, though, after I lost it on one guy Tuesday afternoon.

"You seem smart. I hope you're saving your money. I bet that other girl doesn't. She looks like she's on drugs. I mean, you can tell she's out of it. But you're not on drugs, are you?" On and on, asking me what I do with my money and talking shit about the other dancers. I had to make it stop, because I can't listen to that crap for free, and asked for a dance, which he of course turned down, offering to tip me a $20 for sitting with him a while longer. But you know what? It wasn't worth it, and I showed my ass.

"No, I can't really sit here and listen to you insult the other girls while asking me extremely rude personal questions. Who the hell tells other people what to do with their money in the course of polite conversation (note: I realize how ridiculous it seems to refer to strip club conversation as "polite)? Would you tell the guy who cuts your hair that you hope he's saving his money?"

I'll listen to a lot and let it wash over me, really, I will, but racism and unmitigated insults of other dancers (and discussions of my finances) can set me off. Fuck you, dude. Stay out of the fucking strip club if you can't get over your contempt for strippers. Getting that out of my system helped a lot, I've got to say, and now I'm just, well, whatever. The stupid comments fly by accompanied by dollar signs.

Then there was the guy who, in total seriousness last night, told me, "I think you provide a very important service to society. I really do," while feeding me a stack of singles at the rail. Talk about telling me what I want to hear.

Eh, I was spoiled early last week with a trio of attractive, generous, fun customers. Really spoiled. It's not often I get to enjoy myself that much at work, much less several days in a row. And I'm tired and burnt out, though richer. I need to have dinner cooked for me, a hot bath, and a roll in the hay. Three more days.

SXSW and Burlesque

Unless gyrating to The Black Angels counts, I'll be at a couple of burlesque performances in Austin during South by Southwest.

First, there's South by Burlesque, a Hollywood-themed night at Emo's. It's a fabulous bill and you should read all about it. That will be during the film festival on Saturday March 8th, with shows at 7:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. Tickets available here. I'll be reprising my Anna Nicole number from the Texas Burlesque Festival.

As for the Texas Burlesque Fest, they'll be presenting a revue at Esther's Follies on Thursday, March 13th at 8 p.m. This will be a SXSW event which means badges and wristbands are admitted free, and I'm assuming there will be cash tickets available at the door. This will be a very special and fun performance for me. I'm grinning wickedly right now as I contemplate.

Stripping > Blogging

Friends keep emailing me links to news articles about Diablo Cody, and hey! Being naked in public for money is nut-graf worthy. Being the first bigtime successful blogger-turned-screenwriter is not. Unless I'm forgetting someone? But in the big picture, I think that's a more interesting story, and a hook that hasn't yet been explored to my satisfaction in any of the press she's received. I understand why what she used to do is more interesting. It's the reason why, when I meet new people and tell them what I do, that I'm prepared to answer twenty questions about stripping. It's more interesting to them than any other topic of conversation at hand.

But I know a lot of strippers and plenty about stripping, so I'd rather talk about the medium she utilized at first. I'm thinking the only other people who would are fellow internet-geek strippers. Good thing I know a lot of them.

Peelers, not penalties

I didn't do it on the ice, but I did strip in a locker room. There was a hockey tournament in town this weekend, and one of the teams was filling up my rail yesterday. "You should come tomorrow morning! Give us a pep talk!"
"What time's your game?"
"10:30 in the morning."
"I'll be sleeping!"
"Come on, you can come down there, do a little show before the game. How about $250?"
"I don't know, you guys, that's pretty early."
"You can sit on the bench with us during the game.'
"OK!"

That's what sold me. Because on the long list of places I've danced (hotels, stages on bales of hay in a barn, literally in a swimming pool, office of a software company), I've never fulfilled my desire to work at a sporting event. That is how I found myself awake at 9 a.m. yesterday morning, sucking down coffee and making an attempt to be cute at an ungodly hour. I pulled on breakaway hotpants and a gingham top, threw my jeans and sweater over it, tossed my heels, iPod, and tiny speaker in a bag, and headed out to the rink, which is just past a bunch of cows in a frozen field out north of town.

One of the guys came out to get me and I was escorted into the locker room. It smelled, you know, like a locker room full of hockey equipment and players and the equipment of hockey players. Any floorwork was out because I am not doing the splits onto the floor of a locker room. Luckily there were benches all around the walls for me to dance on, so I made a circuit of the room, speaking and shaking motivationally. Players shotgunned Keystones. Then it was game time and a jersey was tossed my way.

It's freezing in a hockey rink, did you know? brr. Fortunately the game was short, and hey! My team won! Of course, last night at the club I had to deal with all the opposing teams, who wanted their own pep talks. If I swing through here again when this is going on I could probably book a very profitable day of nothing but locker room dancing.

Here's something else I've never seen before: a hockey player rolling up dollar bills and wedging them in the spot where his front tooth used to be to tip the dancers. I wish I had a picture.

"What is happening?"

All these hits are coming in from Diablo Cody's old blog at the Minneapolis CityPages site, the one that has a link to here from back in the original Pussy Ranch days (she's a MySpace blogger now). Also, I expect the "stripper blog" search hits to go through the roof over the next couple of days.

Seeing Cody win that Oscar was thrilling, and I was absolutely touched when she thanked her parents for loving her just as she was. Sweet and corny, maybe, but when you're a stripper, when you transgress and do the kinds of things that can get you disowned or judged to bits, that love and acceptance is unbelievably soothing and soul-healing.

Um, also, I haven't seen Juno yet because all my friends didn't like it. I kind of don't want to see it, because I like being excited about Cody's Oscar win and wouldn't like to muck that up if I didn't enjoy the film. I liked Candy Girl. And I look forward to the TV show. And the outfit was spectacular. It was charming how she tried to hold the panel down modestly when exiting the stage.

One week down, one to go

I just had a two-hour long massage that cost me $75 including a $20 tip which the provider tried to tell me was excessive. Are you kidding me? That $75 gets me an hour before tip most places. I feel so much better now after my 50 hour workweek and the ridiculous amount of money I made. Pole class has been fun but I've overexerted myself a bit.

There was a dancer cancellation for next week so I'll be here until next Sunday, too, though I doubt next week could possibly be as good as this last week. If it's even close, though, I won't need to work until about March 20th, so I'll take it.

Miss ND and I were in the dressing room last night when she asks me, "Are you ever giving a lapdance when you just think, 'Why? Why am I doing this?' when you're dancing?"

"Sure, why not. It's like any other job." Of course I think that sometimes.

Well, hours later, it's the end of the night, and I'm dancing for a pretty nice customer who I'm trying to keep happy, while Miss ND has one of the drunker and more obnoxious dudes back there. In the dance area there are two chairs that face each other, as Miss ND and I are when we both are facing away from the customers. I look at her, and she's mouthing "Why? Why?" and rolling her eyes. I almost lose it laughing, and I don't want to kill my customer's buzz, so I shoot her the finger in front of my crotch.

Hey, two girl dances are illegal here. Two women can't dance together. A lapdance can only be one performer and one customer. I mean, you change that and you'll have a man wanting to dance for a man, or hell, a man and three women, a man and a child, a man and animal.

It was a good week for the most part. The hotties were only here the first part of the week, though everyone was pretty nice with a few exceptions. I also got offered $700 for private dances, and $5K for an overnight, both of which I turned down. I did take another, different outside the club offer that I'll talk about later.

I need some knowledge of top 40 music; I just made a work CD and the only mainstream music I have dates from the 70s. At Mary's, Modest Mouse and Kings of Leon count as totally mersh tunes so I really lack typical tittybar music. I need some Rob Zombie or fucking Nickelback or some shit so I don't annoy the hell out of these people with Ghostland Observatory and the Black Angels.

One more week and then -- Austin! For two weeks, two burlesque performances, and a whole shitload of music. I so look forward to it, having skipped SXSW last year. Now, I sort of like music again, more than I have in several years.

I am in that little town Tara mentioned

Tara and HatMa were here last week and she had an interesting time. I usually don't find the time for anything, because, like she mentioned, it's a nine-hour workday and a six-day workweek. It's always worth it, but there's not time for much else than a few hours of errands and online time. I'm not taking a day off to, well, what, drive to Canada? This is the same place where I can listen to the CBC on the radio. I love the radio here; on the FM stations there are all these ads for tractors and weedkillers.

It's been busy so far at the tiny bar and I guess the winter is making these guys a bit crazier than usual. Most of my solicitation offers previously have come from the older guys, the kind I expect to, well, need a hooker. This week they're coming from healthy young men who should be getting plenty on their own, only there's no single women around. The high offer I got was $5K and the low one was $700 for "just some dances, no touching." If I honestly believed that last one, I would have been tempted, but, well, I really don't do that sort of thing. It's flattering to get offered so much. Still, you'd think these dudes would at least break me off a $100 tip or something if they've got that much cash lying around.

The local customers here rule. They bring us dinner and candy and go start our cars at the end of the night so they're all warmed up by the time we leave. They're bar fixtures and nice to have around.

Many of these guys, like myself, are here for the money. Sometimes I get a long look and a "What are you doing here?" I ask what they're doing up here, and they're always working, getting paid enough to come out here. "Just like me!" One of them said, "I came up here for the money, and now I'm trying to get the money to get out," which is eerily similar to many a stripper's plight. Escape, they all want to escape from the little town.

Two couples in their forties were at the rack on Monday while Miss ND, the dancer booker/bartender/dancer was on stage. They weren't tipping, and towards the end of her set she gave them a gentle reminder that they were, of course, sitting at the "tip rail," so named because you fucking sit there to tip. One of these women said, "You can't tell us to tip you! You're just a stupid stripper!" Actually, she can, and she is indeed a stripper. In a strip club, guess who gets to decide what you can do? The stupid stripper! Of course they get kicked out, giving her the finger the whole way (did I mention these women were in their forties?) and then this: "Bitch, if I see you in the street your ass is mine!" To this Miss ND mutters, "If you see me in the street you won't recognize me because I'll have my hair extensions out!" Oh, snap!

I had an hourlong massage yesterday. It was excellent and it cost $40. This was not a massage school, it was from an actual therapist, and that's what you can get a massage for here. Crazy. I wonder if there's, like, bargain plastic surgery or laser hair removal here too in addition to the haircuts, waxing, and massages?

I'm sitting here Googling a customer, because sometimes I do that after they give me a business card or some interesting personal tidbit. I don't stalk and my intentions are not malicious; I'm just curious when they seem so damn interesting. That was the case tonight. You just never know who you're going to run into in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and I sure don't let a little something like, oh, the exchange of cash for somewhat commodified sexuality get in the way of real, actual fun and interest. This particular customer was one of the rare ones where I thought, hmm, were I not 1) taken and 2) a stripper, I might be pretty interested here.

The great thing about the strip club experience is, in the parallel universe where my time is available for purchase in increments of three and a half minutes and twenty dollars, I too can indulge in the fantasy of unbridled objectification without chafing at social convention and norms. Everything that comes out of my mouth can be the truth, my portrayal of desire and enticement can be thoroughly sincere, but the other person probably on some level believes that it's a lie. There is no freer conversation to be had. Should I be momentarily vulnerable, I'm utterly protected by their skepticism. It's the male gaze, topped with a raised eyebrow.

Frequently I tell customers, "I believe every word that every man tells me is the absolute truth. It makes my night so much more interesting." And this is true. Sometimes those who I thought were the biggest bullshitters turned out to be absolutely honest. Their stories really were that good and they really were what or who they said they were. So I choose to believe everything. Though I Google anyway, just to see for myself . . .

Well, here's one cool thing about being in the Upper Midwest; I got my brows and lip waxed and a trim for $20. Total. It felt like I was in Mexico.

Otherwise it's very, very, very cold and very sunny. I am staying indoors a lot and I am wearing two layers of long underwear. Six consecutive nine-hour days begin in two hours.

Last night I had a dinner conference with Tara and HatMa at the local Applebee's to discuss working conditions in the region. Come to find out that the statewide bowling tournament has brought a lot of people into town the past two weekends and will continue to do so for the next few weeks. The next town over is in a weird way, what with the owner of one strip club and the attorney for another both sitting on the city council and both trying to fuck with the other's business. I wish I'd been here at the same time as them instead of just running into them on my way in and their way out of town but it was still a nice way to start the week here.

I had to buy a phone cord for internet access; my BlackJack won't do because I'm in an extended coverage area, so the data charges would quickly get way out of hand were I to use it as a modem (it's awesome in spots where I have 3G coverage, which is, you know, not here).

Oh, holy fuck, every time the door to this coffee shop opens, I'm hit with a blast of seven degree air. Could be worse, I guess. At least that is seven degrees above.

A witch's tit in a brass bra is probably warmer

The stages and wallets of the Upper Midwest beckon me, which is how less than 12 hours after getting home from a mini-vacation in Lake Tahoe, I'm heading back to the airport to fill in as an emergency backup stripper. This is when those airline miles really come in handy for last-minute work travel. I'm feeling kind of guilty for canceling a couple of Mary's shifts to do it, but I'm sure the cash will ease my conscience somewhat, and a friend was more than willing to take them.

I'm already cold and it's just early morning Portland weather. Time to toughen up a little so I can tolerate the single digit lows out there.

First sodomy, now dildos

The Texas ban on sex toys has been overturned. This means you can go to Forbidden Fruit and they won't have to have that stupid sign up anymore. If you've bought anatomically correct marital aids in Texas, you've seen it: "For use as educational models only." You know, for teaching safer sex and all. Lots of sex toy retailers won't ship to Texas for fear of legal troubles. But now it's legal to own a dildo (and, one presumes, a Fleshlight) in Texas.

This is where those singles came from

Remember this post? Apparently that behavior is news today. Also, I gossip less than John Canzano.

I'm bothered by a factual error in the column. Singles don't come in "banded stacks of 50," they come in packs of $100. Some of the bands landed on stage last time I was at the DII because they were in such a hurry to throw the money they didn't get the bands separated from the singles.

Yes, I'm working at that vegan strip club

New strip clubs open with the frequency of new vegan restaurants in Portland, but to my knowledge the two haven't been combined until this year. Casa Diablo came to my attention when the owner emailed me, and I figured I'd give it a shot. After all, I've never worked in a club on its opening night. And I've never worked with an owner who was so enthusiastic about promoting himself and his concept.

My opinion of the club is, at this point, colored by the grip of cash I've made working there so far, so keep in mind that everything I say is accompanied by a desire to continue a profitable work experience.

That being said, there's been plenty of coverage from all corners of this club, and I'd like to add the stripper's perspective. Here's what it's like to work there.

The building is located in a very industrial part of Portland that is by definition quiet at night. There’s no residential traffic, no other nearby bars or restaurants, and not a lot of through traffic, unless you live in Scappoose. The closest bar is also the closest strip club, the venerable Nicolai Street Clubhouse, about a mile down the road. So any business there depends on the people working during the day. This makes prime hours for the bar between the hours of 2 and 9 p.m., when shift changes happen in the area.

In its previous life this club was a restaurant and it’s still got kind of a strange, Sizzler-esque vibe to the décor. The bathrooms are papered in vintage patterned wallpaper, the furniture is wood, and the walls are brick. One of the waitresses is responsible for stripperizing it somewhat with amateurish devil-girl paintings on the wall, and the VIP area is sectioned off with these curtains, whose religious overtones are a bit much for me at times.




However, I like the VIP room setup well enough. I’ve certainly seen worse.

The stage is great and most dancers there love it. It’s two large square stages with 10 foot – plus tall 2” stationary brass poles (to the layperson, this means they are realtively thick, grippy, and easy to work with, and do not spin on ball bearings), connected by a narrow catwalk. There’s a lot of stageside seating, over 30 seats, and the stage tips have been quite good so far.

The dressing room is very small. There’s four chairs, some tables, and mirrors propped up against the wall. Lighting for the mirrors hasn’t been installed yet. It’s also behind the kitchen, and until the other route is cleared of its construction debris, dancers actually walk through the kitchen to get to the dressing room. There isn’t a separate dancer bathroom so we have to use the main one in the club.

Overall the operation of the club is very much improvised. There frequently aren’t enough dancers on shift, and a permanent DJ hasn’t been hired yet, so when no DJ is there the dancers cue up songs on an iPod. No formal rules have been issued concerning stage sets, shift times, contact, etc. I wasn’t asked for my ID immediately. It’s like the policies are following the practice, not the other way around, where I am of the opinion that this is a good way to let the dancers run your club. That can turn out well if you’ve got smart strippers, or it can turn out terribly if you’ve got crazy ones. There are, of course, some of both here.

And what about the politics? Well, the food is, in fact, vegan, but it’s served on disposable paper plates, which I find to be an interesting philosphical contrast. Other than the food, and a sign in the dressing room requesting that dancers refrain from wearing fur, silk, wool or feathers on stage, there isn’t a militant vegan vibe to the place. Some customers have trickled in thanks to local print and television publicity, but most are just guys in the neigborhood who noticed that the sign out front suddenly read “NUDE DANCERS” a few weeks ago. They aren’t vegetarians but they aren’t put off by someone who is. I mean, they’re ironworkers, but we’re all in Portland here, with its all-encompassing live and let live attitude.

The food itself is vegan Mexican food; enchiladas made with wheat gluten, fake steak and chicken fajitas, pretty good corn chips and beans, and of course a Boca Burger. It's all right. Not gourmet vegan like Nutshell, by a long shot, but when compared to bar food in general it's passable. But you wouldn't want to review this place on it culinary merits alone.

It's also, until January 2009 at least, the only nonsmoking strip club in Portland, which is a unique perk and probably a bigger selling point to the customers than anything else. As long as the dancers aren't doused in Cotton Candy body spray, they have a prayer of not smelling like a bar when they get home.

I’m not a vegan or a vegetarian. That wasn’t a prerequisite for working at the club, and snarky Portland Mercury comments aside, none of the dancers are unshaven.

Over the next couple of months I’ll have a few night-in-the-life-of-the-vegan-strip-club reports. I’d like to say more, but it will keep.