The Honeyed West

Two girls.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 22:12:00 +0000

She’s laying underneath me on the back seat of the bus. The men are lined up on either side of us, mostly sitting, expectant. We’ve already placed our toys and props on the sticky shelf behind us. On the wall, muted porn spills blue light onto their faces. I wonder if porn comes standard when you book a party bus for a bachelor party. I almost ask.

Her body is pale and smooth and startlingly bright in the dim light. Bambi’s chestnut hair fans against the white sheet we’d spread out under our bodies, her brown eyes opened up to me. I kneel over her, waiting for the boys to quiet before I go over our rules.

* * *

At ten, I was the shy bony girl with a lisp, wispy blonde bangs always in my eyes. I preferred to be hidden. My best friend had a bodacious laugh and hugging her felt like sinking into a beanbag chair; she was warm and soft and solid in her embrace.

Sarah and I would steal away at parties, preteen romance novels behind our backs. We’d take each book and skim through the worn pages, seeking out any hint of sex. Our bodies buzzing, we’d read the passages aloud to each other in whispers. Every innuendo brought us closer to understanding our longing, the low rush that rippled under our skin. Closer to teenagedom.

* * *

“Is everyone ready?” I’m absentmindedly running my left thumb up the inside of Bambi’s thigh. Several men hoot their assents, and I continue, “Rule number one - Be quiet!” I snap my hands to my hips in mock reproach as my declaration interrupts the two drunkest men of the group. Everyone laughs.

“In all seriousness, I recommend that you guys stay as quiet as you can. How else will you be able to hear the noises I get out of this pretty girl?” On cue, Bambi squirms a little and smiles.

“Which brings me to the second rule: No doubt, you fellas are fabulous in bed, and at least one of you might have some suggestions as to what we should be doing to each other. Rule number two is that you keep these thoughts to yourself.” I thumb the outside of Bambi’s thong and giggle. “I promise Bambi and I know exactly what the other likes, so you’ll have to trust us.

“Rule number three: This sheet is our island, and you are not allowed to come on the island. I realize it’s more like a peninsula, since we’re on a bus, but this means that you guys need to give us space to do what we do. You can move around for a better view, and you can show your appreciation with tips, but please don’t touch us or throw money at our bodies. The last thing you want to do is fuck with our mojo.”

“Amen to that,” someone hoots out from the back, and the bus erupts in laughter.

“Our last rule is one of the most important. I almost feel like I don’t even have to mention it since I haven’t seen a single camera tonight. But if anyone photographs us during the show, we will stop immediately and leave, no questions. This is a deal-breaker for us, and it’s only fair that I let you know. But really, you guys have been so good!” I lean up and stroke the chest of the nearest guy then settle back down onto my heels. “Okay, is everyone ready? Music please!”

* * *

Sarah’s mom didn’t work, and mine did, so we spent a lot of time at her house. As many times as I visited, her home always unnerved me. Her mom was nice, but her hair was suspiciously unkempt. The house was clean, but cold and damp, especially in the basement where we played. The rec room we spent most of our time in doubled as a guest room; sometimes we’d strip the blankets off the bed and make forts.

One day, bored, Sarah asked me if I wanted to play a new game. She closed the door of the room then went to the spare dresser. She pulled out several balls of exercise socks.

Sarah held one out to me out to me and said, “You can be the boy, and I’ll be the girl.” She demonstrated how, pushing two balls of socks up under her shirt. I followed suit, fitting a balled pair into the crotch of my pants. We lay down on the bed, considering. We fumbled around until I, being the small one, was on top of her. Our breath was shallow as we started to grind, to imitate our vague idea of sex.

“It’s sexier if you moan” She posited, and so we moaned. She was right. Her sock breasts rubbed against the sensitive skin of my flat chest. The knot of socks between my legs was awkward yet smoldering. I felt a tingling thrill mixed with the understanding that we were doing something wrong. If I’d known the word perverted, I’d have used it.

“Like this” She said, and pressed the back of her open palm to her pursed mouth, moving her head in circles to mimic a passionate kiss. I did the same, and we put our hands together. We grabbed each other. We held on.

* * *

A two-girl show on the back of a bus is not ideal. We’d had no chance to clean up, to lift baby wipes to our salty bodies, sticky with whipped cream and coke residue. No chance to check in one more time with her boundaries, to explain what we were going to do, how we were going to do it. Just follow my lead, I’d told her in the car on the way here. I’ll tell you what to do, I promise. I told her how we usually fake giving head, but that the insertion is real. I told her about breathing heavy and making out and faking orgasms at certain moments.

That was only two hours ago, but I can tell she is unsure and nervous. I can see the whites of her eyes. She’s never fucked a girl before, let alone for hire in front of a busful of coked-out, drunken 30-something professionals.

Massive Attack comes on over the stereo. I breathe deeply. I drop my eyelids halfway and let my exhale be audible, husky. I bring my hands to Bambi’s body and she’s lying there, still. She’s looking at me and waiting and I brush my fingers down her torso and then up to her breasts. I touch them and moan and realize that my performance is turning me on.

I’m obviously in charge. It’s role I relish, and it makes Bambi feel safe. I’m pulling her hair and telling her what to do in a sultry voice, but really I’m asking her, is this okay? How about this?

I pull off her clothes and then mine and I press my body against hers. I kiss the inside of her thigh. I present her pussy to the crowd then tongue around her clit, blond hair falling over my face. For effect, I wet my lips and moan again. She gets the idea, writhing under my touch.

We use a variety of toys on each other, my commands a steady murmur. Come here and use this on my clit. Not too hard. Yes. More. Like that. Good girl. Now turn around. You want this one? Like this? Harder? You’re such a good girl. She doesn’t say a word.

I remember those few times Sarah and I played our secret game.

I remember feeling warm and blurry, my body smudged with desire.

I remember the thrill of pretend.

I remember Sarah instructing me, showing me what to do, how to play.

I turn and grab our showstopper, a translucent pink double–headed dildo. I hand her a chocolate-flavored condom and hold the toy as she rolls it down the end with her lips. My little cockslut. Just like that. I do the same, showing her how to interlace her legs with mine as I fit the dildo between us. Within moments, we’re moving back and forth together. Appreciative gasps come from the crowd. Bambi follows my thrusts as I take her through a variety of positions, sometimes holding onto her hips, sometimes slapping her pale ass.

In a complicated but precise maneuver, we come to our hands and knees, and the men yell out, awed. I had told her in the car this was it, our finale. Slow down. Really slow. Perfect. Just like that, you sweet girl. Faster. My hand is on my clit and my head is bowed as we fuck, the smack of our skin loud and fast. Faster. Yes. Yes. And then I scream, grunt, buck, the dildo still sliding in and out of both of us. I can hear her slight noise underneath my own, feel the quake of her thighs. We slow. I reach back and ease the toy out of me, out of her. Here, like this, I say. And everyone claps as we put the toy into our mouths, tasting ourselves and the tangy remnants of chocolate flavoring.

After the last tips are showered onto our sweaty bodies, the men depart the bus to smoke. “Thank you,” Bambi says as we hunt for our clothes. I reach out. I touch her arm.

That's what you get.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 17:37:00 +0000

Yesterday my car battery decided to crap out in a strip mall parking lot. I was just stopping by, Gramma in tow, on my way home. Where was I? At the friendly, neighborhood porn shop. Of course.

I was plum out of fishnet thigh highs, and I had a party scheduled for early evening. So I thought I'd make a quick stop, grab the desired hosiery (plus some flavored condoms and a new vibrator, since I was there, and hey, I was low), then be on my way.

Nope. Two hours later, the tow truck finally arrived and was actually able to jump my car into life. Thank christ.

Before calling AAAA, I'd solicited the help of a dude with a big-ass truck and a fine set of tools but, as the tow truck dude explained, even a a big-ass truck's alternator isn't necessarily powerful enough to charge a battery as completely kaput as mine was.

Thank you, tow truck man. I was able to successful drop my gramma off with my sister in time to make a late yet successful appearance at the bachelor party I had scheduled.

Also, thanks to the dude with the large truck. I'm grateful for the help, even if it didn't work, and especially considering how you were recovering from the 'bomb-ass' mushroom trip you'd taken the day before. Plus the quote of the day, said chuckling as you scrubbed my car battery's knobby things with a wire brush, "That's what you get for taking your gramma to the porn shop. That's some kinky shit".

Blink blink blink.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 23:40:00 +0000

I have these new shoes that I can't get enough of. They're corny black stripper heels with little pink motion-sensor-activated LED lights inside of them that flash and blink.

Best response to them yet as I was rolling around on the floor at a bachelor party last weekend:

"Oh my god. It's like a light show with boobs."

Happy Anniversary to Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 22:05:00 +0000

It's been 9 years this months since I started taking off my clothes for money. Hot damn.

Sorry for the long absences, folks. I started this blog when I began my forray into working bachelor parties a little over two years ago (I'm too lazy to look up the date of my first post, sorry). My main reason for wanting to write here was because I didn't immediately feel like I had a place to process the new experiences I was having, especially given the bizarre contrast they had with the other ways I was spending my time.

Honestly, my shyness around my primarily non-sex-industry friends lasted all of five seconds, and I was quickly able to talk (read: ramble) to them about the parties and shows I worked; this has been the primary way I mentally ground myself and integrate what I do into my life. This translated to my initial craving to carve out an anonymous space for myself to write about this stuff pretty much evaporating.

That said, I've truly enjoyed sharing my stories and creating bonds with other sex workers, writers, and random folks through this blog.

I know I'm a bad, bad blogger, and it totally sounds like I'm about to shut this puppy down, but I'm not. I'm just giving y'all a heads up that, even though my visits are extrememly infrequent, I'm still around.

I fantasize about spending more time writing down the things I do or see, but I'm easily distracted by the many other things going on in my life. Don't give up on me yet.

Now: Since you've sat through a boring blog update, I'll reward you with a few sentences about a party I worked this last Saturday.

First of all, I left my glasses there. Lame. It was in the back room of a restaurant in a nearby working-class suburb (a block from Ikea, of all places), and a short mostly-aggravating experience that ending when my partner and I got a last minute booking and when the handjob requests turned to blowjob requests (stay classy, fellas).

Despite being what I would call a more unsucessful show overall, there were some good moments. My favorite, in its absurdity and because of how much it made my partner laugh, was when I was doing a trick on the bachelor I call 'Feed the Kitty'. Not for the faint of heart, 'Feed the Kitty' involves the bachelor laying on the floor face up with a 20 dollar bill creased lengthwise and sitting, tented, on his nose. I stand with my stiletto-clad feet planted on either side of his head, and then squat down to retrieve the bill with my 'kitty'. This involves a good thirty seconds of wriggling around on the bachelor's face to ensure said bill will actually come back up with me when I stand.

Yes, this looks and sounds pretty obscene, but let me assure you that it looks/sounds worse than it is, and in the moments where I am, for all intents and purposes, sitting on the guy's face, my legs are closed, and the only thing a misbehaving, tongue-waggling recipient of this game has access to are the backs of my legs. In reality, the dirtiest part of this trick is the filthy, filthy money touching the outside of my vulva. I deal with this with hefty doses of denial.

It's usally a win-win. The bachelor (or whoever else decides to purchase this for himself) loves it, the crowd loves it, it looks good, and it's a quick way of making 20 bucks.

On saturday, however, the bachelor couldn't keep the twenty on his nose (it does take a peck of concentration, something drunk boys usually lack), so my cohort snatched the bill off his face and spritzed a dollop of whip cream into the center of it before slapping it back down on his nose. So I try again, and am five seconds into my showy hip-wriggling when the bachelor throws me off of him, heaves himself up, and promptly vomits into a pint glass.

So. Whipped cream up drunk bachelor's nose + my girl bits in his face = puke.

Don't worry, I'm not taking it personally.

Sweet Sixteen

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 09:24:00 +0000

I'm already sweating. I breathe, and adjust the bows on my side-tie g-string. I’m listening through the door for my music to start, and I can hear the kids grumbling about wanting to play their own music on the stereo I brought. The mom is surprisingly convincing, claiming she just picked it up at the store and wants to try to out herself first. I think I can hear the first few measures of ‘Rock Steady.’

I knock, loudly, three times.

There’s muttering and shuffling and then the birthday boy opens the door. I stand grinning in the doorway, school-girl skirt and white button-down shirt over shiny black boots and red fishnets.

His mouth opens. Success. The kid is surprised.

“Oh my god, is that a stripper?” is just one of the exclamations I catch from the poker table of highschoolers as I saunter inside, trying not to trip on my boots. The guest of honor is dazed, all freckles and too-long hair and over-large shirt. Jesus, he looks like a baby.

He might as well be. It’s his 16th birthday. I’m ushering him towards the empty chair near couch and trying to figure out how I got talked into working a stripper-gram for a 16-year-old kid, bought and paid for by none other than his mom. Likely a combination horror and intense curiosity. Plus it’s work, and in this economy, I try not to turn down a booking.

I plop him into the seat and introduce myself. The mother is in the corner, frenetically snapping away with her digital point and shoot. The rest of the crowd includes 5 or 6 high school sophomores, and I can’t really tell them apart. I vamp and dance a little and spin. I climb into the kid’s lap, press his face into my sternum. Sorry kid, I’m thinking.

I’m pretty sure I’m not doing anything illegal. My bra stays on for the whole twenty-five minutes that I’m dancing. And just to be safe, I’m wearing two pairs of underwear. I’d considered stripping down to my g-string before the show started, tying it around my hips before pulling my slinky red bootyshorts up over it, but one look at the phones immediately glued to the guests’ hands and I decide I don’t need the whole of my ass plastered over their Myspace pages.

The entirety of my brief performance, I’m worried I’m going to do something that crosses the line. He’s a virgin, after all. At least that’s what his mom had said to me on the phone when discussing the details of the surprise. My first reaction was, “Well, that’s what she thinks”, but after I meet him I don’t disagree with her assessment. Except. Watching him watch me and my body, I can’t help but think he’s incredibly self-possessed. Many men in the position he’s in now – the center of attention, a strange, nearly-naked girl in and out of his lap – are at least a little embarrassed. Some are downright uncomfortable. This boy is surprisingly unfazed.

I lay him on the ground and strip off his shirt. I straddle him and pull out a blue marker. “Draw a penis!” one of his friends goads. Um, not with his mom watching. Instead I write a happy birthday message and leave a lip-gloss imprint of my mouth in the small his back. Then I spank him with the belt I’d collected before I laid him down. The crowd goes nuts, of course. Even though it’s mostly light thwacks across his clothed butt, it still makes an impressive sound when I bring the belt down on his young backside. Everyone, including his mom, loves it.

I send him back to the chair and do my dance, back and forth, ass to face, boobs to face, body to floor. Open my legs, slap the inside of my thigh, repeat. I’m trying to keep it light, so every time I straddle him I remember not to grind or lean in too close and breath into his ear, the way that I’ve learned. Instead I’m comical, bouncing up and down on his lap in an exaggerated display of sexuality. I’m trying to make it clear that I don’t really mean it, that I would not actually get it on with this kid at little too close to being half my age.

* * *

I’m finally down to my bra and bootyshorts and I run out of things to do. I’ve gone through my routine once, and I’m pretty sure I’m expected to provide at least 1 or 2 more songs of naughty entertainment.

So I draw a large flower on his bare chest. I lay him on the ground and spank him with my hands. I flip him over so he’s lying face up and ease the length of my body down the length of his. I back up, my knees on either side of his head, my ass now hovering above his face. I shake it gingerly, still trying to not go too far, aware that we are in a classic ‘69’ position. I try like hell to keep my head away from his crotch while I place his hands on my ass and the crowd hoots and hollers. The sophomore sitting directly behind us yodels his appreciation, and I hear the electronic ‘shutter’ of his cameraphone go off 5 or 6 times, my ass--I’m sure--pre-eminent in the frame.

In fact, throughout the show, every time I turn to face the crowd, I’m confronted by a gaggle of greasy teens watching my show through the screens of their cell phones. They take as many pictures as their phones will hold. One or two of them are taking video.

“Crap,” One of them mutters, “The memory’s all full.”

And I overhear a brief discussion comparing the merits of each of their electronic devices as I move from the birthday boy’s lap to a brief floor show.

My lingering impressions are of the cameras, and of the mother talking as I dance for her son. Ever-encouraging, she yells out advice in between the flashes of her camera:

“Put your face in her boobs!”

“She has a great butt, doesn’t she? Spank her again!”

“Grab her more, take advantage of it!”

I think we’re both trying to ignore her.

* * *

The last song on my playlist is halfway over, so it’s time to break out my finale. Unfortunately, I did my last trick 10 minutes early, before repeating my whole routine. No matter. I’ll do it again.

I set him up for what I call the stripper flip (a.k.a lap headstand). I pull his butt to the edge of the chair. I open his legs and position his feet so they make sturdy contact with the ground. I lean in and draw his torso into a stable upright position, campily smooshing his face into my chest as I do so. “Ready?” I grin. He’s ready. After all, we just did this.

I face him. I plant my hands on his knees and bend at the waist to put my head down between his legs. I wiggle. And then I kick up, momentum throwing my legs and core upside down, my pantied crotch landing directly under his chin as my legs move into an open v. Exactly as I had before. This time, however, I next wrap my legs around his head and buck violently. The small crowd explodes into noise. I hold my pose for a moment while the final pictures are taken, then I gracefully tumble back to the ground, tossing my hair as I stand.

They clap, I curtsy. Then it’s hugs all around before the mom walks me back to the upstairs bathroom where she’d originally snuck me in to change.

One thing she says to me as I’m leaving: “I’m glad you were a sweet girl and not a yucky girl.”

And, after I make a comment about it being an experience for this kid to remember, she launches into, “Yeah, especially thanks to his friends and their phones. By Monday, I expect those clips to be all over their high school.”

I can’t hide my startled look. “That was the whole point,” she laughs. I recover with a smile, shake her hand, and am on my way, chuckling the whole car ride home.

* * *

Addendum:

I’m going to leave this story here, the way it is, but I want to say that it’s more complicated than I originally wrote. I made a decision in that split second when I walked into the room and saw what the gig really was (mugging for those kids’ phones, for this mother’s chintzy digital point and shoot); I made the decision that it didn’t matter. That I not only accepted being photographed but endorsed it. It feels dishonest to let you think that it was this was easy thing. I’m not saying I regret it either, because I don’t. It’s just not as clear as all that. But I don’t really have the words to talk about it right now. Maybe soon?

Showtime.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Thu, 14 May 2009 22:10:00 +0000

There is a pause in the sound like a breath. I scan the crowd innocently, poised and waiting.

And I crack the belt down on his body.

A blast of cheers.

He struggles beneath me and I pull back with the belt.

Again, it flies through the air to scream like a shot against his skin.

The noise from the crowd makes the walls shake.

Unlike private shows, bachelor parties are usually a light-hearted affair. The nudity is entertaining and fun and distanced from any deeply repressed feelings about sexuality. We play games and tell jokes and above all it’s a party. An opportunity for a group of friends to reminisce and high-five and buy each other lapdances in celebration of one particular man’s good fortune.

My first few shows, I watched my stripper cohorts with an open mouth, trying to absorb the power of their performances. While I admired my coworkers’ dancing, it was the way a crowd of men would hang on a single word or a gesture that was most humbling. I’ve always been a good performer one-on-one, but this new rowdy, rough-and-tumble environment scared me to death. When it came my turn to dance, I quietly held on to whatever was close and tried my best not to fall down.

Now I can hold myself steady before a show, stepping out of my nerves and into my shiny black boots. I relax by rolling thigh highs over my knees. I’ve learned to trust the grace of the lines I create with my body, to thrust my small voice out into the room with enough confidence that they’ll have to listen to me.

During the show, I’m a cartoon version of myself, donning miniature lycra garments and then shedding them one at a time. I take refuge in the characters I play, and it becomes an easy thing to adapt to the crowd. I can chirp or giggle or shriek in delight. I can pout and persuade. When called for, I negotiate. I navigate unwanted hands or cranky asides and guide these men back into having a jolly time. For a fee.

It’s all in the script, this loose outline my coworkers and I have planned out in advance that makes it a comfortable thing to walk into a house full of strangers and be naked for money. We tailor our show to each crowd, and do our best to ensure the bachelor and his friends have the most fun and give us the most money in the shortest amount of time.

It can be a sweaty, grueling endeavor. Wet and pulse-quickening. My knees and lower back are often sore at the end of a long night, my skin sticky with remnants of whipped cream or booze. I ache from the constant attention and my persistent, exaggerated posture.

Honestly, I can take or leave the hustle. It’s not really my skill or my preference, though I’m better at it than I used to be. This is a job, and I do it for the money. For the tired, quick, satisfied sorting of cash after a show. We dig through bags of crumpled bills and deftly unfold and sort them face-up into piles. The satisfaction a stack of money brings after a good show is undeniable.

And yet.

It’s the moment with the belt that thrills me. While it’s just another recited line from our script, it’s in those few seconds when I hold their attention with the most authority.

I’ll straddle the guest of honor, belt thick and eager in my hands.

I'll cast my doe-eyed faux hesitation around the room and they'll scream for more. The crowd roars and guffaws as red welts start to emerge on the bachelor’s backside.

And again, one last stinging crack of the belt against his skin.

Cranky stripper.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 09:09:00 +0000

Seriously guys? I love my job. In so many different ways.

But a lame night is still a lame night.

The party I worked tonight probably would have made me a little cranky no matter what happened. While they were mostly cute, late-20's professionals, there were far too many of them. As in a fuckton of them. And mostly drunk, mostly not tipping us more than one dollar bills the whole time we were there. Plus, because of the sheer number of them crammed into such a small space, we were pretty much grabbed, pinched, spanked, and motor-boated everytime we turned around. Sure, it's kind of the name of the game, but we expect to get paid better. Usually we do.

And in this case, becuase of how long the show was (it was a three hour minimun booking because of a poker tournament that we were dealing), it was freaking exhausting.

But whatever, it was fine. It was maybe a little annoying in the way that big, long, poorly-tipping parties can be, but it was fine.

Except that someone stole some of my clothes. As in went into the room where we were keeping our stuff and randomly took out several pieces of my stripper costumes from my bag. And from my partner's bag too.

I never, ever leave my stuff in the room I change in. As a rule, I always keep my bag in my sightline while I perform. Just like I always put the door fee into one of the boots that I'm wearing. They're just smart habits I picked up from some pros when I first started, and I've never had a problem with either my stuff or my money getting fucked with.

Until tonight. I'm totally aggravated at myself for trusting the guy who lived there when he said that he was going to lock our stuff in his room for us so we didn't have to worry about it. But he was insistent and we didn't have anything of 'real' value in our bags - no wallet, phones, money, etc, so we figured it'd be easier. And really, it wasn't as feasible to keep our bags with us as it usually is.

We confronted both him and the actual host (who was really nice and rightfully mortified that someone would have the nerve to take some of our stuff) about it, but no luck. They supposedly asked around, but whoever did it - I'm guessing either as a drunk joke (look! stripper clothes! hilarious!), or - more likely - as a pervy, fetish-y thing, didn't fess up. Honestly, I'm pretty certain it was the guy whose room it was, the one who 'locked up' for us, who randomly filched my two favorite stripper outfits (why my favorites?? Why couldn't you have taken the other two in the bag???) while we were dealing poker.

So yeah. I'm fucking cranky. And if anyone has any advice on the best online place to get an awesome replacement schoolgirl skirt, let me know. I'd appreciate it.

Neighborly.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 07:37:00 +0000

Yesterday was a beautiful day. I mention this because the last few days have not been so nice in my fair city, and, as anyone knows, a beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon following a good number of dark and rainy days is the recipe for people to be outside and congenial with each other.

So I went for a run. I warmed up by walking down to one of my favorite urban trails through a couple of pleasant, mostly residential neighborhoods. Tons of people were gardening or cleaning their garages or just hanging around outside smiling at the people who walked by. It was lovely. I returned a greeting from the man weeding on the corner. I said hello to the woman pulling grocery sacks out of her trunk. I grinned at people as they smiled at me.

I was a block away from where I like to start my run. I looked at the man on his stoop as he laced up his shoes. Almost imprectibly, I smiled.

"FUCK YOU, bitch. FUCK YOU." He screamed at me. He kept screaming at me as I continued past him. I could hear him as I walked by a mother and her two children walking in the opposite direction on the sidewalk. We exchanged a shared look of 'Ah. Well, what can you do.' as we passed each other. Her two young daughters were distracted and oblivious, happily tuning him out as they debated the flowers in each other's hair.

The only reason I bring this up is because I remember when a random (sane-looking) person yelling obscentities at me would have really hurt my feelings. Even if I'd rationally understood that it wasn't personal (how could it be?), that knowledge wouldn't have mattered. I probably would've been haunted by the experience. Or at least genuinely preoccupied and concerned about what I might have done that caused that man's reaction.

I think I've just been a stripper a long time. Or maybe I'm just older. Either way, I appreciate my ability to let things roll of my back. I appreciate my growing understanding of people, and my ability to step back and be objective.

Just wanted to share. My next post will in acknowledgement of a blogger award I got from one of my favorite stripper-blogger friends (thanks Sakura!) Since all of the blogs I read regularly have already been tagged, I'm trying to cull different blogs that I enjoy so that I can share their goodness with you. Should be soon, but no promises.

Looking.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 23:09:00 +0000

I’ve been preoccupied, lately, by the pieces of a man’s body.

For example. The three moles not exactly on his right side, on the soft hairless skin that shows over his ribs when he lifts his arms. They’re nearly equidistant, an inch apart, lined up from smallest to largest. The moles are just three out of many, but they’re my favorite.

Which makes me remember --

It’s after work, a long night of dancing, one bachelor party, one private show, and I come home to him naked on my bed. I stand there and just look at him.

It’s clear without saying anything that I want to stay clothed, to remain off display. I am done, at this moment, with people looking at me. So he concentrates on my eyes while I look at the whole of him. We are quiet and I just look. And I touch his side. I find those moles.

The next night. At the end of a first date with a different man. I bring him home and up to my room, despite the fatigue. At first I barely touch him. But I take off his coat, and then his soft collared shirt. And I look at him. I spend an hour, two hours, looking at him. Maybe turning him around in my hands. Maybe moving him toward and away from the light.

Again, I don’t reveal myself. First I need to investigate, to search his body for clues.

I’m not a shy person. I’ve been taking my clothes off for a living for over eight years. But even as this moment is happening, I recognize shyness in myself, a temporary need for privacy.

Maybe it’s spurred by an observation this man makes while laying supine on my bed, propped on his elbows. I’m kneeling next to him - knees apart, back arched, ass jutted, face inclined – automatic gestures of my sex-kitten self, and he frowns at me, “I feel like you’re performing.”

And so I am. I don’t want to be, so I un-arch my back, draw in my knees. And I remove the rest of his clothing and look at him, learn his shape and the turn of his body with my fingers.

I look at him until I’ve mapped the jagged scar on his left arm and the birthmark on his thigh. Until I’ve seen each of the curling blond hairs that blanket his warm skin. I keep looking until I am no longer afraid of falling into character.

After spending much of my work life with people looking at me, going over the details of my lovers’ bodies pulls me away from a hyperawareness of my own body. Their markings and scars are immediate and real, and exist in stark contrast to my role as a fantasy girl. Looking at them is one way I differentiate between the fantasies I’m paid to construct and the genuine intimacy of being with a person I choose. Looking anchors me back into reality, one where I’m not always on display. I can relax, and unfasten myself from the parts I play, and just. Look.

44 dollars. Part two.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 07:24:00 +0000

I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to dwell on this story.

The night I was writing about, there were never more than 10 or 12 customers in the club at once, and there were, count 'em, 25 performers. On a Thursday night.

Maybe this is normal around here. I kind of got that impression. The men weren't buying, and the women were working pretty dang hard. There were more than a few women who left owing house that night. Sheesh. I can't think of many things that will fuck up your sense of self-worth more than working as hard as you can for 5, 6, 8 hours, and then actually owing money at the end of the night. And that's not even taking into account the constant rejection that you're dealing with while you're working. Fuck that.

I worked the next day as well, a Friday, from 2pm until around 11pm, and it was better because a peepshow regular came in to check it out. We had a lovely time together, and he paid me well enough to make my experiment in local clubs worthwhile. That said, after he left I stuck around for another 5 hours, seeing if I'd do any better than the evening before. I sold two dances. I left when I realized that there were 25 girls clocked on, and another 8-10 in the dressing room still getting ready. No thanks.

Anyway, let's just say I've figured out that the club scene here and my skill set don't mix. Maybe if I had more patience, I could learn to adapt. But my time is valuable, and I'm not interested in wasting it if I can help it.

So. Bachelor parties, private shows, the peeps. That's what work means for me at the moment. That's fine. I'm busy, and wasn't relishing the idea of keeping a 24/hr a week schedule at the club anyway. Too much commitment.

Say my name.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 03:56:00 +0000

Oh honey, oh baby. Oh honey.

Oh sweetie.

Sugar.

Baby.

Honey.

* * * *

When I first started working as a stripper, I spent a week figuring out what I would call myself.

I made lists. I wrote down the names of family pets, alive and dead. I skimmed over baby books. I flipped through fairytales and my favorites books for inspiration. I asked my friends for advice, and gauged their reactions as I slowly sounded out each choice from my list. I tried names on like hats while I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing how they fit.

At the end of the week, through some complicated and now indecipherable process of elimination, I chose a name.

There came a point in those first few months of stripping when I started to realize that I used this new name far more than I used my own. Because how many times a day do you say your own name? When you’re a stripper, it can be almost constantly. Some days, I introduce myself 20 times in one hour. Of course, some days I only have to say it once.

That first year, it was confusing. I was still unpracticed at compartmentalizing between one identity and another. At parties, people would catch me off balance by asking me what my name was and I’d pause, blink, consider.

Now, eight years and several stage names later, I can slip like a cat in and out of different characters. I’m myself at school or the gym or taking my gramma to church. In between I’m [stage name], emailing a customer or dancing naked on stage. I’m [other stage name] on the phone with a bachelor party contact, or laughing with a coworker. And so on.

Still, I shouldn’t be surprised at the pleasure I take in hearing my real name spoken out loud.

Today, I was reminded of one of my bike-racer conquests (I have a thing for men in spandex). What I remember most about him is how he said my real name over and over again in hushed and awestruck tones while I moved over him in bed. Those whisperings, almost more than the act itself, drove me deeper and faster, desire catching on my breath.

How evocative, how intimate, it is when a person looks at you and says your name.

Say it to me and I feel seen, recognized. And if there’s something that I crave - as a person who works in an industry that demands disguise, in a job that requires I project someone who is not quite myself into the crowd – it is to be seen, to be recognized.

* * * *

My name is Honey. What’s your name?

I chose Honey for a reason. It’s absurd and stereotypical. It’s fake hair and nails and tits and all the things I’m not. It’s what you call me automatically when you forget my name.

You aren’t meant to believe me, and you often don’t. You’ll ask me again and again, “Tell me your name. Your real name,” And I’ll laugh or smile or bend closer to your ear and say my stage name again. “It’s a childhood nickname,” I’ll lie. “It’s for the color of my hair, the only blond in my family.” Not a lie, but close to it.

Or maybe you’ll hold my hand for a lingering second after I introduce myself, waiting for an explanation. “Honey, like honeysuckle,” I purr and laugh, and you’ll know that I’m not taking myself too seriously.

I understand why you want to know. As the naked one in the room, I already have an advantage. It’s not fair that you sit there exposed, the longing plain on your face, while I get to slink away anonymously.

A name is a powerful thing.

Your name in my mouth is like a promise. I’ll use it on you like a spell while I dance or move or twist in my chair. Whereas my name is my costume, yours is another revelation, another part of you laid bare.

So go ahead. Trust me. Tell me your name. Listen as I breathe it into your ear. If you’re patient, if you can wait, maybe I’ll even tell you mine.

Ah yes.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 10:35:00 +0000

I'm trying out some new looks. If you like it or hate it, let me know.

Red is my favorite color, fyi.

44 dollars. Part One.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 09:31:00 +0000

First.

Months ago, I checked out the club. I brought my friend and made nice with a couple of the girls who gave me the skinny. We went on a Monday and boy, was it dead.

Even though there weren't more than four or five single men dwarfed by the emptiness of the club, I looked at each one and thought, yes, you would give me money.

I imagined them smiling at me as I sauntered up, could feel the bills they would press into my palm, eyes focused and longing. Not easy like pie, I thought, but possible.

Second.

I considered and reconsidered.

Every state, every city has different legal requirements of their strippers, and mine had enough to give me pause. I paused. After two months of consideration, I decided to go ahead.

Like many clubs, the one I chose to try gives new dancers a number of free days, or days where one is not required to pay 'stage rent.' I figured I'd go through my free days and re-evaulate.

If I made money, I would continue this new thing, working at a club in my city. If not, I would stop. Bachelor parties and private shows are infinitely preferable, though unfortunately inconsistant. Plus there's always the peepshow.

Third.

Last Thursday. My first shift. I decided to go in at the last minute, clocked in by 9:30 after going over a lengthy contract with the night manager. I had stripperfied before leaving my house, my make-up and hair pretty much as hot as I could manage. I felt good and powerful and ready to try my game at this new place. Just five days earlier, I'd worked three (relatively short) shows in one night, earning 6 dollars shy of a grand. Nothing like the memory of a good night at work to bolster yourself for the one you're about to start.

I stayed for 4 and a half hours. I went into the dressing room twice. Once to pee and re-gloss my lips, and once to scarf a banana.

I talked to every single customer who came in. I did my thing. I flirted, teased, made cute small talk and asked interested questions.

After I realized that most girls were climbing into the laps of the people they were talking to, I started climbing into laps. After I realized that most (like 95%) of the girls were walking around the club in string bikini tops and thongs, I took off my school-girl skirt and the tiny white stomach-bearing shirt I was wearing over my bra.

I worked my ass off, as best as I know how, putting my 8 years of stripping experience to use.

I made 44 dollars.

* * *

It makes me tired just thinking about it. There's more to tell, but sleep and homework call.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Have you voted yet?

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 01:39:00 +0000

I'm home, and so happy to be here.

Being gone is great because it's an adventure, because you're unsure and out of place and you get to miss where you're from.

I like leaving so I can come back.

I have stories of Philly, of working six shifts at a club called Oasis. Of champagne courts and tiger-striped carpet and so many Souf-Philly slash New York slash Jersey accents. Of being this girl in glasses with my not-tan and no accent and the white thigh highs that I didn't realize would get so freaking dirty from being on stage.

It's not that I didn't do well - I used my difference to my advantage, telling cute stories about how I had just moved to Philly from my West Coast hometown (yeah, I was totally lying. I'm an asshole. I was afraid management wouldn't hire me if I'd told them it was only for a week. Which meant that I had to keep the charade up for my six shifts, just in case. Talk about exhausting. Lying sucks.). It's just that I was so out of place, so obviously new and trying to navigate this foreign environment while making some money and not pissing anyone off. Success, I think.

It was fascinating. Exhuasting. I hated it and loved it. And now I'm home, wondering for the first time since I started stripping eight years ago if I should try working at one of my local clubs. In fact, I'm dragging a skeptical friend to one of said clubs tonight. If we both approve (which is perhaps unlikely) I'm going to give it a shot.

I've never considered working here before because they all have such lousy reputations. Rumor has it all the clubs are mobbed up or full of drugs or girls doing extras out in the open for very little money. One club in particular gets raided by the local PD on a regular basis, which means either arrests or hefty tickets. And let's not forget the standard complaints about stripclubs which seem to be more often repeated here: too many girls, a dwindling customer base, exorbitant stage fees... Et cetera.

So why now?

Because working in Philly was challenging, and yet I could handle it. Even thrive on it a little. And having just recently compared notes with peepshow friends who've tried the local scene, I'm starting to realize that the clubs here might not be nearly as bad as what I experienced in Philly. Yes, the stage fees are high, but it's a lump sum, as opposed to the common Philly practice of taking a large chunk out of whatever you sell.

Customer pays $190 for a half hour in the Champagne courts? House takes $90. Seriously. Best case scenario there, without tipping, you can make up to $200 an hour. Coming from a bachelor party background, that seems looow. Especially since the majority of customers I encountered not only expected to feel up your breasts in a $20 lap dance (of which you keep $15, less if you're paid in the club's funny money), but that they could put them in their mouths. Um, yeah. Lame. Not only that, but at least half of the people I spent time with also had a strong expectation that they would be allowed/encouraged to come in their fucking pants during a string of lapdances, especially in the champagne courts.

What. The fuck.

Anyway, it sounds like my west coast city is not nearly as skeezy on the whole as I thought it was, as least comparatively. I hate to get too excited, but here's hoping the club tonight doesn't suck. I know it's sometimes hard to tell as a customer, but maybe some of the girls won't mind giving me the lowdown if I buy some lapdances.

I'll elaborate more on the club I check out tonight and on working in Philly when I'm not totally and COMPLETELY distracted by the fucking election. I've been obsessively reading political blogs for months and now it's almost tomorrow. I'm only posting at all so I can stop obsessively refreshing all of those blogs, so I can take a breath and not think about it. Obviously it's not working.

So, anyway, if you haven't done it yet. GO VOTE. Unless you're one of those people who doesn't use an absentee ballot, in which case, come tomorrow, GO VOTE.

If I could, I'd give you all free lapdances as a reward for voting, because I want to encourage it was much as possible.

So, like I said. GO VOTE.

Phew.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 07:19:00 +0000

Wow.

I can't believe how exhausted I am. How exhausting that was.

I just worked my first shift at a real strip club. I got hired yesterday morning at the first club I auditioned at, and let's just say it's been an interesting two days. But now I'm tired enough that I'm trying not to cry, so I'm going to hold off on talking more about it. Plus, in case any of my stripclub cohorts (managers, customers, other strippers) keep up with dancer blogs, I've decided that I'm going to save the juicy details until after I get back to the West Coast.

I will say that working this one shift makes me really fucking appreciate bachelor parties. Tonight I worked my ass off for 5 hours and made what I would consider mediocre to medium money if I had made it at a 1-2 hour long bachelor party. Dude. And I only took one break, to pee and scarf a banana so I didn't pass out. Plus I was the last girl in the couch dance area, and the last girl on stage.

I can't remember if I mentioned that I'm going out of town with my very best friend tomorrow (the one who I'm visiting), but I am (Just checked, and yes I did mention it. Okay then.). To a place with a beach. We're very excited. I foresee a great many embarrassingly large drinks with umbrellas in my future.

More stripclub experiences are to be had after we get back, since I'm staying in Philly for an extra week for the sole purpose of working. Maybe a week off after this one night will lead to a hustling revelation and when I get back the customers will chase after me, fistfuls of 20s and 100s in their hands, begging to gently glide the bills into my g-string. One can always hope.

Out and About.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 20:10:00 +0000

So I'm in Philadelphia.

I'm on vacation for a few weeks visiting my most awesome best friend. We're going on this random trip to Jamaica on Saturday (!!!) for a few days, and then I'm going to hang out in Philly for a week or so and try to work.

I actually have my first honest-to-goodness real strip club audition tomorrow morning.

I'm scared out of my mind. Maybe nervous is a better word for it. However you would describe that feeling you get when you're talking in front of people (and you have a soul-sucking fear of public speaking) and your body shakes and your cheeks are hot and you can't hear what you're even saying - that's kind of what I'm battling when I think about auditioning/working at a real strip club. Um, so yeah. No biggie.

My original plan was to audition somewhere today, try to pick up a few shifts before leaving on Saturday. In fact, I still may try to do that. But I don't have any gowns (what is this whole gown club the girls on stripperweb speak of? Seriously? Gowns?) and I'm pretty sure most of the Philly clubs I'm interested in require a freaking gown.

My new plan for this evening: Attempting to quelch this whole-body panic thing by going to the gym. Nothing like some major sweat time to steady my nerves (and wake my body up after my 10 hour travel day yesterday, 13 if you count the time change).

About tomorrow (or, you know, maybe tonight) - Wish me luck!

Hilarious.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 20:29:00 +0000

Something I never thought I'd want to do: Be a cop.

So it's pretty funny that today, on a whim, I signed up to take the next written exam for my local police department.

I don't know much about cops or police departments other than what I've gleaned from Law and Order: SVU, or from my firefighter relative's anecdotal comments about working with the local PD at fires or medical responses. I imagine that my ideas about what it means to be an anesthesiologist or a farrier or an astronaut are less fraught with stereotypes and misconceptions, and I know absolutely nothing about what having those jobs mean to one's life experience.

I have never, ever, ever been interested in being a cop. Or holding a gun or getting yelled at or shot at or whatever. Particularly as a child, I was easily spooked, and I still have issues with suspenseful movies. As much as I'd like to watch a scary scene, the impulse to cover my ears and hide behind a pillow is still, at the age of 28, pretty overwhelming.

Not to mention the ludicrous notion of a stripper-turned-cop. That idea keeps making me laugh, for some reason. Maybe just because it's me, and the whole pillow over the face thing is so prominent in my mind when I think of guns.

Therefore, It's highly unlikely that I'll actually become a police officer. But hell - I figured going through their (mercifully brief) exam process might be interesting. It goes to illustrate the vast disparity in career popularity that, while the fire department's application process takes from 12 to 18+ months long, with thousands of applicants each year, the local PD does the bulk of their testing in two days. The written and physical tests are on the same day, with the oral boards taking place the following day. Cake, comparatively. Not only that, but aside from the fairly massive local advertising campaign designed to drum up qualified police department applicants, I hear the local PD is advertising pretty heavily in all of the major east coast cities as well.

The tests aren't for a month and half, but I'll be sure to let you know how they go. In any case, I've got to get down to the peeps for my shift. I have a new regular that has been in every private booth I've had for the last two months. I'm working on a post about him, though I'm not sure I can put it up. He's well known to most of my coworkers (some of whom read this) and I want to respect his privacy. We'll see.

***

Q: What do police officers and firefighters have in common?

A: They all want to be firefighters.

- old firefighter joke that I first heard from a cop who is going through the fire department application process.

Working it out.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 21:49:00 +0000

So I'm feeling some upheaval brewing, folks. Maybe it's just that my fucking cat is still missing (we've had two more calls about her, but people don't seem to notice my posters until a day or two after they saw her. Not helpful. Hopeful, yes, but not actually getting her back to me. Christ). Maybe I need to rearrange the furniture in my room. Or have some great sex. Or make some art. Maybe it's that firefighting is losing some of its gleam as a fantasy career for me.

Check it: I haven't lifted weights in over two weeks.

I haven't not lifted weights in that long since I started training almost three years ago. I even managed to find a big gay camp with a big gay gym at Burning Man that I lifted at in 95+ degree weather. But since I've been home?

Can't. Make. Myself. Go.

It's not that I'm a slug. I've gone to my weekly spin class twice, gone on several bike rides, runs, have even done my dreaded stairs-with-a-weight-vest workout that makes my calves quake with fear at the thought of it. Other than that, all I've managed to do is toy with my standard core workout once or twice, slog through some pullups at my house, and half-heartedly attempt some pushups. That's it.

I see this as a sign of my enthusiasm waning. While in the past, I may not have been in love with the idea of working out as a whole, I always enjoyed lifting weights and paying particular attention to strengthening my upper body and core. Being strong and fit is a pretty big source of pride, even if I'm not nearly as strong and fit as I'd need to be if I were going through, say, a fire acadmey.

I hesitate to theorize as to why I'm suddenly not passionate and eager to pursue my dream, so to speak.

Instead, how about I post some pictures of me from Burning Man? I'd call these a reward for y'all after having to read my griping and missing kitty pleas, but I think in reality it's more that I'm showing off. Think of it as proof to myself that I am strong, and that continuing my training is a worthwhile endeavor. Because, seriously, those back muscles were not easily achieved (ahem - props, anyone?), yet could be very easily lost.

I thought you guys would appreciate that complete color shift between my desert-tanned upper half, and my desert-tanned-yet-dust-covered lower half. These pictures were taken in the midst of a dust storm. My campmate and I were actually fairly dust-free, given we were loitering and playing around in this rad free-standing wood structure that some Oregon strippers built, complete with a pole and stage, and a bar. One of the saucy ladies even gave me a short lesson on the pole. I may be a natural, as graceless as I am. Fun stuff despite the massive bruising, blisters, and soreness.

This picture on the right is a good example of how much dust is constantly in the air.

Any time your camera's flash goes off, it reflects the colossal amount of particulate matter suspended in the air all the time, with or without a dust storm.

Here's one more. One of my work outfits that doubled well as a BM day costume

Anyway, I think that's it for now. I'll be less grumpy tomorrow. I'm going on a hike. It's been beautiful in my city for weeks. I'm soaking it up. As for tonight, I have a bachelor party way out in the stix, almost two hours away. Unfortunately, I've done a show for these people before. Smoking, penny-pinching pet-owners who refuse to keep their large dogs out of the room while we're doing our show. Not like it matters - the floor was so thick with animal hair, it almost made the wood floor bearable to kneel on. To be honest, if I'd been told who they were when asked if I wanted to book the show, I'd have turned it down. That's not to say I won't go in with my game face and a good, friendly attitude; I'm just not expecting it to go that well, financially or otherwise. But hey - money is money, and at least I won't be disappointed.

Possibly excellent.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 23:23:00 +0000

In the face of two particularly obnoxious bachelor parties last night (if I have the energy, I'll bitch about them later, but really - as my roommates can attest to - you probably don't want to listen to me complain about them), I did not wake up in the best of moods. Until, that is, I got a message from someone who is 99% certain they saw my cat last night, stumpy/fluffy tail and all, a good 20 blocks from where I live. I just spent the morning and afternoon roaming around on my bike, flyering and yodeling my cat's name.

I had given up, and now there's at least a chance. Goodness.

As Ms. Wayward has pointed out in a recent post, hearing about other people's pets is about as interesting as hearing about their dreams (i.e. not very), so I do apologize. If the flyers do their job, I'll only have to post one more four-worded sentence on the subject.

Let's hope.

I can't help myself.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 10:12:00 +0000

I'll probably be posting these for a little while. Sorry.

Disaster.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 22:58:00 +0000

So out of the blue, I went to Burning Man, that arts festival in the desert with all the of the naked hippies (as one of my friends would say).

It was pretty great. Fantastic, actually. Pretty fucking intense, but completely worth each physical and emotional discomfort that I faced . I'll post pictures, perhaps, in a while. I have some of me learning how to pole-dance in the middle of a dust storm, clad in goggles and mask. I bruised the shit out of my left hip learning how to do that one flip dancers do, but success was eventually mine

This is all beside the point.

My cat is missing, and I'm a disaster.

I got back from the desert late on Monday night/Tuesday morning. No cat to be found. Everyone saw her around Monday afternoon/evening, but she has since disappeared. Getting back to the default world, as the burners say, is hard enough without coming back to a changed and catless one.

My cat, my lovely Z., is a diminutive 5.5 lbs of orange tortoise shell fur and bones. The distracted Pound employee told me her coat is referred to as a 'tourby'. Who knew. She's old (14) and cranky and smells better than any animal I've ever come in contact with. When my boyfriend died four and a half years ago, she's really the only thing that got me through it. Not to dismiss all of your amazing support, my most excellent friends and family members, but Z. was the only one there every single time I came home to my otherwise empty apartment. She slept on my hip every night and the weight of her distracted from my otherwise empty bed.

She purrs and drools as animals are inclined to do, and lately has been bringing me rats. Small rats, but rats none-the-less. I took this as a good sign, seeing as how she's old and too-small and sick with both renal failure (she was actually snapping out of this one, thanks to months of steady sub-cutaneous saline injections. Basically me sticking a large needle into the skin above her ribs and filling it with water so she'd stay hydrated. Something she just loved.) and, more recently, thyroid disease. The disease is a metabolic one that makes her heart beat too fast, blood zooming through her tiny body, keeping her hungry as hell, yet a good pound lighter than she should be. I'm afraid it might be responsible for her disappearance, that she wandered off and had a little kitty-heart attack, and that no-one's found her.

Oh, Z-kitty, where are you?

Being home is now difficult - hell, just being in the neighborhood sucks. I look for her and she's not there. As it is with grief, I'm finding it hard to motivate or focus on anything. I realize she's just a cat, but the idea of her dead in a ditch, picked at by crows and raccoons (what I recognize to be the most likely scenario) fucking kills me. I suppose it's a better thought than that of her hurt or trapped or in pain or wondering where the hell I am. I used to be afraid someone would kitty-nap her, because even though she's kind of a bitch (in the best way possible), she's also an attention slut who loves to show off for strangers. She's the softess cat I've met, and I've seen the people who walk up and down my street just go bananas over her. The small part of me that thinks she's still alive also thinks that someone thought I was neglecting her (she's literally skin and bones because of her age and metabolic disorder) and took her away. In which case I hope she's being fed and doted on and is as high as a kite on as much catnip as she can handle.

The grey cat in the pictures is also going nuts without her. The grey cat is a fat, slow, dumb, dirty animal (I'm not being mean, it's actually part of her charm. And also not her fault - she was a brain-damaged rescue kitten) who kind of relied on Z. to take care of her. Z. kept her in line, which the grey cat found reassuring. Z. even cleaned her ears on a daily basis. I'm sure as hell not doing that, especially not with my tongue.

I miss my cat.

Props.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 10:03:00 +0000

I just wanted to give a quick shout-out to strippers everywhere, both working and retired, who have ever successfully instructed their friends on how to treat other strippers when engaging their services.

Getting treated with respect, appreciation, and more than ample compensation is pretty fantastic, especially when you know it's largely due to one party attendant's ex-stripper best friend taking the time to make sure these boys were prepped with good attitudes and lots of cash.

Seriously, thanks.

Tacky?

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 10:19:00 +0000

Man, I feel like kind of an asshole.

Writing that last fucked up and dramatic post about getting drugged and then not following up...

Sorry, guys.

Also fucked up of me is to forget that I have real-life friends and family whom I don't necessarily speak to on a day-to-day basis who read this little blog. So now imagine finding out that your sister who strips (or high school girlfriend, or buddy, etc) was drugged while at a private show in some cretin's apartment by reading about it on her goddamned blog. Again, my extreme apologies. While I understandably wasn't thinking that clearly at the time, that was still pretty tacky.

In case y'all are still wondering, I'm more than fine. I just had a rough couple of days while I processed what did and didn't happen. I even worked a bachelor party the day after, which, I'll admit, was slightly surreal, given the anger/vulnerability stuff that I was working through. Thank god they were cheerful and paunchy middle-aged white men with manners. What I remember most about that night now is how the girl I was working with was hot and friendly and extremely fun to flirt with. And that watching a long-legged lady in a g-string do the splits while sending fuck-me eyes in your direction can sure cheer a girl up. Especially if you later get to dominate the hell out of her in your two-girl live lesbian sex show. No kidding.

And now, if you'll allow me one final over-reaching apology...

I'm so sorry I never post!

I don't want to promise that I'll start again, mostly because I've said it before and then, well, not done it. But let me say this: I intend to post. I intend to write because writing gets me a little closer to some degree of clarity about all of my mixed adventures and how they may translate into the rest of my life. At the moment, I've been concentrating the bulk of my creative energies on preparing for an art show next month (awesome but exhausting), so if and when I do start putting stuff up here again on a regular basis, it'll probably be after my show goes up.

I'd love to tell you guys about the art I make, even dazzle you with a sampling, but that would pretty much defeat the purpose of staying anonymous. So, sorry. You'll have to take my word for it that it's rad and worth making.

Hope you're all enjoying your summer, and I promise that I'll at least try to stay in touch. Cross my heart.

Almost.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sat, 31 May 2008 09:16:00 +0000

I would normally apologize for being so absent, here, in this little space of mine. I'd catch you up on my goings-on, maybe actually post those old writings I promised forever ago. But I can't tonight.

In fact I can't really write much of anything. I've been trying all afternoon and night to figure out how to articulate what happened today, but I'm at a loss. It's important that I put this down on paper, so to speak; important that my fellow dancers hear this thing that happened, or didn't, or whatever it was.

So, as plainly as I can: I got drugged today.

Most likely GHB. I want to say immediately that I made it out of there, that I'm safe, that nothing happened. I was not raped or left for dead.

I don't have the energy tonight to explain the exact circumstances. Maybe I will tomorrow, when I'm hanging out with Gramma, helping her make birthday cards for my cousins. I'll try. I know putting words to how I feel might make it less scary. Because that's how it feels right now. Like I was in a really horrifying situation, and I got out of it and it's almost like it didn't happen. But it did and now I feel angry and vulnerable and honestly I don't even know what I'm feeling other than exhausted and by myself. God, I could really use someone to tell me I'm okay, that it's not my fault, even though it might have been. And really. Of course I'm okay. Nothing happened.

It's the 'almost' that's fucking with my head. It's knowing how easily my life could now be unrecognizable.

I really do need to try to get some sleep.

Fellow dancer-blogger friends of mine: I know I'm not writing, but I read you all often, and I think about the different ways you inhabit the world. Be safe and happy.

Computer Update.

noreply@blogger.com (Honey) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 06:33:00 +0000

I got my computer back, fully functional and without the complete loss of data that I was expecting. So hooray!

I'm wrecked from a long day in the sun photographing bike races (boys in spandex = hot. Perhaps an acquired taste...), so this is just a brief note. But before I sign off, there are two things my roommate requested I blog about that happened today.

One:

When I get busy, I tend to be less organized than is desirable. Which is a charming way of saying that my room can get pretty messy. So messy, in fact, that I lost my wallet in my room.

A week and a half ago.

It's an exceptionally long time to lose one's wallet, but my early, hurried efforts to find it didn't work, and hell - mine is a cash business, so money wasn't a problem. And I found my passport within 30 seconds of looking for it, so I had ID. This morning I finally had a couple hours to devote to cleaning/organizing aka searching my room inch by inch until I found it. In the damnest place.

Wrapped in a towel, nestled snugly against my double-headed dildo.

Freaking hysterical, if only the wallet didn't now smell like the cheap latex dong it's been pressed against for over a week. That's why I keep the thing in a towel - to minimize the gag-me-strong smell rubbing off onto my stripper clothes (something I learned the hard way.). Difficult to see how my wallet ended up there in the first place, though I imagine it fell off my dresser into my work bag, which I later shoved aside. From there it somehow managed to sneak into the towel then rewrap itself back into a tidy little package. Where I never ever would've thought to look for it. So it goes.

Two:

Shortly after I found my wallet, my cat - a scrawny, cranky, oldish but very beautiful little 6 pounder of an animal - brought me a present. A mouse. A very large mouse. She deposited it on the floor of my room while I was folding laundry, something I might not have noticed if a boy I'll call The Cyclist hadn't dashed up the stairs after her to warn me. We're looking at her looking at the mouse and I wonder out loud if it's dead. The cat looks at me.

And the mouse makes a run for it, right into the least organized corner of my room.

That was fun. I don't think the mouse was injured in the least, having seen him complete some pretty impressive jumps. I was trying to deal with it on my own, not wanting to fall into the stereotype of a hysterical female standing on a table with a broom screaming 'Kill it! Kill it!', but after the little bugger jumped for the second time I gave up and called on my roommate's and The Cyclist's assistance. The three of us prevailed, and my room is once again mouse-free. Thank god.

Now I'm off to bed, where a boy, and some good ol' fashioned platonic snuggling, await.