And thus begins the first instalment of memoirs of living with a stripper
It's crazy really. One day, I turn 'round, and find myself in the middle of a titty-bar. Then you get that one ponderous, lucid moment, and it hits you: How do these things happen? Is this what they mean by absurdity?
And I love it. My best friend, Peaches suddenly decided to be a stripper. Well, she had always wanted to be a dominatrix. It was a natural progression. The bar is not sleazy, not dim light and ash and drool. It is what they call a "Gentleman's Club". Cigars, class. Money. Plush, with lots of purples and rouges and expensive crystal. Nice men. Executives, just letting it all hang out, talking to women who don't have airs and who are friendly and flirty. It seems that's all a man wants.
A lot of men are lonely. Peaches and I whine about how pathetic a few of them are most mornings, 3 a.m. when she arrives home (I can't sleep until she gets home. I fret.) They always expect you to meet them outside the club. Always want more. Some can't seem to make the connection between money and lap dance. Money = lap dance. Money = flirtiness. Money = company. You get no lap dance if you have no money. These girls are surviving, (quite opulently, thank you - $2000 per week), they are working. They are not sluts. They are not nymphos. If they were, they'd be screwing for free, or otherwise being actual prostitutes. Exotic dancing is a world away from prostitution. Nakedity does not equal sex. These women are desensitized. They're working. They're not really masturbating. They're not really orgasming. They're not particularly enjoying your company. They pity you. You're a wallet for them. Deal with it. Or go and meet a women who you don't have to pay to talk to and touch.
I'm chronicling this time because I don't think any noders here are strippers.
By the way, it feels strange when suddenly your best friend Peaches practises pole moves on the clothesline, and stretches her legs above her head while asking if you can see her pussy. It feels strange when she accidently gets nail polish on her buttock and asks you to remove it! But ah. Such is the life of a stripper's best friend. Go back to your average daylogs now..
(Thus concludes my E2 hiatus. I just felt I had no friends or admirers here. Now I do not mind).
Believe it or not, I have been inundated with messages from people who are friends with strippers.