Hobo Stripper

So.

I don’t live in a van anymore. I don’t travel the country stripping anymore, tho I might when I run out of money.

When I started this blog I think I felt like my experiences were significant. I’m not really sure, because I don’t feel that way anymore. I mean, my experiences are significant to me, and maybe a little to the people around me, but I think the further they go the less they matter. Most of my experiences at the moment are tied to this land that I’m falling in love with, and I think it would be kind of creepy to tell the whole wide internetz all about that.

Go outside. Fall in love with the dirt under your feet. Why should I write to you about the dirt here (it is lovely and varied) when you aren’t here? Read things by people who share your dirt, or just listen to the dirt.

I used to feel this actual physical anxiety, that so many beautiful moments were passing without being written down. It was imperative that I record all those little moments before they faded from memory. I don’t feel like that anymore (which could be a good thing or a bad thing, I guess, depending on how you look at it).

To sum it all up:

I won’t be blogging here anymore.

I’ll maybe probably be starting a naked-Tara-in-the-woods website so I can make money without coming to town.

I might possibly start another blog. One of those boring ones that I update once or twice a week about how much wood I chopped or the otters teasing Bro.

I’ll probably be putting together a chapbook or two of poems and stories. I might write a book, but I don’t really feel like it right now.

If you want to hear about any of that (all of it, actually), put your email address in below to get an email when it happens (no spam, I promise).

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Hatma gave me directions and I followed them all the way to this huge mansion. A guy in pajamas answered the door.

“Hey,” I said, “this must be the new stripper house. I brought my shower bag.”

“Umhm,” he said and wandered back to bed.

“Tara!” Hatma came down the stairs and Sweetness came out of another room.

It’s this huge multimillion dollar hunting lodge that the uber-rich stay in during hunting season. Marble, steel, hot tubs, the works. When season ended, one stripper moved in. But you know how strippers are. They multiply, and soon the lodge was overrun.

Sweetness and I went for a run on the beach, first with the resident dog, and then with Bro, and I took pictures of the dead bloated saltwater-preserved salmon who never made it to their rivers. I miss my river.

Diamond and Lucy were leaving when we got back, and we had one of those beautiful dramatic superficial goodbyes. Off they went, into the world, leaving behind only tomatoes and memories of soup.

This lodge is so fancy it’s got a hose that runs hot and cold water, so I gave Bro a bath because he’s been stinky lately. The van’s been stinky too. It’s kind of circular.

Then Sweetness made shrimp and beef tacos with the most amazing sauces and salads and fried ice cream and other yumminess. It was like those people who live in my sister’s TV in the playboy mansion, except instead of this old wrinkly token man, they have a young accomodating muscley guy who washes the dishes.

I had come for the running water, after all, so I finally made it to the bath tub. It’d been a while since I’d bathed, so I decided to soak for a while. I got all absorbed in the Continuum Concept (one of my favoritest books - I got it for Hatma and then borrowed it back from her to read in her tub), and when I got out just now it was 11:15. I could go to work, but it doesn’t seem especially compelling. Especially since last, after driving all the way over here, I only made $21.

So here I am in this dark house, sitting at a fancy marble counter in an industrial luxury kitchen with a fully stocked fancy bar, wishing I was home on the river. I hope no bears have broken into my cabin. I hope the otters are still happy and the squirrells that live in the roof aren’t getting cancer from the insulation and the wood I chopped lasts a long time and more wood is easy to saw up and chop and the river keeps being beautiful every day. And I hope I make enough money to live on for the rest of the winter really soon and get home before the river starts freezing and I can’t get home.

…and he told me he owns 20,000 women in the Philippines.

There is finally a new stripper forum! It was made for strippers, by strippers and retired strippers, and will keep being for strippers. It’s easy to join up, but to get access to the stripper only sections you need to send a picture to the admins showing that you are who you say you are. Best of all, guess what it took to make it? A few people sent in ten dollars and it was up within two days. If you’re familiar with other stripper forums, you know how cool that is. Go register:

ExoticDancerNet

(Strippers: Keep reviewing clubs at my new review site, and use it to research new clubs. It’s turning into a great resource and I’m going to make it prettier.)

It’s the end of a long slow night. I had made twenty dollars, which left me in the hole, until an hour before closing when a kind gentlemen came in and dropped a few hundred on me. Credit card money. You know, virtual money that exists in machines and wires until the end of the night, after you’ve dressed and gotten the manager to sign your slip, when the bartender turns it into the soft green of well worn bills in your hand.

Last song, and neither of the two customers want it. In fact, they are busy looking at naked women on the internet in their phones, which they find hilarious. I wander over to the bar.

“Hey,” I check with the bartender, “you charged his card for six VIPs, right?”

“Yep. You know I gotcha, girl.”

The manager, at the end of the bar in her patchwork vest and old lady glasses stares at me. I smile. When I make me money, I make her money, because the bar takes a cut of VIP dances here.

“You know you ain’t getting all that money tonight.”

“What?” I’ve certainly gotten all my credit card money every other night I’ve worked here, often much more than a couple hundred. And I need the money, because I’m leaving tomorrow, and because you never leave without your money.

“You heard me, missy.” She grins, gleeful. I’ve heard about this, about how these managers used to run whores and they’ll lure you in and then cut you down. I always thought it was sensationalism, because they’ve always been reasonable and respectful with me, but I see it now in her sick smile.

I turn around and walk to the dressing room to get dressed. I think of all the things I could say to her. Subtle things, like, you know, missy, with all the emloyment laws you break in this bar you’d think you wouldn’t go out of your way to make trouble. Or direct things, like fuck you bitch.

Usually I keep my mouth shut, don’t burn bridges. But looking back in life I always regret the things I haven’t said more than any bridges I’ve burned. The thing is, though, that I really do want to be able to work here again.

At the bar, my slip is waiting. Three sixty. This is a game, I tell myself, and I know how to play it.

I hand my slip to her and she asks what we’re deducting.

Sixty for house, I say, and sixty for dances.

She raises her eyebrow. Anything else?

It’s my turn to smile. Am I getting my money?

That, she says slowly, doesn’t have anything to do with my tip.

I tip according to the service I receive, I tell her. If I’m getting my money I’d like to tip you twenty dollars. If I’m not getting my money then I don’t feel like I’ve received any acceptable level of service.

She clears her throat. We can’t have direct conflict, because she can’t give in. She writes the slip out without her tip, but she brings it to the bar with me.

Do we have enough in the till to pay Tara, she asks the bartender. Of course they do. There have been a lot of drinkers tonight, a lot of guys buying drinks for all the ladies but no dances.

He hands it to her, two forty. She fingers it all, lingers on the last twenty giving me that sick smile, before handing it all to me.

I smile back, just as sick but at least I won, and hand her the twenty dollars. Every day extortion in the titty bar.

Thank you, I say. Here’s your tip.

By the time I get to the van I don’t want to punch her anymore, and I’m actually really happy to find that Bro hasn’t thrown up the rotten meat he got into earlier like I’d expected.

From Democracy Now:

Army Unit to Deploy in October for Domestic Operations

Beginning in October, the Army plans to station an active unit inside the United States for the first time to serve as an on-call federal response in times of emergency. The 3rd Infantry Division’s 1st Brigade Combat Team has spent thirty-five of the last sixty months in Iraq, but now the unit is training for domestic operations. The unit will soon be under the day-to-day control of US Army North, the Army service component of Northern Command. The Army Times reports this new mission marks the first time an active unit has been given a dedicated assignment to Northern Command. The paper says the Army unit may be called upon to help with civil unrest and crowd control. The soldiers are learning to use so-called nonlethal weapons designed to subdue unruly or dangerous individuals and crowds.

In other words, they’re taking a bunch of jumpy traumatised guys with guns and (”nonlethally”) sicking them on those who don’t kowtow to the people with lots of peices of little green paper. With all these banks collapsing though (I hear Bank of America’s next), who knows how long people will continue to behave as if peices of green paper mean something significant? I’m gonna go hole up in my cabin and hope civilization collapses before I run out of money.

(I hope this works)

I’m thinking about trying to make a thermo electric generator, but I’m not coming up with anyone who’s actually done it before.  Do you know anyone who’s used chips like these - http://www.hi-z.com/hz20.php on a woodstove or other hot thing to charge batteries?  If you do, I really really really really really want to talk to them.

(Okay, now scroll down and keep reading)

Man fucks woman; subject verb object. - Catherine MacKinnon

He stands before me, muscled and tattoo’d, in worn leather work boots and dirty jeans.  He just paid me four hundred dollars to be mean to him and shove things up his ass. I just told him to undress. And he is stalling at the pants.

Thwap, I slap my new leather and fleece paddle against my hand. It’s nice. It has a sturdy character, and soft fuzzy stuff on it.

He jumps and shrugs, looks up at me. “This is the embarrassing part.”

I shrug like I don’t give a shit about his embarrasment, but I wonder what it is. Small dick? Something kinky? Or some kind of disfigurement? Once a man in a wheelchair wanted me to make fun of him for not being able to walk and I couldn’t do it. 

He is bright red when he finally drops his pants to reveal pretty pink latex and lace panties bulging out around something huge.

Staring at him with his tattoos and muscles and dirty jeans down around his ankles, blushing down at his lacey pink panties, I think I have arrived. I’m not sure where, but I’ve definitely arrived somewhere.

I laugh. I know all about sissy boys. The other day I told someone I am a hundred years old in stripper years. Practically translated that means that I’ve encountered every possible fetish, and even if it is different unclothed, it’s not that different.

“Awww, what a cute little slut,” I tell him, pulling his panties out a little to peek in. It’s all cock, shoved into a huge steel cock ring, which makes me really glad I’m not the kind of whore who would be stuck trying to fit that monster in my vagina.

I dress him up in some stripper clothes and make him parade around while I make fun of him. He loves it. How does this happen?

When he’s as humiliated as I’m going to make him, I have him kneel and cuff his hands behind his back with the new leather cuffs that vibe review sent me. I’m suprised by how nice and sturdy they are - there’s always the potential, in those mainstream kits, for cheap flimsy stuff - but these are nice.

There was a little whip in the kit, and I brush it gently all over his body, occasionally swatting at him with it. I make my breath match his breath - I learned it from energy psychology, but it works great for sex work, too. Now I can feel his feelings and mine. He quivers when I run the whip up his skin, trace a tattoo with it, and humps the air spontaneosly when I fwap his penis with it.

Finally, when I think he’s about to explode, I bend him over the bed and stand behind him with my strap on. He works himself onto it quickly, and I stand still while he fucks himself on it. My legs are a little spread for stability, my hips tilted so the strap on rubs my clit every time he pushes into it, and looking down I think this must be what it’s like to be a man. To look down and see some slut underneath you, to be the subject to her object.

Weird.

When he’s about to come again, I step back and cuff him to the bed posts. I climb on top, woman fucks man, and shove an even bigger cock into him. He moans and writhes and gasps in ecstasy, and right before he comes I pull out, shove the stubby g up his ass on full vibration, and grab his cock to give it a few pumps.

He explodes into a huge orgasm that leaves him giggling for ten minutes.

This sexy story brought to you by…

Sex Toys @ VibeReview!

In the dressing room, I’m sitting on the toilet, peeing, and a cokehead woman I’ve worked with off and on all over for a while is doing lines with another stripper.

OG Stripper: Don’t worry about Tara. I know you don’t know her, but she’s cool, she won’t say shit.
Unknown Stripper: I ain’t worried about shit, girl. If she says shit I’ll just kick her fucking ass.
*lots of snorting and sniffing*
US: Wait, are you sure she’s cool?
OGS: Yeah. Tara’s not even like a normal stripper. She’s a lesbian alaska showgirl.

Once, OGS stayed in my bus when she was dopesick and she jumped a fence and rode a horse bareback in the full orange moon light. The next day she got high and raved about feminism and pre-history and oppression until she passed out in the dressing room. So I wrote a poem.

* * * * * *

This customer is smitten with me. I told him about how I had to come all the way up the river and down the road through watery gas and crazy cops to get naked for his dollars. He’s convinced himself that I’m the only “real” women he’s ever met, that kind of thing. All of a sudden he pops out with this gem:

“Hey… I have electricity! You could stay with me!”

Um, no thanks, I tell him. I always stay with my bestest friend when I come to town, and she has a fancy jacuzzi bathtub and I love it there.

After a few dances he has another bright idea:

“Well, if I ever decide to consider dating a woman who does this kind of thing… I mean, you know, a stripper (!), I’ll keep you in mind.”

Um, thanks. I’m gonna go make some money now, bye bye…

* * * * * *