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…
* * * * * *