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New Stripper Forum!

September 30th, 2008 · 9 Comments

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.)

→ 9 CommentsTags: Stripping

Every Day Extortion

September 29th, 2008 · No Comments

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.

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Martial Law Is Here and Money Doesnt Exist

September 28th, 2008 · No Comments

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.

→ No CommentsTags: Ecofeminist Musings · Home · The day-to-day of it all

Bro loves Lona

September 26th, 2008 · No Comments

(I hope this works)

→ No CommentsTags: The day-to-day of it all

Dear world: thermo electric generators

September 25th, 2008 · No Comments

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)

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Whore Diaries, round two

September 25th, 2008 · 7 Comments

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 and Vibrator Reviews at VibeReview
Sex Toys @ VibeReview!

→ 7 CommentsTags: Vibrator Reviews · whoring

Nothing Funnier Than Real Life

September 24th, 2008 · No Comments

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…

* * * * * *

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Managed Identities

September 21st, 2008 · 6 Comments

A few weeks ago a woman I met in a cafe gave me the keys and directions to her house thirty seconds after meeting me. I was shocked. I mean, I would at least have to hide the sex toys. But that’s how people are in the village. They live in this one small world and everyone knows each others secrets anyways so they just have one identity.

I have never been that way. My friends have never been that way. We are fluent in multiple identites, going easily with each other from one stage name who lives in Montana on a ranch (even though you know she really lives in a camper shell on a pick up and came from a commune in Virginia) to the other stage name who lives in Florida and takes care of her family to another name hanging out with the in-laws who think she’s a car salesperson. We change names as we cross state lines.

I read somewhere recently that this is the only culture that makes people have a constant name and identity. Indigenous cultures have always had ways for people to transform, rebirth themselves, become new roles.

I have always been this way. My friends have always been this way, people who can walk through realities with you and love all your identities and never mix them up in public.

Last night I got an email from a guy who saw me after work at a coffee shop. How, I emailed back, thinking maybe I did something stupid like go out in rhinestones and fake lashes and bum clothes. But no, he just saw me and thought, “gee, that looks like a hobo stripper.”

So much for no face pics.

This morning I woke up and took Bro for a walk. The guy on the corner (“HUNGRY VET”) offered me a couple beers. “I don’t drink,” he said, “but when I’m on this corner people give me beer.”

“Yeah. The guy here yesterday had a sign that said Why Lie? I Need A Beer.”

We laugh, Bro gives him a stick, and he gives me some toilet paper and trail mix. It turns out that people give him a lot of stuff he can’t use on this corner. They all assume he has teeth and a bathroom.

“I seen you around,” he says, tossing the stick up in the air for Bro. He’s got crinkly kind eyes, but I haven’t been around. I’ve slept in this neighborhood twice. Five times this whole year.

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yeah, I see that Astro van parked around, I’m always glad you’ve got this dog watching out for you.”

There is some awful identity mismanagement going on here.

I don’t know how much I care.

→ 6 CommentsTags: The day-to-day of it all · Van Living

The dilemma's of a hobo stripper

September 20th, 2008 · No Comments

(Or, the dilemma’s that arise in WalMart parking lots.)

I’m sleeping in a walmart parking lot and I’m next to this RV that’s here every time I’m here. Like, I think these people have lived at this walmart for years.

Anyways, they’re drunk and fighting (and it’s like 4:30am here) and guy A pushed guy B out the door. Guy B laid there for a minute, took a couple bites of his pita bread (still in hand!), tried to get up but fell over, and is now laying there eating his pita.

Cops are mean and if I call them they’ll be all rude and pushy and ask me a gazillion questions about what I’m doing here and why I’m living in a van and if I have any drugs or guns (trust me, you can not call 911 anonymously up here). And then I’ll have drama with these RV people who I park next to every time I come to town, tho I could park other places.

And I think the guy’ll probably just sleep his drunk off and wake up with some bruises and a hangover. I mean, what if he has warrants or something and I call the cops and instead of getting a night in the drunk tank he has to go to jail? That would totally suck compared to a nap on the concrete.

On the other hand, what if someone doesn’t see him laying there and runs him over? Or what if he has a head injury and dies? And it’s been cold lately and it’s not really healthy for him to be laying there in a puddle (he seems to be asleep now – he’s breathing, I looked).

So, do I call the cops? Or do I crawl back into my bed and ignore their drunken drama?

Bro is now barking at him. He’s like, “mom, that man should not be laying there like that.”

I’m like, “dude, Bro, I know. But sometimes this happens when you live in a van down by the WalMart. That’s why we prefer living in a van down by the river.”

→ No CommentsTags: stories · The day-to-day of it all · Van Living

So it turns out I'm just really paranoid, I guess…

September 18th, 2008 · No Comments

…because Bro is like 95% better now.

→ No CommentsTags: The day-to-day of it all