But hey y’all COMPLEX.COM wrote about badass, hilarious strippers and included ME ME ME ME ME ME ME on their list!!!!
Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.
And if you’re a fucking shitty friend and NOT already following me on Twitter you should do something about this RIGHT NOW because my ego just inflated tenfold and suddenly I feel more entitled to being even more cunty on this Monday afternoon than usual.
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Hey, Cunts!
So I’m taking a night off work this THURSDAY so I can get up in front of a group of people who don’t want to see my tits (I mean let’s be honest, they probably do) and instead they want to HEAR ME SPEAK.
I may or may not be shitting my pants right now, as the very thought of being appreciated for my brain and not my box seems just so… REAL.
So come and get real with me if you live in New York and want me to tell you a bedtime story.
The event is being held by The Red Umbrella Diaries at Happy Endings Lounge at 302 Broome St. It’s FREE! Be there at 7pm.
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Twitter is really great for sharing tips on how to potty train your baby, where the latest underground emo all-ages show is, and for tips on how to make men recoil when they attempt a suckle at your teet while you’re giving him a $20 lap dance.
In most cases I am pretty successful at maneuvering around thrusting tongues when I’m doing my thang. But sometimes I need to yawn, so I throw my head back ‘in ecstasy’ and gasp for a deep breath of oxygen to stave off the boredom. Perhaps you, too, have been here before: Leaning back, mid-yawn, I feel something GROSS on my precious fun bags. I look down, and lo and behold: some dink’s mouth trying to feed off me like I’m his wet nurse.
I lose my shit when this happens. It’s fucking gross. But ending the dance and fighting for your twenty dollar bill is not satisfactory enough. After all, strippers are vindictive bitches.
In my last post, I shared my prickly-leg strategy with y’all, which invited tweeter babe @VivianeMae to share with me that she slathers a bit of antibacterial gel on her nips to make them taste like ICK. It stems from the same tactic obedience school trainers use for quelling a barking dog: spray sour apple spray into their mouth. This strategy makes perfect sense when you remember that men, too are dogs. (If they could they would totally lick their own balls)
IMMEDIATELY after being tweeted about this new stripper secret I made a beeline to the nearest RiteAid.
I was digesting my twitter feed in a meadow, obviously.
I scoured the aisles until I found the hand sanitizer section. For all the subway riding that goes on in New York City, I was seriously disappointed by the meager selection of two or three bottles that all bore the RITEAID home brand and offered little to no variety in fragrance.
I grabbed one of each bottle and shielded my stash from the apathetic eyes of the stock-girl shelving Rogain on my right. Squeezing a dollop onto my index finger, I performed a taste test: Which one is the most repulsive?
I know, you’re extremely jealous right now.
But after each lick I tasted NOTHING. They tasted like NOTHING.
@VivianeMae I implore you, what brand of man-tongue-repeller do you use?
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Every day we learn something new.
This morning, I learned that, for a staggeringly high price, you can buy fantasy portraits of menopausal celebrities.
Neat!
Yesterday, however, I learned something even RADDER:
It’s a new secret that I am just itching to share with strippers everywhere:
PRICKLY LEGS ARE A GODSEND.
When you’re sitting with a client, giggling, smiling, and smoothing out his lapels, trying to get him to invest in some quality time in the Jungle Room, your john will probably be reaching to your knees and thighs, because that’s what hungry men do. And, if your legs are freshly shorn and Nivea-commercial baby soft, then his hands are likely to keep wandering up, up, up to your honey pot. Then you have to tell him, with angelic flirtation, ‘no baby, not yet,’ when really you want to swat him away like a deer fly. Amiright?
Last night I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to raze away all my lovely angel hairs. I had a nice stubble that was on par with the handsome mug of Clive Owen.
The only man I would ever consider fucking
Needless to say, I feared it would affect my income.
I sat down with some nice old fart at the bar. He bought me a drink, reached for my knee and upon contact with my sandpaper gams, politely retreated his pervy paws. By the time I was sucking on the ice of my $20 “vodka” soda, he asked if I would join him in the Jungle Room.
He got wasted, we had a merry old time and he only occasionally pet my calves in a downward motion, never once reaching for the no-go zone.
EVERYBODY WINS!
Another *brilliant* repellent for mommy-issued titty-lickers was imparted to me by this total babe of a stripper who was spritzing Chanel Noir everywhere one night, and, because it wasn’t from Bath and Body Works’ Cotton Candy line for baby prostitutes, I decided not to throw a fit about my delicate respiratory system and asked her why she was spraying such a concentrated amount on her areolae.
“So when they go to lick you it tastes like shit,” she says with a devious megawatt grin.
The lesson, Cunts:
If a man’s going to spend money, ain’t no thorns protecting your divine rose bush gonna stop him.
So save your razors, strut those sandpaper thighs and get back to me on this.
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Today (or was it yesterday? Tragically, my diaries journals are in storage.) marks the THIRD YEAR OF MY GASH FLASHING.
Three years ago some lovely fat man paid me my first $50 to get my kit off and I tell you I’ve really been the happiest cunt since then.
At first I thought to myself I’d give it a few months, buy some diamonds and then be done with it.
Six months turned into a year, a year became ‘just one more year’ and now I’m twenty fucking six years old and my tits have not fallen to the ground YET so I am still at it.
So does that make me a lifer? Yes, yes it does. At least until I’m 29 or 30. And then I’ll take the pay cut or marry Rachel Maddow or maybe Kristen Stewart will be out of the closet by then so I can be her trophy wife.
Or maybe we’ll have an affair and she’ll pull a Tom Cruise and pay me to stay mum. I’m perfectly fine with either scenario.
Or maybe by then the internet will lead me to a miraculous commune of ex-stripper dykes and we will all live glitterly every after.
The point is, for now this suits me just fine and I’m not doing this to ‘get me through school,’ or to ‘buy diapers’ or whatever it is that so many judgmental skeptics want to hear when they ask me ‘what are you doing here?’
I’m making money off your delusional boner.
I am thinking of buying a cake. But year three in Hallmark anniversary years is LEATHER so really I just want a corset, some heels and crazy sex with my slam piece. So I’m going to go and do that.
Cheers to all of my colleagues who are rich with stories, dollar bills, self-esteem and gyrating poon-tangs. I love you all.*
*except for when you steal my clients. Then you can fuck right off and fall asleep in a pile of vomit on the floor in the stall of the bathroom that everyone avoids.
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This is totally fucking rad.
To shut up some haters when justifying herself as a titty-shaker to the internet, my redditor babe Menagerii took a jpeg of a nightly hull:
I don’t ever disclose how much I make to anyone, but sometimes there is no other way to tell someone to go right ahead and fuck themselves. Behold 3,345 hard-earned dollars. When a client asks how much money I make, I ask them the same question in return. In most cases they hang their heads in shame.
I’ve been stripping for over two years now, which means when girls make bank like this (and they didn’t steal a customer from between my thighs), I ain’t jealous. I could not have said the same a year ago.
WAY TO GO, GIRLFRIEND. I hope you went to the grocery store and splurged on some fancy cheese.
“I enjoy it too some extent,” she writes. “May do moonlighting after I get a big girl job.”
I am now wondering what my life will be like when I can’t don a pair of heels and act like a total horny slut for cash monies on a weekly basis…
HAPPY EARTH DAY!
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and you probably are, too.
My goal, however, is to sell books and ideas and shit as the aforementioned Feminist Superheroine.
You probably know about Tavi Gevinson. She embodies the swagger I wish I had when I was fifteen. No matter; I’ve made up for it. My girl Tavi recently did a Ted talk and said a bunch of rad shit.
Namely, that we should all be Stevie Nicks.
This is absolutely true.
Sometimes I fall short on feeling totally rad about myself and what I do. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a drone bimbo trying to hustle my rent.
But even Superheroines have to pay rent.
I am a totally unabashed megababe who, like you, probably, is doing wonders for humanity. Sometimes I forget this, and sometimes I feel like The Sapphic Stripper needs to throw in her g-string and get a job selling life insurance. You know, to start considering that fall back plan my mother dearest always thinks is a better option for security and retirement savings plans and saggy tits.
FUCK THAT. I am Stevie Nicks 3.0 and to remind myself I’ve written it on a rather large piece of paper and tacked it to my wall.
Here’s the video: watch it and remind yourself that you’re a fucking megababe. Tell me about it!
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