literature

The Ecdysiast

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Literature Text

Sitting here at this rented company 'safe' computer I
recollect the days gone by and how many different
aspects and personalities I've had to adapt in order
to make it where I am today.
Now, don't get me wrong- I am no Tila Tequila nor am I
Lindsay Lohan- in fact, I am far from those icons of
reality that the media shoves down our throats! But yet I
still retain some degree of notoriety that would as yet as
rival either of them if it became known.
I have quite a few skeletons in my closet-
Well, I really wouldn't call those shrouds bound to
wooden crosses with ball gags and manacles tied to
their ankles SKELETONS per se as they are mere
vestiges of my former self- my former identity- my former
day to day life.
You see, where I work now is filled with corporate
mystery. So many people I have met lead alternative
lives. We have Sh and Tm- whom I affectionately call
"Wilson" after the volleyball in the movie "Cast Away"
(don't ask me why I do that...). He runs a Videography
service on the side where he shoots music videos for
some of the local rock stars. Then there is yet another
one who takes foot fetish photos on his days off for
fun…then another who shoots porno; a guy who shoots
nature photography and models- and R (formerly of the
Partridge family with his winged haircut I think) who runs
an underground clothing line with an ex model from
California turned wordsmith. I'm sure there are more but
they have yet to reveal themselves to me- like some
hidden meteor of superpower strength is hidden within
the cubicles of this concrete vault of a workspace.
Stronger than kryptonite- but more cryptic than Mixilplix's
name forwards (how does one pronounce that properly?)
So in all actuality, my skeletons are quite at home and
are having tea parties with the other members of the
large corporate closet we have going on here at this
place. If there was ever a skeleton orgy- this place would
be it.
In my younger, more foolish days (who am I kidding as I
am still young)- I stripped for a living. I worked at a rather
posh (translation: the dancers paid high tip out) club in
Richmond, Va. The owner was an asshole- I say that
with the utmost affection that I can possibly bestow upon
someone I disdain and is as greedy as this cad was. In
fact- none of the other populace of strip club owners that
I recall had much nice to say about the character.
Anyhow, I found myself at his club meagerly earning
enough to eat and keep my electricity on. Sure, college
helped pay for some bills with my financial aid but really
not enough. I owned a house and I had a car payment
and I simply had too many bills to fathom for a kid my
age- so I'd have to go underground and do some 'dirty'
(as in: not illegal but dirty as in seething) work for a while
to catch up. So, I found myself in pasties and a t-bar at
this club.
Being that I wasn't blonde haired and blue eyed with FF
implants led to my disadvantage. All the black dudes that
came in wanted white flat asses gyrating in their faces
and back then they didn't like curves. Go figure. So I was
an anomaly at the club more often than not. Hell, I even
tried to do MORE than just provide TnA. I did
ROUTINES back when they didn't even here of such
things besides grinding on a pole- I did shows- I did the
equivalent of what burlesque was.
And because of it, I made no money.
So I often found myself eating Ramen noodles and trying
to get by on…you guessed it...$5.00 a day.
When you eat Ramen daily and work 10+ hours a day it
doesn't behoove you to drink...but do you think I cared?
Often beleaguered by the cattiness of the female
dancers there (there were often fights over clothing, who
got more stage presence, etc) I would find myself in a
beer bottle- or even worse- down a wine bottle. The club
allowed us to drink but in moderation- as long as we
could dance our shift we were just fine.
Except for tonight.
Tonight would rival all other nights at the club…because
I actually had....*gasp* paying customers! In fact- a
handful of Mexicans and this guy and his girlfriend all
paid me good money to come gyrate in front of them. I
imagined that night eating chicken nuggets instead of
ramen.
Whoo hoo. Imagine the delicacy!
Just then as I was completing my last swing on the pole
and finishing my set this handsome man in a suit
beckoned me over to him.
Now I never do lap dances (they were regrettably
mandatory here which I always managed to get out of for
a fine)- I find it nasty to be grinding my thonged behind
up on some guys pants because who knows where he's
been- that- and you get really bad yeast infections (just
ask any dancer) from that stuff. So I wasn't in the mood
for anything like that. But yet- he offered to buy me a
drink.
Wow.
I was flabbergasted.
I accepted.
I picked out the most expensive wine I could thinking
"What the hell, I'm not paying for it"
Then I did the unthinkable...I walked away from my
drink.
Shit…I HAD TO PEE!....I thought. What could be the
harm?
There is one unspoken, general rule that strippers live
by: "Never walk away from your drink".
Well, DUH.
I did.
Guess what?
Well...I couldn't remember much after that. Five drinks
later and half the bottle gone I could barely remember
what the guy was babbling to me as he was rubbing my
wrist. The DJ called my name. It was my time to go on.
Standing up with a red wine swagger I gingerly made my
way up to the stage and began to shuffle to the beat sidestepping
the pole and grabbing it so it was behind
my head- ready to do a lift/spin- but then, I didn't feel too
good.
At all.
In fact, I felt....putrid.
Deciding it may be vertigo I decided to spin it out-
Wrong move.
Projectile vomit hurled all over the stage and on my first
3 patrons that were in front of me. I hit the floor nearly
breaking an ankle in my 7 inch platform boots. all I
remember was mumbling to the cab: "ER- call (insert
boyfriends name at the time here). Bleeeeeehhhhhhh
(throwing up again)"
I ended up in the ER for 8 hours. I was drugged and it
was a combination of alcohol poisoning. Imagine
that???!!!
The next day I had to humble myself and drag myself
into the club. Girls were talking all sorts of shit- "She
must be on drugs", blah blah blah- you know, the regular
stripper gossip bullshit that normally flies in situations
like that. I had to deal with it.Not only THAT- but the
owner wanted to fire me because he thought I was on
drugs as well.
It took my boyfriend at the time explaining to him that I
was drugged and giving him the results of the ER blood
work/urine for him to believe me- and my shitty job was
saved. I also had to pay the hostess 30.00 for cleaning
up red wine and who knows what else vomit off the
stage and apologizing to the customers.
After that- I switched clubs. I was tired of paying out the
pussy so to speak to dance and being forced to give lap
dances to guys that were disgusting- so I moved down
the street to another club.
This club was at least decent- at least, the people were.
Several other girls from the other club secretly danced
here on their off days and made decent money. The tip
out was a meager 15.00- the shifts were 3 hours eachnot
grueling. I was in t-bar and pastie heaven.
There was also another black chic with piercings all up
her spine, on her face and everywhere (freak)- and
...omg (oh my god)...a Goth chic. So I almost felt at
home with my piercing and tattoos as there was a
combination of all my genres under one slanted, red
roof.
Private dances weren't mandatory- but t-shirt contests
were.
Imagine a new form of loathing for me. The wet t-shirt
contest.
Customer's were given water guns to shoot us with while
we were on stage in our perilously high heels trying to
amble around on stage and show our asses without
breaking our asses. The dancer that won for the night
(pending there weren't any customer's who entered who
automatically won due to the owner trying to show good
faith) got some type of Kudo in the form of a costume or
an hour off early or some bullshit like that. I never
won...except- for that lone Wednesday I wasn't working.
Now, normally I wouldn't go into a bar when I'm not
working but the owner allowed me to hand out my
website cards to the patrons as long as I wasn't
interfering with business. So I took it upon myself to
dress up and head down right before the dinner rush and
after work slam. So here I was in my ripped jeans
showing a bit of butt cheek and my low cut shirt- handing
out postcards of my boobs to drooling men drinking
beers and shooting pool.
There was this Jamaican guy- a Rasta- (ire!) that was
talking to me and trying to get me to go onstage. Now,
the owners make it a point that on off days dancer's
aren't allowed to get onstage- but this dude was waving
20.00's in my face. I envisioned my electric bill getting
paid. I could not resist. I asked the owner if he would
allow me to enter the contest due to my 'fans' wanting to
see me onstage. He agreed. It was a slow night. I felt a
little sheepish as I didn't particularly want to get wet- do
you KNOW how much it costs to get my hair done? If it
gets wet I'm no worse than a wet dog- its a horrid
MESS- but yet, I would've loved getting all my bills paidso
I climbed up on stage in my 5" sneaker pumps (yes, I
had a pair of tennis shoes with a heel!) and proceeded to
tease the audience.
Just then....
SQUIRT.
Shit. Right in the eye.
Thanks.
Squirt squish..squirt....
GOD DAMN IT...not the hair!
SWISHY SQUISH SQUIRT SQUIRT......
Fuck!
I was completely inundated with water now and the
stage was getting slippery...The Jamaican dude was
throwing out 1.00 and 5's and 10's quicker than I could
scramble to get them off the stage- and the stage being
a wet mess only added to my confusion as more patrons
decided I should be their moving target.
SQUISH...SQUIRT....SWISH....
Whoops....
SPLAT
Face down on stage, in front of the pole- half way
between a $20.00 bill and a pile of $1's I landed
KERTHUMP- yet again. I think I might've even popped
an implant it hurt so much-However, remembering my
vorpal vomit experience I quickly rolled myself over with
my ruined hair and my even more ripped jeans and
soaked t-shirt and did a back flip scissoring my legs back
over my head and completely flipping over on the wet
stage.
What a save....
Cheers.
Screams.
More $1.00's.
I won.
I even made $180.00 that night.
My electric bill got paid and I ended up a bit richer. I also
ditched the heeled tennis shoes- they didn't fare too well
after that whole experience.
Which brings me to now.
Well, that is where I was. Now to where I am today.
I'm drawing a blank- seriously.
I'm blank.
I mean, at this rate when I'm 50 I figure I should be doing
what I want to be doing.
Am I rich and famous?
No.
Do I have a mansion, am I married to a plastic surgeon
and do I have a poodle named Vine and a Shih Tzu
named Hollywood?
No.
Do I work my dream career of a mix of Carrie Bradshaw
(Sex in the City journalist) and Lucy Spiller (Dirt Now
magazine/tv show) spritzed with a smidgen of Chelsea
Handler seasoned with Joel McHale (The Soup) ? (For
the record: I was featured on E! Online for entering their
True Hollywood Story contest and my story was featured
with my photo for 5 straight months but that doesn't get
me any closer to McHale-ebrity; I didn't win either bullocks!).
No.
What I do have is a job in corporate mainstream America
that allows me to live my secret, double life-and write as
much as I want with no fetters on what and how much I
write. The only thing that limits me is my mind- and
Larry's purse strings.
Whilst I now work uncomfortably nestled in the world of
technical support (ie: I support idiots who should not
have PC's) I am somewhat happy in the fact that I am
not in that place again- slung out to dry around a stripper
pole in a room of vapid airheads and perverts all in the
name of 'dolla dolla bill ya'll'
But as a famous sage once said (me)-:
"We are all prostitutes:
Some just wear their heels higher than others."
and I have traded one tirade for a more tired trade
peddling in the reparation of mechanical machinations
instead of contributing to the solicitation of fleshy ones.
In the end I know, inevitably I will not have two pennies
to rub together to make a nickel; nor will I have the
satisfaction in working and truly LOVING what I do- but
as most of us in this world can testify- it is not what we
do that truly makes us; and often we have to do what we
have to do in order to survive in lieu of what we had
rather be doing. Very few of us get to live our dreams:
but instead live in the harsh ether of a reality that we had
rather not accept but have been forced to by the weight
of the world.
Although I would love an agent, publicist, a multi-book
deal; a reality show, a 2008 Toyota Prius, a full time job
in journalism, a brownstone in NY and an ass like Kim
Kardashian- I am sure all good things will come in time
(well, not the ass like Kim part)- or at least more hilarious
ones for me to write about and to laugh at- rather than
with- just like my exes (believe me- enough can be said
about that alone). Is all that too much to ask?
Is it?
Is it REALLY?
Surely not.
So for now- I am content with my semi-"star (who the
hell am I kidding) dom" and at gracing the pages of
Hustler Magazine. For now, anyway.
Tomorrow- who knows.
Right?
I mean, seriously…..
I tried dancing ONCE...and this is the story. I write for Hustler magazine and this was published in it's edited form 2 years ago. Here is the UN edited longer version :) If you want to see the real one I'll send you a link.
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