I told a guy in a strip club about the fact that my dead husband invented the electronic cigarette, right before he died. Sadly he kicked the bucked and didn’t manage to get the patent on it. Every time I see one of them things I want to shove it down the throat of the person smoking it. It is a big reason that I have started the occasional smoking thing. Sometimes I really really want to smoke. So I do. It makes me feel like I am fighting the e- cigaret thing. Fuck that shit. I want it to disappear. I don’t want to be reminded about how I should have been sitting pretty on an island. Someone is, it’s not me. I want to support big tobacco and not let the rest of the world outlaw smoking actual cigarettes, allowing the e-cig. I would want them if all that money were coming into my bank account but it only makes me hostile that I have to work for a living. Work way too hard for way too little. Compete with 18 year old girls who ‘made enough money’ and can go home. Bitch I have not made enough money. I’m a hundred and fifty grand in the fucking hole. Unless someone comes in and gives me their card, tells me that I can call the bank transfer the funds and tie them up for a week to make sure nothing funny is going on, I have NOT made enough money. No, this isn’t enough money for putting up with the comments, dealing with the overbearing patriarchal expectations to desire big breasts and blond hair, being asked by every asshole if I will go on a date with them. NO!
Last week some asshole tried to tell me that he thought that stripping was a very feminist activity. I put my hand over his mouth and told him that I don’t want to have to punch him. I told him that his friends would tease him and tell everyone that he had his ass kicked by a stripper. I was not really in a position to loose my job. That if he said one more word about how flashing my tits and ass, shaking it for dollars was a feminist portrayal of women making it in the world I was gonna have to fuck his shit up and that would not be good for either of us. I turned around and took someone else into the champagne room.
A different dude — a comic — they are the kinkiest, the most desperate, the most loathsome people in the world, most are masochists — they flock to me. It’s alright I like them well enough as clients and fans. But this one asked me if I would go on a date with him, as he was sure we would have so much in common, get along, have great sex …
Nope! I don’t date dudes at all. I am not gonna change this now to date a short, un-under employed comic, who has bad tattoos and is meeting me in a strip club for the first time. Gawd NO. I have bills to pay. I have not had sex in four years, why would I go with you? I’m not desperate, I am busy making money, can you see that? If you pay me, well maybe. But you want some of this juicy ass for free? Hell no!
Call me when you have a job dude.
Additionally I am being sexually harassed by one of the bouncers at this new club. It is so standard that it isn’t even worth noting, but when he tried to shake me down for a big tip cause ‘I make so much money’ I almost spat in his face. This money I make is so much I can’t get my car fixed, I don’t have money to get new panties, stripper shit, or even go have lunch. ALL of my money is gone before it ever becomes ‘mine.’
So I’m a little bit jaded and pissed. I’m in a mood. I cut off my hair and I would like to participate in some severe cock and ball torture. I’m no longer a fun, young, happy well adjusted sadist. I have crossed a line into the realm of professional psycho-bitch.