Nobody was there.

So I bought a drink. Nobody came. So I had another one. And another.

And another.

And then people started to show up.

By this time, I was eager to get on that sorry excuse for a stage. I got on one pole, and Mediocre #1 got on the other.

I was pretty buzzed, and I relished the idea that it had been awhile since Lux was out, since she was wearing these shoes, doing what she does best. I danced, I stretched, I crawled, I flirted, I laughed, I thought to myself, this feels like home. But as I danced and danced, the men kept staring, and I stared back. And then the buzz started to wear off, and then I saw what was happening. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I spun around the pole, and then I saw that I was half naked behind a sketchy bar in Queens. And then I wanted to go home.

But all I had made was $2.

In the back of the bar was where a customer could take a dancer to purchase a lap dance. It was like stripping at Spencer Gifts at the Arizona Mills Mall - tacky animal print chairs, bad lighting, beaded curtains. There was nothing right about it.

Alex, a ghetto Colombian 20-something in oversized everything, had that strain in his eye, snap in his gum-chewing, and carelessness in his touch that only dudes on cocaine have.

"Come home with me and my boys," he said. "Call your girlfriends."

"I can't, " I said.

"Wanna bump?" He showed me.

(See, told you.)

I kept dancing, and he looked up at me. His eyes were too scary to look into. I tried to think about my bed. And sweatpants.

He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer. I looked around. Nobody was going to save me from anything.

I froze there, straddled in front of him. He moved his hands up my back, and then rubbed them down to my thighs. He started to kiss my collarbone and he rubbed my inner thighs so hard now that it hurt. And I was scared.

"Sorry, I gotta go!" I said in my best perky-stripper-who-isn't-affected-by-anything voice. He eventually reluctantly gave me my $40 with no tip, and I went straight to the dressing room to grab my things and go.

I made it out the door, to the subway station, through the train ride. I made it to my apartment, to my room, to the sweatpants, to the bed. I fell asleep. I made it.

I woke up the next morning and looked over at my kitty collar and pearls on the floor. And then I cried.

I couldn't give up just yet.

I have never been this broke in my life. But I make it work. I eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day and steal toilet paper from bars.

I had to expand my search. "Do you allow tattoos?" Everyone said no.

Until I lowered my standards.

There's a sketchy bar in the middle of a sketchy neighborhood in Queens.

The cold manager stared at me in his cold office. "What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

I filled out some paperwork and he took my polaroid.

I went to the dressing room and changed. I guess it was only me and one other girl. She wasn't very attractive.

I walked out to the bar. Behind it was a tiny stage with two poles on each side. And nobody was there. One bartender, one bouncer, one mediocre, slightly overweight stripper with bad teeth, and me. Hello, Lux.

I needed money ASAP.

After looking online for clubs, I started to have doubts. It didn't seem like any of these cheesy places would be into someone like me. I called around, and so many places required gowns. Really? Gowns? I called one club and they said to just come in. I took my chances.

As I walked what felt like too many blocks, I pictured tall leggy Russian women with long satin gloves and incomprehensible accents.

Not a short ethnically ambiguous chick with tattoos and striped knee socks.

It was nothing like my club in Arizona. This place was huge. I was taken to the dressing room and amazed at all the space. They even had a House Mom. And a makeup artist. And a woman with a rack of gowns for sale.

Well, here I was. Only five months after I "quit". I started to change when...

"Oh," one of the dancers said to me with a disgusted look on her face.

If being the new girl on her first day at a big New York City strip club wasn't hard enough, there I was, in my bra and underwear, being stared at by every single woman in the room.

You would have thought I peed myself. Or had a penis.

"You can't work here."

A few dancers started to laugh and whisper. My insides went cold and I wanted nothing more to run as fast as I could.

"Honey, we have a no tattoo policy here," the House Mom said nicely. At least she was trying.

"Oh," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Well, maybe Linda can cover them up," she looked at the makeup artist, who was too busy dusting bronzer on a pair of breasts.

"I can't cover those up. Are you kidding me? Those are huge. I'd have to charge you so much. No way."

"It's okay," I said, in the voice you make when you're doing all you can not to break down and cry. "It's okay, really." Did I really buy shoes and a FUCKING gown, do my hair and makeup, take three trains, and walk sketchily toward the Hudson River just to be rejected within a matter of minutes?

And while girls were either still laughing at me, still staring at me, or still disgusted with me, I put my clothes on as fast as I could and stormed out even faster.

I pushed open the door into the cold night air, walked as fast as I could, and as soon as I made it around the corner, cried my eyes out.

I moved to New York City.

I had to get out of Arizona. I hated it there, and I hated who I had become. (See previous posts.) The sole reason I moved out there meant jack shit to me (he is now fat and republican and has an overwhelmingly obnoxious tribal tattoo a la George Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn) and let's be real - it was fucking hot. It was ridiculously, disgustingly, hot.

I moved out here to 1. write for a magazine, and 2. pursue a career in theatre. Okay - I will now pause for your guffaws, eye-rolling, and exclamations of disbelief. Yeah, yeah, now I must be fake, or a man, or a jaded slanderous stripper telling lies and defaming the face of sex worker blogging forever. Whatever. That is so two years ago. Anyway, I'm actually not kidding. (I know this all sounds totally random, but aren't you happy to be catching up?)

I've always loved writing. I spent every single college summer in New York, interning at different magazines. And in Arizona, I wrote for the big newspaper. (And then my cocaine addiction got bad and I stopped showing up. And then I was fired.)

Halfway through college, I changed my major from journalism to theatre. Again, the cocaine addiction was getting bad. And I found myself rushing to my evening acting classes after working the day shift. There I'd be, closing my eyes and deep breathing during pre-class meditation, distracted by how much my hair reeked of cigarettes and how badly my skin smelled like sweat, red bull, and shame. (And of course, Aquolina Pink Sugar perfume.)

I was about a semester away from graduating, but I dropped out. I threw out all of my stripper gear, packed my bags, and moved to New York City. I had an interview with one of my favorite women's magazines. Beauty writer. No sweat. My portfolio was killer. My references were top-notch. I knew I was I going to get the job.

After not hearing from them, the magazine eventually folded.

There was an open audition for an off-Broadway show. I stood outside in line with over a thousand people. And after callback after callback after callback, I was told that they loved me! That I would be a star! And that I would be perfect for a certain role - that they didn't need anyone for - at the moment. It wasn't bad news. It wasn't great news. And they would eventually call me. But not now.

Long story short, while anxiously awaiting my big New York City stage debut, I was broke. So I went to the West Village and bought a new pair of heels. I doubled up my long pearl necklace around my neck, and buckled on my velvet kitty collar - the one with the 'Lux' heart on it.

Did you really think I was going to throw those away? I knew there was a reason to keep them.

More later.

I guess I do have to delete this blog.

I'm going to be weak.

I am weak.

It's too hard for me to write my COMPLETELY HONEST stories when people think they're fake, or just out to offend strippers, or attempted "male fantasies."

Yes, I know. This is lame. I'm giving in. I'm letting them win. But how could I ever write everything that I want to write if they're all going to hold me back? And I let them.

I was going to write about the VIP booth over the weekend, and how I got really drunk, and ended up having sex for a few seconds with a man I don't care for, but jesus, I could only imagine all the people barking at me for that, right? I was going to write about how I went to this nice hotel with him after, did some coke, and had the most awful painful sex ever, but what, is that a male fantasy? Or wait, an erroneous stereotype? Or wait, totally fake? I must be a dude, right? No one would ever do that! My labia is torn and I can barely pee, shit, that must be fake. I have to scream when I pee, and you don't believe me. You don't understand. Few people in my life even know I'm a stripper. I have all these new fake friends but they don't count. I've ditched my old ones. Do you know how much I wish I could tell my mom that I can't pee right now? But I can't. And I've just told you all, but half of you will just say bad things about me.

Creating this blog was a mistake. I thought it would be a wonderful way for me to get these awful stories out that I've sadly chosen to experience. But no, it just makes me feel worse. Because I've got other strippers just making me feel more like shit than I already do. And I didn't start this blog for that.

I think I will just write in a journal. That seems to be better.

This blog is finished.

I just don't understand...

...why people think I'm fake? Why they think I'm copying them? That's such a fucking insult. If you knew me personally, I take writing seriously, and I would never fucking copy anyone!

Caught

Jay came into the club last night.

This was the first time that someone I know personally has come in.

Of course, he had no idea that I became I stripper. It makes for a big and honest reaction.

My secret nickname for Jay was "Rebound," for obvious reasons. He's the first person I started dating I mean fucking after my ex-boyfriend and I broke up.

Oh, wait, I guess this is the second time that someone I know personally has come in.

I was genuinely humiliated when I saw Jay. We both knew this wasn't me. At least it shouldn't be.

"I absolutely will not give you a lap dance," I told him. And then I decided I will never give guy friends lap dances. New rule. 

It was a weird night. I felt like I had been caught, at rock bottom. I wasn't proud of myself. And just that feeling was enough to start questioning what the fuck it is that I'm doing. Whatever it is, it's most definitely for all the wrong reasons.

My Thing

Not too long ago, I got really tired of taking my top off, then putting it back on, over and over again, all night long. So now, I don't bother with a top. I wear my black velvet kitty collar with the rhinestones and red heart ID tag (that says Lux, of course,) and my long white pearl necklace, doubled so that the pearls are also a choker, as well as long and hanging over my boobs. I like the way they swing when I dance on the pole. Cute bottoms, and funky knee stockings or socks put over thigh-high black fishnets. And of course, my favorite black eight-inch heels. And that's it. Every day. 

It works out nicely. I never have to fuss with a top anymore. And, it's the perfect marketing scheme for what I think is my best body part. Might as well advertise.  For only $10, you can have these titties in your face!

Tonight, one dancer saw me sitting on the stairs of the DJ booth, and looked me up and down. "That's totally your thing now, isn't it? It's cool." She grabbed my pearls and started playing with them. She put the red heart tag into her hand and brought her eyes closer.

"Lux.  Sweet."

The Day Shift

Lately, I've been working a few day shifts.

I don't know why I decided to try it. I had heard other girls talk about it, so I thought it would be worth checking out.

It sure is different.

I had always heard managers or DJ's use the term, Day Girl. Like, "One of the Day Girls actually tried to come in tonight. Gross. She was sent home." I never knew what this meant.

I get it now. They're much older. Their boob jobs are hard, lopsided, and very much from the 80's. And some of them actually go by names like Candy. But guess what? These ladies have worked the pole for years now - they've got regulars coming in for them every day, more power to 'em. They're makin' their dough.

There are only a few Day Girls who are my age. A few work at other clubs in the evenings, and a few take evening classes at school. Another girl would rather be with her husband and child at night. Me, I take evening classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays - and on the other days, I sometimes cut class. Don't tell my parents.

I come to the club at 10:00 in the morning. The first three girls who arrive at the club don't have to pay a house fee. Otherwise, it's only $25. There isn't much action for the first few hours. Girls have to do two songs on stage instead of only one. Sometimes we're dancing for no one. (It's a good time to practice pole tricks.) People start trickling in during lunch. We offer a buffet.

It's absolutely bizarre to be dancing for men while they eat their spaghetti and meatballs.

I grab a plate and eat if nobody is around.

The clientele is definitely different in the daytime. The vibe definitely lacks in the fun and lighthearted. You know the slightly creepy dudes that come in by themselves wearing basketball shorts, who sit in the darkest corner available? There are a lot of those. It breaks my heart a little. They're in here every day at 11am. That seems kind of serious.

The day shift is hit or miss for me. I think I need more time to develop some regulars. There have been a lot of days that I've worked 'till 5pm, gone home to take a nap, and come back at 10pm. Those days have been financially rewarding. But I think being in a dark smoky club for most of my waking life, sipping on Red Bull, sitting in nothing but a thong, knee socks, and heels has had an effect on me. Maybe.

I may ditch the Day Shift in the future. I feel like I've simply become...addicted to stripping.

Your Song

When I first started stripping, I learned the hard way that girls tend to claim songs.

"This is my song, sweetie," a girl once said to me as I was about to get on stage.

Totally understandable. Actually, now, if someone were to pick my song, I'd be pretty pissed.

Songs are important because they become your signature, your anthem. When the first few notes play, everyone - the dancers, the staff, the regulars, should know that you are about to get on stage.

Some of my songs are:

"Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes.

"The Hardest Button To Button" by The White Stripes.

"Foxy Lady" by Jimi Hendrix.

"Only" by Nine Inch Nails.

'Woman" by Wolfmother.

"Redhouse Blues" by The Doors.

There are others, but "Seven Nation Army" is the first song the DJ will play for me, 100% of the time.  While the other songs may sometimes be played for other dancers, or when I'm not there, "Seven Nation Army" is definitely all mine, only mine. That - is my song.

It's a treat to hear someone say, "Whenever I hear this song, I think of Lux."

Clever marketing ploy?