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?

Dave

This is the worst story to date. I'm warning you.

I danced for Dave all night, from the very beginning of my shift to the very end.

Dave is one of those stuck-up business types - 44, good suit, parted hair, glasses. He has a nice voice and talks like Frasier Crane.

"Come home and dance for me some more," he said to me.

"Sorry, I don't go home with customers," I lied.

"I just want you to dance, nothing more," he insisted.

"No, thank you," I insisted.

"I'll give you a thousand dollars."

I went home with Dave.

Once we got to his house, he offered me an ecstasy pill. Knowing it was a bad idea, I took it.

We talked all night. He told me about his divorce, his children, his job.

He cut up some lines of cocaine. I hate cocaine. I took a few bumps. By this point I knew that I had gone deep into bad decisions, and by this point I had hated myself, I hated myself so much, so by this point, I just wanted to be fucked up.

"I've got a guy coming over to bring me some Cialis," he told me.

Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea, I thought.

"Are you ready to dance for me?" he asked.

Now, completely fucked up, I danced for him. I remember hating every moment of it.

Dave put some porn on his big-screen TV.

And some guy indeed dropped off a paper bag of Cialis.

He took out his stupid penis and started stroking it. I went and sat at the other side of the room.

"You're not into that?" he asked, pointing at the TV. There was a woman bent over and two girls fingering and eating her out.

"No, not at all," I said.

"Do you want some Cialis?" he asked.

"Okay," I took the Cialis.

I can't write anymore. I can't bring myself to replay the end of the story in my head again - his bed, the sounds, the sweat, his voice - it makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to kill myself. How has it come to this? When will I love myself again?

The check bounced.

Update

I've been so exhausted lately.

Every night, I come home from the club, eat my Subway sandwich, hit the bong, go to sleep, then wake up and do it all over again.

I haven't seen my friends in a really long time.

As a matter of fact, I haven't seen my roommates in a really long time.

I haven't called any of my best friends back home in a really long time.

I haven't been my self in a really long time.

Or maybe this is just the new self.

I'm in the zone.  I suppose I'll get out of it sooner or later.  I've got a few new stories, but I feel uninspired to write, uninspired to do anything.  

I'll come back later.

Actually, a lot of us are wicked smart.

I was giving dances to an old man, and all was well, until...

Old man: Well, I suppose I'm rather introverted.

(Slowly, as if speaking to a dumb child or a person who doesn't understand English)

Do        you        know        what        introverted        means,        Lux?

Me: (Shocked and at a loss for words) Excuse me?

Old man: (Unaware that he just offended me) In-tro-ver-ted.

Me: (PMS-ing, on my last nerve, and in no mood to play cute) Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I'm stupid? Are you assuming I'm stupid? Of all words, introverted?  Really? Can I have my money now? Thanks. (Walked away, laughing like a crazy person.)

Non-fiction

A reader comment that I would like to respond to:

I have to tell you the line "I also do this job for the stories" bothers me A LOT.

Seriously, are you living your life or constructing an image?

I read an interview you did where you said something along the lines of your work as a stripper not affecting your personal life or sex life at all, that you found no separation between the 2, yet you repeatedly imply that you DO, in this blog. So, which is it?

You're obviously talented as a writer, but I can't figure you out beyond that Lux. And the post you wrote about stripper stereotypes also bothers me a lot. It doesn't sound like anything any stripper I know would ever say. It sounds like something an outsider would say...

Please know I'm not judging, but just trying to understand you. The stripper/blogger community (for lack of a better word) is a delicate one and authenticity is vital if outsiders are ever going to comprehend the reality of this unique and special work.

Personally I would take great offense if anyone claiming to be one of us were to jeopardize that by superficiality or inauthenticity.





Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake.

And in regards to stripper stereotypes, you've just met one who would say those things.

Me. Which is why I said them. Just stating what I observe, and what I think. The point of this blog.

Let's face it, stereotypes are funny. Why are they funny? Because sometimes they're real. And sometimes it's okay to be aware of them.

I'm probably an outsider in that I'm not much like those stereotypes I speak of. But in the end, I'm taking my top off and grinding on strange men for cash. So I'm not much of an outsider at all.

In regards to the interview you speak of, I have never done an interview. My work affects my personal and sex life completely. My work has affected me and everything around me completely. I don't recall this interview, or ever saying that.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake. And it bums me out that you think that, because I've chosen to pour my heart out on here and get it all out, for all to see. And it's completely true and real. Sadly.

And anyway, who the fuck would fake a story about Mike Tyson? That shit is real. Real funny.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake.