Wednesday, March 11, 2009

How I became a stripper

Two years ago, while maintaining a square 9-5 office job, I began stripping at one of the sleazier bikini bars in Hollywood. The customer base consisted primarily of thoroughly coked out middle-aged Sunset Strip trash, psychotic self-righteous moralists who'd frequently request handjobs, sad sack drunks more interested in controlling their DT's than topless women, and the occasional SSI recipient who'd accidentally wander in and have a conversation with a wall until a bouncer kicked them out.

I'd gone to strip clubs for years before I tried it myself. Since I was fascinated by their inner workings, it made sense at the time to give it a go. I was only at the club for four months, but by the time I walked out it felt like a decade had passed. I'm still not completely sure what compelled me to take it up in the first place. Unlike most of the batshit crazy women I worked with, I didn't come from an abusive household. I didn't have a pathological need for attention. I wasn't addicted to a cornucopia of drugs. Compared to most of the strippers I shared a dressing room with, I was downright puritanical.

I could sit around for days trying to assess the deep rooted psychological issues behind my decision to strip, or I could answer whatever questions you have about the totally non-glamorous world of taking your top off for crumpled dollar bills.
I'll divulge all of the dirty details. The ickier the question, the better.

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