Lesson #31: More Random Shit

• Being naked and surrounded by mirrors affords me the luxurious opportunity to admire my marks and bruises, from Daddy, from rope, from beatings and boots and thrashings on concrete. I cover the worst of it with tattoo cover-up, but I don't cover everything. I wonder if the johnnies even see the marks. I mean, I'm sure they can see them, but do they pay any attention to them? I doubt it. They're so fucking transfixed by my vagina. Now, if I ever show up with a boot-print on my pubic mound, that might raise some eyebrows. Mmmmm, I can dream, can't I?

• This is not the greatest job to be doing when you're menstruating. Sometimes I feel like I can smell my menstrual blood onstage. That makes me self-conscious like nothing else.

• Told my therapist I'm a peepshow dancer. Was sure she'd be judgmental about it and give me all the reasons why it wasn't a valid occupations, and try to convince me to get a different job, etc. She did none of those things. She was quite neutral about the whole thing. I'm so proud of her! Now the question is, do I tell her I'm kinky and poly too???

• Dancing at work seems to help lift my mood when I'm in sub-drop mode, which is likely to be happening more frequently now that I seem to have a regular D/S and S&M partner. I really like that my night job is beneficial to my mood, as opposed to my day job which makes me feel like an indentured servant. Ugh!

• Every time "Dick in a Box" plays when I'm onstage, I think to myself, "That's where I'd keep my dick."

• Yes, please, by all means, point out the zit on my face and react in disgust multiple times. THAT'S gonna get me to give you a good show. Dude, if you're that offended by my blemish, go to another fucking window, you moron!

• Some days, I feel like I showered in ugly.

• Even with its ups and downs, the peep show remains the one constant in my life. Well, that and my dog.

• I've become one of those girls who can wear nothing more than a swatch of cloth that's more akin to a belt than a skirt, and make it look good. And I don't say that with any arrogance. I say it with amazement and gratitude. Yay! (So then why do I still feel like I could lose another 30 pounds???)

• Crazy guy in face-paint, sucking on oyster shells, pay for a show or leave! You can't just stare at me for free. I am not a mannequin in a window. I'm a real, live girl, with bills to pay.

• A johnny dropped $50. on a private show, only to not orgasm, thank me politely and walk out. He didn't even use all his time. Not sure if the problem was him or me, but I felt bad for him.

• Had another U.F.O. day (ugly, fat & old). Days like that make me wish I had the discipline to be anorexic.

• Felt terrible about myself after indulging in candy and cake, even though I've lost 40 pounds and fit into clothes from Wet Seal and Charlotte Russe (places I haven't been able to shop at in years).

• Had a nightmare that a johnny found a way into the private booth. It was quite a disturbing dream. I'm considering carrying pepper spray with me.

• I'm so sick and tired of being harassed by beggars on my way in and out of work. Asking for money is one thing, but having a shit attitude about it is totally unacceptable.

• One of the girls is plying me with Hello Kitty stuffs. Yay!

• The owner of the little market/deli around the corner from the peepshow dropped a banana into my grocery bag FOR FREE. I'm glad little things like that still make me smile.

Lesson #30: Per Ception

• I have often felt like fish in an aquarium or an animal in a zoo when working the peep show. Tonight while onstage, though, I had a spontaneous thought: "Why not think of them as the fish, and us as the spectators???" It totally changed my perspective. I liked it. I actually giggled a couple times. Men do some weird shit when they're whacking-off and/or orgasming.

• Quote of the Night: "There's some horny guys out there. Most of them I wasn't able to satisfy." Sometimes, you just ain't the box they want.

• To the johnnies: When I bend over onstage, alternately arching and rounding my spine - ***SPOILER ALERT*** - I'm not doing that in the hopes of turning you on. It simply means my back has gone out again, and I'm in pain.

• To the johnnies: When I'm doing a split, or stretching my legs open wide - ***SPOILER ALERT*** - I'm in no way thinking of you and hoping you like the way I look. I'm actually thinking about Daddy, and how I want to increase my flexibility so I can impress him and add to the awesomeness of our sex-life.

Lesson #29: Random Muses

• I realized that the vast majority of dancers here, including me, have the ability to put on this "I'm-so-into-myself-and-entirely-apathetic-towards-you" facial expression at will. I can't speak for anyone else, but I typically use it if I'm dancing for a customer who gives me the creeps. It helps me avoid eye-contact with him. There are some people you just don't wanna let that close to you.

• It's difficult for me to date girls and not compare them to the girls at work, who are just so utterly hot.

• Some of the songs we have to dance to I find very offensive. For example, "Bring it to me sweaty 'cause I like it when it's funky." Seriously? That's supposed to make me feel sexy? Please.

• There's not a lot of privacy to be had in the dressing room, and usually, that's totally fine, but when I'm sitting on the toilet, tryin' to poop, well, you probably see where I'm going with this...

• More often than not, when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, dancing at the peep show improves my mood. That's a pretty cool thing. I mean, how many people can say their work improves their mood? I consider myself lucky.

• I'm forming a hypothesis that the men who stare so intently at my twat - I'm talking about the ones who are just utterly mesmerized - are men who were raised in cultures and/or families where they were forbidden/not given the opportunity to look at vag.

• Considering we're an "all nude" revue, I spend a lot of time thinking about what to wear onstage.

• Dancing for a living means I can eat pasta - guilt free!

• Regarding a song we were dancing to one night: First, I thought the vocalist was saying, "jiz." Then I thought he was saying, "shivs." Finally, I realized he was saying, "shoes."

• Too many consecutive days off from work and I start to get very paranoid about the calories I'm putting in my body.

• The more I listen to the conversations that occur at work, the more I am convinced that everyone's high.

• In the private show booth one night, I was solicited for $228. and two tickets to the Billy Joel concert. When I turned him down, he tried again, only this time he said they were tickets to the Elton John concert. Seriously? Dude, are you so fucked up right now that you don't even know what those tickets you're looking at are for? Get out my freakin' booth, crackhead!

• A man who stands in the booth with his arms crossed while watching us dance looks pissed-off and is unlikely to get a good show.

• My biggest gripe about work actually has nothing to do with work. It's the location. Big city = SHIT PARKING!!!

• Was very grateful I didn't work Superbowl Sunday. The guys always act like a bunch of apes when they come in after a game.

• Pre-menstrual cravings always worry me. I imagine I'll awake with a second chin and a third butt-cheek.

• Sometimes, I feel like the spare twat onstage. We all have days like that. I think it's an occupational hazard.

• It's odd for me to want people to find my vagina aesthetically pleasing. I never used to care about such things.

Things I hear/say and experience in my "office" that you never will in your office:

• "I can't find my underwear. Was I wearing any? I don't remember."
• "I'm impressed with your old people skills."
• "Y'know what crazy thing I did last night? I tried shooting a ping pong ball outta my twat. It took a lot of concentration."
• "Wow. That's impressive. The only thing I've ever pulled off with my vagina is a condom."
• 'Who does that occur to? Who wakes up one morning and says, "I know what I wanna do with my life! I know what I'm going to make my occupation: I want to shoot ping pong balls out my twat with laser precision!" How does that happen?'
• Do you get thanked by your clients for getting them off? Didn't think so. ;-)

Lesson #28: Musings from the Fishbowl

The thing about working the private-show booth that I dislike the most is the boredom. If the johnnies are lining up to see you, that's one thing, or if you get a regular who spends 30 minutes of your hour-long shift with you, that's great too. But if it's a slow shift - nothing but a few lookie-loos wandering the dark hallways - and all you've got to keep yourself busy are a couple of pillows and an old copy of Playboy (It's company policy that we only read smut mags while in the booth.), well, that can be the longest hour of your life. I've tried smuggling in books, hidden between the pages of Playboy, but it makes for a very awkward reading experience. What's more, it's somewhat difficult to keep an eye on the hallway for would-be customers when your nose is in a book. So lately, I've been taking my iPhone into the booth and listening to audiobooks to kill the time, and it really is a superior idea. I can keep my brain busy, but with my eyes up, and my body poised provocatively, ready to woo the hall-lurkers. And it keeps me from looking bored outta my gourd, and who wants a private show from a bored-looking babe?

Well, last night was one of those painfully slow booth shifts, yet peppered with amusing and annoying happenings. So I decided to use the Voice Memo app on my iPhone to make notes of those happenings. Here is a summary:

(a) A gaggle of young men (somewhere between frat boys and soldier boys) swaggered down the hall to my booth and proceeded to act like chimpanzees. One of the pack pressed his Mercedes-Benz key up to the glass. I said, "Congratulations. You have a car." I heard another one of the young primates telling me, "He has money, lots of money." Um, yeah, and what? That's supposed to make me wanna go home with you? In the words of Shania Twain, "That don't impress me much."

(b) A somewhat lost and unfortunately-dressed man wandered into my booth. It was clear to me he didn't know how things worked. When I explained to him the cost of a private show, he started to walk out, then paused, turned around and shouted at me through the glass, "How about a free show?" Excuse me? A free show? Oh, yeah, baby, 'cause you so fiiiiiiiine. How is it that so many men come in there asking for shit for free? Do they walk into Starbucks, stroll up to the barista, and ask for a free coffee? Do they saunter on down to their local Apple store and ask for a free MacBookPro? Do they waltz into Comcast and ask for free OnDemand television? I really don't get it. Maybe it's a desperate grasp at some hope that I might actually be into them, and am not there strictly for the money. *ahem* Wake the fuck up, you cheap-ass SOB. Even Daddy paid me for a lap dance when he came to see me at work. If he don't get it for free, shit, ain't none ya'll.

(c) I caught a cute, young, Heath-Ledger look-a-like wandering the halls looking bewildered and lost. After chatting him up a bit, I hoped to get him in my booth, but I think it was too rich for his blood. It was still a pleasure, though, to see his face. (Note: Even with the cute ones, you still don't wanna give it away for free.)

Lesson #27: Of Gratitude and Diffidence

I've been at the peep show a little over 4 months now and, for the most part, I really enjoy it. As I've noted in this blog before, usually the only time I don't want to be there is when I'm feeling tired. Besides that, I enjoy the dancing and the interaction with the other girls. Just this week, I found myself thinking multiple times, "I can't believe I'm getting paid for this." I mean, who else gets paid to look at hot (and in some cases, really hot) naked women preening and prancing? - and I'm on the right side of the glass, baby. It's a beautiful thing. It really, really is.

The flip-side of that is the comparisons I'm always trying not to make between me and the other girls. Let me paint a clearer picture for you: some of the girls I'm dancing with have perfect bodies, and I do mean perfect. You would be hard pressed to find even half an ounce of cellulite or a stretch-mark on these women. Perky titties, flat & toned tummies, round & firm asses, legs so long they touch the heavens, with the flexibility and control of competitive gymnasts - and then there's me. Now, don't get me wrong. I know I'm no dog, but I'm not a Victoria's Secret model either (and I'm telling you, some of my co-workers could be). I'm accustomed to being "less than" from all my years as a competitive ballroom & latin dancer. (Truth be told, I use a lot of my old moves on the peep show stage, and the johnnies eat it up. It's a little scary how similar the two worlds are.) I'm used to being not tall enough, not thin enough, and not having the long legs or high-arched feet of the favored dancers. What I'm not used to is dancing naked while being surrounded by mirrors, forcing me to look at the reality of the situation every moment of every shift.

The Upside to All of This...
While I cannot keep my mind from making its comparisons between my body and their bodies, I am gaining a growing appreciation for my body as well as the various shapes and sizes of others. For years - decades - I hated my body, hated every square inch of it. Now, I make a good part of my living by baring it to the world (or at least the part of the world that frequents a peep show), and people pay to see it. I no longer hate my body. I look in the mirror and, while I see "problem areas" that I'd like to fix, I also see a girl who can create some beautiful lines and shapes and motions, using nothing more than what she came into this world with. And of that, I'm pretty damn proud.

Lesson #26: Hide & Seek

It's something of a balancing act, being a peep show dancer and a cutter. I have an ever-expanding collection of arm-warmers, in order to cover my canvas of choice. Gloves won't do 'cause I need my hands and fingers free for private shows. The other day, I considered cutting on my legs, and then immediately realized how problematic that would be when it came time to appear onstage.

I imagine some will read this and be aghast at this admission, but truth be told, there are far worse things I could be doing to myself, like shooting up heroin or doing meth or smoking cigarettes. (Those things will kill you for sure.) So I don't worry about it too much. If it gives me the release I need in order to live through another fucking day, then it must be doing some good. I've just never had a job where I had to worry about covering it up before. Another lesson learned at the peep show ...

Lesson #25: Identity Crisis

Last night was my first shift back since going home to see my family for the holidaze. Any time I see my family, it affects me negatively. They're just toxic, and as with any form of toxicity, you have to purge it from your system before you feel right again. And I'm definitely not feeling right.

I first noticed it on the drive home from the airport. I noticed a heavy melancholy and thoughts of suicide. I noticed this tremendous sense of hopelessness and discontent. But I figured it was just the emotional and mental strain of the trip, the lack of sleep, and the over-indulgence in foods I don't normally put in my body.

Monday morning, at my day job, I was miserable. But that's pretty standard for my day job, so I didn't think too much about it.

But then, Monday evening, when I walked onstage at the peep show, I noticed this unusual feeling, as I watched myself in the mirrors, that I didn't know who or what I was looking at. And I had the thought, as I took in all the johnnies pulling on their wangs, "They are just so ridiculous," all these men, paying money for a peek of vagina. And then I looked around the stage and thought, "And how weird is this? - to be in a virtual closet with a bunch of naked women." It was right about then that I truly wished I had some sort of mood-altering substance in my locker. But all I had was Rescue Remedy, a homeopathic sedative I bought at the pet store for my dog. (I wasn't sure how he'd take to air travel.)

I also had the thought that I really wished I could be with Daddy, someone who actually sees me, unlike the johnnies or my family. All they see is a twat, or a prodigal daughter. Daddy sees more than that. At least, I think he does. I don't even know anymore.

Hence, identity crisis...