Back in the Saddle

In an attempt to get hired at my old dive club, I accidentally got hired at a really nice club closer to my house.  I worked yesterday afternoon and came home with more than 3 times my goal.  While all the other girls were complaining in the dressing room about not making money and begging to go home early, I was raking it in.

Today, I got the starter on my car fixed and opened checking and savings accounts at a local credit union because, as much as I love my online bank, I can’t figure out how to deposit cash into my account.  With a check, all I have to do is take a picture of it and upload it to my account, but I can see how doing that with cash could be a problem.  I also inquired as to how I could build my credit.  All of this was making me feel way too responsible, so I put on my rainbow stripe hoodie and did nothing for the rest of the day.

I’m sore as fuck, but it feels good to be back.

~W~

‘Right…but you’re wearing pants.’

The reminder is necessary surprisingly often.

While customers are acutely aware that I’m not wearing any pants, they seem to forget that they still are.  Perhaps seeing a scantily clad girl reminds them so much of happy naked time that they forget they are still clothed.  Or maybe their brains just shut off entirely.  Both are plausible.

When I first started working at the club, I would bring a little cloth with me to put on the chairs before I sat down.  There were many reasons for this, two of which are mentioned below, but I stopped doing it because it resulted in conversations like this:

I saunter over to his table and put my hand on the back of the chair next to him, ‘This chair looks like it could use a hot chick!’

He chuckles, ‘It sure could.’  So, I lay my cloth down and sit next to him.

‘Why do you do that? Is it really that germ-y in here?’

It is, but I avoid that question by answering only the first question with only the partial truth.  ‘I don’t like sticking to the chair when I get up.’

‘I never stick to the chairs here.’

‘Right…but you’re wearing pants.’

Another time, I had just brought a guy into the back and nuzzled up against him while we waited for the next song to start:

I put my hand on his thigh, and he puts his on my knee.  ‘You’re freezing!  You have goosebumps all over.”

‘I know!  It’s so cold in here!  At least now you can warm me up!’  Almost everything I say at the club is heavily punctuated.

‘Yeah, but why are you so cold?  I’m not cold at all.’

‘Right…but you’re wearing pants.’

Yet another time, in the dead of summer, I had just approached a group of guys who were there for a birthday party:

I congratulate the birthday boy and give him a hug.  As I stand at the bar next to him, his friends bustling behind us, I startle as I feel something brush up against my ass and turn and swat away at…

The air.

He looks at me as if I’m high.  I try to explain, ‘The flies have been so bad this summer!  They’re driving me crazy!  They must like my new perfume because they’ve been all over me today!’  I lean in and toss my hair so the rich bourbon vanilla envelopes him, embraces him, intoxicates him.

‘Shit, you do smell pretty good.’

I smile and thank him.  Then his friend chimes in, ‘We’ve been here for a while, and no flies have bothered me,’ he says with an eyebrow raised.  He really thinks I’m hallucinating.

‘Right…but you’re wearing pants.’

Come on, guys.  Think before you say stuff because you’re making it really hard for me to be the dumb one.

~W~

strippers fucking customers

It’s the number one search that leads people to our blog.

strippers fucking customers

Except ‘strippers’ is usually spelled wrong.  Or ‘customers’ is.  That (and the fact that neither A nor I have ever written a post about fucking customers) aside, people have still somehow made it to our page in hopes of finding some lurid account of how I readily took a customer in back where there are no cameras and sucked him off for $20 because I’m so horny and uninhibited and wild and have no shame.  Or whatever other cute little excuse I can come up with for being okay with having illegal, unprotected sex with some stranger for the same price or less than what I can get for 3-4 minutes of dancing where I don’t have to worry about being groped or contracting AIDS.

You’re one of those people, aren’t you?

Well, there will be no such sordid story.  I’m sorry I tricked you.  But to make it up to you, and as a ‘thank you’ for visiting our site, I have a gift for you.  No, not the kind that keeps on giving.  Are you ready?

For all of you who got here by searching ‘strippers fucking customers’, ‘stripers fucking customers’, or even ‘stripers fucking costumers’, here is my public service announcement to you.  You should not go to a strip club looking for extras (kissing, fingering, blow jobs, hand jobs, anal in the parking lot, etc.) because:

1) If she’ll give you a blow job or let you suck her nipples for $20, imagine how many other dudes she’s gotten down with.  A lot of people have $20.  My niece is 7 and gets $5 a week in allowance.  Every month, she has $20.  Your $20 doesn’t make you rich or special.  It’s pretty safe to say that almost anyone who walks into a strip club has $20.  This means that you could be swapping spit (or worse) with any one (or more) of them. Do you really want to lick some guy’s stale cum or have his herpes virus rubbed all over your dick?  For $20?  Really?

2) There absolutely should be no need for a #2, but I’m sure that, for some of you, there is.  So, you can probably pick up a drunk chick in a bar who will fuck you for free and doesn’t have a huge bouncer wanting to kick some ass checking in on her every few minutes.

3) If money isn’t the issue, there are plenty of clean, professional providers who will take care of your every need in an appropriate environment.

4) The strip club is not that environment.  Clubs are there for people who enjoy the tease (myself included), and when illegal activities go on in my club, it compromises my money and the money of all the clean girls.  It also puts us at greater risk for a raid.  The last thing I need is money trouble or legal trouble, which brings me to…

5) If you get caught, you’re probably going to jail, where you will have no shortage of suitors lining up to peg you — and not the kind who look good in 8-inch heels and a two-piece.

6) If you’re still not convinced, just drive up and down the road in your area where all the streetwalkers hang out and pick up one of them.  That way, you get your rocks off for cheap, complete with the exciting possibility that your ween might soon fall off, and I get to dance in a place where I don’t have to dodge your grimy fingers or wonder if I’m sitting on your crusty jizz spot.

Thanks.

~W~

‘Get the fuck off the stage, buddy.’

Normally, I would have been thrilled to see my name in the rotation for stage 1 around 11:30.  But tonight wasn’t a normal night.

Even as the customers started rolling in around 10, the stages were nearly empty.  The few customers who were sitting at stages weren’t tipping more that a couple of dollars per 3-song set.  I watched the girl ahead of me do her entire set to empty chairs and a pity dollar on the corner of her stage from a merciful passerby.

Dreading the possibility of a repeat, I went to drum up business with a bachelor party.  I had already done dances for the bachelor and a couple of his friends, one of whom had expressed interest in my pole work after discussing how I had gotten such muscular arms and back.  ‘Come up and watch me, Enrique.  You’ll finally really be able to see all those sexy muscles in action.’

‘You wanna see my sexy muscles in action?’  The bachelor, who was wearing a suit and tie and a giant, furry top hat with the word ‘BACHELOR’ across it in gold lettering, landed with a plop on my lap and started thrusting his pelvis around and waving his hands in the air.  I looked at Enrique, eyebrow raised, and physically redirected the bachelor onto the couch next to me.

‘Hell yeah, man!  But we can’t do that here.  Go have a talk with the DJ to arrange a bachelor dance with me up on stage.’

‘BEAUUUUUUUUUUUTIFUL, SEXY LADIES COMING OFF THOSE STAGES!  GET YOUR TIP DOLLARS DOWWWWWWWWN.  REMEMBER, THEY ARE WORKING HARD FOR YOOOOOOU — NOT FOR US.  NEXT UP, WE HAVE W ON STAAAAAGE ONE!’

‘Hey, guys, that’s me!  Let’s go!’

‘We’ll be up.  We’re going to talk about this bachelor dance.’

‘Sounds great!  See you soon!’

By the time I got to my stage, the girl ahead of me had already dressed and retrieved her dollar.  I let out an audible sigh as she and I passed, exchanging a look of sympathy.  I looked to see if my bachelor party was making their way up or talking to the DJ, but they were nowhere in sight.  Discouraged, I grabbed the pole, bent over, and started wiggling my ass in hopes of attracting some attention.  To my surprise, two guys came and sat down.

As I was dancing for one of them, Enrique and the bachelor sat on the opposite side of my stage.  I went between doing floor work in front of customers when the money was down and pole tricks when it was not until one of the first guys who sat down, a scruffy biker with a bandanna on his head, put several dollars in front of him.  I finished up a spin, crawled over to him, and stuck my boobs in his face while I played with his hair.

I was pulling away and leaning back to get ready to shove my crotch in his face when everything went black.  I felt something over my head and face, but before I could even reach up to investigate, someone put something around my neck and yanked back.  My hands flew up to my face, knocking the giant, furry top hat off from over my head and onto the floor.  I looked up to see the bachelor standing over me with his tie looped around my neck, swinging his hips wildly.

And then, a voice from the heavens — the DJ, Jeff, over the loudspeaker.  ‘HEY BUDDY.  GET THE FUCK OFF THE STAGE.’

The pulling stopped.

‘YEAH YOU.’  Jeff continued, ‘THAT’S REALLY AS NICELY AS I CAN PUT IT.’

Instantly, my stage was flanked by both of the managers.  I apologised to the biker and continued dancing for him.  On the other side of the stage, one of the managers had pulled the bachelor aside.  Enrique laid a tenner on the stage for me, and I went over to him, laid back, and grabbed my boobs.

Which he took as his cue to grab my hair with both hands.

‘HEY, BUDDY…’

Jeff’s booming voice was the last thing dear Enrique heard before the other manager snatched him up.

In the few months I’ve been dancing, I’ve been able to make a lot of money off of bachelor parties.  But, while many girls look at them as ‘easy money’, I tend to avoid them if I can because, while a bachelor party may sometimes be quick money, it’s very rarely ‘easy’.

~W~

What What (In the Butt)

Last night, I was poked in the butthole.

Most people can’t say that after a hard day’s work.  Until last night, I was part of that greater population.

Jesse came in around 5 PM.  The club was almost empty, and I had been sitting at a table in the corner folding origami puffy stars.  I saw him standing by the Chris, the bouncer, drinking a beer and acting as if he and Chris had been friends for years.  I walked up to him with a little wiggle and a big smile and gave him a fluorescent red star that glowed under the black lights…

Which he promptly ate.

He hit on me for a few minutes before another girl — one of the more aggressive, energetic, party-all-the-time girls — took his hat, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him off to a chair where she then plopped into his lap.

Thank god.

I can and have done well with customers who fall into the ‘life of the party’ category, but more often than not, they are more trouble than they are worth.  Last night, I just didn’t have the energy.  I went back to my quiet corner and got lost in folding more stars.

I looked up once when I caught Chris descending on Jesse in a flash out of the corner of my eye for some breech of the touching rule that I was too distracted to witness.

About an hour later, I was standing by the front desk with the door girl when Jesse came up to me and drunkenly started telling her that I was obviously ‘the mama of the club’ and that he could tell I would ‘fuck him up’ if I thought he was misbehaving.  ‘YOU are in charge here, mama.  In CHARGE.’

Having an unruly person fear me is one of the more preferred options.  So, I rolled with it.  I agreed and somehow turned the topic around to private dances.  I got him into the back and in a booth.  As I was standing over him explaining my pricing , he put his hand on the back of my thigh and tried to pull me towards him.  I removed his hand and reminded him of the rules.

The next song started, and I turned my back to him while I undid my top.  To my surprise and relief, Chris was standing in a far booth watching intently.  He turned his hand palm-up and rubbed his thumb and fingers together, mouthing ‘Money up front.’  I turned around and leaned over Jesse, cupping my tits and squeezing them together while I said lowly, ‘Hey, Jesse, let’s get business out of the way so you can relax and enjoy this fully.’  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash while I swayed sensually.  I took it and turned around again so I could count it while keeping him busy with a booty clap.

Satisfied, I threw it to the side with my purse and began to slowly remove my booty shorts.  Just as I was bending over and turning my head to shoot him a sexy smile, I felt it.

I whipped around to see him still fixated on where my ass had been, mouth hanging open, finger frozen out in front of him.

‘You’re out,’ I said, pointing towards the doorway of the booth, and pressed myself against the wall as Chris swept in from the right and my manager from the left.

I calmly gathered my money, my clothes, and the little yellow star I had been working on before he approached me as they escorted him from the club.

Once dressed, I went back out into the main room where all of the girls clamored to hear what had happened.

‘I would have elbowed him in the face!’

‘I would have slammed my foot down on his crotch!’

‘I would have fucked him up!’

‘I’d be so pissed!’

‘I’d probably be in the back crying right now.’

Chris, who had just returned from arranging a ride home for Jesse, broke in and asked, ‘Are you okay?’

It struck me then that any normal person, and even most strippers, would be really upset in this situation.  But I wasn’t.  Not only did I not have any violent impulses at any point during nor after the interaction, but I had absolutely no negative emotional reaction to being sexually assaulted.  In fact, I was glad to have finally made some money and be able to tip out the day staff.

There have been times where I’ve worked very hard to fool myself into thinking that I was okay with something when I wasn’t and then had it build up and erupt shortly after.  But I was — and still am — completely unperturbed by the entire event.

I was, however, starting to get concerned over my lack of reaction to the whole thing, but then I thought about it…

I had a bouncer watching over me the entire time, I was aware that the customer was potentially problematic, I was able to stop him before he could do much more than brush his finger against me, and I had already gotten my money.

In short, Jesse was right…

I was in charge.

I know my boundaries, and I now have a proven track record of enforcing them.  And, while getting poked in the butthole is never worth the price of a lap dance, I am confident in my team of staff and our ability to handle difficult situations with efficiency and grace.

~W~

Tore Up Bitch

I am exhausted.

Tonight wasn’t particularly rigorous.  I didn’t have any really difficult customers.  I didn’t have anyone rip me off.  Just like last week, getting tips on stage was like pulling teeth for most of the night, but I still managed to have a couple of the highest paying sets of the night because I got lucky and was persistent.

But I am bruised, bleeding, sore.  I went into the night with bruises, a scraped knee, and overworked muscles from last week, made worse by my pole class, home pole practice, and a night of spontaneous go-go dancing on a really rough stage with an even rougher pole.  I’ve also been getting bitten by some sort of insect throughout the night as I sleep, leaving me with puffy red bumps on my legs, arms, and back.  Add to that my chronic dry skin, a sudden breakout, and a propensity for razor burn, and you’ve got one of the palest people in the world covered in a scabby, puffy, black and blue and purple and red mess.

I spent over an hour before my shift with a make up brush, a sponge, a hand mirror, and two different shades of concealers trying to get back my pristine porcelain pallor.

I thought I had done alright.

And then I got up on stage, laid on my side in front of a customer, and drew my leg up to my ear to give him a prime view of the goods.  He recoiled and yelled, ‘Holy shit, look at this fucking tore up bitch!’  Then he got up, grabbed his friends, and left.

I looked down at my legs and could see that the 7+ hours of rubbing up on customers, rolling around on a hard floor, and swinging around a pole had taken its toll.  Not only had much of the make up rubbed off, but I had acquired several new wounds over the past few hours.

Thankfully, a bachelor I had been chatting up, who had walked in with hundreds of dollars in ones and more in higher bills came up to take his place immediately.  He threw down a hefty wad before I even started dancing for him and kept the bills coming throughout the set.  Then he got a few dances from me.

At the end of the night, I made over 30% more than my previous best night, thanks to the bachelor and a few other patrons who were more focused on ass and titties than a few scuffs and bruises.

So, I may be a tore up bitch, asshole, but I walked out with more than you did.  And probably more than you came with.

I paid for it physically tonight, though.  I imagine I’ll be feeling the aftermath for the next few days.  I just got home, I have to be up for my day job in a few hours, and it will still be an hour or two before I can wind down enough to fall asleep.  But at least I am finally getting ever so close to my goal of earning as much stripping one night a week as I do in a full-time week at my day job.

~W~

ADDENDUM: 13 September 10

Last night, I had a customer grill me on stage about my bruises.  When I told him that they are from doing pole tricks and rolling around on a hard floor day after day, he said, ‘I don’t see any of the other strippers all bruised up.’

‘Well, I’m one of the whitest people in the world and am also mostly vegetarian.’

‘That doesn’t make any difference.’

He was still putting bills on my stage, so I stuck around.  ‘Would it be better if I said it was from crazy monkey sex?’

‘No.’  He scooted back and said something inaudible to his friend with a concerned look on his face.  He reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty.  As he handed it to me, he said patronizingly, ‘Take care of yourself, okay?’  Then he got up and left.

Seriously?

Not every stripper leads a troubled life.  I don’t.

That twenty is not going towards getting me and 13 kids away from their abusive babydaddy.  But it will get me a sushi lunch and some iron supplements.

Does that count?

~W~

Last night was the first time…

• I made nearly all of my money in the day shift.
• I was approached by customers for a dance instead of approaching them.  This was the case for 3/4 of my dances last night.
• The fourth stage was opened when I was there because there were so many dancers.
• I was propositioned to have sex for money — by more than one person.
• I had a customer take money off my stage while my back was turned.
• I saw customers regularly sitting at stages while refusing to tip.
• I saw a top girl with no customers at her stage.
• I told a guy, ‘I’d rather you use the money you’d spend on my drinks to tip the girls well,’ and he actually did.  He passed out money to all the girls around us.  And me.
• I got paid well to sit and talk with a customer.
• I got a bill over a fiver on stage.
• I did my newest inversions on the club pole.
• I saw a girl get called out by 3 customers for not being up front with them about her pricing when they normally just suck it up and pay in order to avoid trouble.
• I forgot all of my clothes at home.  Thankfully, A was there to save me from either having to drive 80 miles back home empty-handed or go buy a new outfit.

A lot of ‘firsts’.  I’m going to learn from the negative and carry the positive with me into next week.

~W~

Weird Things Strippers Do: When Strippers a-CLACK!

You’re sitting in a strip club with your $8 beer, eating some free chicken wings, and watching two half-naked dudes wrestle on the big screen when you hear it…

CLACK! CLACK!

You whip around and see a stripper on her back, legs up in the air, smacking her 6 inch platforms together with a vengeance.  Wonder why?

1) She just got your attention and reminded you why you are in a strip club and not a sports bar or your living room — ass and titties.

2) She probably has a lot of pent up aggression from dealing with guys who try to suck on her nipples, waste her time, and/or don’t tip.  Smacking the shit out of her shoes allows her to deal with that aggression on something other than the customers’ faces.

3) It makes her booty jiggle.  Normally, no girl wants to feel her fat moving around.  But this isn’t a normal situation.  Jiggling in the right areas usually means more tips.

4) There’s no place like home.

And that’s where I’ve been for the last couple of weeks — taking a break so that I don’t grow completely disenchanted with stripper life.  Besides, there’s a a huge event going on at my club this weekend that brings in customers, but not to spend money on us dancers.  I have a feeling that, in this case, no amount of clacking or jiggling is going change that, but I’ll be back in the game soon enough.

~W~

Everyone loves a good stripper fight.

Right?

I love to sit in the dressing room, eating lunch or re-applying make-up, listening to girls bitch about each other.  It’s always so amusing to me that they can’t just mind their own business and make their money and shut the hell up.  It’s funny because I don’t really have a problem with any of the other girls there.

Except now I do.

We’ll call her X, and she’s absolutely horrid.  Now, I know that readers realize by now that all strippers are delicate, unique snowflakes, and we’re all very special and lovely in our own way.  Honestly, though, I can pick out something appealing and wonderful about every girl who works there.  Except X.

One girl is so gorgeous she doesn’t have to wear any make-up.  Another may not have the most marketable stripper body, but she’s obscenely flexible and has great make-up.  Another has lovely pale skin, a great smile, and is witty as hell *coughWcough*.  Point is, we all have something going for us, something working in our favor.

But X.  X is goddamned miserable.  She always looks hungover/bored/angry/disinterested.  I’ve watched her approach club patrons with her shoulders completely hunched, rolling her eyes.  It’s not cute.  On the rare occasion that she does manage to force a smile, it’s so forced that it makes me cringe.  She never tips out the bartenders, security, or dj.  In fact, she isn’t even pleasant to them.  X never puts any kind of heart or enthusiasm into her stage performance.  She does a lot of standing around and making her ass clap.  When she manages to get someone to the tip rail, she spends most of her time sitting on her knees hunched over them with the most godawful posture I’ve ever seen.  She may throw them a forced smile or two, but mostly she sits there looking bored with her sad tits in her hands, shaking them.  Or bouncing them?  I don’t know, really.  I try not to look.

Once, in the dressing room, I heard her tell another girl this:

“I told her that if any girls except B try to give my boyfriend a lapdance, I will fucking beat the shit out of them.  I’m not even kidding.  I’ll snatch a bitch up for looking twice at my man.”

Ummm… How the fuck is anyone supposed to know who your sorry-ass, fresh-out-of-jail boyfriend is?  Does he wear a name tag that reads “X’s Sorry Ass Boyfriend”?  There are over 20 girls working here on any given weekend night, and we approach as many guys as possible.  Your boyfriend is not immune.  Don’t want him getting asked for dances?  Tell him to stay away.  Problem solved.

Anyway, getting to why she gets under my skin and makes me want to claw my face off.

The past few weekends, she follows me in the main stage rotation.  The past few weekends, we’ve had a problem with someone wearing cocoa butter or lotion or something and gumming up the pole.  I have no idea who it is, and really, I don’t care.  I just spray down and wipe the pole as much as I have to so that I don’t fall and bust my ass while I’m up there doing tricks.

But every time I’ve been getting off the stage, collecting my money and putting my top on so that I can get back on the floor, she has something snotty to say about it.  Every.single.time.  It’s actually evolved into her cute little way of accusing me of gumming it up.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t care, but I have to hear her garbage at least 5 times a night that I work.  And now I just want to scream at her.  But I won’t.  Because I don’t want to get into a physical fight, and I know that she’s the kind of girl who would take it there.

So I’m posting my rant here.  What I want to say to her, but never will:

“Bitch!  Shut the fuck up already!  It’s not me gumming up the pole.  You can imply that it is me all you want, but it’s not.  Fucking deal with it.  I do.  Spray the pole and wipe it down a few times during your set.  It won’t kill you since you don’t do anything sexy or interesting up there anyway.  Maybe bending at the waist to wipe the length of the pole will actually be sexy.  Maybe it’ll bring a few guys to the tip rail to check out your muffin tops and downward-pointing boobs.  And you know what?  You don’t even use the pole!!!!  Your pole use consists of standing with your ass against it, the pole planted firmly between your nasty butt cheeks, and rocking back against it with your back arched.  Glad I don’t have to follow you.  I’m much more disturbed by dirty ass crack on the pole than I am a little cocoa butter.  Get over yourself.  The sun doesn’t rise and set according to you and your crappy stage sets.  Oh!  And stop wearing leg warmers that look like dead animals.  Not cute.”

Phew!  I feel so much better.

~A~

Sexy

What is sexy?

Whatever it is, I don’t have it.  At least not naturally.

I don’t like to touch people, I don’t like them to touch me, and I try to avoid eye contact and conversation like the plague.  I might even rather catch the plague.  At my day job, which isn’t really customer service but often lands me in the presence of customers, I put on the blankest expression I can muster, stare through people as if they are a piece of fogged glass that’s clearing, and try to look like I don’t speak English in case someone might have a question.

I’m painfully introverted and a true antisocial — more bred than born, but I won’t go into that.  Regardless of the process, the result is what’s important.

I don’t know how to be convincingly socially adept.  And I sure as hell don’t know how to flirt.  Outside the club, in the rare instance that I find myself interested in someone, I pretend that I hate them until they go away.

That doesn’t fly in a strip club.

Which makes me just about the worst stripper in the world.  Naturally, anyway.  Thankfully, I’m a quick learner — I’ve stopped having panic attacks as soon as I walk in the door, and I can approach people without hyperventilating  (hey, it’s progress).  Unfortunately, there is no step-by-step class on how to be sexy.  Even if there was, steps don’t cover the moments between the actions — where the real sexiness lies.  And it doesn’t put the spark behind those actions.

I could probably get by just going through the motions.  Make eye contact, smile, approach, touch customer, touch self, say I’m horny, dance, collect money.  Rinse.  Repeat.  But I hate lying.  I will never tell a person I’m into them when I’m not.

But being sexy isn’t about wanting someone else.  It’s not even about someone else wanting me.  It’s about feeling that I am want-worthy and being comfortable both with wanting and being wanted.  This is a foreign concept to me.

Guys can throw money on my stage all they want, but it won’t change that little voice inside of me that says, ‘Some guys will throw money at anything with tits.  I’m nothing special.’  No, that kind of change comes from within.  It’s not trying to become something I’m not, and it’s not putting on an act.  It’s healing a wound.

Not being able to utilize that part of myself is a wound.  And healing it is a conscious decision and an involved process to which I am fully committed.

If I can awaken this part of me, I won’t have to go through the motions.  I won’t have to lie.  I won’t have to pretend.  Because it’s me.  The real me.  It’s in there somewhere.  I know it.  I feel it.  And I’m slowly finding it in the most unexpected place…

Wrapped around a pole.

~W~