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~