Stripper. Columnist. Protagonist. Feminist. Enthusiast. Many-ist.

http://eroticmusepdx.com
Background Illustrations provided by: http://edison.rutgers.edu/
how much do you get paid?

I don’t get paid, I receive tips from onlookers and lap dance recipients.

Here’s a scenario:

Girl A talks to customers all night, listens to them, asks if they would like lap dances, gives lap dances, performs on stage, pays the club a fee to be there, tips out the hourly paid staff (bartenders, DJ, bouncers), and keeps what remains.

Girl B talks to customers all night, listens to them, asks if they would like lap dances, gives lap dances, performs on stage, pays the club a fee to be there, tips out the hourly paid staff (bartenders, DJ, bouncers), and keeps what remains.

Except: Neither girl can control what is handed to her, who will find her interesting or sexy, or what people she will meet.
Girl A might leave with $500 and Girl B might leave with $100. Or more, or less.

And clubs with a high stage fee are risky because it is not unheard of for strippers to actually owe the bar money.

Stripping is based on your intelligence, your aesthetics, your timing, your charisma, or just plain luck. There is no hourly guarantee.

M

I’m swallowing hard, trying to still taste him in the back of my throat. Drinking tea helps, for the soreness that’s creeping in to my ears. I can’t decide if it’s a cold, flu, or deepthroat-kind-of-sore.

The candle and perfume vendor was waiting for me at the back of the strip club last night, her wares carefully arranged in jars and bottles. “I made a candle for you, Elle. With you in mind. It’s almond and vanilla. There’s no dye, it’s all natural. Won’t you smell it, tell me what you think?” I admired her hustle. The candle is burning as I type this. Genmaicha tea simmers in my mug. The dog is asleep. The toddler is asleep. The husband is one a plane to London. The lover(?) is across town, in his penthouse.

I tasted myself plenty, today. On his face, on his cock, on his fingers. “Do you smell that?” He asked, breaking his usual near-silence. “That’s us. I love the way our fuck smells.” I turned my head away, inhaled, smiled, and nodded, as my face push push pushed in to the leather couch with each thrust. Although I was not wanting to use the L word at all, I agreed, “I love it too.”

An hour later, I was eating a salmon-burger across town with my daughter, and with my ex-husband-best-friend-confidante, when a text appeared. “you are so beautiful to me.” I helped Daughter with her shake, offered yam-fries to Bestie, and put my phone in my purse.

Reblogged from folkmagick  168,160 notes

I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art. By Helena Bonham Carter (via xhromosomes)