Tuesday, August 25, 2009


"I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort."

"You were spiritually dead through your sins and failures, all the time you followed this world's ideas of living... we all lived like that in the past, and followed the desires and imaginings of our lower natures, being, in fact, under the wrath of God by nature, like everyone else."
--Ephesians 2:1-3 (Phi)

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
--Virginia Woolf

Unless a particularly remarkable addendum occurs to me at a later date, this will be my last entry in this stupid stripper blog. I have decided the sex industry and I are parting ways permanently, and not a moment too soon.

It happened like this:

After my annoyance with stripping reached a fevered pitch about five weeks ago, I decided to take a break, effective immediately. Although at that time I thought of it as more of an hiatus, in the last few days I have decided I would rather collect cans from the side of the road than accrue more bad karma by repeatedly flouting the law of "Right Livelihood" as Buddhists would see it, or court a lifestyle rife with mortal sin, as fellow Christians would term my participation in the sex industry. My conviction that I have indeed been living in an absolutely sinful state since I began accepting money for acts remotely sexual in nature over a year ago has lately become immutable, in fact. Reading over this blog disgusts me now. It seems to be floundering, semi-hysterical, devoid of integrity. It is certainly evidence of a painfully confused state of mind into which I never plan to enter again.

Anyhow, I'm done. From now on I shall sublimate, stifle or, ideally, transcend my exhibitionist/submissive impulses until such a time as a man suitable to be my husband enters the picture. Within the confines of marriage, such acts/tendencies would definitely fall under the category of expressions of "sanctified joy". If no such relationship emerges, I'll live happily, even so. I've been abstinent this long, and I can handle it as long as it's necessary-- even forever.

I know I am doing the right thing because I can pray again-- for the first time in months-- with no sense of separation between myself and the Divine. I possess the sincere conviction that through my repentance I am finally received back into the fold. Although I realize God's love is unconditional, I actively divorced myself from it through my sinful actions, and have been paying the price, consciously or no, for far too many months. Well, that's all over now.

As for what's happening in my life right now...

I've started volunteering at an animal shelter in Williamsburg. Maybe someday I'll get a foxy little pomeranian, but until then, I'll pet abandoned cats and walk monstrous mutts down Bedford Avenue. I spend so much time in quiet contemplation I find it necessary and indeed therapeutic for me to be in contact other living, breathing creatures-- yesterday I walked a saucy little puppy and hugged him when we rested on a bench, feeling his happy little heart beating, which filled me with joy.

When the quiet at home becomes deafening I get out and spend time with my beautiful friends. I've been going to a Buddhist temple in Chinatown with Pearl, and I find it very peaceful there:

I'm signing up to take some more improv classes, too, which I really enjoy.

I am also slowly regaining my ability to focus, and to write. This is a blessing I can hardly overstate. My capacity for sustained and virtuous labor seems to increase the longer I am away from the strip club. This definitely indicates that I'm making the right decision by making my hiatus permanent. It is apparent that I can only hope to pursue my literary ambitions by taking good care of myself and making my inward and outward environments stable and free from lewdness. Virginia Woolf was right-- access to a quiet room and the assurance of a decent, fixed income are the two necessary things a woman must have if she is to write fiction. Although I hardly possess a trust fund or annuity of any sort, I have no debt, and my savings will last a few more months. After that I hope to find a part-time job somewhere quiet and beautiful, and spend the remainder of the time resting or writing.

My sleep disorder is, as always, in effect, but I am trying to accept things as they are, since nothing seems to change my symptoms, least of all worry or self-reproach.

As far as men go...

The men I have dated in the last month are either inappropriately devoted to me or seem to be merely toying with me and saving the best of themselves for something or someone else. I can only imagine this has been the natural result of meeting people when my mind was in a severe state of confusion. Bad idea. Time to move on and start afresh with dignity, which should help me stop attracting perverts and other non-committal, undesirable men. On dates or shortly thereafter I sometimes still find myself trying to practice a sort of unholy emotional alchemy that is, at heart, merely romantic delusion, but I've largely learned to stop trying to transmute rejection into acceptance and frogs into princes. Instead just accept things as they are, feelings and people included. I have a lot of faith things will go well from now on whether I am single forever or a wife within the year.

Best of all, when my stubborn little brother finally comes to visit, perhaps within a month or so, I can receive him with a clean, innocent, undivided heart.

I rejoice at the thought.



PS It's interesting to pray now and feel I really have joined the ranks of the formerly sinful and now repentant believers. When I feel ashamed I simply remind myself that I am in good company-- Tolstoy, St. Paul, etc. Not that one can ever be entirely free of sin...

Ah, life.

Friday, July 10, 2009


Sometimes I chat online with an old friend-- a former model/actor and double- Cancer sensitive type whom I met in an improv class a couple of years ago here in NY. I had quite a crush on him then (he has beautiful blue eyes and a gorgeous body), but he was oblivious and nothing developed. Now we lives on the West Coast. A few months ago we reconnected. If we lived in the same state nowadays, our friendliness and playful attraction to one another now mutually acknowledged, I'm sure we would have an interesting relationship (though I suspect never a serious one). Because we are both devoted to becoming more spiritually attuned at all times, our interactions would likely be based as much on our shared love of meditation as our slightly kinky fantasies. He knows about my no premarital sex stance, and, since he has often chosen to explore abstinence for long periods of time as well, we are on the same page about promiscuity, etc.

Every couple of months I get sassy and send him a pic or two of myself. This morning I took these:

Although possibilities are revolving on the horizon, I am not on sending-nude-pics-for-fun terms with anyone else at the moment, which is great. I'm so happy being single right now. I got asked on a couple of dates this week, but I'm not sure I want to go. Maybe I'll flip a coin.

Today I am filled with joy.

PS Had an appointment with another plastic surgeon the other day. He said he couldn't, in good conscience, touch me. To appease me he also asked a colleague and a former professor, and they agreed. Since the doctor who did my nose and *his* supervisor refused to touch me further, also, I have declared myself satisfied with my face. I'd be insane to go against the advice of five plastic surgeons who refuse to take my money. Maybe some day a less invasive means of correcting asymmetry and deviations from ideal facial proportions will be invented, and I can get myself smoothed out then. Until that day, I shall be content.

Thursday, July 9, 2009


Photos taken this weekend near Madison Square Park, in the East Village and at Rockaway Beach, respectively:

I went to the beach with a friend on the 4th of July, and got a sunburn so splotchy and rash-like I decided I needed to take the week off of work. On Tuesday I went in to Tryst to show it to the manager, who gave me an infinite amount of hassle about my request. He said sunburn wasn't a "legitimate" reason for taking time off. However, in an industry where beauty and confidence are necessary to generate income, having a painful and ugly sunburn is-- obviously-- an absolutely valid reason not to be able to come in. Who would pay me for a lap dance when I felt and looked far from my best, as my body language and demeanor would no doubt reflect?

Anyway, I was treated like a liar and fined 50 dollars for my last-minute "no-show" (I had actually called in on Monday to warn the manager of my situation, but the club's policy on cancellation is giving a full week's notice or one gets fined).

"Congratulations for putting him in a bad mood," said the cashier with wide, frightened eyes. She is usually friendly to me when she's ringing me up (for the champagne sales I make and the house fee I pay, surprise, surprise) so it was news to me that she could be so cowardly and petty.

"I'm telling the truth, and I am NOT working here this week. Whatever else happens, happens," I said with a shrug.

(maybe I would expect my schedule to be more inflexible if this were a salaried office job, but then nobody would be prying into my discretionary allotment of personal off-time, for which I would be paid, rather than having to pay my employer for the privilege. I would also not have to take time off for a sunburn if I worked in an office, so the point would be moot.)

I think it's disgusting for the other adults at the strip club to run around like scared rabbits based on the whims of the manager. I was only asking for time off, something a lot of employees do in any occupation. If this audacious request sets him off like a child being denied a toy, so be it. My intention was to do the best thing for me, which I believe is-- unequivocally, and also as a universal policy-- never harmful to anyone else.

I am so tired of being treated like a dumb bitch, subject to the whims of a patriarchal system in which even the women in management try to scare the dancers into seeing things their way (which is not always the right way) and treat us like the club's chattel.

PS Last night I went out with my friend Pearl, who is dating a conservative French-Canadian chemical engineer.

"If we go anywhere, I'm driving," he said to her recently.

"Would you like me to wear a burqa while we're at it?" she responded.

Seems there's no faction of society in which men don't revel in controlling women capriciously, when the opportunity arises.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009


"It is the mystery which enchants, and its being is extinguished with the extinction of the necessary combination of its elements."
-- Friedrich von Schiller

I realize I've been updating this blog less frequently because the experience of being a stripper has been largely demystified for me. My adventurous mind-set has become... less so regarding the sex industry. I suppose I shall figure out what to do in the natural course of time... I'm currently taking 6 days off to try to steel myself for another unbroken stretch of work... it seems I can last about three weeks at a time without overloading, but no more than that.

Friday, July 3, 2009


I keep having dreams in which I am quasi-forcibly given one or two dogs I really don't want.

"I wanted a pomeranian puppy and no other breed," I explain in the dreams to the random person trying to foist an ugly, enormous rottweiler-mix mutt or old and putrid bulldog on me. Thereafter I am somehow convinced to dog sit for these beasts. Whether the owner is coming back or not becomes ambiguous after awhile.

PS Worst week at the strip club ever, income-wise. The people were really interesting, though... I'm sure I'll be back to earning a decent amount of money per shift next week, after all the men with money are back in town.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Sidney Crosby Stanley Cup Slumber Party

I can tell my life is boring when I get crushes on random athletes en masse. This phenomenon happens approximately once a year for a month-long period or so. Another inevitable part of this cycle is the need to watch uplifting sports documentaries and interviews. Based on previous year's sports fixations, it's my informed opinion that the whole thing is a fairly accurate sign that I'm definitely not optimizing my creative potential at present. However, the phase must run its course.

I tell ya, stripping apparently drains the upward mobility and artistic impulses out of me. However, when I re-watch old Joe Calzaghe interviews it's much easier for me to stay inspired. I believe life is worth living when I watch that humble man jogging down Welsh dirt roads and training in a converted shed with his father.

And when I see Sidney Crosby (who still lives in Mario Lemieux's guest house even though he is 21 years old) all snuggled up with the Stanley Cup:

I once again believe in everything that is good and noble and true about mentorship and one generation virtuously succeeding the next. In sports, at least.

Babycakes etc.

"As a Bokonist, of course, I would have agreed gaily to go where anyone suggested. As Bokonon says: "Peculiar travel suggestion are dancing lessons from God."
-- Kurt Vonnegut, "Cat's Cradle"

Yesterday afternoon I decided to make myself as attractive as possible and set out for a little adventure with a friend. I surrendered my own objectives and simply did whatever he wanted to do. It was really fun.

I started by getting my hair washed and set, as I do every week, at a Dominican salon in my neighborhood. I think they overcharge me because I'm white, but I don't really mind. They always do a great job. I passed the time under the hairdryer reading the early short stories of Flannery O'Connor (I've been enjoying O'Connor so much lately I've had a really difficult time putting her books away when it's time to work at the strip club where reading is frowned upon).

I really wanted this purse:

I saw it in a boutique window a couple of doors down from Babycakes, a vegan bakery where I met up with my aforementioned friend. We ate red velvet cupcakes and raspberry jelly rolls made with spelt flour and agave nectar-- the only baked goods I've eaten recently due to my moratorium on white flour and refined sugar. Then we bought surprisingly good books from card tables set up on the street near NYU and rambled around the Village.

Afterward I had a date with a very nervous man I doubt I'll see again. He is smart, but far too ill at ease in his own skin for me.