Bye Bye Megan/Sanctified Joy vs Carnal Knowledge

"People are endlessly making up fictions... implying that the whole of nature is as crazy as they are."
-- Spinoza, "Treatise on Theology and Politics"

"Oh, how beautiful has your harlot been... Green was grass, and fresh was the flower, the bay tree spread itself, and the hawthorn, but the time is coming of fading; the flower will fade, and the grass will wither, and the whoredom and the enchanter must come to judgment."
--George Fox

I've been reading the doctrinal books of George Fox, who founded the Quaker religion. I want to go to a Quaker service, which is to say I want to sit in a room with other Christians and be quiet.

Megan moved back to Utah today. Earlier, she gave me a few things of hers, including this bamboo plant, which I like very much:



Before she left, she and I discussed being flush with spring fever, and how we have both been struggling not to pounce on cute boys on the subway, etc. lately. My sleep disorder has been making day to day living a challenge the last couple of days, but even severe exhaustion doesn't prevent me from imagining being entwined with a beautiful stranger I've yet to meet, his silken skin beneath my fingertips, biting my lip as he slips my ankles over his shoulders... sigh.

After my date with that Marine last weekend, I felt a few delayed ripples of lust wash over me while riding the J Train home. I shook my head and tried to distract myself with other random thoughts, which worked. After awhile, that is.

I thought about finding a date for this weekend in a normal way (ie not at the strip club), but I can't face the reality of dating at all. When I think about how much I dislike the way I look and how pointless my recent forays into intimacy have been, the daunting thought of trying again stops me in my tracks. In fact, I reject myself outright in advance, and do not care to involve another party in agreement, nor, conversely, dispute someone with a dissenting opinion of my looks.

In fact, I suppose I really shouldn't date till after I get my last little bit of surgery. Or maybe ever again. Nothing lasting or worthwhile ever seems to come of it, after all, and I hate wasting my time or anyone else's.

The one thing that makes me question really giving up the pursuit of a romantic relationship entirely and forever, is that I have a resource at hand, namely my young body, which is, except at work, being completely wasted-- in its prime of potency and ability to give pleasure, no less. I hate to squander the ability to love and satisfy a partner on a physical level, though it would be a pointless endeavor if said enjoyment stemmed from the purely sensual variety of love, rather than the "sanctified joy" that has always been my idea of heavenly sexual union. Lord knows I don't need to wrack up any more carnal knowledge, thank you very much.

And yet, here I am, a virgin, and so sick of talking about it as well as my career as a stripper that I bet I'll spend the weekend reading the Bible and buying some new shoes with lucite heels for work instead of going out, even with a friend...

Stripping is starting to absolutely overwhelm me. I feel as though I'm drowning.I'm going to take next week off if humanly possible. I need to think. I need to pray. I need to get away from that strip club for a minute.

PS Tonight I'm sad. I feel overwhelmed and completely cut off from reality, whatever that means. I'm lonely, but not in the way the presence of another human being can assuage or even touch. Faith and I also seem to have parted ways for the evening, but I cannot mourn our separation because I do not care enough to do so. In short, nothing matters...

PS 2 I wish I had someone-- father, mother, husband, etc. to take care of me. My friendships are wonderful, but they are generally not familial, and family is what I want so much right now. I could cry, I feel so separated from any sort of unconditional love. I feel pitifully abandoned, even as I acknowledge that my emotional state of starvation is self-imposed.

I must not be giving love. Otherwise it would flow to me in return. Although I know this misery is but a shallow fiction written in an artfully shaky hand by my own overly dramatic imagination, I can't seem to avoid believing in it for now.

I am so very unhappy I don't even know what to do. If I could just wake up I'm sure I could figure something out, but I can't.

I am so tired I can barely lift my head from the pillow to get up and turn off the light...

Civic Duty

"I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you. "
--Walt Whitman *

Interestingly enough, as soon as I began writing and thinking quite a bit about Jonathan Knight in his unbearably handsome and sensitive youth, I randomly met a tall, sweet, 21-year old Marine who looks quite a bit like him, although his skin is slightly darker-- a luscious combination of honey and olives. Like myself, said Marine (let's call him Alessandro) is also from Chicago, with grandparents who emigrated from Italy. He was here in NY for Fleet Week, aptly named because he is due back in North Carolina by the 28th...

On Saturday night we spent the most sweetly romantic four or five hours I have, perhaps, ever shared with another human being, appreciated by me even more because he risked quite a lot of punishment to sneak off and be (relatively) alone with me (it is mandatory for Marines to travel in groups of no less than four). Unfortunately, due to other restrictions he had to stay near the Times Square area, but we sat quietly together and held hands in Bryant Park, ate Korean barbecue, and went to my favorite candy shop. He utterly refused to eat anything there. Barring the times when my brother and his friends (who are professional athletes) were in training for a big competition, I have rarely been in the presence of another human being in such sparkling good health, and so disciplined in terms of his physical well-being. He was also innocent and sweet-- even angelic and ethereal, despite his two long tours of Iraq.

Indeed, I never met a person who was so tabula rasa. I felt I had nothing to fear from him, ulterior motive-wise. We were simply attracted to one another and feeling the romance of spring stirring in our young hearts. It was delicious.

Upon leaving Bryant Park we passed the building which clandestinely houses the old dungeon where I used to work I saw a zaftig girl with punk-rock highlights coming down the stairs. It was very obvious to me what she was, although I didn't know her personally. I paused, smiling, and told him to look at her as she passed.

"She's a dominatrix." I said, and explained my six month stint as a domme. When I shared some of the gory details of the medical torture sessions I had often conducted, he replied:

"I suppose you wouldn't have much trouble killing someone, then."

"No." I admitted, remembering the blood that had spattered my vinyl naughty nurse's outfit and the rush of dopamine I'd often felt pulling large-gauge needles out of a willing victim's flesh.

However, to satisfy my conscience, I added:

"Although it would have to be in the name of a worthy cause, not that I can think of one..."

"It's the same for me. I don't enjoy killing, but I'm not afraid to do it in the name of the greater good." he said without bravado. He'd put a bayonet through someone's throat before, he then mentioned in passing.

It's a funny thing. I do not believe in war, or murder, yet I have joyfully engaged in many acts of violence. Really, all such acts are equal in concept; the only difference is in the degree of expression. So who am I to judge a Marine, or any other soldier, for the sin of murder? Perhaps I am little better, though I fancy myself to be so because I made such choices at my own discretion, rather than at the behest of a commanding officer.

Outwardly angelic, yet both capable of bloody deeds, we had so much common, did Alessandro and I. I suppose it's a far from unheard-of combination of traits, although I rarely seem to encounter it in a man.

"Why did you join the Marines?" I asked him, suddenly curious.

"My mother has an incurable disease. So I wanted to fight alongside her..." he answered. My heart stirred. What a sweetheart.

"Why do so many men in the military get married at such a young age?" I wanted to know next.

"I'm not sure. It's so difficult to see your girlfriend any other way, sometimes the only way to maintain a relationship is getting married. And some guys do it for the bump in pay, although I can't imagine making a promise that big for a reason like that."

I hugged him about a dozen times for that one.

He told me when he's out of the Marines, he expects to join the SWAT team in Chicago, for he's never been "book smart" and doesn't feel college is right for him.

We met up with a warm acquaintance of mine to watch the Matt Serra/Matt Hughes UFC fight at the Playwright's Tavern in Times Square. I was introduced to his girlfriend, who seemed nice. This acquaintance is a brilliant actor, comedian and improviser I'd like to know better, although I felt a little strange when, after we parted so I could walk my date back to his friends, thereby to depart for their ship, I received a text, referencing my virginity, that said:

"For God's sake, don't lose it to a serviceman." which I thought was funny at first, if only it hadn't been eventually followed, despite my lack of response, by:

"I'm serious. Kiss him if you need to but don't be silly."

Wow. How weird and bossy!!! Not even a best friend would send me something like that. I wondered if he was being overprotective or had some other motivation. I never understand men.

Anyway, I walked my Marine down seven crowded, glittering, neon-lit blocks back to his meet-up spot, parting in front of the subway with an unavoidable sense of finality that indicated the Universe had somehow declared we wouldn't see one another again in New York, despite his most ardent wishes or mine. A little girl snuggled in the arms of her father passed by as we began our good-byes.

"She looks so sleepy and adorable!" I gushed.

"Like someone else I know" he said, surrounding me protectively in his strong arms. I was so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude at having met him that I kissed him a hundred times or so and bounced down the subway stairs, sending him off with a wave and, characteristic of me, no backward glances.

He couldn't get liberty to spend any more time hanging out over the holiday weekend, but I did get a text that said:

"On a serious note, I think I may be having serious feelings for you".

SERIOUS.

He hardly ever even sees women, so I can't take it to heart. The life of an active-duty Marine is often lonely, and I'm sure I could have been almost anyone...

I believe we'll keep in touch, but I don't think we're meant to settle down together, although having an unbelievably handsome and loving husband who is gone for all but major holidays would be a perfect arrangement for me.

Ciao, Alessandro... maybe I'll see you in Chicago on the Fourth of July.

PS I'm convinced we had the most innocent date a Marine and stripper ever had. Ever.

PS2 He'll be off to Afghanistan by the end of the year. I hope he comes back.

* This quote seems kind of mean, but I'm feeling very unattached personally toward all men just now. In my mind they are turning from a seething, unmanageable, problematic mass into a harmless collective vessel for experiments of Virtue and experience.

So It Goes

Whoever showed too much fight, and denied her lover,
He held her clasped high to his loving heart,
And said to her: ‘Why mar your tender cheeks with tears?
As your father to your mother, I’ll be to you.’

She, who is virgin, who hates Cupid’s darts,
Gives people many wounds, has many to give.
-- Ovid, "The Art of Love"

Spring is in the air, and, while I am aware this is a wonderful time to fall in love, with my annual round of April/May romantic try/fails now ostensibly behind me, I am settling in for another go at being creatively productive instead. I know the shape of my ideal relationship, and since it is not to be found at present, I shall therefore set my hand to the plough artistically, and be very grateful I have life and energy enough to share my love in another form.

The boon of maturity is perspective with neither rancor (which is, as Ortega y Gasset says, "An outpouring of a feeling of inferiority") nor regret.

Example:

In a very pleasant catch-as-catch can sort of way, I was dating a funny, broad, stunningly honest, good-natured person for a month and a half or so until, riding with him on the subway Sunday night, I realized, in a flash of insight, that it probably just isn't going to work out for the following reasons:

1.) The only relationship talk we ever had was sparked by his declaration that he "Didn't want anything serious". I said that was fine, no harm done, but that we'd never see one another again, since that's not what I need (no rush of course, but eventually an exclusive relationship is what I want), upon which he took what he said back. The whole thing made me feel depressed. "I'd like to keep sleeping with other women" is not the ideal sentiment I'd like to hear from a man when he is snuggling in my bed with me. I don't say,"No, no, no" to dozens of men a week (a habit formed long before I worked in the sex industry) to throw away my love and attention on a man who is still definitely, actively, enthusiastically weighing his other sexual options. I know it's sometimes difficult to be with me, considering my refusal to have sex. That's why my partner has to be sure of his feelings. Otherwise it's just a mutual waste of time, and I refuse to knowingly squander time or any other valuable thing. It seems sinful.

2.) His friends came first, in terms of resources and consideration. I would have been satisfied with a 60-40 split for the present, considering there are more of them than me, and they're already proven to be loyal and supportive, whereas any newcomer (namely me) is inevitably on probation for quite awhile. However, that wasn't the case at all. I certainly gave him as much consideration as my other friends and dates, never less. This one stings, I must admit-- it's a deep dig that affects a soulful part of my being, rather than my superficial ego. I guess it comes down to feeling, subconsciously, "You're not as important to me as the other people I like." Which manifested in practical terms as him saying, ""I have to save money, because my friends are coming to town next week." (meaning: so of course I'm not spending any on you, although, of course, it could be any resource, you come last, this is the precedent, and I'm setting it). Really? Red flag, full stop, very hurtful, unacceptable. I've re-arranged my whole schedule around him many times, and used my very last bit of energy to make our time together sweet for him. Maybe I didn't always succeed, but I did try.

3.) He will let me go without a bit of protest, I feel sure, even though he knows where I live and everything.

4.) I'm sure I did more things to make it an impossible situation also, starting with ever believing I am capable of attracting a loving relationship while I'm stripping.

I sound like a whiner (we had a nice time together, it wasn't forever, but what is? the end), so I'm cutting myself off, and devoting the rest of my morning to baking cupcakes and hanging pictures in my apartment. Some of them are sort of heavy, but I'll surely manage. After all, neither love nor manual labor universally require a partner in crime. As surely as a person can harmonize with the infinite, expansive joy that is true love-- with or without another human being-- so can a single girl make her home beautiful solely with her own capable hands if she so desires.

As Vonnegut said, "So it goes"...

PS Back to the strip club tomorrow. I don't want to go!

PS2 I already hung these shelves:



PS 3 Re-reading the state of affairs with this boy, I am shocked I let things go this far. I really seem like a sucker, ah well, live and learn.

Hair

Goodbye (for now), track weave...

PS When my extensions were clipped off and my hair was unbraided, I couldn't stop scratching my long-hidden scalp. The sensation was so unbelievably wonderful I practically purred like a cat. It's a shame I don't have a boyfriend because my hair can finally be pulled without reservation again.

PS 2 Although I have quite a backlog of significant (to me) experiences from the last couple of weeks I really ought to write about, I believe I'll save all that till tomorrow. Or another day.

PS3 I wonder if my earnings will take a dive now that my hair is so much shorter. Ah, stripping...

Jonathan Knight/Dead Fathers

When I was a child I used to have a huge crush on Jonathan Knight of New Kids on the Block. I admitted this to no one, of course. Tellingly, the only figures in popular culture I would openly cop to admiring/adoring were:

1.) Shirley Temple
2.) General Patton
3.) Punky Brewster
4.) Bret Hart
5.) Saint Bernadette

About eight years ago I saw Mssr. Knight on Oprah Winfrey, having a panic attack and explaining his lifelong struggle with stage fright, depression, etc. I fell in love all over again. He is precisely the neurotic flavor of man I find most fascinating: talented, attractive and totally at the mercy of his fluctuating, punishingly intense emotions. On some instinctive level I probably recognized his issues all along, and, indeed, liked him primarily because of them; after all, I tend to be attracted to artistic people with depression/mood disorder issues as significant and longstanding as mine, even on a seemingly superficial celebrity crush level.



So. Lately I've been wearing this red enamel heart-charm necklace with Jon Knight's name emblazoned on it (bought on Ebay 5 years ago). Almost nobody notices. Even when I point it out, no one seems to care, sadly. I really want to see New Kids on the Block in concert. However, I don't have a single friend or acquaintance here in New York who would be super jazzed over the prospect of going with me. Everyone I know here has painfully good taste. Booooring. I need to make a new friend who shares some of the same guilty pleasures I do... come one, now, we can't go to Gemma and Film Forum all the time!

Today a repeat customer with red hair and freckles took me to the champagne lounge for a couple of hours. He recommended some P.G. Wodehouse works I always meant to read but never got around to checking out. Then he told me his father died Monday. It seemed sad. He didn't talk much about it, but apparently they were close.

"Tell me something good," he whispered in my ear.

After a moment's pause, I said:

"You are obviously a kind-hearted person, without any karmic roadblocks or sharp edges. I can tell you treat people well, and that means, without a doubt, you will receive the treatment same in return. You're going through a sad but very inevitable human experience right now, but I truly foresee a very happy life for you otherwise."

This seemed to satisfy him. I liked him when I met him the week before, and I liked him all the more after he spent a thousand dollars on me. Being in the prolonged presence of his grief, however, was not without its after-effects. A palpable veil of misery had been draped over me physically and emotionally. I felt as though I'd absorbed some of it by osmosis. The unpleasant sensation lingered the rest of the evening, but I shook it off by the time I stepped off the train back at home in Brooklyn.

Sometimes I wish I made less of a sincere effort to connect with customers on a genuine level, but it's my inevitable M.O. at the strip club or anywhere else.

I'm such a Pisces...

My own estranged father's last act after getting diagnosed with a fatal brain tumor (he was dead within a month of finding out about it, although the tumor had, in all probability, been growing clandestinely/insidiously in his brain for more than a decade) was to cut my brother and I out of his will and donate his body to medical science. My mother maintains that his dying acts simply proved the tumor made him insane. I think it just affirmed that he was an asshole...

No Show, Not Quite

"An American woman who respects herself," said Mrs. Westgate, turning to Beaumont with her bright expository air, "must buy something every day of her life."
-- Henry James, "An International Affair"

This morning, for the first time in over a week, I truly woke up-- felt the wet carpet of torpor roll back and could once again embrace the prospect of living with a sense of renewed vigor, joy and energy.

The first order of business was to get my track weave washed and set. Sadly, I ended up spending twice as long as usual-- over two hours!-- in the local Dominican beauty shop due to length of time it took to dry out the moisture trapped in my too-thick under-braiding (note to self, never go to that African hair-braiding salon for extensions again). The braids under my weave are still a little wet, in fact, and smelling musty. Nasty-- I can't wait till after the holiday to get this weave taken out. I want to get the last bit of Barbarella mileage out of it this week before I go back to having short hair for a bit, though. It's good for business, if not my peace of mind. Or scalp.

My long salon delay ensured that, since I was more than an hour late, I had to pay the same 50 dollar fine at work as if I was a total no-show. Seems pretty unfair, but every rule for dancers is ultimately made for the benefit of the club, and they rarely cut anyone slack whatsoever. I took the train into Manhattan to explain my salon issue to the manager and pay it in person as well as to see if it was worth my while to stay and dance that day, fine or no. However, I just couldn't bear to get dressed and finish my shift, somehow. Instead, I scheduled myself to work the next three days in a row, sigh. I really made a particular effort to set things straight and be a responsible employee, but it's a losing battle when nobody ever believes anything one says, and almost everybody in a managerial position is a fucking bully, jerk or totally forgetful. NO SUPERVISOR I'VE EVER MET IN THIS INDUSTRY IS NICE AFTER ONE'S FIRST WEEK. EVER.

Note: this is the first time I've ever been late for work at Tryst and I didn't even get one iota of a break, nor did I expect one. Treating employees as disposable, to put it mildly, is S.O.P. in every strip club I've ever known.

Afterward, blinking on the sidewalk outside the club, and as happy as a dove who had flown her cage, I sat in the shady, mossy graveyard at nearby St. Paul's for a little while, ignoring Ground Zero a few hundred feet away as well as every other thing that reminded me that I was in the middle of an enormous city or ever had to work again.

Then I took a meandering walk down Broadway, ending up not quite by chance in one of my favorite stores, the mega-colorful French novelty shop, Pylones, and bought a few little things for myself:



These little plates are so cute I immediately felt compelled to have a romantic/fun picnic somewhere with a friend/date. It didn't happen. Day jobs make spontaneous daytime jaunts difficult for most other people I know. Booooooo. Plus my cell phone is really iffy right now, and I'm kind of loath to get a new one just yet. I like the idea of being progressively incommunicado, at least for awhile...

When I finally got home I called to book a plastic surgery consultation for next week... I can't wait to finish saving up for these little cosmetic procedures and get them over with so I can treat myself to shopping excursions more often, hopfully with my little brother by my side. Although I suppose I'll have to stop working when he's around, so money might be a problem then, sigh.

I was so happy not to go to work today my heart was absolutely singing. Maybe this means I'm in the wrong line of employment?

What else should I do with myself, though? Be my own housewife? Run away to Alaska? Marry for money? My rent is only 400 dollars a month, though, better marry for love. Eventually. Or never?

Who knows, maybe I'll die tomorrow.

Ah, I want to go on a picnic so badly right now!!!!!!!!!!!!

Shelves

I hung these shelves with tiny nails today. I wonder if they'll hold?

I may come back from stripping tomorrow night to find them on the floor.