Archives For Bad Girl

I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

Devil_Janine_II_by_jbooba

 

All men secretly desire boundary-pushing action when they’re parking the pink bus in the fur garage! This holiday season, wake up that hibernating harlot within and shaboink him into oblivion.

SEX FACE

Contort your facial expression so grotesquely that you look like you’ve warped the nerve endings in your face. With a little practice, you’ll resemble a mime choking on a large piece of steak.

Alternate between sticking out your tongue and baring your teeth. Every time he looks at you, he should see another creature from The Twilight Zone having a stroke.

SOUND EFFECTS

Substitute your garden variety moans and sighs with more enthusiastic calls of the wild. Squawk like a kangaroo high on PCP riding a rollercoaster.

For those of us who are well endowed, particularly if your breasts have a nice sag to them, try this: standing at the foot of the bed, put a hand under each breast, and start flapping them up and down while making silly cartoon noises.

SUCK FACE

The goal here is, when kissing, to actually try to eat his face OFF.  It should be horrifying, almost as if you’ve turned into a Headcrab from Half-Life.

For added sensation, dehydrate yourself prior to a makeout session, so your tongue is as dry and abrasive as possible.  Deep kissing him will feel like a rough tongue Glove of Torture.

TALK DIRTY

It’s the dirty dialogue that gives your bedroom romps an X-rating. Instead of the typical “I love the way your Baloney Baton feels in my Pish Flaps,” try some of these deliciously devilish suggestions:

-Replace the traditional “Oh God” with a lusty, “Hail, Satan!”

– Speak in a 30s style gangster voice. Think Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar, and say something wicked such as,
Supposin’ you put your penis in my tootie fruity, woulda-ya-say?”

Lean in close to his ear, and seductively whisper, “I wanna check you for ticks.”

– Scream aggressively, “DO ME, YOU RUBBER-DICKED FUCK GOD!” Accompany this with a forceful punch in the neck.

– Right before you go down on him, tantalize him by reciting the opening lines from Law and Order, with the words changed slightly:
“In the oral sex act, the participants are represented by two separate yet equally important body parts: the penis, who delivers the semen; and the mouth, who receives the semen. These are their stories.”

Follow this with a resounding, “Dun DUN!” the famous auditory sound effect, reminiscent of a jail cell door slamming.

NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

Turn ordinary cunnilingus into his fight for life. Actually mold as much flesh as you can over his mouth and nose like silly putty. You’ll know you’ve succeeded when he starts flailing his arms like a drowning man at sea.

ROLE PLAY

Role-play and dressing up offer a unique fantasy aspect that can ignite passion, both visually and psychologically. Instead of the typical “sexy teenage enema nurse” or “underage cheerleader,” you should both dress up in Disney princess outfits. Have a tea party, and refer to him continuously as a “fancy lady.”

While performing oral on him, make sure he asks your permission to have an orgasm. Tell him, ““So you want to come? Well you’re going to have to ask politely, like a fancy lady.”

CLASSICAL GAS

For full-on sex goddess status, consume an especially intestine-abusing meal, such as Mexican food. During sex, release your gas, making sure your butthole is a scant one inch away from one of his nostrils. The fart will go directly into his brain. You’ve heard of a “Dutch Oven?” Mainlining a fart is the infinitely more powerful “Dutch Microwave.”

For extra sexy times, first insert a vibrating butt plug. Unclench those butt cheeks and let ‘er rip. No man can resist you after he sustains blunt force trauma from getting hit in the forehead by a high velocity, fart-propelled butt plug.

SOME LIKE IT ROUGH

Arouse his inner Viking by urging him, “Smack my ass like I stole your Grandma’s Werthers!”

Hopefully he’ll get the idea. If he proceeds to the usual pulling of hair and light choking, yell, “Hurt me, Nancy Boy!” followed by you full-on head-butting the wall.

FELLATIO – EXTRA STRENGTH

Have your man put a dog leash on you. Pretend his penis is a chew toy. Actually gnaw on it like a puppy chewing on a finger. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave teeth marks and bruises.

BE ADVENTUROUS

Play tigress and try some of these frisky positions:

The Alaskan Firedog: When switching to reverse cowgirl, kick him in the face.

The Cambodian Helicopter: In the missionary position, while bringing your legs up to wrap them around his torso, bring them all the way up and start slapping his face jowls with your feet.

EXORCIST ORGASM

When having on orgasm drop your voice down several octaves deeper than usual, and let out a manly war cry. Thrust your hips upward into a full bridge, arching your vagina to eye level. Scoot backwards in this position to the far edge of the bed. Then, in that deep booming voice yell, “DON’T TOUCH ME!” Twitch uncontrollably for 5-7 minutes.

 

Remember, it’s important to get aggressive when handling his penis. Squeeze his penis like a stress ball and treat his balls like play dough. He’ll have to cobble an erection together from his shattered dreams, and whatever porn he watched earlier that day. When he slides it in you with the gusto of someone plugging in their phone charger, you’ll know you’ve graduated to a Bad Girl!

Do you think it’s important to spice things up in bed? What are your sexytime favorites? Have you ever injured someone during sex? What’s your favorite episode of Law And Order?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

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Debby and I were now unofficially living together.

She often disappeared, sometimes for days at a time. At first I used to question her. But she always shut me down, and I soon realized I would have to accept this.

No doubt she was off nodding with her junked up punk friends.

She was deep into the hardcore heroin lifestyle. I was a drug dilettante at best. If I did indulge with her, I usually snorted it.

I hated that bruised inner arm look that junkies sported; always having to wear long sleeves, even in the summer.

Of course, years later, I would stop caring about those bruises – unless they signified a collapsed vein and a hunt for a new needle target on my body.

 

I really loved working on 51st street. This group of women became my little dysfunctional posse. It only took me a week before it hit me like Ike did Tina –

these women were THE poster children for “Daddy Issues.” They had enough absentee father issues to fill several Lifetime Movies of the Week.

They were strong, independent, tough talking but underneath, fragile. They either looked to men to validate them – or mistrusted and rejected men altogether.

Sounded familiar…

 

There were some repugnant aspects to the job.

We did receive our share of degenerates calling.  After all, we were advertising in Screw Magazine, the preeminent and spectacularly tasteless hard-core porn newspaper.

I learned to hang up on the heavy breathers, who were obviously calling so they could masturbate while I described “a leggy blonde with D cup breasts.”

And every few weeks, I received at least one heartbreaking phone call from a wife, denouncing me as a slut and a whore.

After calmly explaining that I was just a receptionist, I would suggest that this was an issue best discussed with her husband.

I tried to be as consoling as possible.

What woman wants to find out that not only is her husband unfaithful, but a whoremonger?

I reassured them that it had NOTHING to do with them and everything to do with the fact that men are dogs. And had I known he was married, I NEVER would have booked the appointment. (This part was a lie; most of the clients were married. But these women were usually crying.)

 

 

And then there were the customers who wanted to book a session with ME. Chiefly, because I WASN’T available.

He’d chat with all these sexed up women, who were pouting or giving him seductive eyes.

I’d ask, “Okay, so and so. Who would you like to see?”

He’d look right past Kathy, her D cup breasts spilling over a leopard bra that her tangerine baby doll dress barely covered, her long gorgeous legs clad in thigh high stockings that ended in leopard fuck-me pumps.

And look at me, In black jeans, baggy black Ramones tee shirt, Converse Hi Tops.

“You,” and point at me.

“I’m not available.”

“I only want to see YOU.”

Did I forget to mention the geeky glasses I wore?

What a perverse thing the male psyche is.

 

One busy Thursday, Kathy, Nicki and Gail were all on the schedule. Those were my favorite days, when all my girlfriends were working. The shift flew by, with us making wisecracks and acting silly in between the steady flow of customers.

A client who’d been there before came in to see Kathy. He was a big, beefy looking Irish guy and he brought 2 friends who I thought looked familiar. They had a drink in the reception area, and all three disappeared into bedrooms with a girl.

After a few minutes, Kathy came out.

“He doesn’t have enough money. He wants to go to an ATM machine and come back.”

“Tell him to put it on a credit card.”

“He doesn’t want it showing up on his card. He’s married.”

Most of them were. It’s not like the statement listed “51st Whorehouse.” It was a dummy entertainment corporation. Still, he wasn’t the first married customer to be skittish about using his credit card.

But no one had ever come in and left to go get more money.

I immediately became VERY nervous.

“Was he naked when you discussed this?”

“Yes! Of course!”

 

Although I gave rates on the phone, money was never discussed or changed hands until a client was “completely comfortable.”

Theoretically, undercover police officers are not allowed to be naked. It’s much easier to construct a case for entrapment if the police office is nude.

But now he was going to get dressed and leave and come back?

I heard him in the hallway. Now his two friends were out of their rooms, as well.

Did all three of them come inadequately fixed for cash?

Something was VERY WRONG.

My first thought was, I’ve GOT to hide the session log. I was shoving it in my bag when the three of them came stomping in the reception area.

 

“WE’RE THE POLICE, AND THIS IS A RAID!”

Could this be a practical joke? Please let this be a fucked up prank.

One of them flashed his badge at me and said,

“There was an offer of prostitution made here. You’re under arrest!”

I answered him,

“I didn’t make anybody any offer of prostitution.”

He answered angrily, “What do you think is going on in all those rooms?”

I answered, “Those are consenting adults.”

 

He became enraged and yelled in my face, “You’re under arrest! Now face the wall and SHUT UP!”

They stomped through the townhouse, snatching the women from the rooms.

They sat them in the reception area huddled together. Several of them were crying.

I would NOT cry.

I looked at Nicki. Her face was a dispassionate mask.

I set my face the same way.

 

An officer led me into the kitchen and handcuffed me. They interrogated the two clients who had been in session when the raid started. They were issued tickets and sent on their way.

Now they began to lay siege to the townhouse. They tore through the desk, through the closets where the girls kept their street clothes and belongings, flinging things every which way.

Watching them unnecessarily ransack our place made me more angry than scared.

I got mouthy. Demanded to see a warrant. Challenged them as to what evidence they had.

They ignored me and continued to tear the place apart.

 

A female officer accompanied the girls into the bedroom, where they were allowed to change into their street clothes. And then, we were led out, handcuffed in pairs.

I was handcuffed to Nicki. Thank God. She said “Well, if I have to be handcuffed to someone, I’m glad it’s YOU.”

I was relieved Debby wasn’t working that day. She’d never survive a day in jail, with her heroin habit.

 

The back of a police car is quite odd looking. There are no handles on the doors or any window mechanisms. There’s a grill separating you from the front seat.

It’s basically a cage on wheels.

We were driven to the local precinct, where they fingerprinted us, and took all our belongings. We had to remove our belts.

We were allowed our one phone call. I dialed my boyfriend’s number and got his answering machine.

Of course.

 

I was put into a postage stamp sized cell. I tried to stay calm, despite the close quarters. One officer had told us we’d be processed, arraigned, and probably out the next day. I wondered how I would survive the night in this tiny airless cell.

I needn’t have worried.

After a few hours, we were led outside and put into a van. We looked at one another questioningly.

Finally, I asked,”Where are we going?”

The officer driving said over his shoulder, “Central Booking.”

My head went numb.

Central Booking?

The Tombs.

This was a notorious detention center in downtown Manhattan.

People got KILLED in the Tombs.

 

Bianca, a petite curvy brunette, started to weep. I comforted her.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’ll be out by tomorrow.”

The officer sitting up in the front turned slightly, and said to me,

They will. Not you. You were just charged with promoting prostitution.

That’s a felony charge.”

 

My heart stopped.

Oh, dear God. I’m fucked.

WHAT?

These women were fucking 12 guys a day, and I’m a felon? I’m a goddamned receptionist.

 

At Central Booking, we were taken into a narrow courtyard, then led through a tiny armored booth, and then along a maze of concrete and poorly lit corridors.

We were led down one flight of stairs, then another, then another, then another. I was beginning to understand why it was called “The Tombs.”

 

The holding cell was a large room, about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide. Along one side were metal bars. In one corner was a filthy toilet and sink.

A shiny metal bench ran alongside the rest of the perimeter. The walls were a putrid light green under glaring flourescent light.

 

It was filled with an assortment of 40 of the scariest looking women I had ever seen.

Some of them didn’t even look like women.

This was not like any female “sexy inmate” porn.

They were filthy, and beat up looking. They stunk like garbage. The other prostitutes were skanky streetwalkers.

There was one fairly clean, almost presentable woman in there.

I later found out she had been arrested trying to sell her baby for drugs.

 

After the corrections officer slammed the door shut, we stood huddled together while the Tomb’s finest looked us up and down.

The hard-bitten wise-cracking tone I’d adopted with the policeman disappeared, and was replaced by

 COMPLETE TERROR.

I thought I was such a hot shot, playing fast and loose with the law.

But now- I imagined myself beaten. Stabbed.

Just last week there had been an article in the paper about a woman whose face was completely shattered against the very bench I was now looking at. By another inmate of the Tombs.

The Tombs is a place with signs posted to visitors that say:

POSSESSION
OF
CONTRABAND
(WEAPONS)
RAZORS KNIVES SHANKS SHIVS BULLETS
And any other weapon capable of causing injury and/or
otherwise endangering the safety of the institution
WILL RESULT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE ARREST

 

Who was going to help me now?

Debby was probably off high, somewhere.

My boyfriend hadn’t answered the phone.

My family knew nothing of this job, and there was NO WAY I would ever each out to them.

I. Was. Dead.

 

Next week: The Conclusion! Phone Girl in a Whorehouse, Part 4.

Click here for Part 1 and Part 2.

 

Have you ever gotten yourself into bad trouble? Or been arrested? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

A little more clothing than this. A little.

A little more clothing than this. A little.

“VOICE OVER ACTRESSES WANTED $$$”

Only someone impossibly young would answer an ad that has “$$$” in it.

Especially when it’s in the Village Voice, not even Backstage magazine. But I had been back in New York a half hour and was impatient for Stardom.

I called, set up the audition, and off I went to a…

Townhouse in the East 50’s?

A very posh one, tucked in between Sutton Place and Lenox Hill.

The location was odd – a townhouse? in the east 50’s – but did I mention I was young? And probably hung over?

First sign something was amiss – not too many auditions take place in townhouses.

Well, they do.

I just walked out of those. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be blogging, that’s for sure.

I announced myself to the disembodied voice on the intercom, waited patiently for a surveillance camera to scrutinize me, and entered a posh hallway.

Surveillance camera?

I suddenly became hyper aware that this was a MOST unusual setting for an audition.

I climbed a flight of thickly carpeted steps anyway, and was met at the door by a tall brunette who introduced herself as “Katherine” and led me inside.

It was a luxurious apartment. Decorated in that cliched 90’s mauve/grey color scheme. Plush carpeting, tasteful artwork. Two long couches adjacent to one another, and atop, lounged 5 women.

“Lounging” is the only word I can use to describe the way they were artfully arranged on those couches.

And they were dressed in outfits that were a little too sexy for the standard audition. Not completely sluttish – maybe a few degrees south of slut.

My instincts told me something was not right there.

My curiosity got the better of me.

Katherine led me down a hallway into a  beautiful, albeit sparsely furnished bedroom. Platform bed, nightstand, fishtank. A vaguely impressionist painting on the wall.

I started to ask questions, but she cut me off gently.

“Make yourself completely comfortable.” And with those words, she left the room.

I sat back on the bed. Kicked off my shoes. Listened to the fish tank gurgle.

Moments later, Katherine came back in. Her eyes swept over me.

“You need to be completely comfortable before we can talk.”

“I am. I’m as comfy as can be.” I gestured towards the fish.

“Nice fish tank.”

“No, I meant COMPLETELY comfortable.”

And now, she used sweeping hand motions to gesture completely down the length of her body.

SHE. MEANT. NAKED.

What the hell?

I hightailed it out of there.

On my way out, a beautiful blonde with pouty red lips – A Debby Harry look alike – made eye contact with me.

She gave me a sultry look of half come-hither, half disdain, and half challenging.

(Yes, I know that doesn’t add up, but when a hot blonde gives you a look like that, you forget fractions).

“Another one bites the dust.”

“Excuse me?”

“Run along, little girl. Phone girls make a lot more money than office temps, but you just keep walking.”

“What’s a phone girl?”

Then it dawned on me exactly what a phone girl was. I hadn’t been reading the Village Voice all those months for naught.

“Is this a whore house?”

She and the other 4 women looked at me.

“Well, we prefer in-house escort service, but sure. We say ‘tomato’ you say ‘whorehouse’.”

They burst into peals of laughter.

I ended up taking the job.

Getting naked is a prerequisite to ensure you’re not a police officer. Apparently, if you take all of your clothes off, you cannot be accused of entrapment.

This is not really a correct interpretation of the law, as I later found out.

Katherine loved my youth, my innocence, and especially my inexperience. No bad habits to untrain.

The gentleman callers appreciated seeing a young innocent girl when they entered the establishment.

She valued that my college education allowed me to sound articulate and artful on the telephone.

Best of all, I was adept at handling large quantities of money, balancing out cash and credit card receipts at the end of each shift and was never off – not even by a penny.

I took the job for 2 reasons.

First – the money was extraordinary.

I was paid $10 an hour, and worked a 12 hour shift – noon to midnight.

In addition, I was paid $5 for every “session” booked. On a good day, I walked out of there with $300 in my pocket. In the 90’s, this was a FORTUNE.

Of course, the girls made 3 times as much, but that was to be expected.

These women were very skillful with certain things–manual sex, for example. They know how to finish up a client in well under the hour.

Or, how to “extend” because his hour is almost up and he’s  having such a good time (read: she hasn’t let him actually fuck her yet) he wants to stay for another hour. She’d show up at the front desk wrapped in a towel, looking like a triumphant hot mess, his credit card in hand.

And I’d write in a big fat tip for her, because, well, by this time he’s just crazy about her.

The girls got to keep half of what the house charged for hour ($100 was her split).

They also hustituted the bejeezus out of these men. Even though it was technically against the rules, there were a thousand extras the girls could charge for. You want anal? An extra $300. You want to cuddle? It’ll cost you. Kissing?

Not likely, but some girls might. The other girls hated the “kissers.” They were considered “scabs.” They broke an unwritten rule.

The truth is, as much as the customers wanted to think the girls were really enjoying themselves –  sometimes it was good for the girl, sometimes it was bad – but in reality, it was work. Work is work.

I’m sorry. Every man I ever told this to looked like a kid who just found out there was no Santa Claus.

Even though they made bank, I was never tempted to “jump the counter.” Not ever.

This is not, in any way, a reflection of my feelings towards sex workers, but more a reflection of how clearly I understand myself. How much I revere sex, and its role in human relationships.

Besides, I was fantastic on the phone. Phone girls had this robotic spiel we were instructed to deliver – what was included in the hour (French, straight, 69, etc).

I improvised. The girls loved it. I lured in a lot of business this way.

It was the house policy to call the women “girls,” even though most of them were older than me. Nikki, the “Queen Bee” and highest earner, was well into her 40’s.

As much as it was discouraged, I eventually became friends with some of the girls. After all, they had twelve-hour shifts, and often there was down time.

There’s only so much sitting, smoking, ordering food and watching TV you can do.

If you recall, I said I had two reasons for taking the job.

The other reason was Debby, the blonde who mocked me when I first showed up at East 51st street.

She was close to 30, and was the epitome of NY punk. She toned down this look for the job, but I could tell by her tousled blonde locks, smokey lined eyes, and screaming red lips that she had a rock and roll edge.

She had a little girl face and an incredibly sexy body, The combo was deadly.

Half the customers were in love with her.

Eventually, so was I.

Katherine saw me getting that starry-eyed look whenever Debby was around. She was not happy about it.

“Can I give you a piece of advice? You need to learn not to be taken in by these girls. They’re smart. They’ll chew you up and spit you out. Trust me. I’ve been in this game a long time and I know what I’m talking about.”

Her advice fell on deaf ears.

By the time she got around to saying this to me, I was already smitten with the first woman I would ever fall in love with.

And as it turned out, Debby would be the least of my problems…

Next week:

Tune in for Part 2 of New York Stories: Phone Girl In A Whorehouse

What was your strangest job?
Have you ever known anyone who worked in a brothel? 
Anybody feel like (ahem) sharing their brothel experiences? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

strip_club_by_phileas100-d4dkszo

A Strip Club is a magical place. A fantasy playground.

On NYC’s Wall street during the 90’s, greed and easy money created the Age of Excess – starring “The Wall Street Strip Club” as the corrupted den of iniquity.

I was weary of bartending nights. My circadian rhythms were in overdrive from years of vampiric hours.  Pouring drinks till 4 am; quick pit stop on the way home to drink the blood of a virgin before settling into my coffin for the day.

Jana, a fellow actress, was a dancer (i.e. stripper ) at the Doll House, a Wall Street strip club. She lured me into bartending there with promises of night time tips during daytime hours.

The outfit was cringe-worthy: a Vegas cocktail slut / Magenta from “Rocky Horror” get up.  Bustier, fishnets, 4-inch spike heels. I somehow convinced myself I hadn’t compromised my ideals. Yet.

My very first day, I developed an intense girl-crush on a beautiful Latina. Long, dark hair. creamy skin, and a slamming body. She looked like a teenager.

She was a teenager. At 19. Tanya was already a single mom to a 3-year-old; wise beyond her years, and funny as hell.

She sounded exactly like Rosie Perez. It was fucking adorable.  She was saving money for college so she could give her kid a better life.

She looked up to me. I was older. College educated.

I adored her. She had an ass like J Lo.

Many of the day girls were moms.  Students.  Actresses.

A couple were Straight-Up Whores.

Frankie, the manager, was a big, burly, scowling strip club cliché. Big Daddy to an incorrigible bunch of bad girls. Incessantly ill-tempered because he was always short staffed.  A job description that consists of drinking at noon and grinding against stiff cocks doesn’t exactly lend itself to responsibility.

One advantage to working in a strip club is getting blazed mid day.  Tanya and I bonded quickly.  After we’d sneak-smoke a fattie in the dressing groom, she’d spray Bvlgari perfume like air freshener and  play her favorite game, “manipulate Samara into taking her clothes off onstage.”

“C’mon, Samara, Frankie’s such a prick today!  Can’t you just dance this one time?”

“Sorry, I left my anal bleach home today!”

“Slut!”

NO WAY I was getting up there. Until..

…the day she got one of her regulars to pay me $500 to do a 3-song set with her.

$500? for three songs? That little brat got me just high enough to do it.  Plus, she double-dared me. You feel me?

I wiggled into one of her cheesy stripper dresses. Day-glo neon lime green leopard with matching g-string. This was not ironic; this is what they wore.

I made a valiant attempt to walk in her 7-inch fuck-me platforms.

“Can you really get used to these?” I asked her.

“You can get used to anything,” she purred back at me.

We entered into intense negotiation with Geo, the DJ.  He demanded payola to play your music. And I wasn’t getting on stage without the exact right music.

I paid. I wanted it to go exactly like this:

“Hypnotize,”  Biggie Smalls,
into “No Diggity,”  Black Street, finish with
“Hip Hop Hooray,”  Naughty by Nature.

We threw back some shots of Cuervo.

SHOW TIME!

—-

They called us up in trios – me, Tanya, and some fucked-out bleached blonde with enormous implants who looked like she’d drank too much tequila and passed out in the sun.

The 90’s predated the age of the suburban house frau requesting a stripper pole for Mother’s Day.  That gleaming silver column onstage was largely ignored.  Occasionally a girl swung around it. Hung on it, drunkenly.

I wanted to shimmy up that silver shaft.  Make it my bitch.  A couple of years prior, I had kicked a drug habit and replaced it with the gym.  I had mad upper body strength.

I straddled the pole…inched my way up, nice and slow.   Till I was at the ceiling.

And decided to slide all the way down.  Upside down. Using my quads to keep it slow.

And once at the bottom, I ended up in a wide straddle.  Thanks to yoga.

Facing away from the audience, I leaned forward, arched my back.  Grabbed a handful of dress in each fist, and pulled it up over my butt.

Bounced my ass really fast against the floor. I saw that shiz in a rap video,

That bounce was a fantastic clit massage. I was grinding my pelvis onto the stage like it was a man. My head tilted, my long hair a curtain over my face.  It felt really good.

Mmmmmmm. I forgot for a minute where I was.

The feel of a hand on my leg startled me out my stoned floor hump.  A customer pushed a $20 bill in my garter.

I looked back. Every guy in the club was looking at me.  Not at the 2 naked girls.

I hadn’t even taken off my dress yet.

—-

Song 2 starts. Shit – we’re supposed to have our dresses off by the middle of the first song.

“No Diggity” is a hot jam to get naked to. By the time Black Street said,

Yo Dre, drop the verse,

I dropped my dress.  I was surprised how easy it was.

—-

I danced a lot after that, but preferred bartending. Working as a stripper is a full-time mind fuck. Pouring a drink is just pouring a drink. Dancers convince customers that they’re really INTO them  – their strip club “girlfriends.”

That stripper who really digs you? –  I hate to break it to you. She doesn’t. The only part of your body she’s really into is your wallet.

While we’re giving you this erotic experience?  Rubbing our breasts in your face, and breathing in your ear?  We’re looking at each other over your head and rolling our eyes.  Sorry.

I did perfect the art of the worlds slowest, most sensuous lap dance.  I developed a string of clientele off of it.  I would get lost in my own head; move my body, really slowly, in a certain way, and get really turned on, just like my inaugural floor hump.  Ironically, it was never connected to the man underneath me.  But it was my signature “thing.”  Everyone had something.

Some girls just gave blow jobs in the champagne room.

—-

Wall street honchos would think nothing of dropping $2000 on a group of us for dinner.  Or taking a limo with a couple of us to Atlantic City and blowing $5000 overnight.

They’d come in and offer to fly us to the Bahamas.  Puerto Rico.

The first time a customer announced he was flying a group of us to Cancun, I said sarcastically, “Yeah. Right. We’re all flying to Cancun.”

And he replied, “Bitch, you’ll know you’re in Cancun when your face is in the pillow and my dick is in your ass!”  That became the  “Line Heard Round the Clubs.”  Repeated and laughed at, endlessly.

It all boiled down to math. The Pythagorean Third Theorem.
The Strip Club Patron Rule Of Inverse Proportion:
The more money a 90’s Wall Street asshat in a strip club had, the less class and intelligence he was likely to possess.

Money bloated the scene into something surreal.  Normalcy became something else entirely. We’d start the night at an after hours club and end up on a plane with an entourage.  I only went if Tanya went.

Our one rule-  we never slept with them. EVER. They were always way too coked up or drunk to even remotely get it up, anyway.

They did occasionally want to watch us “have sex.”  Bisexual chic is all the rage in strip clubs.  We’d kiss, moan and try not to laugh until whoever it was passed out. Then, we’d pick his pockets and go on a shopping spree go out for pancakes.

17 years later, Tanya is still one of my closest friends. She lives in Massachusetts with her two daughters. I’m god mother to her younger one.

She went back to school and became a nurse. She’s a single mom and works hard to take care of her family, like always. She’s still gorgeous. More so, at 36.

Those foolish girls who danced at the Doll House, partied at clubs, took ridiculous chances and traveled with strangers are long gone. We’re suburban single moms, working to support our families.

We wonder, would we ever want her daughters dancing in a strip club? It was whorish. Immoral. Dangerous.

It also grew us up. Taught us about people; the complexities of needing; empowered us as women.

When we weigh it out, the pros always outweigh the cons. But if I’m being honest here – it’s only because it was the goddamn PARTY of the decade and I’m glad I was invited.

But the truth is, when it comes to her daughters – NO WAY.

Because as much as it served us, gave us the strength for the lives ahead of us – it did something that we don’t wish on either of her daughters.

It robbed us of a certain innocence. We saw a side of the human race, a view from the inside of that arena,  that we wish we hadn’t.

Today, I have mixed feelings about having worked there. My consciousness has changed.  I no longer view strip clubs as empowering for women.

They’re disempowering.  They create an environment where men can openly objectify women.  Strip clubs reinforce the notion that women are more highly valued for their outward appearance than for their intelligence.

It’s pathetic that we’ve capitalized on this objectification and created an economy in which the skin trade is worth $500 a day, but incredible teachers molding young minds get paid dirt.  We can’t even attract strong talent to the most crucial job in the world because it pays so poorly.

But a woman can show her tits and make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.  And I fueled that system.  So did Tanya.

And we sure as hell are not letting her daughters do that.  That system needs to END.

 

Do you know anyone who ever worked as a stripper? What would you say if your daughter waned to dance in a strip club to pay for her education?

Do you like me a little less because you know I worked in a strip club?

Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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