Insights.

I need to vent here. All of my friends have been supportive about the situation I'm in this winter, except for one, and ironically she is the one who used to be an exotic dancer. I've received negative slurs and put downs from her lately regarding being an exotic dancer, and it makes me feel upset and I've expressed that I would appreciate her support regardless of her attitude about this work. I have to support myself, sweetheart. I have no real viable choice at this moment and I find it to be such a double standard that she is putting me down. I do not need that, especially not from a former dancer. Last night the depressing side of reality sank in. I had trouble emotionally distancing myself from the work I'm engaging in. I did not want to be there. I was not in the mood to dance for men and play the role of "stripper" anymore. And I made the grave error of being on stage completely sober. Note to self: never dance without having a drink first. I could not get into the groove or lose myself in the music, which is a requirement. I felt depressed that this is the reality I'm confronting at present. I'm frustrated that I can't find a regular job. Life feels so fucked up and unfair. I deserve a good job with health benefits, don't I? The anger propelled me to seriously manipulate to the fullest. I have to remember to be positive. Life is going to get better than this. I will be in a better place this next year. For now, I've got bills that need to be paid and I've got a job that can pay for them. Last night I observed that you earn more money from men according to how much skin you show. Never mind adorable and beautiful costumes, what they want when they come into a strip club is to see a woman in a thong and nothing else. Business was slow so I had to kick it up a notch, as in taking off my baby doll set and thigh high tights. I was in the new hot pink lace panties with a thong underneath, a sheer bra, and had some necklaces on. That was it. I was a stripper. I had to spend time with a "professional cowboy" who after an hour had me give him one dance, but apparently he was so turned on that he had to ask me to stop. "You're the sexiest woman I've ever touched," he said, slipping a twenty into my garter belt. "I can't go any further than this." I was flattered and disappointed at the same time. Was it that he was short on cash, or was it that he seriously could not go through with a second dance? He left the club right away. The next man I sat with was the doctor. He comes back each week to see me. I was glad, so glad to see him, because I knew what to expect with him. He is only several years older than me, attractive, and he loves to be mentally and physically entertained. I sat down on his lap and he ordered me a beer- we both drink dos equis. Then he wants me to tell him stories. I concocted a few fictional stories to entertain him about my life. He digs the fact that I told him I have a boyfriend and I played the bisexual card (but I'm far more into men :) and he wanted to know the details about the threesome I had with an ex-boyfriend (which never happened in real life). He wants to hear about the sex I've had with men, probably deriving some pleasure from knowing I'm desired by other men, and I've had to come up with tall tales about what I like. Isn't that crazy?! After about an hour together, free drinks, and one private dance, whispering sweet nothings into his ears about the amazing sex we would have, he placed $120 into my thong and said he would return to see me. I'm an entertainer. I'm someone else for the night. "Jordan" is confident, wild, 25, still in school, likes dominating men, and has a boyfriend. There was a long patch of dead time after the doctor left where I was hanging out in the locker room because I could not find men who were interested. Many already had a lady at their side and others simply did not want the company. Approaching men still feels odd. The manager gave me a lecture on how to do it. Never ask a yes or no question at first. Ask "how is your night going?" and then compliment him. Tell him he's sexy or whatever comes to mind. Touch him and sit down. After about two hours of no business whatsoever, I removed my baby doll lingerie, got down to the panties and bra, and did exactly what the manager recommended with a man in his fifties or sixties. He had glasses on, looked like a business man, and he instantly warmed to my attention, revealing his British accent. Right away he offered to order wine and asked if I would give him some private dances. He told me that he is on a business trip from London. I asked more questions. He has a house with his wife and three children in Notting Hill, a flat in Paris, and said "I think you're coming to London this summer to see me." I danced for him and I could tell he liked it and thankfully did not want me to stop. In the back of my mind, I was thinking: car payment, insurance, utilities bill. Keep dancing! I found his British accent charming and appreciated that he was generous. Then he tried to persuade me to come back to his hotel room with him at this swanky hotel downtown to have champagne and have sex with him. If he wanted to pay $100,000 to fuck me for a night, then MAYBE we could talk, mister. I draw the line there. I had to tell him that it would be lovely, but can't do that as a dancer, and he got out his wallet, thick with money, and gave me five twenties. I think he thought I was like a CALL GIRL. I don't know how it is in Europe. He didn't know that he couldn't touch me in certain places like most men who frequent strip clubs are aware, and I had to take his hands and hold them down at his side while I danced for him. By that time it was 2 a.m. and time to leave. I had to pay the house fees to the managers, dressed into my street clothes, and drove home. Today, I don't think I can psychologically deal with that scene. I am opting to work tomorrow during the day instead and attend a friend's birthday bash that night. I need a day to forget and focus on other parts of living. Tonight: new lesbian bar outing.