Dirty Stripping

There’s something absent in my writing that you all may or may not have noticed. I almost never go into detail about the sex involved in my sex work. It’s not because I’m a “clean” stripper, because that’s not at all the case. I’m a “dirty stripper”. I’ve fucked customers when I felt inspired or wanted the money; given a few hand jobs to penises I’ve liked; gotten eaten out and fingerbanged by plenty of people because it’s my kink; however I haven’t discussed it for the sake of my partner. I’ve never been one to accept anybody policing my conduct or what I do with my body. I verbally agree to rules while bodily resisting at every turn. I haven’t been fully transparent until now because it was a gentle secret I needed to keep to protect my relationship; however lately I’ve been reflecting on the cognitive dissonance this secret has created. Outwardly I’m 100% vocal about my solidarity with full service sex workers. I believe that sex and selling sex isn’t dirty, and that full service sex work does not diminish a person’s value. I believe that it’s labor that has its joys and pains. Less seriously, I also think that it’s hot. But since I’ve intermittently provided full service and other extras while having to maintain secrecy for the sake of my partner, I’ve developed shame in doing something that was once simply normal. Shame can be fun and sexy its sordid way. If I hadn’t been raised Catholic, I probably wouldn’t be as enamored with the world of commercial sex as I am now. But I recently realized that the shame was causing me to devalue myself. Not in a monetary sense, but internally. I kept imagining my partner’s disappointment in me. Like the way he looks at me whenever I come home from work with a hickey. He knows it’s my work, but the reality in his face makes it more difficult for him to perform the intellectual gymnastics he has to do in order to be a supportive partner. I don’t want to blame him, since all he did was establish a personal boundary he needed. The issue is that his boundary bumped up against my boundary. Every relationship has its hardships and it is certainly not easy dating a sex worker. You basically have to unlearn every bit of socializing you’ve internalized up until this point about love, intimacy, and loyalty while simultaneously dodging the external condemnations and conflicts brought to you by the world of people who were socialized to believe all of those truisms that you’ve fought to overcome. This isn’t a lifestyle for the faint of heart, and I’m not an easy person to date. I always put myself first, as my mother would say. Contrary to what she wanted, which was for me to put God or loyalty to family above myself, but I’ve always been a person deeply concerned with my own self-interest. I enjoy being a sex worker, sometimes for the sex. I like watching people get turned on. I like hard dicks and wet pussies. If I’m in a good mood, I enjoy watching customers come. It’s an intimate moment I get to witness and contribute to, and to that point, I’ve watched a lot of orgasms.

Saturday I gave a dance to a very young looking man. I’m almost at the point where I’ll have viable customers who are a decade my junior, and I feel almost motherly about it. Sita Kaylin, who is one of my favorite people and a fellow sex worker writer, recently asked how men are able to lust after women who are young enough that they could be their grand daughters. How are men able to do it and not feel ancient? A few men piped up to say that fucking a very young woman is like sipping from the fountain of youth itself. It’s not a competitive experience where the older man compares his vitality to the young woman’s— it is that he feels as if her touch brings him vitality. Knowing that she needs to be cared for plays upon his socialization to be a provider, and young women tend to expect relatively little in comparison to their more mature counterparts. I thought about this as I led the young man up to the Skybox. He was twenty-one and had been enlisted in the Marine Corps for two years already. Initially I hadn’t paid him or his friend any attention because they looked like children fresh out of high school to me, but somehow they were making it rain for every girl on stage. When I walked toward them, their eyes widened with excitement. The night had been relatively light impact. I’d been rejected by my share of slugs, but had managed not to take any of the “no’s” personally. Still, I’ll admit, being regarded by them with such admiration was affirming. It’s still hard for me to believe that anyone under twenty-five, let alone a twenty-one-year-old, might have enough money to blow a couple hundreds at the strip club, and yet these two young men weren’t holding back.

A Skybox costs $210 before any tips. I thought back to being twenty-one and how much money $200 was to me. It took me three or more days working at the candy shop to make $200. $200 was one third of my rent and could buy a month’s worth of groceries. The most I could fathom spending on a concert ticket was $45, and that was on the upper end for me. I’m making myself sound ancient, when I’m clearly not that much older in the grand scheme of things, but the interaction got me thinking about age differentials in relationships.

Deon had such a purity about him. He kept his hands to his sides until I told him he was allowed to touch me. He was suffocating in his sweater but didn’t take it off for fear of crossing my boundaries until I suggested it might be more comfortable for him. He paid me and tipped up front. I felt this protective instinct toward him, in spite of him being an adult completely capable of handling himself with plenty of prior strip club experience. I worried he was spending money too freely. The auntie in me wanted to tell him that he should be more careful and not blow his savings on strippers, but I wasn’t his auntie. I was the hot stripper he wanted to run off with in private. Additionally, there’s nothing I hate more than when someone tells me what I should be doing with my money or my business when I haven’t solicited the advice. I’m the hero of this story. I don’t need to be saved. And, neither did Deon. He was having a perfectly wonderful time, as was evident by his prominent erection.

The first dance took it out of me. The whole night I’d felt hot and winded. I was a little out of shape after my two week vacation. Normally I don’t sweat when I’m dancing, but Saturday I couldn’t seem to cool down. I felt self-conscious that my body was doing what bodies do when used to their full capacity. I also wasn’t doing anything particularly crazy, it’s just physically grueling finding creative ways to grind on someone’s lap for fifteen minutes.

Earlier that evening I’d had a high impact dance with a guy in the cannabis business who bought a half-hour with me. I was ovulating and really wanted to get fucked, but I wasn’t interested in him that way and prior to my shift I’d cut my labia majora doing some landscaping. My right lip had bled and then swelled, and by the time I got to dancing it had healed a bit but was still scratchy and uncomfortable. I knew that what I wanted wasn’t conducive to my vulva health, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying being touched. Emilio was determined to make me cum. You have to sustain a gentle balance with customers who are focused on your pleasure over their pleasure, because of course they want to see your orgasm, but men are also easily butthurt and feel neglected after a point even if my pleasure is half performance. Emilio sunk his teeth into my neck and lapped at my ears. He licked the nape of my neck causing my slicked back ponytail to frizz. By the end my pussy was exhausted and dry, and when I went to the dressing room to check myself, I noticed that he had left a visible hickey behind my left ear. Fantastic. I felt a wave of stress wash over me as I thought about coming home with another hickey. The worst thing about hickeys is that I’m not even into the whole neck sucking thing in my own personal erotic life. It’s more likely to give me uncomfortable chills than turn me on, which only made the situation more frustrating. I sighed in exasperation. It was fine. Emilio had been chill and tipped me fairly. He was actually a pleasant person, all things considered, and I was grateful to start off my night with a half-hour room. I fixed my hair in the bathroom as best I could. Thankfully my Rapunzel ponytail covered up most of the back of my head. I’d steamed the ponytail before work to revitalize my synthetic bestie. Synthetic wig steaming is one of those pro moves you learn after running through a ton of hair pieces. After you’ve dragged your wig across stage enough times, the hair naps up and stiffens unless you gently melt it back into shape with a steamer. But anyway, hair tips aside, I could already tell it was going to be an eventful night.

Deon noticed I was tired and asked if I wanted to sit before our second dance. It was very sweet, and I needed the breather. We sat at a table in the back and chatted a bit. He was from Florida, but had lived around a few other places before ending up at the Marine Base in San Diego. He spent most of his time working, and the rest of his downtime playing video games or resting. He could sing, but was shy about sharing his talents. He reminded me a bit of my baby cousin, who in reality isn’t a baby, he’s a twenty-year-old young man. The two of them shared a shyness masked under masculine hobbies. Normally I don’t approve of sandals in the club, but Deon wore Versace slides, which might be the only exception to the rule. Only luxury brand sandals at the club.

If I’d been at my full hustling capacity, I wouldn’t have needed a break between dances. The capitalist in me screamed that breaks affect productivity and my earning potential. “The only right way is to push through exhaustion to secure the bag!” But I enjoyed my break and afterwards led Deon back to the Skybox for another set.

I will never understand what it’s like to receive a lap dance as a person with a penis. When I’m giving one, I’m either in another world thinking about groceries or anxious that the whole thing is notably repetitive. Don’t men get bored? Maybe I’m just too enmeshed in dancing to appreciate the excitement of this kind of interaction for civvies. It’s like getting to go for 7 Minutes In Heaven with the woman of your dreams. Or maybe just a woman you’re attracted to enough to take the chance and blow a couple hundos. Deon said I looked like Ella Mai, and he’d always had a crush on Ella Mai. I began dancing on him in essentially the same order I’d begun the previous time. He was an ass man, which is a gift because it means I can relax my face and autopilot a little. He sunk his hands into my hips and gently guided the pace of my grind until suddenly he stopped and held me in place. He jizzed his pants. I had enough distance between the ejaculation zone and my vulva not to worry about any fluid contact. I wasn’t upset with him. My first thought was that I couldn’t believe he’s managed to get off through his heavyweight jeans. Oh to be young, horny, and sensitive like that. My second thought was that even though he’d broken one of those cardinal rules of a lap dances, i.e. nutting without informing your stripper ahead of time that you’re close, I still knew he was a good boy. Deon was as surprised as I was at the turn of events and looked down bashfully. I’m a seasoned dancer who has dodged plenty of jizz. I hopped up and sat on the seat beside him, opposite the wet spot on his leg, leaned in and hugged him. I didn’t want the experience to be shameful for him.

Sex isn’t gross or dirty. Pleasure comes at unexpected times. Human sexuality is complicated.

Deon: Thank you for that.

Me: You’re welcome.

Deon scurried to retrieve his things and compose himself enough to return back downstairs to his friend. How does one re-emerge into the world with a giant visible cum spot on one’s pants? It’s one of those mysteries I’m glad I don’t really have to consider as a person with a vulva. I hugged Deon one last time for reassurance and he raced away, still more than a little ashamed.

I don’t know when I got to this point, where all of the “gross” bits of my job stopped being a burden and instead became a thing of tender intimacy. I’m not saying that I’m open to everyone jizzing in my presence, least of all without warning, but I’m also not entirely against it given the right circumstances. I’m what people call a “dirty stripper” and I wouldn’t want to be any other way.