I HAVE A DREAM

I had the most profound and delicious strip club dream last night. I have two types of strip club dreams: the ones where the DJ is calling my name and I can’t find the stage or a matching heel (every stripper and ex stripper has that dream...that dream is anxious and frustrating), and the ones where I feel like a rock star. I’m thankful the anxious versions show up far less than this other type of dream I have. The elaborate ritzy stories that play out in my subconscious are filled with mystery and money.

I’ve been a lucid dreamer (not just vivid, but I have controlled my dreams and am often aware that I’m dreaming) ever since I can remember. In fact, I can recall almost every dream I’ve ever had. That world stays with me far more than this reality. I suppose it’s because I’m dyslexic and my memory is visually based. Who knows? I can barely tell you what I did yesterday, but I could go into enormous (and boring) detail about a dream I had when I was ten. Sleeping is one of my favorite things to do. I have an abundance of fine things, homes and love in my subliminal life. I even have several homes I own that reoccur. None of which are pulled from this realm, but I recognize the house from past dreams—when I’m in the dream! I also make a lot of money in my dreams. People hand me money and I find money. I’m not a firm believer that everything in our dreams symbolizes something, but the money thing definitely feels meaningful—it feels like good fortune. I love telling a person about a dream I had while I’m still dreaming: the mind is an incredible thing.

In most of my dreams (and especially ones that take place in a strip club), I always have my favorite body: the one I had in my thirties. And I think I’m a little bit taller. My pussy is even perfect in my dreams. Yes, I spend time checking out my junk in my dreams. I like my pussy as is, but I’ve always wished for one of those no color distinction ones: lip color that blends perfectly into the color of the inner thigh. Call it heritage (or “darker from use” as one of my best friends would jokingly put it), but my pussy is darker than my thigh. I’ve come to accept it. Interestingly enough, being a stripper helped that happen: seeing all the different shapes and colors (not to mention men constantly telling me that my pussy was beautiful), finally shook the images of white women from Playboy I was used to seeing. I’ve gotten way off point. Back to the dream last night...

It took place in a club I’ve never seen. A lot of my club dreams take place in a warped version of Mitchell Brothers—which makes sense because of its significance, glamour and dot-com money. But this club was new to me. It was dark and lush and packed. Packed like the old days. There were tourists and rock stars and cowboys wearing Lucchese boots and expensive watches. And everyone was having fun. Real fun. You could feel it. I had just gotten off stage and could barely hold all the money I had made. I was laughing and hugging guys. I walked over to a long, beautifully appointed wood bar and laid my bare stomach and chest on it, so that my ass was displayed high and nice. The bartender (a sober dude I fucked once...funny how random people show up in dreams) handed me a shot. I downed it and in dream whir fashion, next thing I knew, I was standing in a downstairs portion of the club, talking to a group of five men sitting on a long velvet couch. I asked them who was ready for a lap dance? I was being cheeky and coquettish. I joked that I could give them all a dance at the same time: I even laid my long, mostly uncovered body down across their laps and said, “See, one of you gets my toes.” I used to be so good at arousing a crowd; it was one of my specialties. I made groups of men laugh and spend money (on myself and other girls): sometimes even while I was on stage. The last year or two of my dancing career was so depressing: all of it. My home club of ten years wouldn’t allow me to work because of my weight gain; the club I moved to was relatively new and not very busy; and my heart just wasn’t in it. The industry no longer resembled the one I fell in love with—the one in my dream.

I miss those old days. There was so much cash and appreciation. I felt like I was on top of the world; able to achieve whatever I set my heart on. And the bond amongst dancers is unparalleled. I miss the dressing room something fierce. Some of my favorite memories happened in a strip club. I’m so grateful for my rich and vivid strip club dreams. I still get to perform to my favorite songs and be adored. I’m also a lot more limber than in real life.