WHAT I MISS ABOUT STRIPPING

I miss the dressing room, but for those who’ve read me, I think that’s a no-brainer. Other things I miss are facets I never expected. Slow nights, for example. Once, a hara-kiri inducing situation, now, I recognize as a fantastic writing opportunity. Although dark and angry at times, my writing was more visceral; crass and in the moment. I had things to say and say them I did. Whereas now when I put pen to paper I’m mostly trying to purge the story before I forget it. Which doesn’t lend itself to juicy nuggets and edge-of-your-seat tales. Man, I had some yummy tidbits and opinions, didn’t I? Now it’s deliverance and declarations. And I fear, somewhat repetitive. Not as fire-based and unfiltered. Sometimes I dream of a club that would hire my old-ass just so I could enjoy the girls and the writing. .

Another feature I long for, that for years I denied was even a thing…the workout. A barrage of questions follow when a person hears you’re a stripper, one of them being: “That must be such a good workout”. Generally speaking, my answer to that was: “Not really. My heartrate isn’t elevated for any real length of time. If anything, I’m doing more squats.” But now, three years later, I realize I was getting more of a workout than I knew. Now that I barely move, I see that even walking around all night in heels was doing something. .

I miss putting on hobag makeup while drinking and catching up. I miss feeling sexy and flirting with men with stars in their eyes—although not as much as I assumed I would during the countless times I thought about quitting over my twenty-one-year career. Feeling sexy is low on my list these days. Entertaining the masses with my life and locution is more important to me now. If only I could recreate the source of the salacious tidbits I had at the club. And the I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-I’m-being-too-harsh-towards-men attitude. Not that I would prefer to be mean, but I was more cutting back then. Now that I have an audience who reads and replies, I often take the high road. The high road isn’t always the most enthralling route, but I hate being misunderstood more than cleaning my cat's ass.

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