i dance for fun, now.

i put on fuzzy leggings and a sweater and a hat, and pulled on my heels just to show some of my friends how to shake ass in a proper stripper fashion, the other night.

standing in their suburban garage, on a cul de sac, just shaking my ass.

i miss being proud of stripping.  when i first started dancing i had a blast.  it was fun to be able to pull out that fact at parties, snag my heels, shake my ass without a care.

i can do that with my friends now, they know me.  they know my history.  but i wouldn’t be so keen on doing it at some random party.

these days, i wouldn’t go to a costume party and wear my stripper heels.

i’m not ashamed of me, and i’m not ashamed of dancing.  i am ashamed of what dancing is like right now in this country.

but i dance for myself.  sometimes i pull out my skanky little dress and my legwarmers, throw on my heels.  just walk around the house, trying to recall the feeling of what it was like to LOVE dancing.

i’m trying to learn to love it again.  i just don’t know how.

for now, i’ve quit being a stripper.  i haven’t danced in months. 

it’s just not worth it, when the money’s not there.

i’m moving to Austin, TX at the end of the year.  i’ve been curious about possibly working at some of those clubs, but i want to go and see what the clubs are like, before i even entertain the possibility of working there.  

i hate stripper burnout.

sure, i don’t want to have stripping be a career for me.  i have other goals and plans.  but i used to like stripping.  i used to love it, actually.  

i hate that my experiences have made me hate something i used to love.  

i hope one day that i will be able to be back in the stripping world - if only for fun - and regain a positive attitude about dancing.

for now, i do hate it, which is a fucking shame.  

after i became so burned out that i was crying before i went to the club every time i worked a shift, i decided it was time to go.

i have never felt more relieved in my life. 

for the past few months, i’ve been relying on a part-time job which is awesome, but now it’s summer.  and work is tapering off. 

i’ll have to get another job.

i may have to go back to stripping, for a while.  at least for the summer.

i dread this more than anything. 

i won’t go back to the same club.  too much bad energy there, and not enough customers.  i know some good friends of mine who are dancing at another club, and i may just go there, if all else fails.  i’d rather get a “normal” job.  one with a steady paycheck.  it’s the uncertainty that i hate the most. 

i’d certainly post here more if i went back to dancing. 

one part of me wants to go back to dancing, if only to remind myself that i really do love it, if i make enough money.  if the customers are nice.  when i can lose myself on stage, amidst lots of cash.

the other part of me never wants to go into a strip club again, unless i’m a customer. 

 last summer, i was desperate for a job (hmm, not unlike this year), and i finally got one:  on Bourbon Street (much to my dismay) - as a “go-go” dancer.  it wasn’t a stripping job.  i’ve done that too, as you all know; this one was worse.  i was hired on at the Bourbon Cowboy. it was pure hell and misery.  i had to listen to the same shitty songs every single night, and i unintentionally learned every lyric to all the country songs i’ve always wanted to forget existed.  it was high summer, and the entire time i was dancing and waving those stupid 3 for 1 signs, i was dripping with sweat.  i hate sweating.  i’m not from the south originally, and the humidity down here makes me feel like i’m wearing a thick, wet wool blanket in 120 degree assholeness.  ahem.  anyhow.

last summer they also opened the Bourbon Cowboy 2 - as if one wasn’t enough.  this one had a stage, and before they started having live bands, they had us “go-go” dancers dancing in the open windows.  evidently i didn’t have enough opportunities while dancing in cowboy boots, cut off jean shorts, and tiny tank tops, to get harassed by every drunk idiot that walked by.  at least the other Bourbon Cowboy had our little dancing stage away from the street, where bouncers could shoo away the creepy guys.  they switched all the dancers back and forth between the two Cowboys, and i ended up at Bourbon Cowboy 2 a lot.  the dancer “manager” hated my guts for some unknown reason, so she wanted me out of “her” club (Bourbon Cowboy).

One night, as i was dancing on their stupid stage at Cowboy 2, (three feet away from the open windows, mind you) some stupid goddamn popped-collar frat-boy douchebag LITERALLY climbed through the open window, got onto the stage, and slapped my ass SO HARD i stumbled forward a bit.  i whipped around, grabbed him by his fucking collar, and followed him out of the window - choking him with his own collar.  the bouncer at the door was yelling - “HEY! what the hell! WHAT DID YOU DO???” he screamed at the frat boy - because i am not the type to start choking out a guy with his own collar on a whim.

i was yelling at the popped collar douchebag - “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???” while alternating between pummeling and slapping him with the hand that wasn’t choking him with his collar.   “i didn’t do nothin’ man, she just went all crazy on me!” he said to the bouncer. “BULLSHIT!” the bouncer and i yelled, simultaneously.  the bouncer had to forcibly remove my hand from the guy’s neck, and pushed him off the sidewalk.  “Get the fuck out of here!” he said. then he turned to me.  “You all right?” “NO i’m not all right, that fucker just assaulted me!!!”   i stormed up to management’s office, and commenced to screaming.  the fucking asshole bullshit male manager basically told me that “you’re a girl on Bourbon Street, people are gonna do shit like that, what do you expect?”   Well.  i didn’t take that sexist bullshit lying down.  i started screaming louder.

and that’s my story of how i got fired from a shitty club on Bourbon Street, because i wouldn’t take getting assaulted and sexually harassed lying down.   i was glad to go.  and i was even gladder to go out swinging, and choking some frat-boy dipshit with his own shirt.  that part was worth every moment.