It was still early when the pay phone rang. Not even midnight yet, but the tiny joint was packed. Every couch and cubicle in the backroom was full, so were the eight bar stools and all the chairs surrounding the stage. Frat boys leaned against the new jukebox, a few more leaned across the bar, trying to talk me into leaving with them.
Myron and Maxie wandered around making sure everybody was drinking & everybody was paying. Some nights they’d practically give the place away, but when it got busy, they got greedy and the unspoken rule was nobody leaves while there’s still money in their pockets.
I barely heard the pay phone ring over the noise of the music, the laughter and the cash register.
Big Maxie hung up and went into a huddle with Myron. They walked over to the bar, and Maxie squeezed past me. “I got the bar. Go. Go get Piper.” Maxie tossed his head towards the lounge in the back of the Lollipop and pushed me out from behind the register.
I stood there smiling.
Myron shoved me towards the back room. “Go, you little slut, you got a delivery. Now. What are you waiting for?”
Legally, the Butterfly and the Lollipop were Myron’s joints. There was Winks and the Cookie Jar too, but that was before me. They’d been such a huge moneymakers everyone thought it’d never end. It was the 70s, fans and feathers were gone, there was a whole new breed of dancers and a whole kind of money. Guys crammed in to get a peek of pink and girls went home with a thousand bucks a day, clean. No tricks, no handjobs, no hustle. Myron rolled naked over a bed of cash, all his girls were happy and all their girlie habits fed.
When the liquor authorities started making rules about small spaces, booze and cooze, girls went back to wearing the g-strings they’d dropped. The novelty of the bars wore off. Furs, cars, condos, diamonds, cocaine, heroin; Myron’s girls had expensive habits. Suddenly he was deep in a hole of a different color.
Enter Joey Two Shoes. Shoes was in the Butterfly. And he was in the Lollipop.
When it was time to pay, Piper and I brought champagne, Johnnie Walker Black Label and each other. There was always a crowd watching porn and dipping into the mound of cocaine in the center of the table, no matter when we got there. The pile of coke never got smaller and there were never any other girls there.
I wanted a drink, a blow and Joey Two Shoes. He was handsome and mean. I wanted him to want me. He wanted Piper. Piper just wanted to be loved.
“Go, you little slut, you got a package to deliver. Now. What are you waiting for?” He was annoyed. Shoes almost always called when the joint was packed. Never when we were sitting around with nothing to do.
“I’m just imagining the two of you, working the bar in leotards and heels.” When we left, there wouldn’t be enough girls to go around. It killed them to miss even a dollar.
Myron wasn’t always a paunchy middle aged bar owner, in hock up to his neck, trying to hold the interest of underaged dancers with presents and drugs and lies. He used to be was a suit. Not a straight suit, but a suit nonetheless.
Myron was a shyster, a lawyer. Past tense. That’s why Mulberry Street hung around, he’d been their lawyer. Louie the Ice Man, Jimmy Peanuts, Rocky, Crazy Jimmy, BooHoo, Chief, Harry Brooklyn, Eddie Bug Eyes, Jack the Jew. Myron was a man who believed in going that extra mile in search of the holy grail, the fast and easy buck. If you rolled snake eyes and had to go directly to Jail? Myron stepped up to pass GO and collect two hundred dollars, even if he wasn’t exactly entitled to it.
Disbarred, but not imprisoned, he changed his name, scraped some money together and went into the always profitable business of tits and ass. In the beginning, everything he touched turned to gold. Then came the girls, the cocaine, the state liquor authority, the excess, the huge, huge debt–and Joey Two Shoes.
But Myron is a dealmaker, with an eye for a scam and a nose for a sucker. He always knew who he owed, how much and what they’d settle for.
He put a brown paper bag on the bar. Two bottles of Johnny Black and two bottles of not the worst champagne. “Go, get Piper, pack up and start moving. Shoes ain’t gonna wait all night.”
This entry was written by , posted on January 14, 2010 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, Butterfly, dirty boys, partners in crime, The, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Advice for the New Kids on the Street,
from the Girls who’ve been around the Block!17 Naked Ladies in one room?
That’s more than a party, it’s a virtual Gang-Bang.
New topic every Wednesday
on laurishaw.com & thedirtygirldiaries.com
LZ Hansen: Starting out in the sex industry, be it stripping, whoring, or porn movies, you’ll know after day one if this is something you can make a career out of. If it is, try to make a plan–how many years do you intend on being in this business? And try to stash your money. We all think the big bucks will be there tomorrow, so we spend it all today. I woke up after 17 years, having made and hustled millions of dollars, with nothing but the clothes on my back & a lot of stories.
If you’re doing it to survive, like I was, try to get off the drugs and straighten out your life. Otherwise, you might never make it out alive. Above all, be true to yourself, conduct yourself with honesty and dignity and you’ll make it. And don’t forget to have fun, because it is a hell of a ride.
Lauri Shaw: It’s a job. Treat it like one. Be responsible, punctual, and sober.
Do your research. There’s plenty of info out there that wasn’t easily accessible before. Use it. Find the online message boards where both workers and customers write about the clubs. Learn the laws in every state and country you plan to work before you get there.
If you’re stripping, you’re paying the club to work. That means they do not own you. You are an independent contractor. They will also not have your back at tax time or if the club ever gets busted. They’re looking out for their interests and you’re looking out for yours. Be friendly, but always watch your back.
Put together your business dream team: your stylist; your personal trainer; your lawyer; your accountant; and possibly your stockbroker. Keep receipts and keep a set of books. As an entertainer, you’re a sole proprietorship company.
The window of time you can hustle at a job like this is finite. Save, invest, and plan for the future.
Georgina Spelvin: Insist on condoms and save your money. Oh, and this is for everybody, not just sex workers, moisturize! All over. Every day.
Dr. Betty Dodson: Avoid having first time sexual encounters under the influence of booze. If sex is worth doing it’s best being conscious when you’re doing it.
Nina Hartley: Save your money. Have a plan for After. Don’t date anyone who gives you shit for being a sex worker, period. If you don’t do it at home for free, don’t do it on camera for money. If you don’t do anal, don’t do anal. Don’t do cream pies for any amount of money. Pay your taxes. Go to school. Your newness is your most valuable asset, so guard it carefully and don’t over work your first year. Learn to say “no” and make it stick. Work as little as you can afford to and have a life. Extensions look trashy. Ditto very long nails. Think twice before you get that boob job. Three times, actually. If you do, shop around, a LOT. Do not go for lip injections, period, lest you be called “Daisy Duck.” Easy on the spray tan, Eugene.
Kelly Hayworth: You’re probably thinking you are different; you may consider yourself an “unlikely stripper.” You are not. The men and women that make up the sex industry come from all walks of life and backgrounds; they might be great cooks, strong athletes, accomplished writers; they may even have degrees. That’s right: having a college degree does not make you a special case. I was horribly condescending when I started out in the sex industry. “I’m not like them” I would think—I hope I never said it out loud—“these are hopeless cases; stupid, vapid, no futures; I’m just doing this because…” The end of that sentence, I now realize, is “because of the same reasons everyone else does it.”
Essence Alexander: Be clear about the fact that you are running your own business. Invest your money into vehicles that will allow you to walk away with some income. If you get to the point that you can’t do the job without a drink, etc. it’s time to quit!
Carol Queen: I think these three things increase your chances of a positive experience:
–Get as much sex info, and be as sex-positive, as you can. If you think your clients want unusual and perverted things, it won’t do your self-image any good (or your social skills as a good whore).
–Understand as much about your OWN sexuality as you can. It’s your own choice whether you share your true colors with clients (I always thought having orgasms was a fine perk, myself), but at least have sexual pleasure in your life somewhere. Also be clear about any challenging sexual stuff in your past (and try to root any of this out of your present life, if there is anything like an abusive partner or boss). This also means you are better-equipped to negotiate from a place of self-knowledge.
–Have some support. Maybe you can’t tell everyone what you’re doing, but have someone you can talk to and share the “shop talk” that is so useful (and frequently interesting) to work through.
Annie Sprinkle, Ph.D: Follow your muse. Stay in your truth. Do it your way. Be willing to, and have the courage to, change–because change happens. I had a wonderful porn star support group called Club 90, which was extremely empowering and helpful. We have been the best of friends, and meeting for twenty five years. So if possible, get yourself a support group of like minded peers. For me, nothing could be better than that.
Melissa Petro: When I share my story, one or two women will typically come up to me and reveal that they’ve had a similar experience, or that they’re considering sex work.
I don’t give advice, but I do share my experience often, which is a somewhat cautionary tale. My only suggestion is to ask yourself if you can do this type of work and remain true to the woman you are and to the people that you love. Many women can and do. I didn’t, and that’s what brought about most of the pain in my story. Research suggests it’s neither traffickers nor pimps nor drugs nor disease but, rather, the stigmatized and criminalized nature of sex work are the greatest contributing factors making sex work dangerous.
There is nothing inherently wrong with sex work, other than the fact that it is illegal and looked down upon. Society continuing to condemn and criminalize sex for money obfuscates the real issues– typically, issues of poverty, immigration, education, and so on. Those of us who can, have a moral obligation to speak up and share the reality of ourselves and our experiences.
Antonia Crane: Stay sane and sober while doing your job and I swear you’ll make ten times the cash you made drunk or high. Promise.
Jo “Boobs” Weldon: Get your tax and other legal advice from professionals, not in the dressing room.
Rachel Aimee: Grow a thick skin fast–you’ll need it. Don’t let the assholes get to you, and stay away from the ones who play mind games. Avoid drama in the club. Know that the other girls are exaggerating how much money they’re making, and everyone always says it was better last year. Try not to cry on the bad nights.
Caty Simon: LEARN your trade. Don’t be isolated. This is not a game, and it has high stakes, especially if you aspire to a legitimate career later on. Find a benevolent indie escort who will take you under her wing for a small cut and teach you how to screen clients and watch for the sort of legal entrapment that the police practice. After you’re on your own, join a bad call list/ database. If there isn’t one in your area, start one. And listen to your instincts, ALWAYS. They’ll get better as you’re in the business longer. The only thing that won’t get better is your own propensity to tell yourself that you’re just being paranoid. But remember–no amount of money is worth your life or your freedom.
Tracy Quan: Pfft. Is it kind of pompous to give advice to the new girls? I do appreciate the advice I received as a newbie, even when I didn’t take it. So here’s one thing I feel strongly about: don’t feel guilty about lying. Nobody is entitled to know what you do. Lying about it is one of our traditions. If you follow this tradition, be honest with yourself and kind to others. Don’t tell a guy you’re dating him exclusively while you see customers behind his back — let him know you still date other guys and leave it at that. If you create ambiguity, you’re not turning him into some kind of patsy. (It’s really none of his business whether the other men are paying.)
Also, no matter how angry you get during a lover’s quarrel, you should never use the fact that you see men for money as a weapon. It’s been known to happen. Some people, harboring a sexual secret, will lash out with their secret when they’ve been arguing. If you use this info to hurt or insult a guy or to get the last word, you’ll regret it.
Jennifer “Blowdryer” Waters: My favorite advice books, besides my own, Good Advice for Young Trendy People of All Ages
Jodi Sh. Doff: Some jobs more than others, but every aspect of Naked for Money still has some stigma attached to it. That’s potent stuff, even when it feels like it’s not, or like you’re tougher than that. Make sure you have someone outside of the business who loves you. Someone who can listen without judging, who has your best interest at heart, will call you on your shit, will have your back. That’s probably good advice for everyone, no matter how you make your money….
This entry was written by , posted on January 13, 2010 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged strippers, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
January 1981
The Butterfly is gone. Myron set up a new place for us called the Lollipop Lounge.
I got into a scene with Piper and Joey Two Shoes. We’re pretty good friends now. Me and Piper, not me and Shoes. He’s a loan shark or something.
Junior moved in, but he’s sleeping on the couch, so I guess we’re not a thing. We did a thing, but we’re not a thing. Piper said he’d been indicted for murder 9 times. He admits to three of them–the indictments, not the murders.
So, that’s who I spend all my time with now. Killers, loan sharks, coke dealers. But mostly well-dressed. The well dressed underbelly.
So, that’s who I am now. High class slime.
February
Mommy came in yesterday – to yell mostly. She thinks this job and this lifestyle are bad for me. I’m sure she’s right, but even when I had a respectable job I was with people she didn’t like in places she worried about. So, nothing’s really changed. Except now I make more money.
February
Mommy wants to know how I see myself in the future. I don’t know. I’m past my expiration date, like a quart of soured milk. Maybe I could marry Louie the Ice Man or someone…
??
May
It’s been months. Past events are starting to fuzz. Details lost. A little unstable. Lots of lonely. Worked 20 days in a row. Some jerk driving me home from one of the Jersey gigs tried to pull into a motel. Hadda jump out. $25 cab ride back to town.
The Big Man stayed at my house. Raped me. Said I stole his ring, but I didn’t. Tied me up and gagged me with pantyhose and neckties anyway. Maxie 86′d him from the Lollipop for two weeks. Two weeks?
Construction on Myron’s after-hours club halted. Sleeping with BooHoos guy, Roman. I think he’s a bookmaker or something.
Phone number changed to unlisted. Contact lenses. Money in the bank. Roaches in the house.
Still drinking.
I want to be left alone with someone else.
To be naturally beautiful when I wake up.
To have 2 days off a week.
There’s a car sitting across from me with a guy watching me and jerking off. I wish they’d all go away.
Rich man
Poor man
Beggar man
Thief
Knights of Decadence
Daze of Grief
Woke up on the couch, the door unbolted. There’s a puddle of water in the center of the floor and a chair in the middle of that. I know who I came home with and that we fucked but after that…who knows? I hate everyone from the Deuce I meet.
Fancy dressers
Smooth talkers
snakes in the grass
sweet kisses
endless praises
just for a simple piece of ass.
The streets seem less and less friendly – or maybe it’s just me.
Same places
different faces
different places
with the same faces
round and round she goes
down and down she goes
nothing changes
and it’s never the same
This entry was written by , posted on January 11, 2010 at 7:35 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, dirty boys, drinking, Lollipop Lounge, lonliness, New Jersey, rape. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
16 Naked Ladies in one virtual room?
That’s a Holiday Gang-Bang.
We’re tackling the hard questions…
and getting some surprising answers.New topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com & thedirtygirldiaries.com
LZ Hansen: Yes! I’d do it again, I loved my life as a whore. I had issues when I was a speedball freak, but that had nothing to do with whoring. I loved brothel life, loved the women I met, not all, but even the bitches I fought with, I liked.
I’d do it all exactly the same. I made a stack of money & blew it on drugs, vacations & things. As long as my drugs & rent were paid for, I didn’t need a lot of stuff. Then, as a sober whore, I made the money again & spent it on more things & bigger rent. I got my American Dream, still no regrets. I have no shame. Today, I tell the world I was a whore & loved it!
Georgina Spelvin: Yeah, I’d probably have jumped at the chance to be in a movie even if it DID require explicit sex. I was that eager to be in film and I still don’t see why the actuality of real-life intercourse between humans should be less palatable than a good turtle-fuck on Animal Kingdom.
Betty Dodson: Yes! My naked lady days was throwing or attending sex parties in the sixties and seventies, but no money exchanged hands. When I was a sex coach guiding women through pleasure rituals so they could learn how to provide their own orgasms with masturbation, I got paid. It wasn’t until I was postmenopausal that I did a few doubles with my girlfriends who were sex workers. Their johns were often more polite than many men I’d dated.
I’d like to see more women and men better sexually educated and skilled so they could provide their own erotic entertainment. We need to get beyond the only accepted model of heterosexual monogamous marriages, a lifestyle that ends up creating party girls, prostitutes and johns. No one should have to pay to enjoy orgasms.
Nina Hartley: Yes, definitely. I’d have left my first husband ten years earlier and have married Ernest that much sooner. I’d manage my money better (though sex workers are notoriously bad with money management, as a general rule). I’d have taken a stronger interest in the business aspect of porn, instead of just the artistic/personal aspects of it.
Essence Alexander: I’d do it again. I would plan my exit up front. I would save.
Carol Queen: Yes, absolutely. I learned more in the trenches of the sex biz than I have almost anywhere else. There’s plenty of secret know-how between those sheets. I’m not sure I’d really do anything differently except maybe learn better money management skills. I didn’t piss away my earnings, but neither do I have any of that money any more. Of course, my 401(K) is half gone, too, and that had nothing to do with my money management. What I invested in while I was a sex worker was time to develop my writing. I recommend every sex worker figure out what s/he/ze is in fact investing in.
Jodi Sh. Doff: Sure. Knowing what I know today, in a heartbeat. I’d put a major chunk of change away right off the top, investing it in real estate. I’d drink less, say “No” more often and take lots of photographs.
Tracy Quan: In my teens, I met a wealthy guy who had quite a crush on me. He was in his late twenties, very civilized, and he wanted to court me rather than pay for sex. He barely touched me that night and insisted on giving me lots and lots of cab fare as I was leaving the hotel room. Any sensible girl in my shoes would have called him the next day and pursued the relationship, but I didn’t know what to do. I was intimidated, didn’t feel glamorous enough for this rich playboy, so I ran away from the attraction. I should have been more courageous. I should have asked another working girl for advice. Instead, I kept the episode to myself and never saw him again. I was a scrappy little idiot.
Annie Sprinkle: I’ve had a great life, and would love to do it again, and again, several times. I would take a few classes on running a small business, and how to manage money when I first got into the biz. I’d learn to balance my check book, invest, and save money. But then again, I would probably enjoy blowing my money all over again.
Melissa Petro: Today I am entirely comfortable with the person I am, and I recognize that who I am is the cumulative effect of my choices and experiences. For this reason, there is nothing in my past that I regret, nothing I would change or wish to undo. This is not to say that I didn’t make mistakes or that my choices didn’t bring about a terrible amount of unnecessary suffering, only that I’ve learned– or, am learning– from my past and, hopefully, by sharing my experience, I can use my past to help or educate others. The experiences I’ve had, as well as my education, put me in a somewhat unique position to have a positive impact on peoples’ lives.
Antonia Crane: Yes. I’d do it all again the same way. I wouldn’t change those years dancing in San Francisco during The Golden Age for anything. But, if I didn’t keep going back to dancing, I may have pursued other goals more voraciously. I wish I would have gone to school much sooner, instead of well into my thirties, but I’m relieved to have the self esteem to pursue my career now.
Jo “Boobs” Weldon: I would do it again. If I had to do something differently, I would probably take it more seriously as a job than as something that was impeding me. That’s the feeling I had when I was very young–that it was taking more from me than I was getting out of it. I can see the advantages and disadvantages differently now.
Rachel Aimee: Absolutely. I can’t think of a more convenient way I could’ve supported myself through four and a half years of volunteer-editing $pread! In an alternate universe, I would’ve put more effort into trying to be a good stripper–calling customers, buying new outfits once in a while, etc–but in reality that’s just not me and it never would’ve worked. No, I wouldn’t make any changes. I’d do it exactly the same all over again. (OK, maybe this is the nostalgic talking now because I only just quit!)
Caty Simon: In a heartbeat. Escorting gave me financial self-sufficiency, self-respect, new skills, too many things to list here. Only this time, unlike the childish 21 year old I was, and the dope fiend I became, I wouldn’t carry around my ill gotten cash in a money clip and act like a Mafioso, treating all my friends to dinner at the most expensive restaurants and working back to zero all the time. I wouldn’t have the misbegotten impression that what I thought of as “free money”, à la Patti Smith, would last forever, as sadly, so many escorts do. I would save, save, save–at least half my income. And I’d give more of it to the activist movements I’m involved with today.
Kelly Hayworth: I didn’t begin stripping until I was 26. I sometimes wonder if I should have started earlier. I do wish that I could go back and hustle those timewasters I didn’t know how to deal with in the beginning. It took me a while to learn.
Lauri Shaw: I would’ve done it differently. I’d have been more careful which girls I trusted to tell me the rules when I first started. I’d have left my ego at the door, and understood that it was a JOB — it did not define how pretty I was, or what else I was fit to do with my life. I wouldn’t have so readily allowed people to manipulate me.
I’d have stayed sober when I was on the clock, kept my nose clean (no pun intended), and socked away money like there was no tomorrow. Lastly, I’d have been honest with myself about how I felt about the job — vs. the way I thought I should be ashamed. I’d have stood up to the world, stripped for another 5 – 15 years, bought real estate, made other investments during those boom years. I’d be sitting pretty right now…
Re-reading my response to this question pissed me off. While I was writing it in late December, I realized just how much of this ending is unresolved for me. I quit ten years ago believing I needed to do something more “legitimate” with my life. Having regrets is frankly incompatible with the woman I think I am. And so I’ve decided to return to the front lines after all these years. At a very different place in my life and in a different country! I’m very excited about what comes next.
I think the fact that I’m older now is great. It will put more money in my pocket. I’ve been on one audition so far and seen the girls. They don’t look any older than I do. My life is very different now as well. I have a husband who’s behind me 99.9% and has his own money coming in. I’ve cut ties years ago with any relatives who’d think it’s okay to judge me. I’ve had several jobs in mainstream entertainment, moved out of New York, and seen a whole lot more of the world. I know the perils of being intoxicated at work and have decided it’s a no-no for me.
Bottom line: I’m no longer that scared little girl who would do anything to keep a roof over her head. I have choices now. And I’m happy to be able to say that my choice is to go be the best stripper I can be, for as long as I can make great money doing it.
Next Wednesday: Final Round of the Naked Ladies’ Holiday Gang Bang: The Naked Ladies offer advice, warning and words of wisdom for anyone just starting out in the Naked for Money business
This entry was written by , posted on January 6, 2010 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary, three naked ladies and tagged strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Time Out NYs pick of the week!
SEX WORKER LITERATI
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Come find out how hos, hookers, call girls and rent boys popped theirs.
Behind the glitter and stiletto heels, beyond the bulging crotches and the rippling abs, there are human beings selling sex.
In the exchange of sex for money a window opens into the soul.
Come take a peek.
Hosted by DAVID HENRY STERRY: best-selling author Disney screenwriter ex-teen manchild ho; and AUDACIA RAY: new media maven professor activist sex geek ex-working class ho.
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CHELSEA G. SUMMERS: Ph.D. go-go dancer Penthouse writer award-winning blogger.
JENNIFER BLOWDRYER : Rock star smut peddler acclaimed author Colombia University survivor. www.86edstories.com.
DAMIEN DECKER: African Scandinavian rugby stud writer professional cuckolder current rent boy.
and your own sweet dirtygirl herself,
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a portion of every book sold goes to helping sex workers
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happyendinglounge
This entry was written by , posted on January 4, 2010 at 11:21 pm, filed under the diary and tagged strippers, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The sun sets behind me as we roll onto 46th Street, past guitar stores and half a dozen Brazilian restaurants and bars that make this single block into “Little Brazil.” Routing through my bag, through clothes, makeup, shoes and everything else I drag around everyday, I find my last softly crumpled fiver and hand it to the Paki cabbie. It’s always my last fiver as I roll into work. Doesn’t matter if I worked last night or I’m at the tail end of a five day run. Either way, the cabbie gets the last bill. But, as long as I have enough to get to work, it’s all good.
I pull open the heavy glass door to the hallway. Directly ahead of me, stairs lead to a cute little apartment with a two sets of French doors– one separating the living room and bedroom, the other leading out to the tiny terrace overlooking the Church of St. Mary the Virgin across the street, and Myron’s newest bar, the Lollipop Lounge, below. It’s very sweet and very French and Myron’s been trying to talk me into renting it. I’d save on cab fare, he says. But I’d one flight up from the bar, I think. No more screening calls or calling in ‘home in bed with the flu’ when I’m really home in bed with Mr. Just Got Home from Prison or Mr. On His Way to the Crazyhouse. They’d be knocking on my door all day and night to use the phone or the bed, for a quickie or to crash, using the whole place for making deals, cutting things up. I’d be the goddamned back room.
Nope. I pass. Not even for French doors. Not even for two sets of them.
I ignore the stairs, turning left and pushing open the door to the Lollipop.
I’d expected music loud enough to drown your sorrows, rumbling out of the old style jukebox. But there’s only some general mumbling and subdued laughter, clinking of glasses and ice, shuffling of bar stools and feet. The mediocrity of real life normally drowned out by blaring and repetitive disco beats.
“What the fuck…,” the carpet crunches as I step inside. “Jeez Louise.”
“Nice, right?” Piper laughs, leaning against a train wreck of multicolored plastic rubble and mechanical gizmos. She takes a drag of her Newport and pats what’s left of the jukebox with a perfectly manicured hand. Lights limp and sputter sporadically–yellow, red, blue, and glaring white through the broken plastic. Cracked 45’s and colored shards of thick plastic litter the floor.
It’s bad.
Myron loved his jukebox; I’m genuinely surprised he let this happen. Last time they’d all jumped to her defense, as if she were some fragile Southern belle. It was a sticky summer night in Times Square, one of those nights so hot the garbage starts cooking up into a stink stew. A muscle bound base-head wandered in, his eyes spinning, his body slick with sweat. He wasn’t interested in drinking, or naked women. But he fell in love with the flashing lights of that jukebox. He stood over her, watching her lights flicker and dance, for 20 minutes.
Maybe he was there an hour, I wasn’t paying too much attention. But I remember his arms, thick and strong, and the way he gripped each side of the jukebox firmly, the way you do a woman’s hips when you’re taking her from behind. He had a beautiful prison body, that perfection you get from lots of free time in the yard. After a while, I guess the flashing lights flipped a switch in his brain-stem. He leaned back, still clutching the box. Pushing his pelvis against the jukebox and dropping his head back, he let loose with a howl. It was primitive, boy oh boy, something that came from the very bottom of his beat-up Chuck Taylors. He howled again, curled back in toward the box and proceeded to lift it straight up, every muscle straining. I watched from the bar, waiting for the muscles of his arms to just…pop.
Big Maxie grabbed the wooden baseball bat from behind the bar and walked over slowly, dangling it out of sight just behind his thick leg. He stood with the bat swinging softly behind him like a metronome and talked the kid down, talked him into putting the jukebox tenderly back down on the floor. I know it’s easy to be calm when you’re holding a baseball bat, but if that kid could lift a full size jukebox straight up, there’s no telling what damage he could do to a man, even a bulldog like Big Max. But the basehead put the box down, and him and Maxie talked, drank and smoked a little while Myron sat at the bar, still shelling pistachio nuts and popping them one at a time into his mouth. His eyes’d never left his prized possession as Maxie talked the kid down and you could tell, he’d sit there and watch just the same if Maxie had to bash the kids head open to get him to put the jukebox back down. Myron watched, shelled and popped until the kid was gone, and that’s all that was worth remembering of that night.
So I wondered, what the hell could have happened here? The box was a goner; there was no repairing it, nothing worth saving except maybe a shard of blue plastic for sentimental reasons. It looked like it had been at the bad end of real old-fashioned beat down.
“What the fuck, Pipes?”
“Chief shot it,” she says. I look at her; she shrugs her shoulders and laughs. “I don’t know JJ, he was sitting at the end of the bar same as always, whispering his crazy Chief shit, then he pulls out a pistol and shoots the thing. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three times.” She takes another drag off the Newport. “He said it made a threatening move at ‘im.”
Chief is crazy, but not so’s you could tell by looking at him. Tall and balding, with a dark bushy mustache and glasses, he looks like an accountant. An annoying accountant, but still, he looked harmless. Chief’s brand of crazy was the kind you’d never see coming.
“Piper…?” I turn and hold my hands out, ala Carol Merrill on ‘Let’s Make a Deal’. This was more than three bullets worth of damage.
“Well, Myron & Max were outside, they come running in. Max looks at the box, looks up at Chief, looks at the box, then back at Chief again. Chief’s still standing there with the gun in his hand, he looks at them and says,” Piper starts to giggle, slightly insanely, “JJ, he looks at them and says, ‘It made a threatening move’. Max comes over to the bar, all pissed off, you know how he is, and grabs the bat. ‘It made a move on ya?’ he says. ‘Yeah, it made a move Maxie, I hadda do it, it made a move,’ Chief says. So, they all went after it. They took turns with the bat, Little Maxie’s in there with a car jack. I don’t know where the crowbar came from. Max, Chief, little Max, even Myron. Everybody. Hadda be done I guess – after all JJ,” she shrugs and starts to walk away, “it made the first move.” She laughs, heading behind the bar.
“Shit, I miss all the good stuff,…”
“That’s what you get for going home, J…”
“I’m thinking maybe I move upstairs.” I shake my head. I love this job. You never know what’s going to happen. I mean, really, everyone knows Chief is dangerous, so who’d expect a single unarmed jukebox would be the one that would try and take him out.
I scoot up onto the bar stool next to Chief for my standard pre-shift double Vodka, with just enough Seven-Up for bubbles. I’ll drink through the whole night, but I like one to start the night out right, for luck. The boys are all busy talking, rehashing the fight, who did what to the box, how it got what it deserved, and on and on. Chief leans over. He smells warm, of scotch and cigarettes, his lips soft to my ear, his mustache rough against the curve of my earlobe, “Tickle your ass with a feather,” he whispers.
“What? Say what, Chief?” I turn to my friend, this crazy man, this jukebox killer, and smile.
“I said, ‘How’s the weather?’” He signals for Piper to top off my drink.
The jukebox never should’ve made the first move.
This entry was written by , posted on December 31, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, Lollipop Lounge, partners in crime, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
16 Naked Ladies in one virtual room?
That’s a Holiday Gang-Bang.
We’re tackling the hard questions…
and getting some surprising answers.New topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com & thedirtygirldiaries.com
Round 2: How would you feel about your son or your brother being a client, customer or a trick? What do you want him to know?
LZ Hansen: I’d hope at some point my son would experience a prostitute. Every man should. It’s relaxing, it’s their version of going to a day spa. But I would pray he was a gentleman, tipped well, and treated the women with utmost respect. As with any addiction, I would hope he wouldn’t become a sex addict as many of my customers were. If paying for sex is recreational what’s the prob?
Lauri Shaw: I’d tell him, treat sex workers well, and pick companions he’d want to treat well. Be selective about where he spends his time and money. No zombies, no psychos, no rip-off artists. Same as if he was dating. I don’t want the men in my life to hurt anyone, nor do I want them to get hurt. Money entering the equation still doesn’t change the golden rule.
Georgina Spelvin: Better than knocking up his teenage heart-throb. What he should know? Same thing he should know vis-a-vis Heart-throb – No glove? No love! NO unprotected sex until procreation is the object.
Betty Dodson: Only if he was not abusing drugs and using a high-end escort service. I would prefer he was confident enough in his sexuality that he could provide his own orgasms alone or with partners.
Nina Hartley: Professionals are people, too, so treat them with respect. Pay for their time and ability. Speak clearly and ask for what you want. Listen to what they have to say about sex and relationships. Don’t fuss about using rubbers.
Essence Alexander: Whether my son was in a relationship or buying it, I would want it to be safe sex. If he was going to be a strip club customer, I’d want him to know that if he didn’t have a large amount of EXPENDABLE income that he should probably just buy a pack of beverages and go to a buddy’s house.
Carol Queen: I’ve actually written an essay in which I hoped my dad had access to the sex industry, so yeah, anyone in my bloodline could avail himself of erotic entertainment and it’d be fine with me. I would want him to know that he should be clear about his desires and negotiate for them respectfully; he ought to appreciate any sexworker he interacts with and know that people who provide sexual services are a special kind of person worthy of value. (This, in fact, is the sense I got from the majority of my clients, and it *should* be the basis of any of our interactions with clients/customers.)
Jodi Sh. Doff: I’d want him to understand she is for his entertainment and to treat her with the respect he’d have for a Broadway actor and the compassion he’d have for the ingenue in an off, off, off Broadway production. That the evenings end in the same way as well: when a play is over, actors go one way and the audience another. I’d want him to understand that time is money, but paying for someone’s time is simply that and nothing more, paying for their time.
Annie Sprinkle: Whores are wonderful people. Why would I have a problem? Paying for sex isn’t that different than getting a massage, a pedicure, or a gourmet meal. Its pleasurable. I’d want him to know that he needs to have the utmost respect, even reverence, for the woman, man or tranny whore that he’s with. And leave a really big tip.
Antonia Crane: I’d tell them to always tip girls on stage when they’re dancing and be generous, respectful and kind to them. If they were hiring escorts, I’d tell them them to use condoms, and tell them all about STD’s because I have a background in STD/HIV counseling. I’d want them to be safe and discreet. I’d want them to know that it’s a fantasy and not something to get emotionally invested in-even if he’s convinced that the girl really likes him-when push comes to shove, it’s a job.
Kelly Hayworth: I’d be fine with it–as long as he wasn’t acting like a jerk, was generous, polite and treated the women well. I would want him to understand that if he goes to a strip club and the girls seem to really like him, that’s because they’re working. If he turned into one of those clowns that starts talking about how he and Candy are “really good friends”, I’d have to make an intervention.
Jo “Boobs” Weldon: I would want him to understand that there is more pressure on the worker if he hassles her about whether or not she’s enjoying her work. I would tell him to simply appreciate the service and the pleasure.
Tracy Quan: I have two brothers, and would be surprised if they’ve never paid for sex. I also have a double standard. Being a punter doesn’t seem problematic or unusual, while selling sex to earn a living comes with more cultural baggage. Of course, I want my brothers to have commercial adventures only where they won’t be arrested. The laws concerning prostitution are being rewritten in many countries, and penalties against customers are becoming more common, so my brothers – if they do pay for sex – may be acquiring some of that extra baggage.That’s too bad. I hope, if my brother gets arrested, that he won’t wimp out and declare himself a sex addict in need of rehab!
Rachel Aimee: I don’t have a brother, but if I had a son who went to strip clubs, I’d want him to really understand that the relationship is about money and not get taken in and start thinking the girls actually like him. Strangely, I feel more opposed to the idea of a son or daughter of mine being a regular client of the sex industry than a sex worker. I guess I’ve just seen so many lonely guys with dysfunctional lives throwing their money away night after night and not getting much out of it. (Although my perspective is probably kinda screwed because I can’t imagine being a regular customer or client myself.) Having said that, I wouldn’t have any problem with my son being an occasional customer, as long as he had enough money to be a decent one!
PJ Starr: I assume that my brothers, cousins and male friends in general have dipped their toes into the the thrilling stream(s) of services provided by sex workers. I think about all the sex workers out there, seeing so many clients and it seems to me that the chances are that fellows I know have been (or still are) clients.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t need to know whether or not or under what circumstance my relatives and friends have paid for sex. That is their own private business. I only hope that if they have been clients, they were well-behaved, acquiesced to safe sex, paid what they were supposed to and left a nice tip if they appreciated the service. Oh, and took a shower or similar depending the service, then put the towel away neatly and put the toilet seat down.
Caty Simon: I’d feel fine about my brother seeing an escort, since as he knows his sister is one, he’d treat her with the utmost respect. The only problem I might foresee with that arrangement is that my brother’s an incurable romantic, and I hope he’d understand the boundaries of the commercial relationship going in. This question implies that some of us might feel our clients are in some way transgressing, and I don’t believe that at all. Our clients are almost always just normal men, and at best, amazing men who understand that not all sex needs to be monogamous and free of charge, despite what mainstream culture might tell us.
Next Wednesday: Round 3: Knowing everything you know today, would you do it again?
This entry was written by , posted on December 30, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged strippers, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I left Times Square and its business of naked and boozy in the mid 80s, but like a ballplayer past his prime with just one shining season – I still live there. It was the most vibrant time of my life.
I kept records of everything–diaries, journals, calendars and phone books going back to 4th grade. Everything except the ten years that were Times Square; almost none of those records survived. Maybe they never even existed. According to Social Security one of those missing years I earned a total of $8 on the books. Eight dollars? I was off the grid before I even knew it existed.
Having no records and an unreliable vodka soaked memory, I sometimes doubt what I think I know. Then they invented the Internet and filled it full of everything–facts, locations, dates, newspaper stories. I found out that Louie the Ice Man had been a big deal wiseguy, a really big deal. And he’d come home from prison this year. Home, just a ten minute drive from where I am today. Thirty years from where I was.
I started to fantasize about being back with Louie. I’m older, and not as cute, but maybe just a little something something to pay the bills while I write about the days when I’d do just about anything to pay the rent. I remembered Louie as sweet. And generous.
I became obsessed with the Ice Man all over again.
If I’d known how big he was, would I have taken more advantage? Probably not. I just wanted to drink and be loved and being with him made me feel wanted. If that was as close to love as I could get, that was okay by me.
He wasn’t mean. He didn’t make me cry. He never hit me. He called me to tell me he was going to prison, instead of just disappearing. He didn’t have to do that, he could’ve just left.
I found court papers, deeds and addresses online.
I showed up at his house a few weeks ago. It’s a little too close to the roar and grime of the highway, the building, slightly run down, the neighborhood, less than inviting. I’d imagined a brownstone or a private home with a lawn. And a gate. Even though I’d been looking at photos of this street for a week on Google Maps, staring at the front of this building. I recognized the air conditioners and the vertical blinds. Still, I expected the photos to be wrong, I expected something…better. There are no names on any of the three buzzers.
I buzz all three bells and stand in the center of the driveway. Totally unprepared and naked in a whole new way. With no makeup, an over-sized thermal t-shirt, sweatpants, sneakers and three extra decades. Decades. This is not my most alluring outfit.
A thirtysomething pokes his head out the third floor window. Yeah? he says. I’m looking for Louie the Ice Man, I say. Only I use Louie’s real name. I don’t say Ice Man.
Is that okay? Yelling out his name on the street like that? What am I thinking? I never would have done that 30 years ago. I knew better then.
Thirtysomething says the Ice Man lives on the second floor.
An small woman in a bathrobe peeks through the curtains at the second floor window. She’s old. I wonder, Is he living with his mother since he came home from prison? Then I remember the thirty years. Louie was in his 50′s then, he’s in his 80s now. His mother, I’m sure, is dead. This is either his sister. Or his wife. Either way, she was young and pretty once. Either way, I’m not welcome. She shoos me away with her hand, clutching her bathrobe closed with the other and never opening the window.
I consider leaving a note in the mailbox. Hi, remember me? I gave you blowjobs 30 years ago, surely you remember? Just stopped by to see how you’ve been. What? I don’t want to start giving random blowjobs again. I didn’t have the energy to dress up like someone’s goumdada back then, and even less so now. What is there to talk about when what I remember is how he liked it when wore my glasses while I sucked his cock. I didn’t want to know that I have a nicer apartment than he does, or maybe this is a decoy apartment. And just like that, without even seeing him, already I’m making excuses the way I made excuses for them all back then.
I get back in my car. I wish him well. He was what I’d needed then to make myself feel safe, but the old lady who shooed me away is right.
I don’t belong here anymore.
This entry was written by , posted on December 25, 2009 at 12:52 am, filed under the diary and tagged 2009, dirty boys, Times Square, wiseguys. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
What happens when you get
15 Naked Ladies in one virtual room?
You get an incredible end of year Gang Bang.
We’re tackling the hard questions….
and the answers are surprisingNew topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com & thedirtygirldiaries.com
Round 1: When it’s all said and done, if you had a daughter, would you want her to work in the business today?
LZ Hansen: I’ve always said that if my daughter were to become a prostitute I’d probably be fine with it. If I knew she could handle it like I did. It’s not for everyone & some strong fearless females have been chewed up spat out & pissed on. I guess luck has some thing to do with it. I’ve always had amazing luck. I closed my brothels in 2002 because the business had changed so much. Women were becoming more renegade, not part of the ‘family’ I had loved so back in the 1980s. I’d only really be comfortable if I knew she was safe, not strung out & not handing money to some maniac-pimp.
Lauri Shaw: Do you suppose Monica Lewinsky’s mother worried about sending her on that internship at the White House? Lewinsky ended up in the same boat as Ashley Dupre did a few years later… Dupre was a call girl, Lewinsky was somebody’s upper-middle-class daughter. The label “whore” can be slapped on anyone. If I had a daughter, it wouldn’t matter if she worked in a strip club or next to heads of state — she’d have as much dignity as I could possibly impart to her. And I would hope whatever she wanted to do would be fine with me.
Same time, I’d want to make sure she didn’t go in naive, the way I did. A lot of people hurt and took advantage of me because I didn’t know what I was doing. It’d be great if she had someone levelheaded to show her the ropes.
Georgina Spelvin: Honestly, no. It’s too dangerous and lonely.
Betty Dodson: Only if she was a high-end call girl and not abusing drugs. I would prefer she make her own money in her chosen profession.
Nina Hartley: No. It’s undergoing massive changes now and I don’t know if it will continue to be any source of steady work. Plus the stigma of being in porn is still pretty common. Easier in than out, and that’s not always a good thing. I’d like to think that I’d raise her to be grounded sexually but to keep it to herself and make her mark in the world.
Candida Royalle: No…Because I know that despite the fact that millions and millions view, rent, buy explicit movies, most people still look down on the women who perform in them. Even though I believe that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with women performing sexually for others to view and enjoy, as long as we live in a culture that insists on offering up only two visions of women – madonna, mother and good girl or whore, bad girl, a woman to be scorned and punished – women who choose to openly and publicly display their sexuality will forever have certain doors closed and opportunities denied. When we’re young we think it doesn’t matter, but as we get older we grow to understand the impact this can have not only on our lives, but on the lives of those we love…especially our children who will be forced to deal with possible ridicule as a result of our choices.
Kelly Hayworth: I think the word “want” is too strong for me, as it is not something I would necessarily wish for, but I wouldn’t be opposed to my daughter working in the sex industry. I think that it could be a positive thing for her: character building—it was for me. I have limits though; while I would hope that by the time my daughter was an adult she would be independent enough to do whatever she wants, I wouldn’t want her working on the streets, and ideally I’d hope that she had other plans for a future outside of the sex industry: something creative like in film or literature (perhaps these are my own wishes.)
I don’t think that’s hypocritical, because who doesn’t want their child to grow up to be something really amazing? I don’t know if anyone says “I really hope my daughter grows up to be an accountant,” you know?
Essence Alexander: If my daughter could not be talked out of it, I would tell her the caveat is that she has to have a clear exit plan. I would sit down with her and develop a 3-5 year business plan with measurable goals. I think about 3-5 years in she’d want out anyway. I’d also warn her of all the potential pitfalls: drugs, over spending, safety, etc.
Carol Queen: I have cats, not kids, BUT: I’d absolutely support any (adult) daughter of mine working in the sex industry, provided I felt she had enough knowledge to make the right choices about how and under what circumstances to work. I would want her to know other sex workers and have supportive, collegial relationships with them; I don’t think this is work to do alone, or as a loner. I’d want to make sure she knew she could (and in fact ought to) bring her brain with her to work, and only work where that’s respected.
Jodi Sh. Doff: You know, in a perfect world I’d say fine. The costumes, the lights, the glitter, the playing dress up and being the center of attention are all wonderful in theory. But theory is for classrooms. In the real world, people judge, media exploits and more than anything, as long as our laws continue not to support sex workers rights, as long as the work is stigmatized, it’s not safe work. No, not until things change and she can go to work knowing that if something happens, she can turn to the courts and the police and expect the same respect, attention and diligence as anyone else.
Tracy Quan: If I had a daughter? I’d want her to be a CPA. It’s the only occupation I can think of that seems safe enough for a child of mine to pursue. The business is just one of many industries that would scare the daylights out of me if it were my daughter. I could easily be one of those ultra-protective helicopter mums, because I know too much about what’s out there. I’m lucky I was never arrested and sometimes think I’m lucky to be alive! I don’t assume everyone else will be lucky. However, assertive daughters forge their own paths, and often go against their mothers. That’s the natural order of things.
Annie Sprinkle: It would depend on what my daughter was like. If the job suited her well, and it was what she really wanted to do, I would have no problem with it. Why should I? But I would want her to have a great guide/agent/mentor to educate her, keep her safe, and prosperous. I would hope that prostitution would be decriminalized by then, and thus a safer job. But then there are much more dangerous jobs than prostitute.
Melissa Petro: I wouldn’t encourage my daughter to be a sex worker. I wouldn’t discourage her either. Ultimately, every woman is free to choose how she makes herself sexually available, to whom, and for what in exchange– and we all do, all the time, sex worker and non-sex worker alike. If I were to have a daughter, hopefully I would parent her in such a way that she’d be prepared to make good choices. I wouldn’t want someone– especially someone I love– to make the same mistakes I did, but becoming a sex worker was not in and of itself a mistake, and I recognize that women have different experiences in the industry. Most important, I think, is to show love and practice acceptance no matter what choices someone makes.
Rachel Aimee: I wouldn’t have a problem with my daughter (or son, for that matter) working in strip clubs if I felt she was a sensible person who could take care of herself. It’s true that there are plenty of temptations in the clubs—to drink, do drugs, get carried away with trying to make as much money as possible and forget your other goals in life, etc.—but I also know from personal experience that it’s perfectly possible to just treat it as a job and have a functional and productive life outside of work. So I would only have a problem with my daughter being a stripper, or any kind of a sex worker, if I felt she was the kind of person who might get carried away with it and get into trouble—in which case I’d probably be worrying about her whatever she did!
Antonia Crane: If she was pursuing other goals then I’d want her to be a dancer. It makes financial sense. I believe that my daughter would have the common sense to make sound and sane decisions.
Next Wednesday: Round 2: How do you feel about your son or your brother being a client, customer or trick? What do you want him to know?
This entry was written by , posted on December 23, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged strippers, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
courtesy Miss Loisy
I was never really beautiful, or classy, never learned to play the girly girl. I’m not the kind of girl men want to protect.
A guy once told me I was the perfect mistress. I understood all the rules, I never balked, I never asked for more. I don’t know how true that is, but what I have always been, what I still am, is a stand up broad–meaning a) I know how to keep my mouth shut and b) I know when to keep my mouth shut.
For me and the Ice Man, it was all about my mouth. I kept my mouth open when we were alone – and closed when we weren’t. Louie the Ice Man made sure I had “cab fare,” even though I’d never asked for a dime. He paid me to keep his secret, but I’d've done it for free just to say I was with him.
I’d been keeping secrets since I was a kid. My own as well as the various & sundries who’d wandered in and out of my private places while I was still too young to know that not everything was my fault. That some times don’t tell anyone, absolutely anyone, promise? is exactly when you should run screaming it down the street for everyone to hear. Immediately. Loudly. Repeatedly. But after you’ve kept that first secret, how do you not keep the next one? They pile up, crushing your insides, not leaving room for anything else until they’re piled so high, you simply cannot see out anymore.
Everybody at the Butterfly knew if you were looking for a top-flight blowjob, Carrie’s mouth was the place to park your penis. We looked enough alike to pass for sisters, and even though she was the prettier sister, it wasn’t her looks that got all the attention. All the visiting dignitaries–wiseguys, loansharks, hit men, fences–everyone wanted to take a turn at bat in the dark warmth that was Carrie’s mouth.
I’d picked up a few tips from Bridget, even though she swore to Myron she never gave blowjobs. Looked him straight in the face at the end of the night waiting for the payout, Florida orange lipstick smeared across her face and hands and swear she was a good girl. She was a good girl. A very good girl. Carrie was in it for the fame and adulation, but Bridget expected cash.
As far as Bridget was concerned the trick to a good blowjob, or at the very least, an easier one, is a little sleight of hand. A good spit covered hand.
They think they can tell the diff, she says, they wanna say they got the deep throat offa ya, but in the dark, wet and warm, is wet and warm, baby. You wrap a wet hand nice and firm around his cock and you’re in control, baby. And that’s the thing. If he wants to control everything, let’m give himself a freakin’ hand job. You get yourself a firm grip on that cock, you got time to do the ‘finesse,’ ya know? Like focus on the head, the ridge, and do some tongue tricks that that particular cock will appreciate a lot more than just being rammed down your throat until you gag. A blowjob is all about the hand, baby, it’s all about the hand.
Bridget made bank with the customers, but the visiting dignitaries–wiseguys, loansharks, hit men, fences–they all wanted to take a turn at bat in the dark warmth that was Carrie’s mouth.
So, when the Ice Man chose me, I felt like I’d arrived. I was finally all I ever wanted to be. A mobster’s moll. A gangster’s gal. I may not’ve been Miss America, but at least I was Miss Congeniality. The Ice Man chose me over Carrie. She could have the fame, Bridget could have the money, I had the power. I was the one he took out in public.
Public. Public consisted of every fabulous, famous and infamous fag bar in town. He owned some, other mobsters apparently owned the others. If his mob buddies owned anything but titty bars and gay bars, I certainly didn’t know about it. We drank at glittering piano bars with elegant men who toasted those glamorous women with something extra tucked between their legs. Wherever we went, by midnight, everyone needed a bit of a shave.
But, let’s get one thing straight, there are no fag wise-guys. Fags don’t need blowjob queens, at least not of the girl variety.
Blowjobs in the car, in the back room of this gay bar or that gay bar, whenever he wanted it, my mouth was there. Whatever made him happy and moved things along so I could get back to the cocaine and vodka was okay by me. I kept a secret we never discussed. My cock-hungry reputation squashed any suspicions. The money guaranteed my loyalty and made me feel kept inside of used. We made each other legit.
We were co-dependent before the it was popular.
The thing I wanted in a man was some element that would keep everyone else away. Crazy, violent, huge, unpredictable, powerful, rich, respected, feared. It didn’t matter. As long as being tagged by him meant that everyone else would steer clear. Given a choice, I’d pick the biggest bad in the room. The world was unsafe and while I couldn’t get a powerful man to care about me or for me the way Piper could, I could remain in his orbit, his aura, take his strength by proxy and make myself safe that way.
For however long we would last, he could have all the glittering fag bar nights he wanted and still be a man because he had me, and I could breathe a bit because I had him.
This entry was written by , posted on December 21, 2009 at 12:56 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, dirty boys, Times Square, wiseguys. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
“Well, JJ, you look pretty pleased with yourself.” Piper hands me a vodka & seven and leans back against the bar smiling like she knows what happened upstairs. She probably does, the Quarterback is not that good with secrets and besides, you can smell it on me. Myron closes out my register, ka-ching, almost seven grand tonight.
Tonight, I’m the golden child.
“Yeah. Look at ‘er.” Myron’s on the second count of my money before bagging it up. “One night. One night she brings in money instead of spending the whole, the whole, fucking night snorting coke, sucking down my liquor–my liquor–or creaming over some toothless loser…”
“Howie’s not a loser.”
Piper practically chokes on her drink. She looks up, “But, he is toothless, J.”
It’s true. I can’t argue that fact. He’s sweet, and fun, but there isn’t a single tooth in his mouth. I shrug, and go back to my vodka and seven.
“…creaming over some toothless LOSER and she thinks she’s the fucking queen.” He talks about me like I’m not here. At least he’s not trying to make me cry. That game only gets played when nothing’s going on. Some guys do crossword puzzles or scrape the dirt out from under their fingernails to kill time. Myron tries to make me cry. Some days it works. Some days I just look at him, with his little paunch and tinted avaitors–the posterboy for mid-life crisis and male pattern baldness. The reason he knows this business so well is that he’s a trick at heart, and I’ve got things I can learn from him. So when I can, I let it slide.
“Fuck you, Myron.” From my perch on top of the bar, I reach one leg out and poke him playfully in the belly with my foot. “I did good. I did good, didn’t I Max?” I don’t know why, but I’ve really got a thing for Big Maxie. He’s Jackie Gleason fat. Not adorable Honeymooners Jackie Gleason, but Minnesota Fats Jackie. Cold. Smart. With a face like a big ashy bulldog. Maxie says mean things and has never given me a second look. I’m kinda crazy about him.
“Yeah, you did good JJ. Don’t let it go to your head,“ bouncing his trigger finger against my temple. “You pull like this every night, then you got something. This,” he waves his hand around, ala Ralph Kramden, “was luck.”
“You’re sweet on me, ain’tcha Maxie.” I smile, take a drag off my cigarette and lay down stretching out on the bar, a satisfied kitten.
He slides a beefy hand from the middle of my back down to my ass, gives it a fast and painful spank and shoves me off the bar.
“Hey!” I hit the floor, ass first – thankful this once for my ample ass padding, cigarette still in hand. He smiles at me over the bar, turns and walks upstairs to make sure everyone has cleared out of VIP.
Maxie likes me. He’s like an eight year old boy pulling pigtails.
“So’d you suck his dick, JJ?”
“Shit Myron, don’t be an idiot. Suck his dick. Jeez. Me and Carrie up there, if anyone was gonna suck his dick, who’d you think it’d be?”
“So, the answer is yes, you did suck his dick.”
“Fuck off, Myron.”
The upstairs hallway is littered with dancers and floor girls sprawled across the floor waiting for the payout, waiting to go home. I step over a few on my way to the bathroom to change out of my sticky bar clothes. Bridget is applying yet another layer of a thick federal penitentiary orange lipstick that matches her hair. The smears and stains on her hands and around her mouth reveal just how much work her mouth has done tonight.
“Your hands, Bridge,” I point, reminding her to wash them. Bridget’s blowjobs are second only to Carrie’s, but Bridget’s are more, well, hands on. She says they can’t tell in the dark, that friction is friction and skin is skin and as long as everything is warm, wet and firm and there’s a mouth on one end it doesn’t matter if there’s a hand in the middle. Everyone goes home happy and she doesn’t have to deal with the whole gag reflex thing. That’s Bridget’s secret. I don’t know Carrie’s. Well, to be truthful, I guess I know a little bit more now than I did when the night started.
Piper, still pristine in her white leotard and ever present Newport, her hair still perfect, sits on the sink. Leaning against the mirror, she crosses one leg discreetly over the other and looks me up and down. I smooth down my skirt and check myself; lavender grey button down rayon blouse, matching knee length wool cigarette skirt, stockings and low-heeled grey pumps. If I’m wearing a straight office chick’s clothes, I can pass for a regular broad out in the world.
“I don’t know J, I’m not saying you are, but you still look like a whore to me. 
Not that there’s anything wrong with that mind you, but now you just look like a whore who mugged a straight broad for her clothes.” She hops off the vanity, tosses her cigarette into the toilet and flounces out the door. I look at myself again. She’s right. Fuck. She’s always right. No matter how much I clean up the outsides, my insides keep oozing through. I unbutton enough to expose my cleavage, reach in and rearrange my boobs for full effect, toss the pumps in the garbage in favor of my spikes, add another layer of lipstick and mascara, and head down the stairs.
It’s almost five a.m. by the time we settle onto the Brasserie’s red leather banquettes and start ordering– shrimp cocktail, pâté de foie gras, Perrier-Jouet, steaks. Me, Myron, Piper, Big Maxie, and Little Maxie – you’d think we hadn’t eaten for a week. The Quarterback and Nicky Fireplug broke off somewhere. I think the Fireplug’s got a wife somewhere in Queens. It’s almost dawn and the Brasserie isn’t full or even technically open, but men in dark suits and darker pasts drink cognac and smoke thick cigars alongside flawlessly dressed women in thin heels and flamboyant creatures of the night–
–each one of us getting rid of the money as fast as we made it.
courtesy scott fraser
This entry was written by , posted on December 17, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, dirty money, partners in crime, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Jessica Pauline helps answer the question–
What’s a nice Jewish girl like you, doing in a place like this??
Happy Hannukkah!
3 naked ladies talk about their view from the stages and laps of the 70′s, 80′s, 90′s and today.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, or thedirtygirldiaries.com
Lauri Shaw: Female sexuality is practically non-existent in mainstream Jewish culture. We were invisible in the strip clubs when I worked. Yet, I know we were there… also that there are plenty of Jews in porn. So how does growing up Jewish prepare you / or not for a career in the sex industry?
Jessica Pauline: Well, it definitely prepared me to have a healthy dose of guilt both during and after my career in the sex industry. I didn’t grow up with any explicit values surrounding sex or sexuality, but I always knew that nice Jewish girls value their minds way before their bodies. Obviously, that’s a totally respectable value system, but because of it I always felt terrified that if anyone from my hometown (or home synagogue, God forbid) found out that I was stripping they’d think that I was doing something stupid, which is the cardinal sin for suburban middle-class Jews. You can have just about any flaw, but being or acting stupid brings the utmost of shame upon your family.
Jodi Sh. Doff: I don’t agree at all about the sexuality – it’s not like Catholics are all, Go ahead kids, screw around, it’s fun! I grew in Levittown, surrounded by Italian & Irish retired cops and fireman. We were one of the few Jewish families, although culturally only with no religious practices. I’d hear “The only way to stop a Jewish woman from fucking is marry her,” but I heard it from my own father. I felt like that was permission to screw around, although I’m sure that wasn’t his intention! Still, my house was the opposite of what you experienced. My parents were political activists, very open, free your mind kind of liberal Long Island Jews. My mother wanted me to enjoy my body and my sexuality. She was light years ahead of the curve on that one and while she hated the topless bars, Judaism was never the issue.
LS: I grew up in a fundamentalist Conservative Jewish home. In terms of ritualism and repression we had more in common with Catholics — or Jehovah’s Witnesses — than with the Reform Jews I knew in Great Neck. My father conducted Shabbat dinner every Friday night, made us go to synagogue every Saturday, and Hebrew school on Sundays. We kept kosher. I hated it ALL. At the age of six, I was already an atheist — I’d been told that women were second class citizens.
When I was 13, I had a Bat Mitzvah, after which I announced, “The rabbi says I’m an adult now; you can’t make me go to services anymore.” The only time I ever entered a synagogue after that, I was 15, sneaking in with my (recovering-Catholic) boyfriend. The ladies’ room on the main floor had this amazing lounge with sofas, mirrors on the ceiling. An ideal place for wayward teenagers to have sex. Come to think of it, it looked a lot like a champagne room!
JP: I think this issue is largely about how we see ourselves, and how much of that self-image is rooted in Judaism and/or Jewish culture. For instance, the first month of stripping for me was a complete revelation, because I was suddenly someone I’d never been before. I’ve always been kind of goofy — I love to laugh, I’m really friendly, I’m always the one who kills the joke by repeating it for hours. In short, I’m no seductress. So to see myself as objectively sexy — to the point that someone would pay me for it — was so shocking and awesome that I would say it was moderately addictive. But it did break from the values with which I was raised, values that — while not expressly religious — are very much associated with Jewish culture. By drawing lines between my value system and my culture’s value system, I was deviating from expectations, and that made me feel like I was somehow letting down the tribe.
JshD: When I was a kid I was hot for the JDL, so sexy in their paramilitary garb. And I conveniently identified when I’d hear there were no Jewish alcoholics, because we only drank on happy occasions. I was one happy Jew for a long, long, long time, but in-between, when I was working, Judaism never really influenced my actions or decisions that I’m aware of.
LS: It definitely had a big impact on my sexuality. I got pushed so hard in one direction, I exploded in the other. I reveled in being an outlaw slut. At the same time, I never admitted to anyone in the clubs that I was Jewish.
If you’ve been around Jews, you can tell I have Ashkenazi features. But when customers asked, I said I was Irish-American. This is a direct result of the completely schizophrenic way I was raised. My father’s religiosity reigned supreme in our household — I got my ass beat when I broke those rules. But then he’d take us on Navy bases — or anywhere outside of NY — and warn, “Don’t tell anyone you’re Jewish.” He saw anti-Semites hiding behind every bush.
I didn’t know if people would treat me differently if they knew, and in any case I’d left the flock. I had serious issues with my ethnicity-that-was-a-religion-that-was-an-ethnicity.
JshD: I’ve never denied being a Jew. I mean you get those idiots that have that “nice Jewish girl” image, but from what I’ve found, it’s mostly the Jewish men that have that. I worked for two different Jewish bar owners. Myron was harder on me than on the other girls – he had an element of hypocritical disdain towards me, a Jewish girl doing that work. Paul, however, treated me like an uncle–albeit an incestuous uncle–giving me extra privileges so I didn’t have to do what the “goyim” did for money. The Gentiles on the other hand, they’re all hot to get a Jewish girl. Wiseguys and mobsters were turned on by the fact that I was a Jewess, and so it was a big turn on for me. Why not, it’s where my curves came from!
This entry was written by , posted on December 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged family, religon, strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Carrie scoots under one arm, I slip under the other and we walk the suit up the stairs. He’s got his arms draped around our shoulders, Carrie’s left tit in one hand, my right tit in his other. I make a mental note to keep an eyeball out for Billie and Loretta. They’re like a couple of newlyweds, or, more accurately, bitches in heat. Call it what you will, it’s hard to keep them apart and they’ve laid claim to a little corner of carpet in the hallway that leads to the upstairs lounge. I’ve tripped over them more than once, curled in to each other, head to hole, buried up to their respective ears in the others cooch. But tonight, with this heavy drunken load on our shoulders, it’d be easier not to have to two-step over that particular lesbian love-fest.
It’s not easy maneuvering the staircase, but we finally drop into a soft blood orange velour couch. The room is all red shadows and a slight chemical scent; it has all the romance of a photographer’s darkroom. It’s dark enough to miss the worn fabric on the couches, stained with souvenirs of previous visitors; dark enough to overlook the threadbare carpet, a wig gone slightly askew, or the smeared makeup of a long night. And there’s just enough light to tell a single from a fifty.
Perpetual twilight makes you ignorant of time and place. Add booze– and as far as I’m concerned, adding booze improves any given situation–and you’re disoriented, your guard is down, your judgment impaired. It’s the same for Times Square as for Vegas. The difference is scale, sure, but the theory is the same. Hope, booze, sex & fantasy. Illusion and sleight of hand.
Chinese screens separate the couches from each other so each “lounge” feels private, but really you’re sitting in a giant mirrored room with four or five little enclaves and a former high school football player roaming around making sure none of it gets out of hand. Quarterback Jack or Nicky Fireplug are supposed to make sure everything’s safe and legal, so the Billie & Loretta chow down outside? That’s not supposed to happen, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and you can’t blame the boys for watching the show.
Some of the Butterfly girls sell keys to non-existent hotel room with the promise of future satiation; some stall for time till the next bottle hustle; others take advantage of the privacy selling a little of this or that. Last week I’d sold a second bottle to customer slurping away at a girl’s pussy like it was chocolate ice cream. She was perched on the couch back, legs spread, comfortably resting against the mirrored wall, already holding the cash. Reaching over his head, she handed me what I needed and what I wanted on top of that. I pulled the unopened bottle out of the bucket and then put it right back in. Tucking my tip into my leotard, I left and let them finish their business. It’s a win-win strategy.
Officially, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen. Unofficially, for the right price, everybody gets what they want. Upstairs is the illusion of privacy, an illusion of intimacy, an illusion of desirability and popularity. It’s all illusion.
Tonight’s illusion is that for five thousand dollars, Ronnie the Suit will finally get his dick wet. The illusion is we’re hot sisters, desperate to get our hands and our mouths on his solid gold dick. The reality is while not solid gold, it is the dick that laid the gold American Express card. That single unopened bottle of champagne cost him a total of five thousand dollars and between the foot of the stairs and the upstairs couch, Carrie’s managed to make her cash deal with him. I’m not so good at the back room transaction action. Given a choice, I’d rather pick a pocket than offer an honest trade – but what I’ve brought in from this suit alone totals just over thirteen hundred dollars for the night, I’m satisfied.
Ronnie is seated between us and he pulls us closer to him, closer to each other.
You gotta use what your mama gave you, so I tuck my legs under me and sit up, bringing my breasts up to eye level. For the record, even in my leotard, I have terrific tits. Let me revise that – I have good breasts, but I have terrific nipples. They’re as big as the last joint of your pinkie, and persistently erect. I can hang things from them, necklaces, ribbons, ties, you name it. If it hangs, it can be hung from my nipples. They are my only trick. Carrie, who actually has perfect breasts, upturned and firm, matches my pose and faces me. Mirror images facing each other over a drunken suit; we slowly lean towards each other. The suit has his hand between my legs, playing with my cooch through my red leotard; just for the fun of it, I fondle his semi-hard dick through the soft gabardine of his pants. As we lean into each other, Carrie reaches out and slides her hand inside the tight spandex of my leotard, thumbing my nipple roughly. We rise up on our knees, our bodies pressed against each other over the suit, his hand busy tugging at my cooch, then sliding back and caressing the cheeks of my ass.
In the dark, we find each other’s mouths and kiss. Slowly. Deeply. I am kissing the mouth that launched a thousand hard-ons, the best blowjob mouth in the bar, and I understand why. Her tongue, strong and warm, pries its way into the deep recesses of my mouth, making me want more, urging me on.
I wouldn’t do this in the daylight, kiss a girl. I’m just not that way. Or maybe I am, because I like it, I’m into it. I want to kiss her, touch her, feel her touching me. And I never have to admit that, because I’m being paid to be here. Well, in a manner of speaking, because actually, I haven’t made a cash deal with Ronnie. I’m not getting any extra for this show.
Out of the corner of my eye, reflected in the mirror, I see the Quarterback watching us.
Tonight is a good night to die. I’ve made enough money to pay 6 months rent, I’m kissing a beautiful woman and being watched by two men. The one with enough money to have paid for this show is getting me off with his hands; the other–thick, young and muscular–I simply enjoy performing for.
And there it is. I’m enjoying this. Enjoying their hands on me, enjoying being watched, enjoying the suits weakness. In the daylight, in the civilian world, there’s shame and labels and stigma about all this. Here, well, here no one thinks twice. I can do anything I want in the dark, I can let you do anything to me. So, it’s more than fantasy and illusion. It’s permission.
“Last call!” the Quarterback cries out, ready to hustle the suit out of the bar.
I hold up my hand towards him, index finger urgently raised. Not yet, God no, I think, I’m almost there. Our bodies grind against each other, hungry; I clutch Carrie around the waist, holding her tight to me, cupping her head in my other hand. She pulls at my nipple as the suit tugs at the lips of my snatch. I feel the Quarterback standing over the three of us watching as both Carrie and the suit work to get me off, and the Quarterback’s blatant voyeurism raises the bar, making the whole thing even steamier. The suit grinds his hand against my swollen puss, pulling the material to the side as he does. A thick musk rises off me, enveloping us. Carrie’s body, pressed hard against me vibrates with her own sexual excitement as I cup her breast, roll it in the palm of my hand, she lets out a little noise, a small gasp for air letting me know she’s as ready to explode as I am.
I slide my hand down between her legs, her pussy is moist through her leotard, I massage and push against her cunt—and the suit suddenly slips two fingers deep inside me and starts to pump them in and out.
“Shit. Last call,” the Quarterback’s voice catches in his throat.
The suit drives his fingers into me, Carrie tweaks my nipple and Quarterback Jack watches. Carrie slips her mouth down and bites me on the neck, hard, and I explode, dripping my juices onto the suit’s hand, grinding urgently down, impaling myself on his fingers, pulling Carrie tighter to me as my body spasms in orgasm and looking into the footballer’s eyes in the mirror.
“Last call.” Last call, indeed.
This entry was written by , posted on December 14, 2009 at 10:39 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, dirty money, partners in crime, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
So, you say you want to be alone with your party doll? You say you want to get away from it all? Away from the booths, the poles, the barmaids, the mirrors, the bouncers and managers, away from the unwashed masses who come here to try and staunch the flow of lonely, away from the religious zealots willing to pay for keys to non-existent hotel rooms? You say you want to get away from the freakshow and be alone with the girl of your wet-dreams?
Well, my friend, you’ve come to the right place. We accept all major credit cards.
“Ronnie?” I’ve got him by the tie, to keep him from flopping off the barstool. “Look at me, Ronnie.” I smack him lightly on the cheek a few times.
Everyone else has come and gone, but this suit’s been here for hours. His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are at half mast as he tries to focus on me. I’ve sent him upstairs with three different girls already, each time with the same unopened jeroboam of crap champagne and one of my killer speed-rack Georgi vodka martinis in a highball glass. Each time I run his card for a thousand dollars. Eight hundred dollars for the bottle, two hundred dollar tip for me. Whatever cash deal he cuts with the girls is their business. The credit card charges show up as a steak restaurant, the irony of which is not lost on us. A piece of meat by any other name…would never taste as sweet.
“Ronnie!” I’m loud and all up in his face, trying to make myself heard through the vodka haze and over the music.
“You’re losing him, JJ. Better give’m a blast.” Piper’s cleaning up the bar, my section as well as hers, getting ready to close up for the night. She smiles as she watches me struggle. She’s right about the blast too, of course she is. I take the vial of coke from her, come around the bar and slide onto the seat next to him.
“Ronnie,” softer now, my mouth right up against his ear, he reaches out and cups my breast in his hand and begins kneading it. “Here sweetie, inhale for me.”
I do not like sharing cocaine. I do not even like sharing your cocaine, but this is a necessary investment.
I pinch one nostril closed while I hold the tiny coke spoon up to the other, cradling his head with my other hand. He inhales, gently. I slide the spoon almost inside his nostril. “Quick now, baby, inhale again,” he does, “That’s it, there you go. C’mon baby, let the good times roll.”
The suit leans back in the chair and you can see the cocaine start to work, sobering him up just enough so he’s intelligible, but not so much that he’s no longer pliable. Not so much that he realizes how little he’s gotten for how much he’s spent. There’s a delicate balance that has to be respected, like mixing nitro-glycerin. Or making a chocolate souffle.
“Ronnie.” He looks at me, smiling slowly. “I’m gonna need my tit back now, baby.” He looks down, apparently confused as to how my boob wound up in his hand. He squooshes it like a wad of play-doh, and leans in for a sloppy kiss—he stinks of vermouth and cigarettes and sweat–and misses my mouth, resting his head on my shoulder.
“Gimme a blow-job. None-a these bishes will gimme a blow-job.” His head lolls to the side. “Willyousuckmydick?”
Piper laughs, grinding her cigarette out as she turns to make herself a fresh vodka. Myron shakes his head in disbelief, but never takes his eyes of the suit. I’ve run up over three grand for the house from this fish alone. I’ve wrenched eight hundred dollars in tips, plus my ten percent bottle commission, that’s another three hundred plus—means I’ve cracked a grand in tips and commission for the night. I’m finally making Winks money goddammit. I’m so fucking tired of hearing about how great it was and what an jerk I was for walking out.
It’s twenty minutes to closing; I need a new girl—the fish is drunk enough that I can recycle the bottle of champagne, but not girls. Three girls, three thousand dollars, and this poor john hasn’t even gotten far enough to get his own hand into his pants to pull on his limp dick.
Truth is, if he really wanted his dick sucked, if any of them really wanted what they say they want, they’d go two doors down to the Luxor Baths for a $10 “happy ending”, or pick up one of the street girls. But, after you’ve spent a couple of hundred dollars and no one’s even looked at your pud, no less pulled it, and you stay? You may as well admit that what you’re really looking for is the company and the fantasy.
I’ve got twenty minutes left to try and whack that gold card one last time. Over his shoulder I spot Carrie, smoking a cigarette, picking at her cuticles and leaning against the stage. I catch her eye with a nod and she snake-walks over, slides an arm around his neck, looks him right in the eyes and smiles. Hell, if he wants his dick sucked, she’s the one to do it. She’s the gypsy, the blow-job queen.
The suit looks from her to me, and back again, confused. We’re both tall, with short red hair, long faces and a certain rock and roll edge. “You sisters?”
Bingo.
“Yes,” I say, slipping his gold American Express card out of his wallet– I like to think of myself as a modern day gold miner. Myron rings it up, Piper packs the same unopened bottle of champagne and another vodka martini into the ice bucket. “Yes we are, Ronnie. We’re sisters….”
Myron coughs, loudly, reminding me that last call is only ten minutes away…
This entry was written by , posted on December 10, 2009 at 11:04 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, drinking, drugs, johns, partners in crime, strippers, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, or thedirtygirldiaries.com
Candida Royalle changed the porn industry when she founded Femme Productions. You have to wonder, the first time she got Naked for Money, was that her plan? The Naked Ladies talk about having a plan–or not.
Candida Royalle: I’d been rather ‘focused’ until just after my first year of college. I was attending one of the best art colleges in the country, majoring in fashion illustration, but when the whole political – hippie – feminist movements came flooding in to our generational culture, the fashion world began to lose its appeal. Plus, I discovered recreational drugs and you know…kinda’ sets you on a new way of thinking and questioning everything you believed in.
Jodi Sh. Doff: I wasn’t questioning anything, I had no plan. I started working in the topless bars at 17 because I needed a job. I’d been hanging around hustler’s bars and thought I was a tough little chick, but I was just a kid who liked to drink. Topless bars didn’t require experience or skills beyond working in skimpy outfits. I’d been having a recurring dream, every night, where I died at 23. I believed it, so nothing really mattered…
Lauri Shaw: What plan? I was 19 when I started stripping, estranged from my family, and had been living on my own for several years already. I was just trying to live day to day and keep a roof over my head.
JshD: I’d grown up on Shindig, Hullaballo and then Laugh-In. That’s where I got my ideas about life as a go-go dancer–that was the term in the 70s. I thought I’d be a cross between the hip, swinging stewardesses of “Coffee, Tea or Me” and Xaviera Hollander’s Happy Hooker. Eventually, I figured on becoming a mobsters girlfriend or a high class call girl making oodles of money, being wined and dined by handsome powerful men.
There was wine, men, and money, but not like I’d imagined. I wasn’t tough enough to be a Show World silver dollar girl, pretty enough to make big money at or sober enough to hang on to any of it.
LS: I expected I’d go back to college at some point, but I didn’t know what I wanted to be “when I grew up” and didn’t feel compelled towards any particular course of study. I just figured I would try to get as much cash as I could into the bank before I quit dancing. That went out the window as well once I developed a fondness for the “Devil’s Dandruff.”
The whole time I was dancing, I couldn’t see more than 24 hours into the future. Half the time I wasn’t even working at the same club from one night to the next. I didn’t know what my average earnings were. I didn’t know how far I’d have to drive to get at those earnings. The most forward thinking I ever did was to maybe bag a sandwich for my next shift! I lived my entire life by the seat of my pants. I’d burn through relationships, fuck buddies… I devoured whatever was in front of me.
JshD: I thought I’d be dead by 23, so there was no point planning for 30 or 40. Same as you, I lived day to day. Stripping was a way for me to drink and drug as much as I wanted and just be wild. To paraphrase Gretchen Wilson “I was there for the party And I wasn’t leavin’ ’til they throw’d me out.”
LS: I feel that if I had been in my mid-twenties or older, I’d have been much more focused on the future…
CR: Well, I can shoot down your theory about age and focus, Lauri, at least in my case. I didn’t get in to the sex biz until I was nearly 25. I’d been training in dance for many years and got close to the professional ranks, summer stock and all that, but had to choose between that and art college. Well, long story short, I lost interest in all the things I’d been ‘focused’ on and took off for San Francisco where I got even more in to drugs…
JshD: What would life had been like for any of us, I wonder, if drugs and alcohol had never entered the picture….
CR: …and began living and performing with some really freaky people, some of the original Cockettes and Angels of Light. Did a play with Divine, even began singing in jazz clubs. At that time materialism was looked down on, but I needed to pay rent, so at 24 I answered an ad for nude modeling. The agent asked me if I was interested in being in a porn film. I’d never even seen one and stormed out.
JshD: I had girlfriends that did print and film but I remembered a high school teacher who’d been a Playboy centerfold. Every year someone would dredge up that old centerfold and tape it to her door and she’d be in tears. I was afraid of that kind of permanent image following me if I ever wanted to go “straight.” I guess I still bought into the white collar Prince Charming at the end of the rainbow.
CR: My boyfriend thought porn was a great idea and ended up as the lead in a big adult feature. I got to see that it wasn’t the sleazy scene I’d thought, at least not at that level, and sex was so out in the open in those days. That’s how I got in to the sex biz. In hindsight, I too wished I had remained more focused on other things I really loved to do, like dance and sing. I could’ve made a career of it. But, as Jodi pointed out, once you’re on film it’s forever, and you close many doors once you show up in an adult movie.
In the end, my foray in to porn and burlesque gave me the idea for female-centric erotic cinema, so while it began with a ‘devil may care’ attitude, I ended up achieving exactly what I wanted: a career that enables me to express myself artistically and politically, and one that financially provides me with the means to take care of myself. In fact, I’ve probably created far more of a legacy for myself than I might have trying to compete with all the Madonna’s of the world.
This entry was written by , posted on December 9, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged porn, strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
