flickr photo courtesy of nasrulekram
“J? I know it’s early, but…”
9 AM. I’d only just crawled into the loft bed when the phone rang; I was still playing solitaire, obsessively. I play three games, every night. I have to win, or lose, three in a row before I’m allowed to sleep. I was so wired even if I could get the cards to work right…but Laurie? She was never up this early, or this late, depending on which side of life you’re looking at it from.
“What’s wrong Lo?”
“Your friend. The guy…from last night? His car wouldn’t start, he said. He just wanted to use the phone. I thought, I thought you were still with him, out in the car… but you’re home. And, and he’s here…and… waiting for the tow truck, I guess, and I know it’s…I thought you could come back and…
“Lo? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Scared?
“No. Maybe..yes.”
“Sit tight, I’m on my way. Say whatever you think you need to say to make him happy. He’s crazy Lo, you understand? Crazy. But, he’s just fucking with your head. He’ll leave with me, so, really, no worries, okay? He’s watching you talk on the phone with me, isn’t he?”
“Uh huh.”
Every time we go out, me and the Big Man, we stop at the diner on Eighth Ave, across from Piper’s building and around the corner from Possible 20. P20 is supposed to be a jazz joint, but it’s really just one more pimp bar. Piper’s building is crawling with pimps, too. My neighborhood has junkies, hers has got a pimp infestation. A pimpfestation. Anyway, the Big Man gets me broiled lobster with melted butter and a baked potato. To go.
Piper doesn’t want him in her apartment, P20 closes at 4am and he won’t let me eat in the car.
My girls worked hard to pay for this car, he says. You can’t be disrespecting them with that fish stank, spilling butter on my leather. Lots of good ass got sold to pay for that white leather and not a dollar’a that come from you.
So, I wait till we get to 366 or Harry Brooklyn’s or some other afterhours where I sit in a dark corner and eat lobster with my hands while he sits at the poker table.
We never just stay at the diner and eat like regular people.
366 is around the corner from Laurie’s apartment. I thought, just once, it would be nice to not eat in the dark. And she always has wine. We did line after line of the Big Man’s coke, washing it down with wine stolen from the Italian restaurant where she worked.
I meant to be generous, to pay her back for taking care of me. That’s what I meant to do. But once again, I’d brought crazy into Lola’s house. She had no business getting involved with Havasha. Lola was strictly a good girl. She was strictly Long Island Jewish. She didn’t know what to do with a crazy man, what to do when they turned on you. H fractured her cheekbone. You’d think she’d of learned after that, that my boys were out of her league. She should not be allowing them any one of them into her house if they weren’t with me.
Havasha’s crazy couldn’t hold a candle to the Big Man’s.
I was at her door before she could hang up the phone.
The door is unlocked. He’s sitting in a chair across from her; quietly crushing cigarettes into the bare skin of his chest and watching her reaction. One after another. He lights one, takes a few puffs, staring at her, then grinds it into the festering sore in the center of his chest.
His name was Michael and Sammy and JJ. He had other names, I couldn’t know them all, didn’t know if any were real. He was a big man, about six five and somewhere between 280 and 300 lbs. Maybe not. Maybe he’s just grown in my memories.
But he was big and I shoulda seen it coming.
Just another pimp doing just another pimp job. In the antiseptic halls of my intellect I know he didn’t have the right. But deep inside, in the darkness that hides my heart and soul, I know they were right.
I got what I deserved.
This entry was written by , posted on February 2, 2010 at 12:38 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, Chelsea, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Lollipop Lounge, partners in crime, pimps, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Applications for this 2010 weekend workshop offered by Sex Work Awareness (SWA) in New York City are being accepted up until February 17, 2010. Class size is limited to 10 participants.
Using a variety of methods, including role playing and hands-on activities, former $pread editors Audacia Ray and Eliyanna Kaiser teach participants to navigate the pitfalls and opportunities of today’s media. You’ll learn to evaluate, and respond, to media requests using a variety of formats. There’ll be instruction on writing press releases, op-ed pieces, and letters to the editor, building a press list and pitching a story to an editor, as well as a crash course on starting your own podcast, blog, or video podcast. Current sex worker media will be examined with an eye on how to contribute to these existing efforts. Click here for more information about Sex Work Awareness programs. Click here to go directly to the Speak Up! application
(Please note this workshop is not restricted to Naked Ladies. Naked Men are welcome as well, but it is limited to 10 participants and all identify as current or former sex workers)
This entry was written by , posted on January 27, 2010 at 12:59 pm, 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.
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.
Time Out NYs pick of the week!
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In the exchange of sex for money a window opens into the soul.
Come take a peek.
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CHELSEA G. SUMMERS: Ph.D. go-go dancer Penthouse writer award-winning blogger.
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DAMIEN DECKER: African Scandinavian rugby stud writer professional cuckolder current rent boy.
and your own sweet dirtygirl herself,
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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.
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.
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.
I walk in moonlight, my breasts full and plump, my ass soft and round, hips rolling seductively as I near the bed. My face a blank mask as I look down at him, thinking about what? The car? The money? The task at hand?
Floyd lies naked, an island of flesh lit by garish street lights. He does his best to spread his legs open, to expose himself more. The sheer mass of his stomach eclipses everything in the room. His chubby fingers grab at my dark curly pubic hair and he shoves a thumb inside of me (Audible gasp. Mine. I cannot tell if it’s pleasure, surprise or horror.) His thumb probes deeper, twirling around.
“Suck my cock.” His voice has lost its whininess. He pulls his thumb out of me and shoves me towards the foot of the bed. The thumb, shiny with my juice, he sticks in his mouth and suckles on.
When a man’s pound of flesh is surrounded by four hundred more pounds of flesh, well… finding it alone is work. Tucked inside the folds of those massive thighs, deep beneath the crevice below his belly, I root through his flesh like a pig after truffles. Holding his belly up with an elbow, his thigh away with a hand, I find my prey. No bigger than a thumb or a pale breakfast sausage, I take him in my mouth. Sucking him, stroking him slowly, making him harder, squeezing and pulling, rubbing my breasts while he peeks around his belly to watch me.
I’m getting us both ready.
He lays there, unable to move, a giant overturned turtle, a great sea mammal washed ashore, stranded and at my mercy. My juices are flowing. I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m so wet. I touch myself, separate the damp hairs, the pink outer lips, open myself up and rise up. I close my eyes and mount him as best I can.
“Suck this,” I command, slapping his hand away from his mouth and sticking my fingers, slick with my own juices, in.
I ride him, leaning forward as he grabs my tits, pulling painfully at my nipples. I grip his round arms and ride him, forgetting about his rash, his size, his lack of size. I ride and pump and thrust and grind. I moan and curse and Oh baby, and yes, yes, yes as he comes inside me. I ride him some more, pulling on my own nipples now, rubbing my clit up against his big firm belly, bringing myself to climax. I stroke his big round belly and when I feel him shrinking, I contract inside and try to hold that little sausage a bit longer.
And I think about where I will go in the cute blue Pinto I will buy with his money.
My money.
The money was the real reason I was there, I told myself. Yet, even describing it now, my juices flow and my puss tightens. His flesh repulses me, but having a man want me so badly he’ll pay what I ask, makes me wild. Opens me up inside. To be in charge. To be in control. To be paid.
He’d already washed my scent off and squeezed back into his brown polyester slacks when I realized no money’d changed hands yet. No crisp bills waited quietly on the night stand like in the movies.
“Floyd, uh…you’re leaving?” He stood at the doorway to the lighted bathroom. A gargantuan silhouette, his huge polyester behind reflected in the mirror.
“Yeah. I gotta see what kind of damage those boys did tonight. Keep the room. I paid for the night.” He struggled into the matching sportcoat, patted me on the head, checked his pockets, tossed the room key onto the bed and headed towards the door.
“I don’t wanna stay here all night. We talked about money Floyd… What about the money?” I snatched up my clothes, pulling my panties on without washing him off of me. A little bit of liquid Floyd runs down my leg.
“Lookit kiddo, I don’t have the money with me…”
“What do you mean, you don’t have the money? The cab, the room…?”
I came here to get paid, to turn a trick.
“That’s about all I had, I don’t carry cash. Look, are you okay? D’ya need cab fare?”
Cab fare you mammoth pig? I need three hundred and twenty five dollars. I need your head on a platter. I need my FUCKING MONEY I scream in my head.
“OK? OK? I’m not OK,” screaming out loud, pounding the bed. “What about my money? You said you’d pay me three…”
It’s not a trick if you don’t get paid.
“Hey,” he interrupted. His fat hand on my still naked shoulder, “d’ya think I’m trying to cheat you?” And it is, it’s exactly what I think, but I don’t say anything. “Whad’jew want me to do, tell the guys with the guns ‘Wait, don’t shoot nobody yet. Lemme get money outta the safe to give to my girl?’ ”
“But I thought….I thought you had money with you…”
STUPID, STUPID STUPID. STUPID BITCH
“No, kid,” he said softly, like you do with a child. “You stop by the club tomorrow night and we’ll straighten everything out. OK?”
I’m such a stupid bitch.
I nod silently and sit quietly watching us in the mirror as he kisses me goodbye.
Silent, I watch the door close after his fat polyester ass.
Silent, I sit as my heart and soul walk over and rejoin me, a little thinner now, a little paler.
Silent, I finish dressing and head down to the subway and back home. I have just enough money for the subway, I’ll panhandle the rest at Penn Station for the train ticket back to Long Island, to my parents house.
Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Maybe it was just a dirty little room and I was just too scared or too stupid to ask for the money.
Maybe I was just a chubby girl having sex with a huge fat man and expecting him to keep his word.
Maybe there was nothing sensual about it at all.
Maybe it was just sad.
Stupid bitch.
The next night back at the Bon Soir yellow crime scene police banners criss-cross the doors. I scoot under and creep down the dark stairs to investigate. To find Floyd and get my money.
The dance floor is empty. The bodies are gone, but last night, the police say when I ask, last night was just crazy. A pile of bodies on the floor. They closed the club for good. There were no witnesses. Not a single bartender or manager or anyone who had seen anything. They couldn’t find Floyd either.
JJ forgot to teach me the first lesson of whoring. Get the money up front.
This entry was written by , posted on November 19, 2009 at 8:22 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty money, Greenwich Village, johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The floor drops beneath my feet. The music spins itself into a thousand hysterical screaming banshees. The world falls away until there’s nothing but the men and their guns coming down the stairs in slow motion. Slowly. Slower. Silent. I notice the small bits. Shoes and the quiet way they walk in them. The one who wears no socks, his skin is the color of cinnamon and his shoes just a shade darker. One wears an avocado colored knit suit with hand stitching around the pockets and buttonholes. The buttons are brown and look like some kind of polished stone. The lights from the dance floor play on the dark oily metal of the guns and blue and white dots dance over everything, reflecting off the mirrored ball. Off their manicured, buffed nails.
I’m trapped in a series of close-ups. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t see their faces even though they’re right in front of me, only a dozen stair steps away, searching the floor with their dark eyes. I do not see a single face and I don’t think they notice me.
And then I feel Floyd’s chubby fingers bite sharply into the soft flesh of my upper arm. I drop my drink as he drags me away, wasting vodka as it soaks silently into the carpet. He pushes me ahead of him. The music is back and suddenly I panic. Everyone else is still dancing. And drinking. No one else seems to have noticed them yet.
And then we’re in the back. We’re up the stairs. Out on the sidewalk. Seconds only. Floyd throws me into a yellow cab and stuffs himself in beside me. I hear the first shots exploding like Chinese fire crackers in February as the car door slams closed.
“Drive. The Consulate Hotel. West 49th Street”, he says to the cabbie.
“Relax, J. It’s over,” he says to me as he drops a bloated pink hairless hand onto my leg and looks at me, the question in his eyes.
I owe him big time now, I think to myself. I don’t say anything. How bad can it be? He’s not mean. And I really do owe him now. I should be grateful. I should at least say thank you. I probably owe him my life I think.
“I need three hundred and twenty five dollars,” is what I say.
“OK, Jodi, three hundred and twenty five dollars it is then.” He smiles at me, rubbing that pink hand up and down my thigh. Abu Ben Taxi Driver is looking at us, at me, in the rear view mirror. Listening in. Deciding what I am. What Floyd is. The vodka from my last drink rises back up my throat and tastes awful and I wish I had more.
JJ’ll be proud when I drive into the city in the car I bought with the money from my first trick. How bad can it be, really? Okay, so he’s big. Fat. Instead of thinking about fucking one hugely fat middle aged man I imagine it will be like making it with two big beefy boys and that’s not a bad thought.
In the hotel room, the lights are out, but the blinds are open. The room’s lit romantically by a full moon above and the street lights below. Floyd lies naked across the bed, a great white beached sperm whale. His skin iridescent in the moonlight, broken only by an archipelago of eczema that dots his massive body, the likely source of the medicinal aura that floats around him.
I stand at the bathroom door, my clothes at my feet, trying to imagine the feel of his skin and the texture of that rash.
I leave my body. My heart and soul float across the room and settle sadly into a wing chair in the corner to watch. A sick voyeuristic pleasure makes it impossible to tear myself away, the same way you slow down on the highway to eyeball that car crash and take a moment to be grateful it wasn’t you. But it is me, and I watch myself, struck speechless by what I’m capable of.
There is barely any room for me on the bed.
This is not at all like getting wild with two beefy boys.
This entry was written by , posted on November 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, dirty money, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I never actually thought of myself as a prostitute. I knew girls who were, lots of them. They had sex in exchange for a prearranged mutually agreed upon amount of money.
the pickpocket ©2001 courtesy schmitt-hall studios
I, on the other hand, at various times took spontaneously offered cab fare from men I was having sex with. Granted, the cab fare in question was usually in the neighborhood of $300 to get from 47th Street to 7th Street, but still, we called it cab fare. The money came from the men of power and influence who made the rules in my little world: wise guys, bar owners, drug dealers. Ironically, while I wouldn’t have fucked any of them for fun, I would’ve fucked them all for free.
But I didn’t.
I fucked them each for somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred 1980 dollars, which is around a thousand of today’s dollars. Not a bad neighborhood no matter what I called myself.
I thought about making the official leap of faith and applied to a few outcall whore houses. If you’ve never done it, you can’t appreciate the irony involved in being interviewed for the job of “whore”. Each time, it started with call to an escort service listed in the back of the Village Voice. Followed by instructions to call again, this time from a particular pay phone within eyeball range of that particular House of the Rising Sun. From the pay phone, after passing the eyeball from the window test, I’d be given a specific address.
One shop liked me, but I didn’t like them. The “house” was depressing. A rundown apartment, stuffed with worn out furniture & threadbare girls sitting around waiting for a phone to ring. Not exactly what I had pictured after reading the Happy Hooker. But then, I wasn’t exactly Xaviera Hollander…
That point was driven home at Cachet, the creme de la creme, when Sidney Biddle Barrows declared me an exotic. I’m sure she meant to say ethnic, as in “Dear, you’ve got Jew-girl written all over that punim and we don’t like your kind around here”. She just had too much crust on her upper to actually say something like that out loud.
I did go on dates with strangers in exchange for prearranged mutually agreed upon amounts of money. I wouldn’t've had so much as a cup of coffee with a single one of them if they weren’t paying for my time. But while there was the implication of sex, the expectation of sex, sometimes even the anticipation and aroma of sex, there wasn’t ever any actual sex.
They always had a good time.
Even when I would rob them.
Most of the time they wouldn’t know they’d been robbed until later.
If I’d thought about it at the time, I’d have considered myself a thief
rather than a whore.
But,
I never thought about it
at all.
Not even
once.
This entry was written by , posted on October 26, 2009 at 9:20 am, filed under the diary and tagged johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I had that nice sleepy feeling you get after really good sex with someone you barely know. Except I knew him and we hadn’t had sex. Lightfoot was on the phone making deals from his king sized bed, arranging things that needed arranging. I lay cuddled into one arm smoking cigarettes, drinking cold beer, picking imaginary lint off his spotless cowboy shirt and trying not to think about the night before. Or about being broke. About being bruised. And unemployed. Again.
But, Lightfoot had things that needed taking care of. We headed back into the city for a some drinks and some business. The Porkpie looks like any sleazy Times Square bar, with windows so dirty you can’t see in from the outside, lights so low you can barely see in from the inside. But the Pie operated as the unofficial pimp union hall. They hung out, traded secrets, perfected their game, bragged and showed off new stock. It was the place to size up the competition, make alliances, trade stock, kill time. Just a short dark bar with a worn green felt pool table and a bank of black pay phones, the Porkpie was the place to go if you were looking for a new pimp. Or had a bone to pick with an old one. Every man there had girls on the street.
Every woman there was a whore.
Except me.
Baby pimps hung around the thin edges, worn copies of Iceberg Slim’s bible sticking out of their back pockets, soft, from handling. Kids with nothing more than attitude, the dream, an ill-fitting three piece suit, some hair relaxer and a stupid girlfriend, trying to learn by observation and eavesdropping, hanging around hoping to sweep up crumbs, bits of wisdom and experience from the Sweet Daddys and Gorilla pimps. They’d all seen Superfly a dozen times or more. The Porkpie offered a sort of apprenticeship program.
A few vodkas in, the swag man shows up rolling a 7th Avenue clothing rack piled with dresses, g-strings, gold chains, rings and frilly things that had fallen of the back of a truck somewhere. Doug hands me another vodka & a pair of rust corduroy jeans that match his shirt. We’re going to look like one of those ridiculous couples that coordinate their outfits. But we’re not a couple, really. I was married, I had a husband I wasn’t really available up until yesterday. He’s trying to cheer me up. The vodka cheers me up. Always.
“It’s almost eight, Doug. I’m hungry. Didn’t I hear something about buying me dinner earlier?”
“Relax, little girl.” He ran his hand over my ass.
“I thought we were gonna drop the little girl thing.” He smiled at me.
God, he looks good.
“What’s the rush? If you still had a job, you just be closing up now.”
“Yeah. But I don’t have a job, or any money and if I did still have a job I woulda ordered something to eat during my shift.”
He slipped his hand down my ass, to the space between my legs and gave me a gentle push. “Go try those on for me, then I’ll feed you.”
“Doug…”
“Go on, little girl, I want the boys here to see how good my girl can look. They gonna eat their hearts out.”
I was sore and cranky from the beating I took from Red Wolf. Was that only yesterday? There was a nice strawberry bruise on my right cheek. I wasn’t sure a pair of pants was going to make me look good. Really, I needed food. Sleep. More Vodka.
I went into the bathroom to change.
I took the glass of vodka with me.
Nothing really ever changes.
This entry was written by , posted on September 10, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty money, pimps, Times Square, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
He says I look like a whore when I work and he doesn’t want whores in his house. Sometimes, when I get home, he’s on the stoop with that wet wash rag, waiting. He grabs me by the hair & scrubs until all of the makeup is gone. Or until I start to cry.
So I don’t complain when he’s so drunk he forgets to come home. Those are the nights I secretly eat real hamburgers and brush my teeth, brush my teeth, brush my teeth so he won’t smell the meat on me. “We” don’t eat meat.
If he’s not drunk & I’m not wearing makeup, he still sings & tells me I’m beautiful. I’m not, but he says I am.
I hate the wash cloths. I hate tofu.
I hate being alone more.
It’s been almost two months since we exchanged rings–in the rain, under the arch, tripping–I should’ve known better. If life was a horror movie, that would’ve been the scene when the audience starts screaming at the stupid white girl “No! Don’t go in there!” and then laughs when she does, cause they know. They know, cause they can hear the scary/monster/slasher music that she can’t hear.
I come home from work, relieved not to see him on the stoop, I open the door.
He’s asleep on the blue shag rug in the living room, drunk. Dead drunk — out cold, in a long red monk’s robe & a blue beret — no pants, no underwear, no shoes, and a black eye patch. My head hurts trying to make it make sense.
My head hurts,
things don’t make sense.
I want to runaway, trip out, destroy something.
I have to be careful
not to destroy
myself.
I drop my work bag. It’s stuffed full with leotards, high heels, makeup, hairspray, money, tampons.Tampons…I can’t remember the last time I had my period. I think I’m pregnant, but I haven’t said a word to anyone.
I just want to be a good wife, to get him off the floor, put him to bed. I bend down, roll him over. He’s holding a Bible, like you see in hotel rooms. I didn’t know we had one. I didn’t know he could read.
I’m still looking at the Bible when Red Wolf explodes.
This entry was written by , posted on August 24, 2009 at 7:02 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, East Village, lonliness, love, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Everyone is on the game, everyone is following the money. The hustlers come for the money. The queens come for the hustlers. The whores come to relax. They can drink in peace and the queens fuss up a big production when they’re all dolled up.
Sharon’s a high class whore. An escort, she says. She wears satin pumps and vintage underwear she swears belonged to Greta Garbo. Garbo pussy stains, she says, See? She lifts her skirt and points. She’s a natural blonde, that’s what I see. Candy, a towering glamor-puss in red patent leather platforms works the dark night of the West Side Highway with her dick tucked neatly and discreetly between the cheeks of her perfect apple ass. You’d never know she was a he. Candy is a less than natural blonde, the furthest thing from a natural anything. Cindy’s an Irish bulldog. She’s been turning Delancey Street tricks with her mother since she was eight, on her own since she was eleven. Well, not totally on her own. Candy looks out for her and tries to teach her about makeup and other girlie things. Cindy’s thirteen.
Cowboy follows me home to Levittown like a hungry puppy. He followed my mother around after that. I don’t think he’s ever had a real mother. We have sex between his doses of the clap, so, not that often cause he has the clap most of the time. There’s usually only a few days or a week window before he’s got it again. I tend to the cuts and scrapes he gets when he has his epileptic seizures. We pretend they never happened, the cuts or the clap. Nobody buys damaged goods.
In this dark cavern, I wait nightly for whoever it is will need me to feel he’s a man, whoever I’ll need to make me feel like a woman.
An old queen named Hollywood Al slides up next to me & bets a dollar a drink I can’t finish 25 drinks in 25 minutes. Twenty-five Black Russians later, I win. Hours later, I wake up stuffed into a small alcove full of cleaning supplies–cramped, cold & clutching twenty-five worn singles covered in vomit & Kahlua. The string mop next to me reeks of disinfectant and vomit, probably mine.
Old queens like Al don’t appreciate me fucking the hustlers. I’m a distraction, an annoyance. The best they can do is get me drunk enough to get me out of the game for the night.
I found Frankie in the darkness of Christopher Street and fell in love. I work days at a law firm. He works nights hustling out of the bar. Somehow we find time to be together. He lives in a basement apartment with a toilet bowl in a closet. When we make love there, we’re hit by falling bits of plaster. And cockroaches. Central Park became our sanctuary from the night life, an escape from the darkness, from booze and sex for money. We lay on the rocks, cleansing ourselves in sunlight.
He’s turned my world upside down & suddenly I’m living in a Hallmark card full of cheap poetry.
Todays question for my readers: How ever did the disastrous story of star crossed lovers Romeo & Juliet become a romantic mythology? Tell me about your first love….Post your thoughts below, c’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on June 18, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, hustlers, Levittown, love, The Chalice, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
