Seventeen ways to get undressed in the dark

I've decided I should updated you two faithful readers with the rest of the neat shit that's happened in the last forever months since I decided to get on a computer not just to play on Facebook's Farm Town.

This will be in no particular order, partially because I've started some of these entries and then just never finished them, probably because I've had more exciting things to do like wash dishes and fold laundry.

Here's a secret confession, internet:  I really, really like homemaking.  And being domestic.  I had no idea how rewarding and wonderful it is.  That's not sarcasm, either.  But don't go spreading those things around or I will be forced to call you a liar.

Anyway.

So you may know that I'm terrified of large bodies of water.  TERRIFIED.  I'm not sure if you've ever seen one of those Fear Factor shows where they, like, stick someone in a box full of scorpions, but my reaction to water is pretty similar to that, plus I think my heart actually stops.  If it is not a pool that I can stand up in, I'm really not interested in having anything to do with it.  Especially after last year's near-death experience when Horse tried to drown me when his boat sank in the middle of the lake.  I'd link to that entry, but it's out in the black hole with the rest of my old entries that one day will find their way back to this website. 

The great irony is that I can swim.  I just will not.  Adamently refuse.  Because in order to swim, you must be in deep enough water to do so, and that's simply not happening.  Because if you are in water that deep, you can drown.  In fact, you can drown in two inches of bathtub water, but I choose not to think about that.

And all that drowning business aside, there is shit in lakes and oceans that can eat you.  Gar, anyone?  Sharks?  Enormous fish the size of VW Bugs in average-sized lakes that can literally consume an entire human just exactly like the Jonah and the whale story we all read in Sunday School?  Yeah, I have may have a limited plan right now for my life, but I promise you one thing it does have on it is "Do not be eaten by a fish."

But naturally, I began dating a man who not only loves water and the lake, but owns a boat.  And likes to do more with it than just park it in the driveway, which I happen to think is a perfectly lovely place for a boat to stay.  No one else is with me on this.  Whatever.

So for Memorial Day, Metro and I hooked up his big giant boat to his big giant truck and hauled it a thousand hours away to this big scary lake with even bigger scarier waves to meet up with all the boys.  BIG.  SCARY.  LAKE.  BIGGER.  SCARIER.  WAVES.

Suffice it to say, Day One went so well that Metro drugged me on Xanax and I spent an hour crying in the cuddy cabin of his sailing vessel. 

Day Two was slightly better, aside from the battles with big scary waves, one of which actually launched me out of my seat (and I came crashing down on my tailbone, which STILL HURTS) and simultaneously broke a shelf in the cuddy cabin because of the impact.  A WAVE BROKE A SHELF THAT WAS SCREWED TO THE BOAT.  It was somewhat awful and again I swore to never ever get near a watercraft again.

Fast forward to, like, the next weekend, when somehow I agreed to go to a smaller, allegedly less scary lake, with Metro and Ricky and Horse and Ms. Brady.

It was all going swimmingly (heh.  I'm so clever.) until Metro decided I should face my fear and jump on a SeaDoo.

We got exactly six inches out into the lake when I started screaming that I AM GOING TO DIE MY HEART IS JUST GOING TO STOP I WANT OFF I WANT OFF WANT I'M GOING TO DIE I AM GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I spent pretty much the rest of the day sitting on the sand staring at my toes, which is what I do when I'm scared.  They're calming.  Probably because they themselves can't drown.  I realize they're attached to me, who can drown, but that's not the point.

So we skipped a week before trying that water thing again.

And then, internet, a miracle occurred.

I don't know whether it is simply the fact that I've finally figured out I can trust Metro with my life and my safety and I know that he'd never try to harm me, but we went to the lake both Saturday and Sunday of last weekend.  And aside from one minor ordeal where I wound up hiking about a mile in the woods wearing stilletos to try to find the marina (please don't ask, because I'm still not sure how that all happened), there wasn't a single crisis.

AND

ON TOP OF THAT

I GOT ON A SEADOO.  AND I DROVE IT.  AND NOT ONCE DID I CRY, SCREAM, THINK I WAS GOING TO DIE OR SIMULATE THE SIMPTOMS OF A HEART ATTACK.

And I was not under the influence of medication.

I've almost never been so proud of myself.  And I'm pretty sure my boyfriend was kind of impressed, too.

I'm kind of looking forward to doing this lake thing again, what with my newfound skills at driving a SeaDoo and controlling my emotions. 

And I'm sort of beginning to think that maybe fear is one of those mind over matter things.  Unless I happen to be swimming in water that is deeper than five feet.  Then you should probably have a difibrillator handy.

Posted by X at 09:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

A few weeks ago, Metro and I went to see a Ben Folds concert.

I should actually start this at the beginning.

About two months ago, Metro and I decided to go see Ben Folds in concert.  Once night, after an evening of serious drinking, we got online to buy tickets.  Somehow, in a way only manageable by two people who are very, very intoxicated, we bypassed the website for the actual venue and ended up purchasing two tickets for a grand total of almost $250 from a "concierge service".

Later, when not hindered by the effects of Southern Comfort and Canadian Club, we discovered that the tickets were a mere $35 apiece.  So that was really neat.  I'd like to reiterate the intoxication level we were at:  I was seated on the floor eating ramen noodles we'd cooked in a frying pan and I'm pretty certain Metro was eating ravioli from a can.  It would have been an easy mistake for anyone else in our condition to make.  Don't judge me.

Anyway, the concert day rolled around and being that Ben Folds is one of Metro's favorite artists ever, we were totally stoked to get backstage passes and do this meet and greet thing.  Because we are awesome.

So we got to the show and met up with Sar and her brother just in time to listen to the really horrific opening band that was some sort of Celtic Folk, bludgeoned-cat sounding Lorena McKinnet knock-off.  It was truly terrible.  So we drank.  Because it eased the audial agony.  And made us forget that we spent over seven times the cost on the tickets.

Finally, after entirely too lengthy a time of listening to baby seals get clubbed on stage to orchestral music, Ben Folds came out.

It was a fantastic show, really awesome, in spite of the fact that Ben Folds has apparently been running a ridiculous fever and had the flu and had been in bed all day long.  He totally put his game face on and tore up the concert.

Metro and I were standing somewhere near the front, amdist the sea of fans--including one guy who was at his 60th show.  Yes.  6-0--and taking pictures and dancing along when he looked at me and said, "I love you."

I don't know what song was playing.  I don't remember what was going on.  I think time actually stopped, and right there, in the middle of this mass of people, it became just the two of us, Metro and me, and that was all that mattered in the whole entire world, because that was all that there was.  Just us.

I was telling one of my friends this story a day or two later and she remarked that that was kind of a weird place for our first real, official "I love you" to take place, and I got to thinking that while, yes, it was, it was totally perfect for our relationship. 

Ours has been one completely comprised of non-convention, and probably from the outside, it looks like some sort of mangled puzzle that the dog has chewed up, what with all of the shit we've been through and the fact that we've moved so fast and come so far in such a short time and that we pretty much started the race with a limp.

But from the inside, it's been maybe the most perfect thing that I could have asked for.  I've never felt so comfortable with someone, or trusted someone more.  I've felt like finally I could be myself, however fucked up I am right now, for the first time since I can remember.  I don't have to put on a game face anymore and try to be what everyone else wants me to be.  And whether I'm having a good day and feeling fierce or knocked to the ground by all of these ghosts that I can't seem to shake and in the throes of one of those crying fits I've pretty much perfected, he's there.  And I've never had anyone stand beside me and support me as I try to figure out who I am and what I want and how I want to spend my life.

I'm still not used to it, and it's still hard for me to fully accept that I have someone who really will hold me up and catch me when I fall and take my hand when I'm walking through the dark, and I pretty much handle it like a total freak, but I'm trying to get better at that.

So anyway, that's it, that's the great tale of our first real I love you.  In a dark, spot-lit concert hall, sandwiched between a million strangers singing out of key with a singer on stage with the flu, it was just us and love.  And it was perfect.

 The Luckiest by Ben Folds

I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know

And in a wide sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you

Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

Posted by X at 07:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I am Jack's unbridled breakdown. 

As you might know, if you follow my twitter, I quit my job.  More specificially, I walked out (and by that I mean I emailed my resignation, effective immediately), but nonetheless, I'm no longer at that horrible institution that made me physically ill from being so miserable.

My desire to quit was pretty much there from the third week I worked for the company and then progressively worsened day after week after month until a year later, when I was trying to figure out ways to get in a car accident that was not my fault on the way to work just so I wouldn't have to be there. 

From the beginning of our relationship, Metro knew I hated my job, but it became more and more obvious until finally, one day, he announced that I was quitting my job and he was going to take care of me financially until I found something that made me happy.

Cue my incessant bawling and repeated panic attacks.

If you've followed this blog for a while, you'll remember last October I wrote an entry on the Fall of Rome, the mega corportation that I spent five years buillding that went bankrupt, and then the start up company I helped to create that was utterly mismanaged by the financers and then my subsequent devasation from the loss of everything that had defined me for half a decade.  I would link to that, but when I pulled everything off my blog in January, that went with it.  I'm still getting around to fixing that.

When I left the start up company, I also left behind a six figure salary and took a 75% pay cut for this new job in an attempt to gain some peace of mind, with the promise that I'd have the ability to make that up in commissions.  The peace of mind never came and my sales numbers were conveniently twisted so that my commissions never came, either.  It got worse from there, but I'll spare you the insignificant complaints.  You can check my twitter for that. 

The tragedy about my having a six figure salary is that I do not have a six figure savings account.  I do have several thousand dollars worth of shoes, handbags, clothes, makeup and bar tabs to show for the fact that I used to actually make money.  So there's that.

Anyway, when Metro offered, nay, told me, that he was going to take care of me, I lost it.  And I've lost it pretty consistantly since.  I've always been ridiculously independent, financially and otherwise, and even if I hit a rough patch, I've always had way too much pride to ask for help.  I just figured it out. 

So I quit my job and have spent the last three weeks trying desperately to gain that peace of mind I haven't had since Rome collapsed and I lost everything that I knew and started being stalked by private investigators and media.  I volley between cleaning and doing dishes and laundry and organizing and reorganizing and every creavice of Metro's house, and showing up on his job sites and painting and playing with power tools and cutting stuff on the big electric saws in an attempt to find some sort of validation.

And I cry.  I cry a lot.  Which is fantastic, because I am NOT a pretty crier.  I didn't even know I could cry so much, but I guess after trying to be so tough for years, once the dam cracked, the whole thing came crashing down.  I've always defined myself by my career, and I've always been the super star, the golden child, and now I feel like a failure.  Even though I know I'm not.  Even though I know none of this is healthy.  I've been at the peak of stress.  My perfect skin has ruptured into that of a 12 year old boy.  I've been snappy and shitty toward Metro and if he didn't validate even the slightest thing I did, I'd get depressed and upset and, ugh, it's been awful.

In other words, I've not been myself at all.

Metro finally called me out on my ridiculous the other night, and sweet mother of pearl, I just came undone.  He held me, The Letter A held me, and I just sobbed, snot  and streaming mascara and the whole nine yards.  Because that's what I do now.  If someone could pay me for my tears, I'd never have to work again.

Every time Metro gives me a money or pays one of my bills, I start to cry.  Even if we talk about it, I cry.  And last night, after having a fantastic evening with our friends, he asked me how much money I needed for incidentals this week and--here's the twist of this story--I broke down again!  You never saw that coming, did you?  I know.  I'm big on surprise endings.

The biggest struggle I have with this whole thing is understanding WHY he would want to take care of me.  He, and The Letter A, keep explaining to me that it's because he cares about me, but it just still doesn't make sense.  I feel like this is my failure and my problem and I've never been with anyone who cared enough about me to want to make sure I was financially okay.  It's just so far beyond my realm of understanding that he cares about me THAT MUCH to PAY MY BILLS.  And I get really emotional every time we talk about it or he gives me money because it means a lot to me and I don't know how to show it, apparently, other than becoming a blubbering mess.

The thing that makes this even crazier for me to comprehend is that a few days ago, during one of my meltdowns, Metro told me that he thinks I'm not ready to go back to work and that since Rome collapsed and Start Up Company collapsed and everything else, I haven't taken any time to myself to just heal from the last two years of wounds.  And he told me that I needed to do that before I found a new job and wound up really falling apart.  And that he would take care of me through while I figured myself out.

So long story short, I feel completely vulnerable, because I've never been with someone who cares about me this much and I'm pretty certain I've never loved someone so intensely who I genuinely think might be that half that makes me whole.  And I need him.  And that scares the shit out of me.  And yeah, I said that "love" word.  Because I do.  And I have for a really long time.  And that scares the shit out of me, too.  I'm supposed to not need and not be vulnerable and not be this in love this fast.  But I am.

Apparently the only way I seem to be able to deal with this is to cry, And clean.  And occasionally use a power tool, which, by the way, is totally awesome.  Seriously.  I may have a house built by the time I find myself.  Or at least have one spit-shine cleaned.

I guess I'll pull myself together and maybe update my blog on all the cool things I haven't talked about for two months, all those things that have NOTHING TO DO with me crying and everything to do with awesomeness.  Or something.  I'll figure it out.

Posted by X at 06:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

So.  I have big news.  Big, big, giant, hold on to your bonnet, Betty, news.

I now have a drawer.  At Metro's.

And in said drawer lives not one but TWO of my precious black tshirts.  It is irrelevant that I have 38 others. 

AND.  A pair of yellow underwear.

AND.  My toothbrush is in the holder in the master bath.  My PINK toothbrush.

AND.

A razor in the shower.

AND. 

A box of tampons under the sink. 

Ohmigodbreathe.  This is a big deal for me, as I do not like to be without my stuff.  I'm really good at being the great disappearing girlfriend, because when I leave in the morning, there will be no trace of my existence.  I like to have my stuff.  With me.  Where other people cannot touch it and maybe sneeze in its vacinity.  I'm a cheater's dream.

When I was dating that guy I almost married and he lived in a different state, I would neatly pack up all of my shit and port it hither and yon when I'd visit until finally four or five months into the ordeal, he convinced me (it took a very persuasive argument with facts and case references) to leave toiletries there so I'd have it. 

To this day, my only regret from that relationship is that I did not get my bodywash and a ponytail holder off the dresser before we broke up.  It has been four years.  I have not let go.  That bodywash was discontinued by Bath and Bodyworks.  And I left one at his house.

I LIKE TO BE WITH MY STUFF.

DON'T.  JUDGE ME.

Sooo, my shit's all there and I'm just bewildered by the whole thing and sure hope I don't run out of black tshirts and the ONLY ONE AVAILABLE IS ACROSS TOWN AT MY BOYFRIEND'S. 

AND WHAT IF I NEED A TAMPON???

Anyway.  I'm trying to work through this.

I'm sure I've probably mentioned this because I seem to feel completely comfortable talking about it to everyone, including people in the grocery store, the post office, at the gas pump, so I can't imagine why I wouldn't have discussed it here, but Metro is neutered.

I talk freely about this, much to his horror, as he just stands there, flabbergasted that I'll be buying stamps and suddenly I'm all, "Yeah, my boyfriend has two kids, but now he's fixed."  Which is a word he really hates.

And then he's usually like, "I'm right here.  What do you discuss when I'm not RIGHT HERE?  And furthermore, what do you BLOG ABOUT?"

And I'm all, "Eh, nothing...you know, like the movie we watched last night..."

And the fact that you came in my ass...

Except usually I try to just say that last part in my head.  Cuz if I don't, he gets that horrified look again.

Anyway, so Metro's been neutered and I finally decided that after the last few months of exclusivity, I was going off birth control. 

I thought due to my ovaries' dependance on pills for the last eight years, they'd get their unmedicated period and go into shock and there was a pretty good chance I could die, and just bleed out through the womb but as it turns out, BEST PERIOD EVER.  It lasted for three days.  Three.

Best decision ever.  What with the boyfriend-can't-have-babies thing and whatnot.  I wouldn't suggest it if you're dating a breeder.  If this backfires on me, I'm going to be really upset.

So on top of all that, Foxy and the Letter A have taken it upon themselves to reassure Metro that should he so decided--wink, wink--in the future--wink, wink--that he wants another baby--wink, wink--vasectomies are very easily reversable.  Very.  Easily.  Reversable.

Wink.  Wink.

We haven't even gotten to that scary love word yet (although it's been established that we are both "extremely fond" of one another.  Because that doesn't give me diarrhea.), but my girlfriends are planning my family.  Which is nice of them.  Because the boys are all, "Oh, thank GOD he's fixed!  You do NOT want kids!  Thank GOD there won't be any accidents!  That'd be AWFUL!  Because we KNOW how HORRIBLE you are at remembering to take your birth control.  So AT LEAST YOU AREN'T GOING TO MAKE THAT HORRIFIC MISTAKE OF STARTING A FAMILY."

I'm not certain if that's all out of concern that I might jump the gun and get pregnant before I'm ready (because apparently I'm prone to do that, I guess) or because they think I'd make a really terrible mother.  I just choose to believe they're trying to be supportive.  I don't know of what.

I think today I'm going to the dollar store to buy some trinkets for my drawer.  And by that I mean I'm going to try to track down another set of antique ceramic owls.

Posted by X at 07:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So I'm beginning to reconsider telling people that my boyfriend owns a very successful construction company, because if we ever break up, I'm pretty sure my friends are taking his side.  And I'll be all, "But he has a wife and seven daughters in Nevada that I didn't even know about!" and they'll be all, "But, sweetie, he fixed my grout."

Sunday was Foxy and WWE's daughter Button's first birthda party.  I bought a whole bunch of tiny Button-sized clothes.  Metro brought an overhead combo convection oven/microwave.

Foxy's microwave went out a month or two ago and lo-and-behold, Metro had a spare stainless steel microwave just laying around from one of the remodels he did.  I'm doing pretty good if I have an extra hairband if someone needs one.

So Metro, WWE and CB (first time I've seen CB in FOUR MONTHS) decided after the presents and the baby getting covered in angel food cake and icing to install the microwave which pretty much made me decide I'll never have an overhead microwave for fear that it might break and I'll have to install a new one.

Anyway, while that mess was going on, Steph told CB & WWE's dad that she got the microwave via my sex with a contractor, and then CB's mom pulled me aside and said, "If that shit-ass son of mine ever upsets you again, you don't even call him, you call ME.  I will deal with that boy directly, because I did NOT raise my son to make you cry.  I will have him on his KNEES, grovelling for your forgiveness and crying.  I will beat the tar out of that boy and HE WILL SUFFER."

It was basically one of the more fantastic experiences I've had in a while.

Anyway, they finally managed to heave the microwave in place, we drank a couple beers and then headed to drink and hot tub at A&R's house.  Where Metro's tile saw is currently taking up residence.

Really.  We can never break up. 

Posted by X at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

So Horse's birthday went off pretty much without a hitch.  Minus the stripper, cuz, you know, I wanted to adopt her.  That and she's been stripping for four weeks and wanted $300 for an hour.  Which I'm absolutely positive she doesn't make in a week in that joint.  So, I nixed that, even though Metro was like, "That's totally cheap!"  I was all, "Dude, a Grade-A prostitute in Vegas is FOUR HUNDRED an hour.  I'm not paying THREE HUNDRED an hour to see her gyrate in the living room.  ESPECIALLY WHEN SHE BARES NO RESEMBLANCE TO A GRADE-A VEGAS HOOKER."

Anyway, we battled that out all day long because he was convinced it was the appropriate thing to do for this birthday party, which, by the by, was only Horse's 28th birthday.  So it's not like it was his 30th.  Or his 25th.  Like my last birthday was.  THAT HE MISSED BECAUSE THE LAKE WAS MORE IMPORTANT.

I am not angry.  I am not bitter.  Fucker.

Anyway, so party, party, party, blah, blah, blah, gift time came around.

Metro picked up an Ed Hardy (yes, I know, totally overplayed but everyone still is obsessed.) t-shirt as our gift to Horse and then filled the box with random gifts like condoms and a shot glass and a coffee mug.

::PAUSE::

The first thing I ever gave Metro was a pair of ceramic owls that were obviously made in 1973 that I got at a thrift store for $3.  There's a boy and a girl and they are MARRIED.  They're ridiculous and they are awesome and they are sentimental and I love them.  And he had them on his mantle.  And complained about how ugly they were.  And I loved them and they ARE HUGELY SENTIMENTAL.

At that same thrift store, I purchased a $3 ceramic squirrel for Horse that he keeps on a decorative column in his bathroom.  All by itself.  On display.

::PLAY::

Metro thought it would just be hysterical to give Harold (the boy owl.  The girl is Maude.) to Horse.  Because he thought my reaction would be funny.  Because he thought I wouldn't get upset.

It was not funny.

It was not even slightly amusing.

It did not humor me one bit.

My reaction was not laughable.

I am still pissed.  It's been almost a week.

I mean, Jesus Christ, maybe I'll just give some random girl the necklace he bought me for Valentine's because THAT WOULD BE SO FUNNY!  OMG!  HAHAHA.  I'm going to shoot you in the fucking balls. 

I was livid.  And hurt.  Definitely hurt, because THAT WAS THE FIRST GODDAMN THING I BOUGHT FOR HIM, and yes, while it was stupid, IT WAS THE FIRST GODDAMN THING I BOUGHT FOR HIM AND IT MEANT SOMETHING.  IT FUCKING MEANT SOMETHING.

AND NOW MAUDE IS SITTING BY HERSELF ON THE MANTLE WHILE HAROLD IS AT HORSE'S AND THEY MISS EACH OTHER HORRIBLY BECAUSE THEY HAVEN'T BEEN SEPARATED IN 35 YEARS.  AND THEY'RE SAD.  AND I'M SAD.  ASSHOLE.

So one way or another, they're being reunited.  Somebody's getting hijacked so that they can be together.  But I'm still mad that they were even separated to begin with. 

Breathe.

Posted by X at 03:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Last night, almost against their will, I drug my brother and my boyfriend (see how I'm using that word without the wretching noise in the background? How's that for progress?) to a nakey bar.

I say it was against their will because for some reason, in the last two or three years that I've been off and on living in this town, it seems to have been depleated of nearly every stripper that might possibly look like she was not riddled with venereal diseases and years of childhood physical abuse.  Apparently all the good ones have moved on to Dallas and Vegas and LA to pursue their modeling, acting or college degree that's accumulated seven total hours since 1996.  Anyway, all that is to say that the purveyors of flesh in my particular zip code are not peddling the hottest comodities. 

Metro has actually gone as far as requesting I never drag him back into a strip bar (although after his divorce, his first fuck was a stripper...ponder, ponder, ponder...we'll come back to that sometime) because his penis retreats inside of itself from fear.  Being that I never get laid on those nights that I haul him in there, you'd think I'd learn, but I'm ridiculously fascinated by the mental science behind a strip club.  But again, we'll get bak to that sometime.

Last night, I was on a very sincere mission:  Horse's birthday is Saturday and I have determined to hire a stripper.  Because I'm the BEST FRIEND EVER.  Or something.

So after thoroughly checking out the hookers on Craigslist and even being denied by one who hung up on my brother ("Did I say something wrong?" he asked.  "I'm really not sure how to solicit a whore.") I hauled them to the titty bar.  For whatever reason (and that reason's name was "my brother picked the place") we went to probably the second worst strip club within reasonable driving distance.  Tip:  When the entire parking lot is filled with tricked out late 90's Corollas, you should go elsewhere. 

My brother's kind of a titty bar sort of guy and even knows--probably Biblically--several strippers, including one referred to as "The Teacher."  I don't know.

Anyway, we walked into this trainwreck of a situation and lo and behold, there was The Teacher, who is kind of hot and who got all excited to see my brother and after doing her mandatory ass shakings on various poles, plopped down on my brother's lap and proceeded to tell us all about her medical problems.

Here's the thing:  WHEN YOU ARE NAKED AND PAID TO BE HOT, or some reasonable facsimile of hot, or even some vague representation of hot after ten or twelve Jose Cuervo shots, DO NOT, by any means, PLOP DOWN ON YOUR CONSUMERS' LAPS AND DISCUSS YOUR MEDICAL CONDITIONS.  NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE.  NO MATTER HOW NON-CONTAGIOUS THEY ARE.  NO MATTER HOW FAMILIAR YOU ARE WITH THE CUSTOMER.  NO MATTER HOW WELL YOU THINK YOU KNOW THE CUSTOMER. 

NO.  MATTER.  WHAT.

I like my strippers the way I like everything else:  without the visual of IV's, heart monitors, catheters and blood pressure machines.  I don't like things to be sick in any form.  ESPECIALLY IF YOUR NIPPLES ARE IN MY FACE.

My sweet boyfriend decided that somewhere in this mix that he was bored and wanted to egg on the antics of a 281 pound redneck who decided to park himself at our table and explain at great lengths that he was not going home to his wife who'd caught him at the strip club, because there were two loaded shotguns in the house that he'd forgotten to lock up.  Super.  Why don't you just sit right next to me so that when she COMES BACK WITH THE LOADED SHOTGUNS, I'M IN THE SCOPE?

I'm uncertain as to how exactly this transaction began, but Metro decided to grab a relatively cute stripper to find out of she did private parties.  And she sat down AND WE BONDED.  WHICH IS A HORRIBLE THING TO DO WITH A STRIPPER.  THAT YOU ARE TRYING TO HIRE TO GIVE YOUR BEST FRIEND A BONER and possibly some not-for-profit oral sex in the kitchen while I video tape.

She's 18, living on her own, had to drop out of high school because she has no parental support, blah, blah, blah, she's only been stripping for a month because she couldn't make ends meet, she's never done private parties before, could she bring a friend, but okay, if the friend can't make it she'll SHOW UP BY HERSELF.  BECAUSE AFTER TEN MINUTES OF BONDING WITH US, SHE FELT COMFORTABLE ENOUGH TO OFFER TO SHOW UP BY HERSELF.  TO A BIRTHDAY PARTY FULL OF SEVENTY-SEVEN OF MY BOYS.

Ohmigod.  I just about nearly died.  I'm not going to hire this girl, I'm going to adopt her and raise her as my very own stripper-child and take her out of this life of D-grade nudity and turn her into a successful business woman, or at least a co-manager of Forever 21. 

Here's the other thing that these stipping people need to know:  if you are paid to be hot and naked, blah, blah, blah, for the love of all that is waxed, DO NOT TELL YOUR CLIENTS ABOUT YOUR SHITASTIC HOME LIFE.

NO MEDICAL ISSUES.

NO SHITTY LIFE.

YOU ARE AN ILLUSIONNNNN.

Oh, the agony.  All I wanted was a decent rack and a tight ass to twirl around Horse's living room for an hour before we hit the club.  And now I have the image of a stint being put in a vein and a child who's parents suck so much she was forced to move out on her own before even graduating high school and I can't cope.

So.  Rule of thumb if this economy forces you to take your clothes off:  just rub that glitter on your nipples and shut the fuck up.

Which is what I'm going to do.  Good night.

Continue reading "Naked, with a side of ugh." »

Posted by X at 03:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)