John School 101: How to Email a Ho

I get a lot of poorly written emails from potential clients.  Just this morning this was in my inbox: “hey baby, ur hot. Let’s skype.”  This is baffling to me.  I know the internet is the wild west of the sex industry but on the offchance that I’m a real human and that those pictures are really pictures of me wouldn’t you want to not blow that chance?  

It doesn’t even take that long to write a decent intro email and those extra three minutes of effort might just mean the difference between getting laid and getting blocked.  I looked for pre-existing resources but Emily Post is of no help on this subject, so in an effort to help the would-be-clients of the world get laid and pros not want to gouge their eyes out I've prepared a brief outline for writing a respectful, succinct, pertinent email to a ho.  It's based on the outline of a childs letter to a new penpal.

Really people, if this kid can do it, so can you. (and you don't even have to worry about breaking the pencil lead or referring back to a poster of the alphabet to make sure your Ns aren't backwards). 

Your initial email to a ho/pro should include:

-Name

-Location

-A bit about you and what you're into:

  I like nylons, sports cars, the color blue

-Fun facts!: 

  I love cockrings, I have herpes, I just made a sand castle

-Relevant questions for the ho/penpal:

  Do you do incall?  Do you do CBT?  Do you like the color blue?

-A nice sign off:

  I hope you’re doing well, I look forward to hearing from you, Hugs and Hi-C,

It should not include:

-Emoticons

-Internet abbreviations

-Confetti

-Your autobiography

-Dickpics

See?  Easy.  You're welcome.

*image from the North American Montessori Center

Parental Prejudices (and puppies!)

I haven’t told my parents that I’ve started stripping but I have hinted. Heavily. So I figure they’ll figure it out when their brains let them piece it together.  This is what our conversations sound like now:

Mom: So what are you up to this weekend?
Me: I'm doing my first intermediate pole class Friday, Saturday I go on a date with a lovely lady and Sunday I’m getting my bikini line lasered.
Mom: Oh, how did you two meet?
Me: At a strip club.
Mom: Oh Ladyface.
Me: Mom there’s nothing wrong with dancing.
Mom: But it’s so gross, all those dirty old men.
Me: When was the last time you went to a strip club?
Mom: Never!
Me: Well I’ve been to about 20 and there are some I’d never go back to but there are several in town that are actually pretty great. Safe, fun, sex positive.
Mom: Eww. Just promise me you’ll never take your clothes off.
Me: [silence]
Mom: Ladyface! You’d never do that. Right?!
Me: I’m still gonna shower.
Mom: [laughing] Oh my god, you scared me.

Maybe she never has to know. But she’s already pestering me about finding a job in SF. And she’s concerned that I can’t afford to move. Really, I could move today if I wanted to but I’m committed to my day job through May. Ironically the club I work at is a hell of a lot safer than the dive bar I bartended at and she was thrilled when I started there.

So…I dunno. Is coming out necessary? Who does it serve? Is it selfish to come out if the alternative is just enduring a bit more well-meaning nagging than usual? My mum is a CPA and does my taxes so I suppose she’ll find out next year when I’ll have tax documents from the club I’m working at and clips4sale.  Unless I can come up with a good excuse to take care of that stuff myself.

On a lighter note, we talked about the Favorite Child: 

Mom: The Doodle doesn’t like other dogs very much. He’s more of a people person.
Me: Mom, your dog isn’t a person.
Mom: Oh, yes. Well, you know what I mean. 

Later in the same call:

Me: Dad, I’m hungry, what should I eat?
Dad: Peanut butter! Doodle and I really like peanut butter.
Me: I was thinking more like a meal.
Dad: ...peanut butter and jelly?

Oh parents. I love how much you love that pretty pup.  =3 

And if there were a backwards three on the keyboard that would look more like a dog bone.

*image from labradoodleoftheday.com

Introducing Ava

I wrote this on Saturday January 28th and I finally got around to editing and uploading it.  Sorry for the delay.  I think it's still worth sharing...

I’m a STRIPPER!

My audition was tonight.

             I went with a close friend who was also auditioning.  We talked to the DJ first and he pointed out the owner who was sitting at a table near the bar.  He looked like he had costumed himself to audition for the part of strip club owner in a Quentin Tarantino movie.  

             He had greasy gray hair past his shoulders, a chain necklace, facial hair shaved into thin angular lines and a shirt he had clearly borrowed from Charlie Sheen.  But even Charlie Sheen wouldn’t have so many buttons unbuttoned.  The DJ signaled to him.  He approached confidently and studied me intently.  Then he looked at my face. 

              And surprise!  There was an interview.  Didn’t see that one coming.  He shot off a couple rounds of rapid fire questions: Where have you worked?  Have you been here before?  Why do you want to work here?  Etc.  He actually answered the last one for me and then I corrected him.  We had gone back and forth my friend and I each answering his questions in turn then he asked her why do you want to work here?  She answered and he looked back at me and said “And you’re here for the money.”  I jumped in and said actually, I love that this space is so sex positive and the girls are so friendly.  He was surprised and amused.  Then he said alright, go get changed, you’re going to do two songs and then a lapdance. 

Shit.

I had exactly one song worth of material.  So we changed and my friend went up first.  While she danced I spoke with the DJ.  It went something like this: 

Me: “I’m nervous and I don’t have many moves.  Can you play something slowish and short?” 

DJ: “Sure what do you want?” 

Me: “Do you have Little Drop of Poison?” 

DJ: “Yup.  And you want something similar for the second song?” 

Me: “Yes please.” 

DJ: “Got it.  You’re up next.”

               And then, demonstrating impressive psychic ability, he said “It doesn’t matter if you do exactly the same thing twice, just dance for yourself and have fun up there.”  And I wanted to give him a big boobiful hug.  But that seemed unprofessional.  I resisted.

              Then I danced.  And danced again.  And during the second song as I was writhing around on the floor I thought: “I’m so naked I’m not even wearing HAIR.”  And at that point I relaxed and melted into my new identity and had a hell of a lot of fun.

              Then between the pole work and the lap dance there was a brief break when the owner ran off to do something terribly important.  The DJ pulled my friend and I aside and gave us a few tips:

            “Full contact, full nudity but don’t touch his hair, his nipples or his belt.  Smile, don’t unbutton his shirt.”  etc.  So...we’d be trying to turn him on while navigating a minefield of boundaries.  Thank goodness I’ve spent the last decade sleeping with stone butches!

            When we got in the lapdance room he sat down and asked if I had ever given a lap dance before.  I confessed I hadn’t.  (I decided not to mention the informal training I’d had with my stone lovers)  He told me to straddle him and press into him.  This was not nearly as awkward as it sounds.  Then I pulled away and he proceeded to tell me the rules of the club as I remained naked and straddling him unsure of whether I should be moving or not.  I made the occasional half-assed hip sway motion but other than that it was a very business-like and un-dancey lap dance.  I think he just wants to know that the dancers are willing and able to do full nudity and full contact. 

             Then we went in the back and I filled out my availability.

          A few things I love about the club: it used to be a pirate themed family restaurant. (really) And the décor hasn’t changed much. The lap dance room maintains an especially pirate-y feel. But MOST importantly: it’s sex positive and the girls get along. In my experience that’s a rare find.
           An online review of this place says “while some folks say that strip clubs are degrading to women; this one is degrading to you. The girls call the shots and they are not afraid to embarrass you in front of your friends.” So true.

I visited several times before deciding to audition and each time there was at least one instance of some dude acting cocky and talking big and then getting schooled by one of the dancers.  As in, she jumps off stage, goes further than he expects and calls his bluff or he does a douchey move and puts a dollar on top of his head or sticking out of his collar for her to fetch and she makes a big show of flirting with him while dancing and then plops down in his lap in the least sexy way imaginable.  That one was my favorite.  It had the whole room laughing, including the dollar-collar douche.  

I’ve been to maybe 20 strip clubs in my life and this is the only one I’ve ever been tempted to work at.  The atmosphere is light and silly and fun and the dancers wear whatever they want.  One woman wears a scarf as a top, another is a hippie burner chick with giant fuzzy boots, there’s a cowgirl, a girl with the purple hair, a dommey lady in pleather thigh-high boots, a couple schoolgirl sorts, and now Ava, a lacier, vintage-ier version of me!  

*image from: T magazine blog @ nytimes.com

V-Day

Happy Belated Vday readerfolk!  I wrote this on the bus yesterday and then didn’t have a chance to upload it:

I’m stripping tonight and I’m very excited because I got a big red sequin heart hair clip like this:

But mine is not mounted on a headband so I can wear it at a saucy angle.  Ooo la la!

I am grateful that I’ll be working today.  Home makes my heart hurt this time of year.  Inmate 12004 and I met the end of January 2010.  We met on Craigslist.  He had just moved to town and posted an ad looking for queer bandmates.  He was damn cute so I messaged him and just said “Hey, I don’t play anything but let me know if you’d be up for coffee with an artsy queer femme lady.”  We started exchanging texts late that night when I was out bowling and eating tacos with friends.  We talked when I got home.  I was in the bathroom of my teeny studio changing into my penguin pajamas (which he would later make fun of before pointing out that they're actually owls, not penguins).  And dammit, he was right.   I still wear my owl pajamas but now when I wear them I accessorize with glasses and a book.

But back to the bathroom, he was trying to convince me that we should meet up that night rather than waiting till the weekend.  I paused, partially-pajamaed and precariously perched (on the metaphorical fence).  He definitely had the transguy timbre so I knew he wasn't a cisdude, but I didn't know whether he was a safe, sane person.  So I asked him to tell me a story.  He told me about working on a maple syrup farm in Vermont with a bunch of lesbian ladies.  He was clever and funny and charming.  And then we discovered that he was two blocks away.  He offered to come over and I said hell no even though I was wearing my favorite pajamas and had a round bed that was AWESOME for wrestling.  You know, stranger danger.  So I put my dress back on and drove the two blocks to his house.   Again, stranger danger. 

About half an hour into our first night together I remember thinking "Oh my goodness, I'm naked already?!"  (I have limited experience with one night stands)  But then I remembered that it was three am and we both knew what we were there for; so really it would have been strange if I wasn't naked by that point.  

           The next morning I was very quietly getting dressed so as not to disturb him.  He awoke.  This was our exchange:

 Him: Are you a stripper?

Me: No, why?

Him: Because you put on your heels before your clothes.

Me: You’re laying on my dress.

Then we looked at each other with mutual vaguely annoyed befuddlement.  This set the tone for the next year and a half.

We went our first real date that weekend:

Him: I’ve only dated straight girls.

Me: Well, I’m not straight and I don’t do monogamy. 

Him: I’m married.*

(mutual vaguely annoyed befuddlement)

One year later we moved in together.

We fell further and further and our chemistry only got more intense as time passed.  We may be perfect opposites.  If I feel strongly about something it's safe to assume he is certain that we should do the exact opposite.  Of course we continued to annoy and befuddle each other.  

One day he walked in on me shaving my legs in the bathroom sink.  I was perched on the edge of the sink with feet in the warm, shallow water.  This was our exchange:

Him: What are you doing?

Me: Shaving my legs.

Him: Why don’t you do that in the shower?

Me: Because I don’t want to mess up my hair and this sink looks like a birdbath.

Him: What does that have to do with anything?

Me: Everything.  What kind of femme would I be if I didn’t aspire to birdliness?

Him: I need to poop.

(mutual vaguely annoyed befuddlement)

Him: You eat a lot.

Me: You drink a lot.

(mutual vaguely annoyed befuddlement)

A dream I had once upon a time:

Inmate 12004 and I were in bed but he seemed distracted and I didn’t know why.  When I pulled back the covers I discovered what was going on.  This was our exchange:

Me: What are you doing?

Him: Peeling potatoes.

Me: But your hands will be all starchy.

(mutual vaguely annoyed befuddlement)

On Valentines Day last year we were both underemployed and broke.  We had moved our stuff into the two bedroom house we were to share but were living like squatters, sleeping on my old futon in the living room so as not to have to heat the whole house.  Valentines Day 2011:

A very romantic laundry day.

Dinner with jellied cranberry sauce cut into hearts. 

Then we built a fire, dragged the futon in front of the fireplace and had a magical evening.  It was the best Valentines Day ever. 

This year he is in jail.  I know he has to sort his shit out and we both need to have healthy boundaries.  But I will be thinking of him as I fall asleep in a twin bed with a sweet snuggle pup at my feet.  And despite the chaos of the last two years I still want to smell him and touch him and love him.  


If he were sober and I were ready I'd like to think we'd be curled up together with our dogs eating spaghetti and watching Lady and the Tramp.  But since that's not possible** I may as well glitter up and dance the night away.


*That whole marriage thing has since been taken care of and they were already separated when we met.  Home-wrecking isn't really my style.
**this is not possible not just because he's in jail and I'm having healthy boundaries (weird, right?) but also because he's much too much of a tough guy to watch cheesy romantic stuff.  Really, we'd probably end up watching Death Proof or Let the Right One In.  But only if he agrees to cover my eyes or let me burrow into his shoulder/neck/chest at the scary parts.

on AA (archetypes/associations)

I’ve been a bad ladyface.  I’m trying to save up to move to San Francisco in June so in addition to my full time office job I’ve also been tutoring SAT and ACT on Saturdays and stripping on Sundays.  It wasn’t until I typed that that I realized what an odd combination that is.  Anyway, I haven’t had much downtime and I’ve neglected the bloggy blog, which is a shame because there’s SO MUCH to write about!  And I miss you readerfolk.  I think I said that in my last post too.  Also, I feel like a dick bag for not commenting on any of the other blogs of the lovely queers that I follow.  I don’t mean a strange but cozy cock sack knitted by a loving femmeface, I mean a bag full of gross severed tentacles.  That kinda dick bag.  Ewww.

So I’m gonna set some goals going forward and post them here to help hold me accountable because that’s what my life coach would tell me to do. 

The Ladyface Schedule:

Mascara Monday

-the day I go to work on 3-4 hours of sleep.  Of my stripper makeup the mascara is the hardest to get off so I go to work wearing a bit more mascara than the average office lady.  The goal for the day is just to stay awake. 

-yoga in the evening if I’m not too sleepy and sore from dancing

Fat Tuesday

-the one day I can eat whatever I want because I’ve spent the rest of the week eating millet flakes, soy yogurt and kale

-walk the dog

Writing Wednesday

-post on the blog

-walk the dog

Recovery Thurrrrrsday (okay that one’s not quite an alliteration)

            -Al Anon (Inmate 12004 and I were lovers and I didn’t realize until recently how much the year and a half we spent together is still affecting me.  Please read his blog: originalplumbing.com  He’s trying to get his life back on track and needs love and support now more than ever.)

-take out the trash and sometimes my nuvaring but not in that order

-walk the dog

Foot Fetish Friday

-reply to any foot fetish clients who have emailed me 

-pole dance class if I’m not scheduled at the strip club

-walk the dog

SAT Saturday

-tutor

-strength and flexibility class if I’m not scheduled at the strip club

-walk the dog

Slutty Sunday

-take my pup for an epic run

-strip

Oh my goodness!  I just realized I never wrote about the end of the New Years Resolution.  It happened.  I’ll write about that and the audition process and the club and all that good stuff soon but those will be longer entries.  So for now:

On AA (archetypes/associations):

Isn’t it interesting what people project onto you?  I knew going into the stripping thing that I’d encounter all kinds of interesting fantasies but there have been a few surprises along the way.  So far each shift at least 3 separate people have told me I look “just like” Natalie Portman.  I don’t look like Natalie Portman, but it’s a very nice compliment.  Thank goodness for beer goggles and crummy lighting!  I am a slim brunette with a classic look and I do look much more vanilla than a lot of my super sexy coworkers who have tattoos and unnatural hair colors.  It would be more accurate to say that I look more like Natalie Portman than the majority of my coworkers and that they look more like Joan Jett than I do. 

Anyway, the Natalie Portman association is very flattering so I didn’t think I’d care what else they associate me with but I’ve had an unsettling surprise.  I go by Ava because it complements my look and it’s easy for men to remember.  I had Ava Gardner in mind when I chose the name; it has a classic feel but isn’t an immediate association.  

If I called myself Monroe or Bettie that would be a bit too obvious and pretentious.  But when I’ve introduced myself as Ava several men have said “Oh, like Eva Braun?”  Do you know who Eva Braun is?  I didn’t.  She was Hitlers lover.  

Yipes.  I would never date a man in a double breasted suit with pleated front pants and terrible facial hair.  So I guess I do care who patrons associate me with.  But really guys, I’m happy to give you a ridiculously raunchy lap dance and you can imagine me as a nurse or a school teacher or even your own mother but please don’t think of me as a Nazi, that makes me all kinds of uncomfortable.

This might soon be a moot point.  A few men have begun calling me Natalie Portland and it seems to be gaining momentum.  As far as I know she isn’t a Nazi, so that’s nice.

Feeling Stripperific!

I realized today that I’ve been posting too many lists.  I’ll get back to posting regular blog entries this weekend but this one needs to be in list form because my brain is too scrambled to write like a normal human bean.

I’m getting ready to audition at my favorite strip club this Saturday.  I’m excited and terrified just like the first time I got lit on fire (but this time I won’t be blindfolded).

In preparation for my audition I have:

-visited the club on a slow weeknight and picked as many stripper brains as possible to get as much information as possible.  They were all very friendly and helpful.

-completed ½ of a pole dance class series

-started running again to keep my bum perky

-worked out a somewhat choreographed routine

-had a weird anxiety dream that my real-life boss was coaching me on my routine

-done a hair and makeup dress rehearsal

-bought stripper heels

-spent a week wearing my stripper heels around the house to break them in.  I’ve been 6 feet tall while: vacuuming, doing dishes, feeding the dog and cleaning the bathroom.

-picked a name then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first name I had chosen

-picked a song then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first song I had chosen

-picked an outfit then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first outfit I had chosen and 

-scheduled a Brazilian  

So I think I’m all set. 

…now I just have to remember to take my clothes off.

Babyface

Update: the new years resolution is going strong!  Four days of no sugar and no orgasms.  But it’s no fun to talk about the delicious sex and chocolate cake I'm not having, so todays post will be about something else entirely.

Here are a few excerpts from a journal entry I wrote the night of my very first foot fetish party 5 years ago when I was a baby ladyface.  Enjoy! 

Alejandro:

Alejandro is a nondescript middle-aged Asian man.  He’s also evidence that it isn’t just the women who use pseudonyms when they play.  The session with “Alejandro” started out pretty simple with the two of us sitting on the couch with my feet in his face as he licked/sucked and kissed all over them.

Sometimes he’d close his eyes and leave his mouth squished up and his tongue slightly out and have me move my toes flirtatiously over that little oral anemone.  It looked ridiculous and tickled like crazy but I got the impression that “Alejandro” is the kinda guy who wouldn’t appreciate humor in a session. 

I moaned instead.

Arthur:

Arthur is a 60 year old, clean-cut East Coast academic. He was the first of the guys to really worship.  He touched, kissed and licked my feet as if they were fragile. By the end of our two consecutive sessions I was running my hand through his hair while he sucked on my toes and stared longingly at me.  Whenever my toes weren’t in his mouth he was murmuring compliments.  I laid back and enjoyed his vocabulary.  Apparently I am a “resplendent seraphim” with “tantalizing” toes and “luminous” eyes.  I should have been paying him for the GRE prep. 

Dillon:

My last session of the evening was with a 26 year old grad student from Prague named Dillon.  He was well-dressed and kinda cute for a boy.  Since he was more into tickling than oral play we got to talk throughout the session. And…I broke one of my boundaries with Dillon.  (already!  Oh geez.) 

He asked if I ever do footplay with boyfriends.  I said no and he was shocked.  He kept inquiring and after a moment of consideration I told him simply “I don’t date boys.” He got all excited, stuttered, recovered and said in his cute Prague-y accent: “Oh!  So you understand!  I like feet and you like girls.”  Luckily he was tickling me or I might have had to explain my laughter at his equating my queerness with his distinctive fetish.  The correct analogy would have been "I like feet like you like fisting" but I didn't go there.  I don’t regret outing myself to Dillon but I expect that it will become harder to negotiate to what extent my work persona resembles actual me and where her truth ends.

In conclusion, the only nervousness I experienced in the course of the evening was my concern that the teeth of a toe-nibbling client might chip my toenail polish, but as far as occupational hazards go that one is rather benign.  And I came home feeling sexy, powerful, at home in my body and untouchable.  (I recognize the irony of that last bit)  I’m glad I made the decision to do this for myself.  Go me.