Well Why Not?

I’ve tried so hard to NOT dance since 2012 — I’ve tried to work regular jobs, I’ve applied at hundreds of places, for all kinds of positions, I’ve tried to listen to my dad, who is vehemently against it for a myriad of reasons, some of them very complicated.

But it’s not working for me. Listen, I LIKE dancing. When I was a little kid, I liked dancing. I was mesmerized by my ballet teachers. I choreographed routines in my head to the songs on the radio when I was riding around in the backseat of my parents’ cars.

And stripping is DANCING, people, it is. Despite the prejudice, the stigma, the preconceived notions — topless dancing involves actual dancing, and the best dancers make money. It’s a simple merit-based system for pretty girls who dance well, and as God as my witness, I am a pretty girl who dances pretty well and I LIKE IT, so why am I trying to do what my dad thinks I should do? He wasn’t even around for my ballet rehearsals. How would he know if I like to dance?

Look, I tried to do it your way, society. I tried to work regular jobs. But after I was exposed as a topless dancer, I might as well have been convicted of murder. It is harder for a stripper to get a real job than any of you know.

And if I still want to work at a strip club, and society doesn’t want me anymore for being a stripper, why do I keep trying to conform to society’s expectations? So I can get sexually harassed by an 86-year-old wannabe editor in a shitty office in Reseda? Is that my fate?

Well fuck that.

When I started this blog, the first post simply said, “Let’s begin.”

That was in 2009. It was a blog to quietly rant and write about situations that popped up while I was working as a stripper. I had to make it separate from a blog I was already writing so my dad wouldn’t see it, even though this one was wildly more popular.

Now it’s 2018, and I’ve been exposed, admonished, mocked, praised and questioned, by others and by myself.

Then I met a dancer at a club here in Los Angeles who is 43 and is unapologetic about being a stripper.”I’m all about dat life,” she says.

She saved herself from homelessness, heroin addiction and the Texas court system. She is now sober, and by all appearances, happy. She’s pretty badass, actually, you should follow her on Instagram: @officialmalicmcmunn.

She’s an inspiration. And she reminds me that THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING A STRIPPER. It’s legal, it’s profitable, and believe it or not, it can be incredibly empowering.

People tried to take that power away from me. I’m taking it back now, OK?

 

 

 

On Cake and Fake Breasts

I’m still settling into the new boobs, but still happy as hell to have them. Even people who begged me not to get them have been staring and complimenting them. But, you know, not everyone likes breast implants. Journalist Tony Parsons wrote an article called “Why Fake Breasts Won’t Bounce Back” for GQ magazine, wherein he railed against breast implants. It included the following line: “Fake breasts exist to be looked at. Exactly like plastic fruit. Stare – don’t touch – or the spell will be broken.”

To Mr. Parsons, I would like to submit the following: Maybe we don’t want you to touch them. I don’t go around quietly hoping that men will want to handle my breasts, but I do hope that men want to stare at them, because that’s basically a stripper slogan: Stare, but don’t touch. (Other stripper slogans include “Cash, not credit,” and “Of course I won’t go on a date with you.”)

Breast implants are like royal icing on a cake — when applied by an expert, it is a vast improvement over the original item, making it so breathtaking that you want to taste it, but you fear marring something that’s so beautifully executed.

Is regular cake and frosting delicious? Yes. But given the option, I want something that looks like this:

*angels singing*

not this:

*angels barfing*

See? See the difference? I could dive into that weird icing dog thing with my bare hands and feel no remorse about it. But that top pic? I wouldn’t want to break the seal on that baby. Stare. But don’t touch. 

The other night I had a customer snake his hand out while I was getting dressed and wrench my nipple until I screamed. I guess perfect presentation didn’t prevent him from trying to leave a mark, but it’s akin to going to a wedding reception and sticking your fingers into the cake frosting before the ceremonial cutting. It’s ugly. It’s rude. And it might make someone cry. (You know who you are.)

But even if I knew someone would go mussing up the perfect frosting on a beautiful cake, I would still want a beautiful cake, instead of say, the confectionary equivalent to meals-ready-to-eat.

Anyway, enough with the cake metaphors. I’m on a diet. I’m not saying that it’s EVER ok to wrench a girl’s nipple, by the way, regardless of the state of her breasts. I guess what I’m hoping is that exquisite things might be handled with exquisite care.

And they are exquisite. Just like that beautiful fucking cake.

God, I really want to eat some cake now. Stupid calories.

That’s all for now  …

❤ :: aS

“Will My Tits Pop Open?” and Other Mid-Summer Delusional Concerns

I miss your posts. you on holiday?

Dear phenom, I am not on holiday. I have been willing these new tits into sparkly bras and glitter so I can experience things most people won’t, but it’s hard, phenom. It’s hard.

It’s about a jillion degrees outside in Houston — sap melts out of wooden steps. People get angrier faster, and then they punch each other. Giant bugs stick to your windshield and the grill of your tiny foreign-made car. Bats are dropping dead from heat exhaustion. My cat keeps throwing up. My roommate keeps telling me that he can’t stand my cat, or her throw up, or the sound my cat makes while she’s throwing up. My other roommate’s cat keeps attacking my cat. The anxiety is making ME throw up, but I blame it on the cat, causing me to spin into a shame spiral … It’s just too much, too much.

And it’s the end of the summer, the slow season for strippers, what with red-blooded money-making men melting into the seats of their cars just pulling out of their driveways or parking garages; and their kids want to go back-to-school shopping, or want money for tuition, or cash for one last trip to Port Aransas with all their friends, and the dads pony up, because that’s what men do: they become dads, and live in hot cities and somehow hotter suburban towns, and raise kids who are out of school during beach season, and haul the whole family into the family SUV, and take sweaty road trips, and breathe the exhaust of a million cars on the freeway headed to the godforsaken Gulf of Mexico — where their wives, children and girlfriends are steady draining their wallets so the whole family can have kites and hot boat rides through murky water and sunburn gel and fried shrimp on a pier somewhere and if Billy keeps pissing in that bed we won’t get the deposit back on this rental, and JE-sus isn’t it time to get school supplies already? Books cost HOW MUCH?

And then these new titties — the left one is numb or hurting about 40 percent of the time, and I’m still secretly worried that the both of them will just bust open like bloody gummy water balloons if I trip and my chest breaks my fall.

Maybe the heat is getting to me. Surely my breast implants wouldn’t shoot out of my chest if I fell on them, right? I mean, I’m down to 121 pounds. This time last year I was 130 and my tits weren’t even full. So I’m lighter, meaning … I can probably trip and land on my breasts with impunity. Maybe.

But I still feel a little bit like this could happen:

In case you were wondering, that’s the chestburster scene from Ridley Scott’s 1979 sci-fi hit (and cultural and cinematic touchstone) Alien. But there’s a long cat bursting out, instead of you know, an alien.

So. It’s hot and I can’t fall tits-first into things, and I’m afraid my boobs will break. It’s all making me a little loopy.

But no, I’m not on holiday.

Thanks, phenom, for writing in. And thanks for your concerned tone.

❤ :: aS

A Retraction, and the Space Between

Right, so I had to take down the last post that was here to protect the innocent and whatnot, and while my journalistic underpinnings would have rather fought to keep it up and as-is, the gold-hearted stripper in me relented to a very nice person who really, really didn’t want to get in trouble. Or more trouble, as it were. Alas.

But at the bottom, I’m adding the picture of the bat that was attached to the previous post. I want to keep that here.

So today, I give you the following poem by Carrie Fountain, just in case you need a literary injection. Metaphorically speaking, it’s apropos, in my honest opinion. I think you’ll see.

-Late Summer-

Out for a walk tonight,

the dog is throwing all her weight

against the leash, lunging toward the fat tomcat

        

licking his black ankles

with a delicious solemn attention

at the top of the neighbor’s steps. 

Because this is what the dog 

was made to do. 

Because for some lucky animals

the space between the body

and what it wants

is all there is. 

..<3 :: aS

I shot it myself. The picture. Not the bat. I think it died of natural causes.

I shot it myself. The picture. Not the bat. I think it died of natural causes.

Surprise! I got breast implants!

Like I said, I have a silicone surprise in store! Yesterday I went to Dr. Ciaravino’s office and he kindly, gently and expertly inserted two 375cc silicone gel implants into my little chest. Then he shook back his long wavy hair and pointed his Adonis-esque face to the heavens and cried, “BEHOLD, and rejoice! I have blessed this angry stripper with a great bounty of fine MemoryGel® breast implants!!”

And the Lord said it was goooooooooood.

Here’s a post-op pic:

Long live these taters.

Long live these taters.

I airbrushed out my nipples in case any small children are reading this blog. Because nipples are THE DEBIL. Even man nipples.

So if you check this post, you’ll see that I took a poll earlier this year on whether to get breast implants or not and I got a resounding NOT. Like, it had an echo. NOT-not-not-not-not-not nooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

But when someone tells me I can’t do something, like say, start working at a strip club, or be a journalist with a stripper blog, or get giant fake tits, I say to them, Nay; I will do as I please.

They’re swollen at the moment and, as you can see, still punctuated with magic marker. If you want to see them up close and personal, and free of magic marker, you have to belong to a select group of people who see me topless, which includes, but is not limited to, my stepmother. (Don’t ask.)

Or just come to see me at work in about 2 weeks, which is when I can resume non-exercise activity. But the anesthesiologist made me promise in front of a gaggle of Ciaravino’s drop-dead gorgeous nurses and assistants (who have a never-ending supply of eyelash extensions and high-pitched laughter), that I would stay off the pole for at least 6 weeks. Doctor’s orders!

They’re not really giant, though. I swear they’ll shrink a bit and you won’t be able to tell that they stood at “HOLY SHIT” attention for a time in the summer of 2015. Ah, memories.

In the mean time, I’m going to write away right away on other business at hand. But I missed y’all! Tell me something good! Or bad! I’ll take whatever you wanna write. I read it all.

❤ :: aS    (  .  )(  .  )

And so then but COMIC-CON

The-Uncanny-Valley-publicity-imageLadies, gentlemen, and everyone else above, below and in between those two categories, I’m happy to report that a movie I was in has been chosen to be screened at the über-popular, ultra-nerdy, and incredibly crowded SAN DIEGO INTERNATIONAL COMIC-CON!!!

The Uncanny Valley, a short animated film by the über-popular, moderately nerdy and relatively lonely Mike Fisher of Goofaman Productions, will be screened on Friday, July 10th at 2:25 p.m. at the Comic-Con International Film Festival, deep in the heart of the city better known as a Whale’s Vagina. That’s a still from the film above. I did the voice of Mistress Celina, the fox in the leotard.

Mike has done multiple other animated projects, including some for the newspaper in San Antonio I previously worked for, but I think this is the first one that has been accepted to the granddaddy of all comic conventions. The Uncanny Valley isn’t up on his YouTube channel yet, but here’s a super-short film he’s done previously:

Friday, I’ll be on the Q&A panel after the screening, hopefully answering questions from attendees who happen to ADORE animated star babes and the women who provide their raspy, impatient voices. I can hardly wait!

In the mean time, I’m meeting with a seasoned writer in West Hollywood about collaborating on a project about — what else? — stripping. So, West Coast, look out! Angry Stripper is on her way to be polite and cast judgment on your manners.

Incidentally, I would like to share some stories from the newsroom where I worked with Mr. Fisher; I’ve been hoarding a few. Look for them here soon.

And in case anyone was worried (“Anonymous” I’m looking at you), my sister and I have come to something of a reconciliation after the last post. So yay.

I’d like to visit some San Diego strip clubs while I’m splashing around the Whale’s Vagina … anyone have any suggestions?

And finally, when I return to Houston next week, get ready for a surprise, people. A silicone surprise.

That’s all for now …

❤ :: aS

A Monkey Arrived! And my sister publicly shames me on Facebook.

So last night a miracle happened. First, a customer who’d read my book and was like, a secret fan, found me at The Men’s Club last night and told me that meeting me was, for him, “A dream come true.” He could quote parts of my book to me. I was beyond flattered, and he was a perfect gentleman.

THEN. A customer BROUGHT A MONKEY in the strip club. A cute little monkey! A girl monkey wearing a diaper! I‘m just excited because I know when I’m an old lady, I’m going to definitely be like that monkey in a diaper. SO FUCKING HAPPY, and showing off by smiling as big as possible and grabbing shiny things, and just grabbing hands and being overwhelmed by all the strippers who kept trying to get her attention. Just perfect. And probably pissing in her diaper.

And so then but I took a picture with the monkey, who at the time, seemed to be trying to lick my breasts. Not the nipples, probably just the shiny string on my American flag bikini, so I had to post it on Facebook, natch.

This monkey is a lesbian.

This monkey is a lesbian.

Turns out that my little sister thinks a picture of a monkey ogling my breasts is immodest? The Facebook exchange:

Her: I see modesty is not your best quality.

Her (again): Almost everyone who commented on this was a man. I guess that’s who’s attention your trying to get. I don’t think I’ll allow my daughter Angela to follow you.

Her (again, same picture): Seeing my sister like this is gross and embarrassing.

So I’ll spare you the details, but my little sister has five kids? I think? Going on five. And Angela is, admittedly, my favorite and the first born. She’s old enough to have a Twitter account. She does, in fact, follow me, but I don’t know if she’s still does since today? I don’t guess she’s allowed to. Sorry, Angela. I still love you.

Anyway, this goes back to the post where I mentioned how hard it is to come out to your family if you’re a stripper. Is it legal? Yes. Would they rather you be a garbage man for a living, including the male sex-change part? … Yes.

Are you able to give them stuff they need? YES. I’ve helped her out in hard times, and I didn’t always agree with her, but I certainly didn’t let her Facebook friends know I was not in concert with her life decisions, as such. But here she is, putting me on blast for a picture of a FEMALE monkey staring at my breasts. A female monkey! We have fucking marriage equality in this country.

This is what I mean when I say it’s hard coming out to your parents about stripping. It’s really about coming out to your whole family. Your cousins. Your grandparents. Your aunts and uncles and little brothers and sisters, and their kids, and dealing with the blowback, or, in my case, deciding to forego the blowback in favor of relinquishing interest in your blood relatives altogether.

So it is. In the mean time, I have an exchange from a former stripper who went through a similar experience to a degree. Her mother found out she was a stripper when she had to ask her mom for a ride to work. See here:

 
Me: Was she mad? 
Her: She really couldn’t be.
 
Me: Why?
 …
Her: i paid my way through college on my own; took 15-20 hours a semester.
 
Me: She didn’t help you with college?
 
Her: She couldn’t, she was a single mother with two kids and a lot of debt….my mom was a nurse, worked graveyard shift, I was pretty much alone since i was 7.
 
Her: And i also took my mom to Italy and Greece on E.F tours where you tour Europe while taking college classes.
 
Me: What did she tell you after you told her you were stripping?
 
Her: She really didn’t say anything. She just gave me a look like ‘I dont like it, but what can I do if ur taking care of business, going to school and doing it on your own?’ I got an art scholarship but she couldn’t help me pay room and board, so I took science courses at [xxxxxxxxxx].
Me: So she never flipped out on you or shunned you or anything like that?
 
Her: No, but i graduated high school at 15, because i got kicked out of school, but did credit by exam and passed everything.
 
She finished our conversation with a missive that I’m not sure is going to happen:
Her: Stay out of debt do something good for ur future like school, stay away from the stripping lifestyle, drugs and drinking, and she’ll come around.
She, meaning my mother. Maybe, maybe not. What about my sister? I didn’t tell her I already have a master’s degree.
The good news? I don’t mind, either way.
That’s all for now …
❤ :: aS