Tag Archives: pornography

Tales From the Pole: One of My Proudest Moments As a Stripper


I’ve been so incredibly serious and dark in all of my posts over the last few weeks.  I’ve been down…I can’t fool you guys.  But you should know that I am one of the most random people you will ever meet. 

Have you ever been walking down the street or through a crowded mall…alone…and all of the sudden your mind if filled with thoughts of something so hysterical that you just begin to howl  in unconstrained laughter?  Oh you try so hard to hide it, but some wild thought has taken over your brain and you’re done for. 

You know you looked as crazy as a shit house rat to all the people you walked by.  You know that your maniacal, seemingly unprompted laughter caused people to question “what the voices were saying to you” and wondering what incompetent doctor was supposed to be managing your meds.  It happens to me all the time.  It’s not cool and it’s rarely convenient, but it sure does happen.

Granted, I have to give props to all the crazy people in the world.  I mean, don’t they mix it up a little bit for us?  I personally appreciate crazy people.  I think the world would just be plain dull without the deranged.  I mean, how entertaining is it hear someone talk to themself…or even argue with themself.  I personally like the people who swat at flies that aren’t really there.

Plus, and you’ve got to admit this…  Sometimes, deep inside, you think you might be a little bit “cray” too.  Now you might not be like me…you might not openly admit it.  But I’m brave.  I’ll go on record to say that I question my sanity like almost every single day.

When I encounter someone who is truly off their rocker, I pray for them.  Then, I inhale and exhale slowly and intently as I bask in the fact that even though I may be a little bit loco… I’m surely not as crazy as that dude over there. 

Now when I was a stripper, I took crazy to some whole other levels.  However, I did it with style, flair, and unyielding creativity.  I think I made erratic, unbalanced behavior look good. 

Now I was mean when I was a teenager, but by the time I was struttin’ under the lights of main stage in my 6-inch slut slippers I can say that I had truly evolved into a kinder, gentler person.  I guess being a stripper softened this gals heart up more than a little bit. 

I would never harm a fly, but if you harmed one of my people…or if you degraded me, you had better watch your back, because I assure you, that no matter your financial stature, no matter your size…you were gonna get it.

Now you see, much to the dismay of the general public, some of the nicest people I have ever met I met in a strip club.  On average, most were lonely regulars who just wanted a friend and someone to talk to.  Friday and Saturday nights kind of sucked though, because we’d draw a younger crowd.  They were what I referred to as the “Bachelor Party Crowd”.  This crowd sucked because they came out in droves.  My club would be packed wall-to-wall but these young bucks didn’t spend the money that the older gentlemen did. 

Audaciously, these young punks were of the mindset that they were too hot to ever have to pay a woman for anything.  But I mean, really dipshits?  I used to make small talk with these guys and ask them what they did for a living.  They’d proudly tell me.  I’d say, “Oh yeah?  Do you get paid for that or anything?”  They would look at me like I rode the short bus all my life and say, “Well, yeah.”  Then I’d say, “Well haha, bitch.  This is MY work and when I come here I get paid.”  They usually got the point, but overall these pompous imbeciles would expect a high-end entertainer like me to do “somethin’ strange for some change“.  I didn’t like it when these punks would come at me with a single, dollar bill folded perfectly down the middle.  What did they expect to get for that?  I mean, we’re talking about 4 quarters here.

Overall though, the men treated me with genuine kindness and respect.  The exceptions to the rule would be some of the Dallas Cowboys who were winning superbowls during the early nineties.  Actually, most of them were cool to me, except one.  I don’t throw out names, but this guy made a name for himself when he hooked up with one of my girlfriends and a few 8-balls of cocaine in a hotel room one night.  That had an interesting outcome!  My friend’s boyfriend was a Dallas cop and ended up getting fired  and catching some serious charges for putting out a hit on this jackass NFL player. 

But the worst guy I ever met will go down in the chronicles of stripper history as far as I’m concerned.  He was a recruiter for a porn company.  He was fairly young and edgy looking.  Of course, I was unaffected.  My man was a competitive body builder and a male stripper at the hottest ladies club in the Dallas! (lol)  Anyway, when I asked for this dude’s name, he told me his name was, “Free.” 

When I tell you that this guy was a colossal douche bag, you have to believe me.  If you looked up the term “doucher” on Google Images, I feel certain that this guy’s mug would show up as the top search result.

He was cocky and arrogant as hell.  For what reason, I have no idea.  I guess he thought we stripper chicks dug that kind of stuff.  We didn’t.  I remember he was sitting at the center table, right in front of main stage.  He wasn’t tipping anyone

I handled “Free” just like any other patron that I came across in the club.  He did not impress me in the least and I wanted him to give up his cash.  Before I boldly and courageously went in for the kill, I tried a little ice-breaker to warm him up and prepare his vile, little heart to give Mama some “paper”.  I said, “Hey, I could really use a drink right now, Baby.”  This reprobate looked me dead in the eye and said, with a demeaning, domineering glare, “YOU get me a drink.”  He was insistent and homeboy was feelin’ real sure of himself. 

Was I hallucinating, did a dude just come into “my” club and order “me” to buy “him” a drink?  Yep, I think he did.  So what did I do?  Well, of course, I asked the gentleman what he was drinking.

He replied, like I was his bitch.  He didn’t say please or thank you.  You could tell this dude thought he was the shiz.  “Glenlivet,” demanded this weasel.  “I’d love to get you a drink”…  I mean it, I wouldn’t miss a chance to buy a REAL L.A porn recruiter named “Free” a shot of his favorite scotch, right?  Well, it was sorta like that.  And so, I slipped off to the dressing room to get some money.

Back then the shots were $7 or $8 bucks.  There was no way that I was spending more than a dollar on this scumbag.  He had been a real asshole to some of the other girls, so I cut some of my closest gal pals a real fine deal that night.  I would need to collect a dollar from at least 6 or 7 of them if they wanted to “help” me get our distinguished patron his scotch.  I collected, the money and proceeded to the bar where my favorite bartender, a superfly Greek named Demetri was posted up.  He was my dog.

Demetri poured that shot for me… Oh yes he did.  Then guess where my black-patent, leather, platform boots took me next?  Well, it wasn’t straight over to deliver “Free” his drink.  As a matter of fact, it was to the ladies restroom.

Now to me, the shit this man was drinking smelled like flammable urine that had been sitting in a stagnant pool of waste at the bottom of one of those dreadful porta pottys… It stunk! It reminded me of a stank, abandoned urinal…or better yet of the nasty Turkish toilet that I was forced to squat over once on a ferry-boat off the coast of Greece.

I decided that since his scotch smelled like piss, he would scarcely noticed if I poured half of that shot out in the toilet.  I did.  Then I voided my bladder right into his cocktail, making certain to bring it right back up to its original fill line.  I smelled the aromatic mixture of scotch and my piss and everything just lovely to me.  In no time I was able to “serve” our visiting dignitary the drink that he had ordered me to purchase for him.  And I did it with a smile

But to my horror, that reprobate glared at me right straight in the eye.  He pushed the drink away from him and over to me.  He said, “You drink it.”  He was the devil!!!

Oh my God!  Oh my God!  Luckily, I have a bit of acting in my background.  I improvised.  I turned up my nose and looked at him like he had just lost his mind.  I firmly responded–quite indignantly and  very haughty–“Hell no.  I would never drink that.  It smells like piss to me!”  Once more this degenerate would glare deeply into my soul.  Next, he would pause for a long, tension-building silence.  I thought I had been made.  Then with his porn industry swagger and a thunderous eruption of gall and bravado, he slammed that drink back.  Oh friends, he slammed it back good!

Bottoms up, Biatch!!!

He made this kind of, “Ahhh” sound.  It was like he wanted so badly to be cool and utter the word, “smooooooth.”  You know?  Like the wimpy guys do in the movies before they lose their breath and begin gasping for air.

“Free” would not actually lose his ability to breath that night as he unknowingly threw back his shooter of scotch and golden water.  He took it like a man…

After I served my guest his beverage I politely excused myself.  As it turned out “Free” might have gotten some sort of wicked buzz off my wicked whiz.  If you can believe it, the dude became more abusive to the girls when I left.  He clearly thought we were whores.  He clearly thought of women as objects that he could exploit.  He tried to degrade some of the other girls and was hassling the dancers beyond anything that was tolerable.  Friends, “Free” was a very, very bad man.  I don’t think he knew Jesus.

“Free” was gently escorted out by two REALLY big bouncers that night.  Although he came in vertically with all that swag, he left horizontally with no swag to speak of?  What had happened to “Free’s” swagger that night?  

Even though “Free” had been kindly shown to the door, I didn’t get a chance to miss him much after his sudden departure.  Consequently if I wanted to remember Mr. “Free”, all I had to do was walk over to the entry doors.  Apparently “Free” suffered a  minor head injury during his graceful exit, because he sure did leave behind some pretty sizable blood stains on our entry doors.  Oops.

Hey “Free”.  Don’t mess with Texas, Baby!  And, never, ever mess with a stripper…  (Now that boy should have just known better!)