Bill Clinton’s Doppelganger is a Republican

Behind the scenes of the blog: When something happens on a shift that might be blog-worthy, I write it down. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish for recall, but with notes, I can usually flesh out what happened or the odd-ball character I met. I didn’t write much last week, and now I’m sitting here with three days of notes written on a newsletter from my dentist that happened to be in my purse, procrastinating on blogging. Rather than tell a fluid story, I’ll have to just flesh out my notes, or I’ll never finish procrastinating on writing anything at all.


Four out of five dancers in the room agree that Lunchables are a healthy, delicious, appropriate meal. 

I’d been straightening my hair, munching on a pile of roasted vegetables I’d brought for dinner, when I overheard, “Yeah, Lunchables are a pretty good dinner. They’re so easy to bring with.”

Listen. I’m something of a minor food snob anymore, preferring to munch on actual food instead of hyper-processed garbage. But I wasn’t always that way: I used to eat animal crackers and McDonald’s after work, considering them as replenishment for all of the calories I’d burned and my weak, post-work, bruised body. I befriended an older dancer who was into eating real food and it struck me and stuck with me, along with quitting smoking (18 months now!), regular exercise I enjoy, and a variety of other solid health habits (oh hai, vitamins). She set the bar for me, unknowingly, and my waltzing around the club with delicious-smelling real foods that some of the girls have never heard of (KALE? WHAT’S KALE?) might one of these days do the same for another girl.

Unless, you know, her worldview towards food is so skewed as to think that Capri Sun is juice and her stubborn defense of her “healthy” Lunchables was that it included juice. The club seriously needs a nutritionist.

Autistic customer petting me like a dog, asking for a date.

My fairly-regular autistic customer was an easy sell, as usual, for dances. I think he knows I understand that his lack of appropriate facial expressions isn’t just “weirdness,” it’s that he has a hard time with the responses others make all of the time — the smiles and eye contact and expressive eyebrows. I’d thought, though, that he understood well the exchange that was happening between us, that I dance because he pays me, and he pays me because I dance for him. He seemed, to me, to be beyond the fantasy. He’s always accepted my request for dances within a few short minutes and paid and left immediately. He doesn’t stick around for tipping or socialization and in a year, he’s never hinted at the exchange being any sort of fantasy for him.

In our dances, he pets me like a dog. He pets my hair with the rough, firm taps you’d give a lazy Labrador, and scratches my head behind my ears. So many men have so little idea of what is actually pleasing to women, though, that this isn’t some sort of bizarre interaction; it’s more like a step up from all of the guys that think slapping a boob or trying to lick me like a Golden Retriever are in any way pleasurable.

He nervously said, “I want to ask you something butIunderstandifyou…if it’s…notokayand…youcansayno.” He asked me whether I’d like to go for a meal with him, to maybe, um, a dinner? To him, seeing me over and over had become different than the idea of just paying me for dances. So many people ask me, but this. This was the first time he’d shown me any emotion, any sense of being genuinely into me as something more than a physical dance he enjoyed, well, simply physically.

I tried to delicately explain that I couldn’t — that I could get in trouble at work, and that I don’t see people I meet in the club outside of it — but I could tell he was hurt. I got the idea that this might be one of the first times he’s put himself “out there” for a girl in a long time.

Everyone is trying to put my tits in their mouths.

On stage. In the private dance room. In VIP. On the floor. Everywhere, men are trying to put my tits in their mouths. Do they not realize that I’ve been sweating all night? That others have put their questionably-dirty hands on me for hours? That the guy across the room just licked a boob like a Popsicle five minutes ago? Did every single person in the room actually fail health class?

Bill Clinton doppelgänger, nose-picker.

I posted privately in a group about this: “I found Bill Clinton’s doppelgänger today at the strip club (insert creative jokes here). He was WASTED and had a booger hanging out of his nose. Like, a big one. And he kept trying to put his booger-face on me and he was a very offended Republican that the girls know only as ‘the guy that used to have long hair.'” That pretty much sums it up.

Pussy in the mirror? How do I feel about this?

I couldn’t get to sleep after work, and was still up around 8am. As I was kenneling my younger dog before bed while walking around the house naked (THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT PEOPLE THINK YOU DO, DANCER), I caught a glimpse of my naked pussy in the mirror. In the morning light, it seemed…oddly appealing and completely unfamiliar. I decided to check it out…because, why not? I show this thing off night after night, and I want to see. It’s mine. I might as well have a look, alone, stretching in this way and that, and there’s no one around to see me being so eleven-year-old awkward in a mirror.

I’m 25. I should have done this mirror-exploration thing by now.

I was thinking: Why do guys like pussy? Pussy is weird, but maybe…maybe only because it’s so ironically unfamiliar to me from this angle. Legs up in the air, seeing it in its full glory; I don’t see it this way. I’m seeing what others see.

My view is usually straight down from my navel a few inches while shaving. The view from the top is, well, ugly to me — and I’ve felt for a long time that my pussy looked somehow very different from the beautiful ladyparts I see so often at work. Outside of shaving, I don’t actually pay much attention to what it looks like, instead, only what it feels like when I’m having sex or masturbating or whatever.

The mirror view — others’ view — is flattering. It’s delicate, yes. Shaving is awesome for aesthetics. My asshole is such a weird addition of nature, so out of place, does it seem out of place to others? I’ve lost weight, my diet changed to higher protein out of craving more beans and milk. When I’m tired, I look beautiful.

Without any pubic hair, it seems almost forbidden, prepubescent. Flooded with a sense of gross feelings about my own past, I nearly quit the whole exploration right then.

I can’t imagine wanting to stick something in there. Right…there. I mean, I’m straight, so I get not wanting to explore pussy, but I can’t even wrap my head around wanting to put something in there as a guy. It does look small, compared to the thick and defined hamstrings on either side. Extending my legs, I can see those powerful muscles working together. I look vibrant and healthy and fit.

Every lady should really stop and take a look from the other side.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on March 12, 2013.

2 Responses to “Bill Clinton’s Doppelganger is a Republican”

  1. I often forget about some of my wild adventures that happen at the club. Because as you already know so many crazy things can go down in the course of one night. Taking down notes is a good idea to capture the madness. I <3 strippers!

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