“Stripper Swallows Lemon and Push Out Pussy”

Ya’all search for some weird shit. Seriously. The above popped up as a search term that led to this blog on Monday. How the searcher landed here is beyond me: I’ve never pushed a lemon out of my pussy. Or swallowed a lemon whole. I rarely even eat lemons, because I’m overwhelmed by strong tastes, like sour, bitter, and spicy foods. Vaginas aren’t even connected to the digestive system in the first place, silly.

Now that we have that cleared up, let’s get back to boobies and sneakers.

*

I’d been out with a local road running and marathon training group last summer, and I didn’t particularly like it — no one talked to me before or after the run and I was the slowest runner, even at the very-common pace of 9:20/mi on my long run. I’d heard that running clubs could be great fun and supportive, but I just felt left out, like I was creeping on their secret club of lifelong, gazelle-like runners. I’ve mostly run alone, as long as I’ve been running, save for a few slow and short runs with a former boyfriend.

I finally had a chance to go out with a newish, local trail running group today for the first time — a different group of people — and had a blast. The group is smaller and runs an easy pace, focused on enjoying and exploring the trails. I not only kept up, but enjoyed many conversations and ran an extra few miles because I was so consumed with route-finding, mud-jumping, and diverse characters I’d met. OH, so THIS is what a running club looks like, huh? I can’t wait to go back next week; running easy and longer out in the woods has me feeling strong.

*

Working Sunday and Monday occurred in a haze of some sort. I didn’t care to write much down, and my goldfish memory has failed me, again. I remember, mostly, farting a lot. Everywhere, in the club. Rank, rotten, horrible, sneaky farts. I’m usually pretty willing to crop-dust a group of non-tippers when I feel one coming on, but this, this was like needing to climb the pole on stage and hope it dissipated in the clouds of shitty cotton candy body spray high above the tippers. I couldn’t wait until I got off stage to punish those that had been watching for free, and more than once, I had to hurry stage-side dollar dances, hoping the vileness wouldn’t sneak out first.

Both nights dragged on and on, as we waited for customers that never showed after (presumably) partying on Saturday for St. Patrick’s Day. The local spring break is this week, and I wouldn’t want to spend spring break in the Midwest, either. A slow week.

I met an early-thirty-something late on Sunday night, passing through for work, and we struck up a conversation easily. The time flew by as we cracked jokes back and forth, sarcasm and wit flying out of my bored mind left and right. Topics flew from Craigslist’s Casual Encounters (and my one, non-sexual encounter) to crafting bizarre “safety phrases” (CHOCOLATE BANANA OFF!) to the time-warp of Facebook and being sucked into pornadoes and the left-skewed intelligence bell curve around the club. Bam, bam, bam. Smart quips, left and right. I love these conversations. I asked for dances at the last minute, trying to salvage the money from the job instead of simply enjoying the guy, and we went back. He doubled the cost of the dance with his tip, and we cracked jokes until the club closed a few minutes later. He handed me his card, and I still haven’t thrown it out.

I can’t use it, of course. Fucking boundaries of mine and fucking meeting him at the club. I must be horny lately, being interested in a few men I’ve run across lately. Remind me to masturbate tonight.

*

This section of the post discusses sexual assault and may be difficult to read. There is nothing beyond this section of the post to allow sensitive readers the option to skip it without scrolling down for more content.

On a more serious note, it seems rape jokes have returned to the strip club. For awhile, they were quite taboo (Slut Walks and social networking sites have perhaps shamed people into not using the word so carelessly), and before that, I don’t remember the word “rape” being thrown around in jest so often. The Steubenville trials in Ohio have been in the news day and night lately. Unless a person is living under a rock, they know the general gist of the events and persons involved and have been seeing commentary pop up on their social networking site of choice. I don’t know if the use of the word is connected to the trials, but the idea that people are talking about rape more and more might have something to do with it.

I’m glad it’s a conversation the nation is having, and I’m hoping it makes an impression on the youngsters out there right now. Maybe this monster will someday be beat into the ground. In the meantime, I’m cringing every time I hear the slang version of the word.

Last week, a young patron of about eighteen or nineteen requested me to humiliate his friend, who was in a strip club for the first time: “RAPE HIM. RAPE HIM.” A man of about forty casually talked of being “raped” on his taxes. A few more threw the word around, here and there.

Sitting through it isn’t easy for me. I want to belt out that paying a few extra bucks on your taxes is nothing like spending months losing my mind, nothing like being scared and frozen. It’s nothing like being physically and mentally torn apart, nothing like the deep and lingering and personal aches and hell. You’ll forget your taxes soon, when I dance for you, but I won’t forget your comments for weeks. They sting; the memories of my head banging against a door over and over and over and over and over and over and over come flooding back into my life. Those images are the ones flooding my brain when I dance for you, awkwardly, trying to salvage my income instead of the free expression of sensuality and sexuality that I usually exude. At the least, I think most would prefer my sense of obligation in a vanilla dance than the closed-off, grossed-out, hurt girl I became after those words.

I wish I could say something to these patrons. Anything at all would do.

Instead, I freeze and the blood drains out of my face.

Some nights, it’s all I can do to keep moving forward through rejection after rejection on private dances, or harsh comments I wasn’t meant to hear while I’m on stage, or another request for my real name or my phone number or the amount of money I make as though the information was appropriate to ask for. Dancing emotionally and physically drains me to the core by the end of the night as it is, and I just

can’t.

I can’t bring myself to say anything at all about the offending patrons’ use of the word “rape.” I still have a hard time saying the word, typing it. Standing up for myself, for others, and being told off or taunted would break me.

For that, for not saying anything, for perpetuating the idea that this is an acceptable way to speak of something so hurtful, I feel guilty. I feel like I’m a part of the problem. I’m disgusted taking the money that I very much need from them.

Advertisements

~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on March 20, 2013.

One Response to ““Stripper Swallows Lemon and Push Out Pussy””

  1. I’m glad you’re running again miss and that you’ve found a group to enjoy the great outdoors with.

    Also, I’ve done my best to try and discourage that kind of ‘rape’ talk. Both with people I go to class with and the people under my charge. Its one of those things people should know better.

    Have a great week miss.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: