Justa Dumb Stripper

Keep your breads buttered, and your toasters toastier.

Believe it or not, it was not until I was in my fifth year of dancing that I decided to go topless (on stage anyway). After having a child, at that. Like why the fuck did I not use those perky ass titties I had at twenty? Cause I must have left my titties back in the delivery room. Furthermore, living in New Jersey did not present a lot of topless opportunity. New Jersey state law has topless rules that are different than a lot of other states. To break it down in layman’s terms, if your showing nipple - it has to be a BYOB (bring your own beer) type of joint. However, over the hill and through the woods into Philadelphia, just about everybody is showing titties (BYOB does not apply in Pennsylvania). So when I had exhausted myself at fifteen New Jersey gentlemen’s clubs, I decided to try my luck in Pennsylvania. 

I knew from experience that I would have to go topless and there was no way around it. I worried how or when the women revealed their titties, if there was such thing as “too much titty”, if we were allowed to wear nipple tassels and tape or was that being the “prude dancer”. I had so many questions. I had fourteen cigarettes, two red bulls, and five pep talks with God before I pulled up to the red fluorescent building. The neon sign outside read, “Gluten Free Lap Dances” which I felt was an inside joke that I was not yet apart of. I sat in the car asking myself if I was ready to expose the titties I was hardly comfortable exposing in my bedroom. I spent ten full minutes convincing myself that titties are titties. 

“Titties are titties, titties are just titties”.

Leaving my insecurities in the car, I grabbed my duffle and dragged my feet to the front doors. After checking in with the manager and filling out some paperwork, I was led to the mystical world of the topless dressing room. Never in five years had I been so nervous to walk into a dressing room. I kept picturing perfect nip tuck kind of breasts, full with perfect nipples. I imagined the other girls laughing at my tits Mean Girls style or my face in a worldstar video entitled “little tity, but she got some back”. I made myself sweat from all the tity terrors you could think of. When I made my way up and pulled the curtain back, I could not believe my eyes.

THERE WAS ALL KINDS OF TITTIES. 

Big titties, small titties, full titties, tiny titties, handful titties, mouthful titties, hershey kiss titties, fake titties, real titties, firm titties, those must be yo mama titties. 

All kinds of titties. 

And each of those pairs of titties, had the most warm welcoming personalities nestled behind them. Some women complimented me for my beauty, my bag, or some liked my shoes. They asked me questions about where I was from and how old I was, but they never once asked if I danced topless. They knew I did not. They never had to ask. Because no matter the size of your titties, every dancer has dancer’s intuition. And as they used their intuition, I remembered the second most important thing to a dancer, confidence. I was not in a room full of customers, managers, titties or strangers; I was in a room with my sisters. And any good sister is a professional hype beast. I grabbed my shoes with my new found confidence in myself and my soft titties, and hit the stage.

The manager yanked me by my hand and led me to front stage. “You only have to take your top off for the second song”, he said rudely implying I was an amature. I was an ammature. But I was going to show him different. I was going to prove to myself and him, that a titty is just that, a titty.

So I whipped those titties out so fast they did not see it coming.

I flipped those titties, bounced those titties, I practically twerked those titties off. And as I caught myself glancing a peak at myself in the mirrored walls, I realized something.

A titty is JUST a tittty.

Those titties I hated for so long got the debut they always hoped for. For the first time, I loved my own titties. To my surprise, I was not the only one. Some liked them cause they were natural, some liked them because they were soft. But I was not sweating in titty terrors anymore and I was not looking for validation anymore, I had defeated the self conscious titty demon within.

10. “What's your real name?” (And not your stripper name) - To quote The Wonderful Lil Wayne.

Let us fuck up this fantasy off rip, shall we? Cause I am sure that finding out my name is Carol is top ten sexiest fantasies on your bucketlist. I am here to sell a fantasy, and your here to buy it; cut the shit.

9. “I just came in to have a drink.”

GO HOME ROGER.

Would you go to the bank and say, “I am watching people make deposits, however, i do not have my own”? Would you go to a restaurant and say, “I just want a table to watch people eat”? We are not stationary paintings on a bar wall, we are living, breathing, ART performing right before your eyes. We are all sister, sisters in this motherfucker so just pay me, cause if not, every dancer will know who to avoid (broke ass Roger).

8. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Let’s be real here. One, You do not care if I do have a boyfriend; two, you will not believe me when I lie and say no, and three, in five drinks you will be asking me number 7 regardless of how I answer your question.. 

7. “What goes down in VIP? Venus gave me a special.”

My name is not Venus. So, where Venus at? Ask if she is still offering that special. And tell her I respect her work, just not here.

6. “It’s his birthday.”

Unless you and your “birthday buddy” are grabbing VIP, popping bottles, and making it rain; do not bother informing me of the date that your buddy here was born. It is everyone’s birthday here, all the time. Unless your bringing in cupcakes and racks, shut the fuck up.

5. “Do you think you’ll get a real job?”

Excuse me? I file self employed, pay my own taxes, write off my own deductions from anything like lashes to toenail paint, create my own work schedule, build my own clientele, meet CEO’s to creatives, provide for myself and others, and can save my heart out in a good year.

Why is it not a real job? Because I drink in my underwear and I do not get healthcare benefits? Shit, that sounds like your wife working from home. 

4. “I am not like the other guys in here”

Really? Cause I just walked around the bar for tips and fifteen other men said the exact same thing.. so will the real stand up guy at the strip club please stand up?

3. “Do you make money here?”

No, I just show up to pay my bills with the belly button lint from my cheap ass customers who ask me dumb ass questions. Do you make money at work, or does your mom still give you an allowance jackass?

2. “What time do you get out of here?”

I know what society has taught you, I am fully aware. Yes, I understand that it is hard for you to comprehend why women called sex workers are not running around actually looking for sex. I know! It’s madness. I am sure movies led you to believe we are frail and foolish sex driven mystical creatures. However if you attempt to meet me outside, you will be showered in pepper spray and feel the wrath of my “have not put power steering fluid in for two months” upper body strength.

1. “Your not just some dumb stripper!”

You just proved your lack of respect for us, for sex workers, for women, period. Do not get my panties in a bunch, your misogyny is showing. Not just that, but to underestimate a woman who can transform herself into so many roles on a daily basis is foolish. We are wonder women. Some of us mothers, students, doctors, police women, you would never know that some are all of the above. But because we play the “dumb stripper” role everyday for dumb ass clients like yourself, who like you, will dump their hard earned money from their joint account all over my dumb fat ass, I am the the dumb one? Whose the dumbass now?