Sex

No Rest for the Wicked

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I like to think I’m a good person. I’m the kind of person you can go to when you’re having a bad day. Like a really bad day. Just got dumped? Let’s go out, drinks on me. Having a random panic attack? I’ll hold your hand and help you breathe until it passes. Having a flashback and running down the street, away from invisible threats? I’ll chase you down, grab you, and talk you through it. I’ve talked several people out of suicide without a second thought. I’m the kind of person who’s there when it counts.

I’m not a nice person, though. I’m not agreeable. My bullshit tolerance is zero. If you piss me off I will cut you to pieces and not think twice about it. I love helping people, but when it comes down to day to day life I actually fucking hate them. People suck. They really do. They’re petty. They’re selfish. They’re unforgiving.

What gets me the most is that oftentimes the people I’ve been there for, truly there for, are the ones who abandon me in my hour of need. Like I said, people are selfish. They take and don’t return.

I may be blaming them for my bitterness, but so be it. As I said, I’m not a nice person. I’ve been used too many times to still be naive enough to expect anything back from the people I give to. When you’re working, taking off your clothes and dancing and giving your body, your self, to other people, they certainly don’t give anything in return. Not the people I worked for. They want more, more, more. They want to see how much they can get for as little money as possible.

I didn’t work at the clubs where rappers showed up and made it rain. I worked for a gambling ring of greedy businessmen who stole the girls’ money. That was their game, and they played it often. They hand you your money after a few dances, and as you’re counting it and putting your clothes on they slyly grab your clutch and slink off into the darkness. And by the time you look up to tell them they shorted you $20 (also an often occurrence), they’re long gone. Out the door, in a cab, on the way home.

Talk to management about it? Hahaha. They didn’t give a fuck. And you better work hard to earn back enough to pay the house fee, or you’re out for good.

Wickedness breeds wickedness. Evil breeds evil. Once upon a time I thought I could remain kind and sweet and unfazed by all the evil around me. That’s why I have a lotus flower tattoo. They blossom in dirty swampy water. I wanted to be that beautiful flower in that dirty disgusting world around me. How naive. What a silly little girl I was.

I watched Sin City a little while ago with my boyfriend. It reminded me of New York, just a little. They say if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. It’s true. People will take you for all you’ve got, kick you to the curb, and leave you to pull yourself together and try again, if you’re crazy enough to think you can still survive here. Nobody here is nice. Nobody cares about you. You can’t trust anyone.

Everyone I know is on antidepressants. Nobody I know gets enough sleep. We’re all wicked. We use each other, we hurt each other, we take each other for all we’re worth.

I used to be a nice person. Sometimes I still am. I used to be a good person. I like to think I still am. I am far from innocent. I am not someone you should try to pull something on. I do not tolerate bullshit from people. I will easily walk away and not look back.

We’ve all heard that song. Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. I can’t stop listening to it. It rings true with me. There’s no rest for the wicked here. Money doesn’t grow on trees. We all have bills to pay. We all have to eat. We get by any way we can, even if it’s at the expense of others. Sometimes I think it’s especially at the expense of others. In this city you can’t slow down, or you risk getting trampled. There ain’t no rest for the wicked, and if I am wicked, then so be it.

 

Hello My Name is…

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

Who am I? Candy, short for Candice? Or am I a nameless sex worker?

Am I just Stripper? Am I Hooker? Escort? Whore? Slut?

Sometimes I think that’s all I am to people. I’m not a person, I’m my job. My former job I mean. And I think “former” is the most important part, because to most people that means “no longer asking for money for services”.

So then I can have sex with someone and it’s just hooking up, but they still get all the benefits of my experience and skills.

Because that’s what I am, right? A former stripper. A former escort. A former hooker. And that’s all I am.

I feel like men at least, maybe women too, learn about my past and stop seeing me for me. They see my job. They see I’m no longer asking for money. They want a free lap dance from a stripper, or a free blowjob from an escort, or to snort coke off my tits or ass because I’ll be down to let them do it. I am an opportunity to cross something off their bucket list that they never thought they would actually get to do.

The assumption that frustrates me the most is the one where I’m still interested in having sex with people I’m not interested in being with. That because of my job I must be into casual sex. I must just innately be a slut.

Another assumption that makes me want to stab anyone who expresses it is the one where that job was easy. You have sex with rich men and get paid money. All you have to do is look pretty and get fucked. In reality it’s a ton of fucking effort on my part, while some middle class asshole that’s been saving up for a night like this is demanding more and more to see just how much he can get for his money. That’s the game. They always want to know exactly how much they can get for their money. They push you to your limits. And forget them doing any work. Nope. It’s all me. And for someone demanding that much from you, it’s a lot of work.

Expecting me to be a porn star in bed kills me too. I can be, it’s not about that. I know enough of those moves. But what nobody realizes is that porn is shot in takes, just like any other movie. They do it over and over to get the best depiction of the scene. There’s preparation. There’s practice. There’s rehearsal. In real life you can’t just bounce back and forth with your dick from my mouth to my ass to my vag to my ass to my mouth. I’m gonna need to extensively hydrate for a few days before that. We’ll need a lot of lube. I’ll need an enema.The male porn stars need preparation too. They can’t just jump into it and handle it. Why the hell do middle class people with small dicks think they can?

That sex doesn’t even feel good. Not for either party. It actually hurts. It just looks good on screen.

Porn isn’t real life. It doesn’t work in real life. And it certainly isn’t going to work for you for free just because you’re a guy and I’m a girl and I used to have sex for money.

I had sex for money. Yes. Did I like doing it? No. Did I enjoy it? No. Do I want to have sex like that ever again? NO.

To be completely honest, I’m not that into sex at all. It just feels like a chore. I’m into BDSM because the intensity of it is the only thing that can get me off. Normal sex doesn’t anymore. I get bored. I find myself going through the motions. Moaning, then becoming verbal, then screaming and pretending I’m coming just seconds before you do. I never come. Not once in my life have I had an orgasm. Sex does nothing for me.

I want to be a person. A person that other people regard as a person and only a person. Not as the former sex worker they want to get close to so they can bother me until I give them what they want.

Not A Good Enough Stripper

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I’ve tried reading memoirs written by other people who got out, and they all seem to have done so much more than me. They worked in shittier places and dealt with worse clients for much longer than I did. I worked one night a week for a few months. I was never very good at what I did. There were other girls who really got down. I struggled not to stumble in my stilettos after a few drinks. I didn’t spend a ton of time getting ready like other girls did. I just threw on a dress and lacy underwear, made sure my legs were shaved, and blow dried my hair. Other girls would show up with huge tote bags filled with accessories. They would put shiny shit on their legs to make them look nice. They would cover their whole bodies with lotion for the grabby clients. They would sit there in the bathroom curling their hair and going ape shit with their eye shadow before work started.

Sometimes I feel like a fake.

I was never a hard core stripper. You could tell who the pros were at work. And the clients could too. They were the ones making at least a grand a night. I made 5 hundred tops. I remember the bartender told me once that I should get out while I was still a person. It should have been nice to hear that I was still a person. That I hadn’t gotten lost in the life. But it didn’t. I felt like I stood out in a bad way. Like people didn’t take me seriously as a stripper or something. Like I hadn’t met the requirements to be a real one.

I may not have been the best stripper. I didn’t dance the best. I didn’t make the most money. I wasn’t an aspiring model. I don’t have huge tits. My boss hated my guts.

But I guess I was good enough. My boss let me stay (they had high standards for who they let work there). I made money. I started hanging out with the owner and his crew after work. I knew the DJ. I was tight with the bartender. And the bottle girl. And the bathroom attendant (very important if you plan to do coke in the stalls with people).

Maybe I am a fake. I didn’t get sucked into the life. I didn’t cease to be a person. My entire life was never defined by the work I was doing.

I know people like that. It’s sad. It’s hard to be around. They start acting like it’s literally just going to work. They do a lot of drugs. They know a lot of sketchy people. They get really into yoga. They get all spiritual. They adopt names at work like Starr. Everything about them becomes sex. Hair extensions, trendy dye jobs, heavy smoky eye shadow, fake lashes, heels that reach ridiculous heights, boob jobs. Everything.

They’re the real strippers. They also never get out. They marry a rich old man for his money and are genuinely happy with that. Or they die from an overdose.

They don’t write books. The ones who got out did. The ones who had the most notable experiences did.

I’m probably not alone. There are probably plenty of girls out there who danced for a shorter amount of time and never felt like they truly assimilated into the life.

And I guess that’s ok. I don’t need to define myself by something I did for a few months. I don’t need to write a book. I don’t need to meet some standard of a “real stripper” that I made up and am holding myself to. I can validate my experiences as a stripper. I know that I was one and despite not ever feeling like a true stripper, I am allowed to be scarred by it and to have self esteem and psychological issues as a result of it.

Labels are based off stereotypes. I’m not a stereotypical stripper. I should actually probably be glad that I’m not. I did plenty of fucked up shit and got deep enough into the life to have a few stories and to know a few people, and that should be enough.

I don’t need to have been a great stripper. All that’s going to come from thinking like that is me going back to it. I’ll try to prove myself, to myself. I’ll try to be better. To get down more. To give better lap dances. To be fucking my boss. To get the good clients. To have a real stripper name that I consistently go by because I have regulars who will be asking for me.

I don’t need to do that. I don’t need to be anything or anyone except myself. I don’t need to prove myself.

S&M

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I think I’ve always been a masochist. For as long as I can remember I’ve had masochistic tendencies. I’ve always liked pain. Specific kinds of pain though. Like brushing your teeth too hard, until your gums bleed. Bondage too. Even just being locked up. Restraint. I’m really into it. I remember even as a kid being into it and freaking out my parents. I suggested once that a good punishment would be to lock us in this one closet, because it had a glass door with vertical bars and it resembled a cage. I was like 11 at the time.

They say in BDSM that it’s not about abuse and shit. Not like 50 Shades of Grey where he’s into it because of his childhood shit. I was into pain before I was abused. Before I was raped. I’ve just always been into it. Even now I can’t get off unless it hurts. I love when my boyfriend bites me, ties me up, crops me, spanks me, paddles me, etc. He loves when I beg and plead for him to dominate me, make me his slave, treat me like an object.

Treat me like an object. Ok so maybe some of it has to do with the rape. Reliving it and gaining control. Being restrained and used and hurt, and consenting to it. Wanting it. Asking for it.

What’s so wrong with it though? It’s not abuse. I’m consenting. I want it. He makes sure not to hurt me. That I only feel pain that I can tolerate and want to feel. So why is it so taboo to be into it? I like it. He likes it. So what?

Any time I tell someone they look at me like I’m nuts. I was pulled aside after a group therapy session and told I should seek out treatment for it. Why? Coping mechanism or not, what’s so wrong with it?

General society seems to have a singular concept of what constitutes a functional person. What a good, healthy person is. In therapy you work towards recovery, towards overcoming your problems. But who defines what criteria you have to meet to be “recovered”? What if these criteria don’t apply to everyone? What if these criteria don’t apply to anyone? What if your satisfaction with yourself and your life doesn’t meet these criteria? Then what?

Then society shuns you. You can’t be satisfied with the way things are because they deviate from the ideal of health.

How many people are actually into BDSM? How many people are unsatisfied with their sex lives because the only sex they have is vanilla, socially acceptable sex? We may never know. The stigma is so great that I doubt all people who participate in scenes will admit to it if questioned. I certainly don’t tell anyone. I take it even further than that. I actively hide it from people. As does my boyfriend. It’s instinctual.

“What’s that?”
“That’s just a rope left over from when we had to move all our furniture in, we figured we should keep it in case we ever need it for something else”
“Those are just straps to hold the mattress in place, because it slides off the platform sometimes”
“That’s not a paddle, it’s a tool for scraping paint off the walls”

They get more and more thinly veiled. And nobody questions it. Because how could such normal looking people be into something so horrific? Something so disgusting.

The pain I fear isn’t the physical pain from the sex. It’s the emotional pain of the rejection of people I confide in. Fear of judgment. Fear of being shunned. Fear of being treated like I’m broken or crazy or fucked in the head. Fear of being treated like I have an affliction that I need treatment for.

I’ll admit to handling problems poorly sometimes. I’ll admit to having poor coping mechanisms. I’ll admit to being self-destructive. I refuse to admit, to even believe, that my masochistic tendencies are anything other than a personal preference.

“I love the feeling
You bring to me
Oh, you turn me on
It’s exactly what
I’ve been yearning for
Give it to me strong
[…]
Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But chains and whips
Excite me”

– Rihanna