Hot dog water & opinions

The Uncensored Stripper recently sent me her latest series of photos that she shot with her friend/co-model/co-stylist, Amber Porter. I asked her if we could accompany them with some of her memoirs. She didn’t disappoint. She never does.

“Hot Dog Water & Opinions” by The Uncensored Stripper

Dave’s Bar 6 p.m.

The bartender here is treating me like shit. Which, if I’m honest, is gratifying in a strange way—this is a local bar & I’m not a regular. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t need to kiss my ass or be saccharin sweet. Granted, he’s in a service industry so not being a total dick wouldn’t hurt him. Cut to an hour later: I’ve been playing blues on the jukebox, which he appreciated & we got to talking. When he asked what I did for a living, I said my usual: “I’m a writer, but working as a prostitute is what pays my bills.”

“What?” he asked me.

“Yep, just what you thought you heard”, I said with a smirk.

“Wait, what?” he asked again.

“I’m a hooker”, I said.



A myriad of thoughts traveled across his face, & then he said, “Don’t do that in here.”
I laughed, “Honey, look at me. I look like a wet dog. I promise you I’m not here to hook.” Meanwhile I’m breathing hot dog air & I had to pull the lid off the toilet earlier in order to flush it. Yeah, I’m here fishing for clients. Good lord.

A little after the reveal & after a refresher drink (& him leering at me sideways from the end of the bar), he came over & said that I was “the first woman who’s ever openly admitted that” to him. Yes, sir, I got nothin’ to hide & no concept of the word shame. Actually, that’s not true, it’s shameful the way most people treat each other. It’s a shame that the best wines are so expensive. Two consenting adults agreeing on an exchange isn’t on my shame list. Being a hooker doesn’t define me. I’m not one dimensional, I’m many things, but if you ask me how I’ve paid the bills for the past twenty-five years, it’s been from selling a fantasy & making dudes come.

I could tell my being a working girl had thrown him off center, which sort of surprised me, him being a jaded old-timer bartender & all. He told me he’s been slinging hooch for close to forty years, you’d think he’d have seen a thing or two…not be so thrown by little ol’ me, but I was in Glendale—hardly a rough town. He asked when I was going to quit, & kindly added, “You know you have an expiration.” I was about to agree with him when he said I had maybe ten years. I stopped mid-excuse…he just said ten years! I did a mental backflip. He must think I’m younger than I am.

I continued writing & he continued slinging. About thirty minutes down the line he asked if I had a moral issue with it, & also wanted to know if I believed in God. Instead of waiting for an answer, he went into a whole diatribe about how the industry is portrayed in films & books & that he knows “its a cold exchange”. I rolled my eyes at this. How in the world can he know what it’s like for a woman to do what I do? I thought to myself: I have to show the other side of the coin to everyone—the real side. I contemplated getting into it, but here’s this sixty something bartender who is set in his ways…I decided to just let him get it off his chest. He has a major issue with women selling sex & fake love for money. He doesn’t think those things should have an exchange rate. When I brought up the point that not all men can find love (or sex) he said they were just being lazy. I was ready to throw in the towel on this afternoon’s writing excursion—I wasn’t going to change this old dog & that’s okay. Sometimes the best I can do is live by example. Perhaps just meeting a veteran sex worker who was kind, not on drugs (scratch that, I think I may have done a tiny bit of meth in the bathroom), has her shit together & doesn’t hate men will cause him to rethink what he “knows”.

“Therapist to the Stars” by The Uncensored Stripper

[August 8, 2012]

Psychotherapist to the stars & filthy rich he tells me. Wiry dude in his early forties, wearing a leather jacket in ninety degree weather & he was sort of twitching. Not much was happening in the club so I chatted him up. I could smell money on him & was proven right when he pulled out an impressive wad to pay for a beverage. He said this was his first time in a strip club & was only there to see what his clients were into. Like I give a rat fuck. I talked him into a VIP dance. He was uncomfortable at first & so damn jittery. I’m the one on meth, vodka & Adderall, but I’m like the Dali Lama by comparison. What’s this freak on?

The dance was okay. He wanted to talk more than rub. Which was okay with me. I can chat like the dickens. He comes from money, that much is clear. He said his sister was a famous writer. I didn’t ask who she was (even though I could tell he was hoping I would). He had extremely antiquated notions of what strippers & clients are. He thinks all strippers are fucked-up trash & all customers are sex-fiend losers (I wondered which one he was). I went into a tirade about how outdated his views were & why. I also clued him into a massive conspiracy…that a lot of the men at the club were waiting for a plane (we’re near a major airport), & most of the women were…well, sure, some of us are nuts, but we run the gamut. He wasn’t listening. I might as well be talking about a chupacabra: equally as mystical & pontificated upon.

Our three songs were up. He said he was a fan & didn’t expect to like it. Yes, sweetie, why do you think there’s a strip club on every corner? He surprised me with a good tip & asked if I would sit with him a little longer. I said sure. He was amusing me. He told me that his client’s have to enter his office from the back because of the paparazzi. Again, I didn’t enquire. I was driving him nuts. I don’t give a shit about that stuff. Perhaps it was my disinterest that was making him so fidgety? He was dying to be important. Why is it that people who work in the mental health field are always the ones who need it most?



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