Bambi

Bambi threw away the satin hotpants and tight fitting waistcoat of the waitress the other day, and donned the slinky polyester of the stripper for her audition.

The first day Bambi ever worked, she had asked me what went on in The Champagne Room. Four weeks later, Bambi is only too aware of what goes on in The Champagne Room, having frequented there many a time. It's to pay for her two children. One's ten, lives with her mother. The other is five. Bambi's my age, 26, but she has the body of a sixteen year old, and the party personality to boot. On my audition, I stood rooted to the pole, unwilling to move in case my legs failed to recognize the unfamiliar seven inch heels attached to my feet. Bambi strode on stage and rode the pole like a bitch, while I sat with Mafia Joe cheering and throwing singles at her gyrating butt.

She came offstage and gave me a hug. "I gotta go speak to Dolores, find out how it went."

She was a winner, she was in, we all knew it. No one can hustle like Bambi. Two kids by 26 makes you hard enough to do what's necessary, and if you can have fun doing it as well, then you're a stripper.

She came back from talking to Dolores and plonked herself in between me and Mafia Joe.

"They said no. Said my breasts are too small."

"Your breasts aren't too damned small! Look at that bitch over there."

I point to Lola, a skinny eastern european chick with two small salt shakers protruding from her chest, performing a half-hearted loll onstage.

"But baby, you gotta understand, she's white."

In New York, black doesn't sell. In New York, it's still better to be white, whether in a strip club, in an office, on the street.

It sucks being a motherfucking white bitch, but sadly, in some ways, it sucks more being black.

Drunken Slapper Night

"ARE WE HAVING FUN?"

"YEAH!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU! I SAID ARE WE HAVING FUN?"

"YEAH!"

"DAVID WANTS TO HEAR THAT ENTHUSIASM GUYS! DAVID FEEDS OFF YOUR ENERGY! NOW GIMME A WOAH!"

"WOAH!"

Possibly it was extended over-exposure to CBS'S David Letterman underlings and their repulsively enthusiastic sycophancy for the big man which resulted in my complete inebriation and consequent humiliation yesterday evening. Yes, last night was drunken slapper night, and I was anyone's, or more specifically, the very nice man who so kindly devoted an entire evening to giving me red wine and advice about writing a book, and was rewarded by my attempting to pole vault down his throat on the sidewalk of a bar outside the West Village. Most undignified. Extremely embarrassing. Thankfully he was a gentlemen throughout the entire episode. Stumbling down the stairs to the subway in a tiny white skirt and heels, I was struck by remorse. What was I thinking? How could I even attempt to be unfaithful to the man with whom I'm currently enjoying a non-relationship /ambiguous sex and food indulgence? Amends must be made. I called Eton, stumbled out of the subway and headlong into a cab and straight up to the Upper East Side, at which point I realized I had absolutely no money with which to pay for said cab, and was unable to master the intricacies of a cash machine, lacking both hand and eye coordination, and any remnants of rational thinking. I called Eton again. He emerged on the sidewalk with a newly arrived sibling from England.

"What the hell are you doing you drunken idiot? Did you know that you've sent me the same text message twelve fucking times?"

It all made so much sense on red wine. Get drunk, molest a stranger, run to the arms of my beloved in remorse, impress him with my dazzling, drunken wit and new heels, increase my popularity stakes.

I think the poor sibling was shocked by Eton's choice of slapper.

There are a few black outs in the episode. I remember, at one point, lying in bed and the hazy kaleidescope of my life whirling in and out of focus, the visa, Star Skivvies, Bon Giorno, the stripping, the problems with freelancing, the shitty apartment, the long work hours, the stress, the worry, the countdown to August 22nd.

I then recall committing the ultimate drunken slapper sin.

I cried.

Big, sloppy wet tears of drunken misery and pain, until Eton took pity on me, and held me tight, and murmured, "You're so lost you idiot. Don't worry, I'll help you."

I have a feeling he may reconsider after reviewing the night's slapper antics.

Bollocks.

DREAM Act Event

This event is in honor of immigrant students like Kamal, and Marie, young students who came to this country at a young age and are now in risk of being deported because of our broken immigration system and the Special Registration Program. The DREAM Act in the Senate and the Student Adjustment Act in the House are bills that would remove barriers to education and provide a path toward legal residency for U.S.-raised immigrant students who lack legal immigration status.

The event will be on Thursday, June 30th. The rally begins @ 12 Noon, in Lower Manhattan at Thomas Paine Park, Corner of Worth and Lafayette (N, R, W, 6 at Canal or C,4,5,6,J,M,Z,2,3 at Broadway-Nassau)

For more information, call Angie Cardenas @ The New York Immigration Coalition at 212- 627-2227 x233

---------------------------------------------------------

And while you're reading this, I really need some freelance work and a nice letter of employment from a UK based newspaper, in exchange for words and/or sex. Thanks guys! Mimix

Sex and Food

Eton eats like few people do in the days of Atkins and South Beach, fast food and packaged sandwiches: with pure, unmitigated, unhurried relish and a complete absence of guilt. After a lazy, slow evening of grinding and chocolate, a lethargic morning of eating cock, we go out for eggs and croissants, shrimp and sandwiches, praline spread, crusty brown bread and hot milky coffee.

"The problem with women," he begins through a mouthful of pain au chocolat, "is that you just can't say anything, or give suggestions regarding sex, without them taking it as criticism and getting offended. I always seem to have long relationships with the girls who have too many hang ups, and great sex with the girls I wouldn't ever date. It would be good to get the combination right."

I don't ask what category I fall into. It seems prudent not to, and in any case, Eton knows full well the impact of his words, and enjoys keeping me guessing. I made him dinner last night - lemon sole and asparagus, then cleaned his fridge, and taught him how to slice an avocado. He looked at me in bemusement. "So you're my girlfriend now are you?" he laughed, and then I fell asleep on him, but not before whispering, "Not until you ask me to be". I don't know what I am. The ambiguity keeps me alive. It's a strange and elaborate combination of dishes, as opposed to a crappy a-la-carte, prix fixe menu.

In exchange for the meal, Eton said he'd teach me how to deep throat.

It must be love.

Pricks I Have Known: Special Edition

This special edition celebrates the inauguratory series of 'Pricks I Have Known' with a hand selected medley of assorted pricks from Pimping Pussies for your entertainment. Enjoy!

1) Mr Satisfaction

Mr Satisfaction enters the club sporting a leering grin and with a hand permanently attached to the groin area, such that only a surgical operation and/or proximate pussy/breast/female orifice is sufficient to remove aforesaid hand. Mr Satisfaction's main concern is the achievement of orgasm, preferably all over an unfortunate stripper, for as low a price as is possible. Hence, upon accepting the offer of a table dance, Mr Satisfaction will usually grab the dancer mid grind, and bounce her up and down on his pathetic member in what one assumes to be his preferred unrythmical thrusting method when in the sack. When this fails to achieve the desired result, the Champagne Room is entertained as an option, upon which an hour of verbal and physical tussling usually results in Mr Satisfaction whipping out his one eyed friend, shortly before being ejected from the club by a large and unfriendly bouncer. But Mr Satisfaction is never desperate. Oh no. He has a loving, healthy relationship with his wife, and three beautiful children, as well as a huge mansion in Jersey, and girls showering attention on him every single day of his blessed adult life. Of course.

2) Mr Serial Stripper Dater

Thirty seconds into a dance, Mr Serial Stripper Dater has decided that the twenty bucks neatly tucked into the stripper's garter is not the main, (in fact, only) reason she showers him with attention. Obviously it is more his superior, quirky, unique brand of charm, which positively obliterates the bad breath, body odor and unfortunate taste in K-Mart clothing. There can be no reason why the stripper would not want to spend her precious free time in his radiating and enthralling presence, and thus for the duration of a three minute song he plagues his unfortunate table dancer with a variety of offers for dinner dates, Broadway shows, and trips to Las Vegas (seperate beds, obviously). It has been rumored that strippers are preferred material for dating due entirely to their lowered expectations after intense and prolonged exposure to the dregs of mankind. On the contrary, I would suggest that strippers have higher standards and a keener eye for man's weak and roving eye, not to mention their other little foibles. Be warned Mr Serial Stripper Dater. Should we ever take you up on your offer of a 'date', we expect to see a lot more of that Platinum card for a little less contact than you can get for that twenty buck dance in Pussies.

3) Sweater Man

Sweater Man, with an infinite supply of argyll knitwear in varying tasteless shades, emits his own peculiar stench as soon as he enters the club and slithers to his accustomed position at the end of the stage. He will then perspire profusely for the next two hours whilst desperately clutching his nine dollar bottle of water and clinging to his three grubby and wrinkled singles, which he will wave eerily like a victory flag and take great pleasure in slipping between a dancer's smooth thigh and g-string. Should dancers possess slot machines, you can be sure Sweater Man would be the first in line with his saved up nickels and quarters, warm and sweaty from his oily palm, his weekly thrill that moment of contact between young flesh and coarse, greasy fingertip.

To be continued...

Sleepless in Brooklyn

"So what's the average male sexual approach?"

"Usually they attack your pussy with the gusto of a lawn strimmer for around 30 seconds, slobber on your mouth a little, then consider your needs satisfied and so resume their frenzied ramming in the missionary position."

Eton looks vaguely disturbed, his forkful of filet mignon poised en route to mouth. I'm sitting cross legged in his apartment on the Upper East Side after a fruitful Pussies session, streaks of stripper make up still adorning my cheeks, take out restaurant food balanced on my knees.

"What's the average female sexual approach?"

Eton smiles amusedly.

"The girls I've slept with don't seem to enjoy sex and intimacy. They just want to analyze everything and get ridiculously paranoid if you don't come, or if they take too long, or if you look at them in a certain way... it's... weird."

I always had a suspicion that the English Upper classes were repressed. No wonder all those double-barrelled men are fucking each other up the derriere if women are spending most of their time fretting about their Fortnum & Mason delivery, or the fact that the photographer from Harpers Bazaar took their picture at the Society Ball from the wrong angle. Tsk. What can one do apart from seek solace in the arms of... a stripper.

I love sex. I love turning men on. I love people looking at my body and finding it attractive. I love the power my body can have over men. I love the power I have in withholding my body from certain men, and getting paid to do so. I also love that moment when you decide that you're not going to withhold your body any more, and you give it up. Which is why, after three frigid months, when I woke up that morning horny as hell after talking to the peculiar posh boy who offered me ten thousand dollars to help me out, I went straight back to his apartment and kissed him, and then had the best sex I've had in an extremely long time.

What turns me on more than anything is the mind - humor, intelligence, curiosity, personality. Talking to someone for hours about life, love and sex. Wondering if love exists, if sex is always going to be dull six months into the relationship, if life has a purpose other than spawning brats and feel-good moments which evaporate into the brittle air as soon as you recognize them for what they are. What turns me off is over-analysis, paranoia, neuroses, lying, stress, bad breath, body odour, ugly people, lack of drive, stupidity, insecurity. I could go on.

I'm not sure where this is heading. But damn does that posh boy turn me on.

I got paid $700 to watch some rich asshole jerk off yesterday.

Two Hours in the Champagne Room

"... and then I'd lick you from here to here, and then I'd kiss your pussy, and then I'd slide into you, harder and harder...

(gasp, pause, lights cigarette, looks at me)

Tell me your fantasies Mimi. Tell me what you'd do with my dick."

Always a question which stumps me. I am not, verbally, the most articulate of people, plus I have a slight problem with the exact realm of impossible fantasy this kind of talk leads one to. I don't think my mental powers are sufficiently strong enough to be able to envision this most impossible of situations - the idea that I would ever actually lower myself to be found in bed with someone quite so grotesque as Mr Accountant.

"Erm. Let's see. I dunno. I'd erm, I'd make you play with yourself, then I'd probably make a cup of tea and have a cigarette while you jerk off on your own."

I disappear for another 'restroom break' and text-message fiddle while Mr Accountant mulls over my erotic response. Seven hundred dollars and this is what Mr A. gets for his money. Two flat Diet Cokes and a superior level of sarcasm, coupled with a constantly peeing English girl for 120 minutes of quality time. I sit in the restroom and talk to the bathroom attendent. He teaches me how to say, "Go suck cock asshole" in Portuguese. I down some cheap white wine. 23 minutes to go. I re-enter the Champagne Room.

"So Mimi, tell me what I'd do with my dick while you were making tea and having a cigarette..."

Persistent little beggars, those accountants.

A Saturday Date

I know Eton is a nice guy when he gives me the marinated eel sushi and politely avoids commenting on my misuse of chopsticks, sipping Diet Coke and glancing at me, slightly confused, while I quaff on red wine and delete the text messages from my personal trainer. Is that butt at 32 yet? Are you drinking alcohol?

We're the same age, both from England, friends in the same circles, but worlds apart.

"My mother died when I was young and left my sisters and I some money. Sometimes I work, sometimes I don't. I have enough not to, but I like to keep myself occupied."

Eton exudes a shroud of mystery, that impalpable whiff of loneliness and isolation which haunts New Yorkers who have found that making money isn't enough, that ambition is sometimes empty, that life, even in the greatest city on earth, can be unsatisfying. He knows this, is plagued by the question - what does one do when one has money? Yet he's not lazy, he doesn't take it for granted. I think, in some odd way, he envies me.

"Your life is so... colourful, you know all these people, are involved with all these activist groups."

I perch on his windowsill in an apartment on the Upper East Side, a cool night, relaxed, easy. Eton is shocked at my sailor's language (I cuss like a sea dog) and the Americanisms sprinkling my once-Cambridge-and-Welsh accent. You're like a wild animal, someone told me in the club a few days ago. You have your shit together, you're tough. Oh yes. But sometimes you feel more vulnerable despite this - or maybe because of it. Lately the story has been taking twists and turns, becoming more dramatic, more ridiculous, a hyperbole of grammatical flourishes and overwrought emotion, the comedy stretched taut to become non-existent. I shock and cause chaos. Chaos is attracted to stability, observes Mr Champagne, and vice-versa. Perhaps he's right. Everyone wants a piece of me, a little chilli in their lives... for five minutes until it starts to sting. Eton looks at me and laughs, and shakes his head slightly.

"I'm the type of person who always buys the same shoes, who eats at the same restaurant every night, who has a routine... and then there's you, sitting in my apartment, from nowhere, with this life and this story. It's very... surreal."

I hear that a lot lately.

We drink tea and talk until 3am, and then I get the subway home. As I leave Eton turns to me.

"You need ten grand for a few weeks? I can lend it to you."

"Why would you do that?"

He looks at me - big, dark eyes which are sharp and yet misted with confusion.

"I can't believe no one else will help you."


Gay Friend calls me from Kiehl's.

"You want makeup remover?"

"Why the fuck would I want makeup remover?"

"Well, this stuff is really amazing, it's a cream, but very gentle and yet highly effective."

"How the hell do you know?"

"Trust me. I'm buying it for you. You can pay me back someday."


I go into Bon Giorno. They hug me, exclaim extravagantly, pour me a glass of Montepulciano, hand me a Corsa Salad, some cheeses, slices of crusty ciabatta, 'forget' to give me a check.


Emails in my inbox - invitation to a press conference for the DREAM act next week, a proposal from two newspapers for freelance work, visa assistance from unexpected quarters, some very lovely fan mail.


New York smiles occasionally, just occasionally.

oh yeah, oh yeah

Oh yeah, oh yeah...

...gasps the big fat man with whom I went into the Champagne Room today. It's like a black eyed peas song.

oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah...

Shake it baby. I'm sure he would have, if not the impediment of 200 excess pounds of flesh. Still, it's all money. 700 bucks today. No thanks to Mr Nice Champagne. I get into work and Rusty, one of the Champagne hosts, grabs me and pulls me aside.

"Mimi get dressed. You're goin' home."

Mascara in hand, poised in a g-string in the dressing room.

"Uh...why?"

"Remember those guys you were talkin' to last Friday? Well, one of them kicked off at me because you told him you were in shit with me. Why the fuck did you say that? I can't speak to that fuckin' guy again because of you. You've overstepped the line Mimi. I want you out. Get dressed, go home."

It took a lot of crocodile tears and big eyes, but I stayed, and to earn some brownie points, took Mr Fat Man to the Champagne Room. Oh yeah oh yeah. Then I took Mr Mexico in. Then I got paid a lot of money for doing nothing. Oh, well, I waved my ass around a little, but that goes without saying. Oh yeah, oh yeah.

It's getting a little same-same hey? This shit about strip clubs? Tell me about it. Every day I go in and do the same old shit, come out, and face the void. Worry about writing, worry about the visa, worry because I'm 26 and surely I should be coming home to something other than a laptop and a cup of tea. Mimi, you're amazing, says the word on the street. The word in the apartment is Mimi, you're alone and careerless. Have an application form for a temping agency in London.

My career plan is 'terrible', apparently. I would be offended, except I'm flattered that someone assumed I had a career plan. Improvisation is the game. Think on my feet. I scheme while life is being lived, and I plot for the future in those dark, insomniac 5am moments. But think too much and it bites me in the butt. Yet I think all the damned time. Weekend, two lonely days off. You know what I'm gonna do? Write and have my fucking period. I'm gonna bleed like a bitch. Oh yeah, oh yeah. Talk about the lack of sex life with Gay Friend. Refuse five dates beause I lack the energy to talk about someone else and their past fucking relationships. I wish, in some way, I wasn't world weary, and then maybe NY life would seem oh-so-new-and-exciting. But I am. Hey get over it. Oh yeah, oh yeah.

You know what I want? A really good night out dancing with my girlfriends on a Caribbean beach, a big slap-up meal, lots of wine and laughing, dressed in heels and expensive clothes with someone I find attractive and yet don't have to play the fucking polite English, educated female writer with. Or the street wise stripper.

Oh yeah, oh yeah.

Huh.

Who?

I was going to slip in a juicy comeback to anon in the comments box, but then I thought this may deserve a post all of its own.

Since starting this blog I've become used to the weird, the not-so-wonderful and the downright hurtful and abusive. People love to judge, insult, denigrate, and the ease with which one can do so with the click of a button and a retreat into cyber-space has meant that writing a blog opens yourself up to a world of virtual, anonymous oddballs.

I don't usually delete these strange comments, but recently I've removed the comments box from three of my posts after 'Anonymous' has posted either some filth, or thought it was highly intelligent to reveal my real name to the world. There is a very valid reason I don't tell people my name or print it on this blog, and I'm disturbed that someone who does know my real identity, maybe through a close conection with myself, my friends or my family, thinks it's appropriate to endanger me in this way, merely because it pisses them off when I write something that they don't agree with.

There's a comments box on this post. Use it wisely, or the comments are going, never to return again.

How to be a bad Stripper

Talk to me boy....

No disrespect, I don't mean no harm

Talk to me boy...

I can't wait to have you in my arms

Talk to me boy

Gonna have you naked by the end of this song...

What a prophet the Timberlake is, although one doubts whether he has to pay twenty bucks a pop for this kind of attention.

I got into work early as usual, and chomped down some salad while talking to Dave, the temporary Manager, who's replacing Kate while she's on vacation getting a divorce and a breakdown. Dave's a cool guy. We talk shit for while.

"Mimi, how old are you?"

"26"

"Fuck! You look 18. You kiddin' me? Twenny-fuckin-six? I hope you tell the guys 18."

But of course mi amor, but of course. For all the damned good it does me. I haven't quite gotten the hang of the whole 'be nice to clients' scenario. My lines consist of:

"That's a really fucking bad mullet"

"What a terrible shirt"

"So you're here because you couldn't get any for free in a regular bar?"

"Deodorant is very cheap you know."

Sometimes it works. More often than not, following natural selection, I have learned that in order to survive in the Pussies environment, I must shut the fuck up and instead stick my ass out wearing the tiny schoolgirl outfit the House Mom pulled out for me the other day.

Well, life is moving. From the depths of despair last week I have a few feelers out for help with the visa, minus any cock sucking por supuesto. The money still evades me, but I'm working on it. I find it funny that people suggest to me that maybe I should leave. Do you not know me by now, dearest readers? I'm a stubborn, ambitious bitch and nothing's getting me out of NY apart from my own desire to leave...

Ah. Lucy's gone, so I'm going to bed.

Pussies Fables

Dead asleep at 1am when BANG! Lucy enters.

"Hey girl! Can I use your computer? You know what Eric did to me? I invited myself around to his apartment to stay the night, and he said he was real busy, and when I called him, he didn't answer the phone. I figured he musta worked so hard he just fell asleep. But ain't that kinda rude? Not to answer the phone when I'd told him I was stayin' the night?"

Like most lawyers, Lucy does not posess essential 'people' skills, tact or diplomacy and finds it hard to realize her presence is not always desirable. She disappears ranting into the night and I ease into a perspiring slumber.

BANG!

3am, Lucy enters.

"Hey girl! I can't sleep, so I decided I was gonna sleep in your room."

She clumps around and nestles into a corner, and then humphs because I don't give up my bed for her. Sod that. I lay fuming, and at 6am gave up and went to the gym.

I work days in Pussies because in that way I can almost assume the semblance of a normal life. I love mornings. Ever since I lived in Argentina, the Caribbean and the South of France, mornings have been the only retreat from blowtorch heat, a time when I can escape work and politics and people and midday sun and think. I get up, walk to the gym, work out for an hour, wander around Bedford Avenue, and then go into Pussies at least an hour early and have breakfast with the boys before work. Mike, the handyman, is one of my favorite people in Pussies. He has a soft southern drawl and a way of delivering the most obscure, ridiculous tales. And in Pussies there are many.

"Remember that time Tommy, when the doorman Victor had a threesome with Barky and Adele the House Mom, and all the way through Barky kept sayin' 'The Lord's gonna strike us down! The Lord will not forgive!'. An' of course Victor comes in an' tells us everythin' the next day, laughing his damn ass off. Victor. There was a character. 300 pounds and drank a tumbler of vodka without blinkin' every day before work. He won some court case from a car accident, and got rewarded $600,000, an' then three days before the pay out, he dropped dead on the door upstairs from a fuckin' heart attack. 36 years old. Looked more like 56."

Mike leans back and chuckles, and everyone joins in, sipping hot, sweet coffee gratefully in the chill of the a/c, in the musty dinginess of the club before opening time. I love these guys. Real New Yorkers every one, with hearts of pure gold. Fuck with them and your face will be peeled off your head in no time, but listen to them and you hear the intricate weavings of New York unfurling.

"There was this one time when Gary, the owner, made me drive up to his house in the mountains and pick up his kids' damned pet ferret. Evil little bastard that ferret. Well Gary wanted us to take the ferret to his house in the Hamptons, but couldn't fit it in the ferrari. We didn't want the damned thing in the truck with us, so Tommy went and bunjied it to the roof of the truck. We went 60 mph down the fuckin' freeway with this damned ferret bunjied to the roof. Little bastard never gave us any shit after that."

There are dark stories too. Molly the House Mom whose six year old daughter was kidnapped and raped twenty years ago, the killer never found. Lily, the other House Mom whose son dropped dead in his bed on his 40th birthday, reason unknown. Malevolent and bitter fables of the cruelty of the city and its inhabitants. Pussies is real, despite all the faking. It's more real than anything or anyone, because behind the veneer, we all know exactly why we're there. Everyone in that place is a survivor. Most have suffered. It's a place where the most privileged and the most disadvantaged converge, the one to serve the other. I danced for a guy today, a shy Wall Street 30-something. He gave me 100 bucks for three dances, turned down every other dancer, and asked me urgently when I'd be working again as I eased onto his lap. "Please don't get perfume on my shirt," he whispered, "My wife will kill me."

I'm doing him a service, I'm doing her a disservice... or am I keeping their marriage alive? Who's the more fortunate, the ignorant or the wise? I feel like we live more than most, we're wise beyond our years, but because of this we suffer with deep, silent profundity. But then we laugh harder despite this.

I need sleep. I have to gently get rid of the house guest before she wakes me with more tales of Eric at 3am, and the other roommates evict me for her cornflake stealing.

New York Nights

I spent my two days off glued to the internet trying to sort out the visa and raise some cash. I always hang out in a tiny Japanese restaurant on Bedford Avenue to write, but recently it's been taken over by long haired hipsters playing suicidal electronica music accompanied by a 4ft Japanese dwarf on an out-of-tune electric guitar. It's also become a major pick up joint. For some reason every time I'm writing, wearing my shittiest, baggiest pants, hair scraped back and no make-up, I get hit on by earnest graduate students clutching copies of Heidegger, eager to share their existential student angst over sake and hemp clothing. Still, it has free wireless and a hot Japanese chick behind the bar. Never been into the whole carpet-munching scene but I like to be surrounded by pretty girls. There's a dirty old man in us all.

Last night there was a disturbed restlessness in the air. The Hasidics prowled around in full regalia grumbling ominously in the humid, prickling New York night. Desiree my roommate came back to the apartment at 5am after her bar shift to find me wandering around naked, trying to find a cool spot and avoid the mosquitoes attacking me through the metre square hole in my wall which appeared yesterday after the ex-roommate decided to sneak into the house and steal the a/c. New York was ferocious and cruel at 5am and I cried at the hopelessness of it all, exhausted and unable to sleep, dreams of stability evaporating like the sweat on my body in the brittle air. Desiree said the bar was full of discontented insomniacs, wandering in singly in pyjamas and skimpy night clothes, tormented by a lack of sleep. Outside on the streets the water hydrants dribbled miserably after entertaining shrieking hispanic kids all day long in exuberant gushes. Someone lurked on our roof and Catto mewed sadly. This morning we woke to find all the cars in the street with their windows smashed, shards of glass sprinkled delicately on the pavement. I fell asleep at 6am and woke at 8 when Lucy called me.

"Hey girl! I went out with Eric last night. He took me out for dinner at the Crab place on Union Square, then we had gelato, and then he ate me out for dessert!"

Possibly the last image I needed at 8am after three days of chronic stomach cramps.

We lost the apartment. I had enough for the deposit and the broker's fee, but Lucy did not. I earn more money than her. I like to think that this is because of my superior grinding, but to be honest, Pussies is a pretty busy club, even in the day shift, whereas her club is relatively slow. Immediately after Lucy unloaded her 8am wake up call of the explicit sexual acts enjoyed between herself and Eric, my personal trainer called.

"What weight are you now?"

"Erm, 120"

"Statistics?"

"36, 25, 32"

"Have you been eating ice cream?"

"Erm, yeah, how did you...?"

"Mimi, this is very important. You are carbohydrate intolerant. I could tell by the distribution of fat on your body. Eat nothing but 12 eggs a day for a week and intensify the cardio workout. I want to see that butt down to 32 in 4 weeks, and your weight at 110."

"But I'm not made like tha..."

"No excuses. In your choice of profession we expect to see physical perfection. I'll see you soon."

Click.

My personal trainer has obviously never been to Pussies if he thinks 'perfection' is what you get from a stripper.

I'm moving in with Gay Friend in six weeks. I think we're going to get married. We'll never have sex and we irritate the shit out of each other, just like a real marriage. Life is never, shall we say, good, but at least it's never boring. One of these days I may even do something normal like go on a date, see the Mets play and have sex. I look forward to mundanity at some point in my life.

But not quite yet.

The Header

...is courtesy of (former) New York intern Andy. Thanks Andy! Great job.

Why I'm Really a Republican

I'm little Miss Left Wing in all things political. My poor parents tried hard to instill in me a hatred of asylum seekers, immigrants and Arabs, and my A-Level politics teacher likened my debating skills to Maggie Thatcher, but still I turned out to be a Liberal who adores tormenting Conservatives.

But when it comes down to it, I guess I'm really a Republican.

Liberals, specifically Democrats, faff around, argue, forget their point, get lost in philosophical debate, become too passionate and achieve... nothing. In contrast Republicans, perhaps due to the fact they are lacking the brain cells for extended argument, hone straight for their goal, steaming through like a bulldozer to reach their ultimate aim, figuring out the negative repercussions only after the event. Two words to prove this. 'Iraq'.'Filibuster'.

I can't help thinking, if I was a real Liberal, I would have stayed in a country I hated doing a job I disliked and fucking around with all the red tape of immigration, so that by the time I ended up here, I would have had tits by my ankles and be permanently tripping off HRT, or worse, never made it at all.

Instead I tried the legal route, then tested the semi-legal options, and then went 'fuck it' and stormed right on in with the attack. George would have been proud.

Maybe more Liberals need to start acting like Republicans. After all, it worked for Clinton, and it's not doing old Tony any harm back in the UK.

Mea Culpa

"I'm writing a book."

"You're a writer? That's what you do?"

"Erm, no. I'm a Doctor."

Grind grind grind. But he's a writer as well as being a Doctor. Everyone's a writer. We all sign checks, therefore we are all writers in some small way. I'm a writer in the compulsive sense - I do it more often than I jack off. Do girls jack off? I'm unsure what the feminine term is. I don't do it. Hell, I don't need to, all that ancient old cock and thin, wasted thighs to rub against. Sexy. Today I'm drunk. I figured it works better with some vodka to wash it down, some dutch courage to make you care a little less. I flirt pretty well. I think they almost all believe me. My type is corporate, go with the suit, 35 give or take a few years, married, two children. Works every fucking time. You're such stereotypes boys, did no one ever tell you that, or are the only people who realize the ones in your pay? I'm sorry, didn't intend to insult, it just slipped out. Every girl has a trick. A moan in the ear, a little careless hand slippage, some murmured crap about their favorite vibrator. Mine is to choose carefully. Never go with the ones you couldn't fuck. Of course I lower the standards on a bad day. But this just serves to make the good days even more enjoyable.

So nice Mr Champagne comes in. I was talking about you today with Tommy the cashier.

"If he cares he'll come in," says Tommy. Oh yes. But care about what? What is there to care about? Tits and ass which'll last another ten years if I'm lucky, an acerbic personality. But I enoyed dancing for you. Nice kisser baby. Lots of practice with the intern? Though I'm unsure about the morality of making out in front of the driver. Still, I did it anyway. Though you're making me feel cheap with all the cash on your friend's credit card, it's paying the rent, so I can't complain. Am I with you for the money? It's all about money, every damned second in the club, which is why I'm telling you to take me out. Fuck the wife and kids, they've had their day. It's their turn for a non a/c apartment in a shitty Hasidic area of Brooklyn and grinding cock to make the rent.

Just kidding. I'm not that mean.

If it was for the money I'd go with Mafia Joe sweetie. Believe it.

Got a new apartment. Lucy the stripper comes in midway through my Red Bull binge.

"East Village Baby! We're moving to the East Village!"

You got that INS? Want the zip code too?

They need a credit check. I don't do debt. I paid off my student loans from 4 years of college last year. I have a credit card I hardly use, a bank account in the UK which is barren and empty. Maybe this is the time I start calling Mafia Joe. Strangely, I would rather suck cock for 5 grand than have dinner with that fucking prick. Call me fickle.

It's all about money and it's not about money. I know your secrets, what turns you on, what makes you gasp, I don't know what makes you stay though. Never have. What makes me stay? I've never stayed anywhere, I couldn't tell you. Looks like I may be thrown out pretty soon though if encouraging Dave is anything to go by. Get back to your fucking PhD you right wing asshole.

Gosh, terribly rude today. So sorry.

Sometimes I don't want to explain. Just figure it out yourselves. That goes for you especially Mr Champagne.

How to Earn 10 Grand in One Month

Here goes the last vestiges of moral dignity.

So far -

$5,000 bid by former Mega Yacht Captain for a Strip and a Blow Job.

One drink bid by Paul the MTV guy.

Any raises?

Perks of the Job

Sunday evening. I'm sitting in The Bourgeois Pig on 7th and Avenue A with Lucy the stripper and Gay Friend. It's hot hot hot, the kind of melting, dribbling, lethargic slobber of an overcrowded city in summer. We're talking sex. We're talking stripping. Gay Friend is fascinated by our employment.

"So, what happens when you go in the Champagne Room with a guy you actually like?"

Lucy looks at me. I inadvertently inhale white wine through my nose and we both erupt. Lucy laughs like a jelly.

"Boy, c'mon! Whaddya think? It's fuckin' hot!"

I laugh too, but I don't know the answer to that question, not really. I always get stuck with the Francois' and the heavy breathers and the Mr Cum-in-their-Pants. Must be the pre-pubescent face stuck on top of hips which could have spawned Spain. I guess it could happen, I think idly. Although my head is too full of Federico and the disturbing aftertaste of bony-model butt to entertain the thought too seriously. Three months now. Three months since I last slept with anyone. This job fucks with your libido. Gay Friend looks horrified.

"You don't even masturbate?"

I bury my head in my wine glass as Lucy laughs even harder.

Monday's fun. Mafia Joe comes in. I've been in the Champagne Room with his friend. And with him. He keeps trying to get me to go to Las Vegas with him. I've warned him he may change his mind if he ever sees me outside the club, minus the slut dress, stripper heels and dressed in baggy combats. Oddly, this does nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.

"Mimi, I can't understand it. You've travelled to over 45 countries on your own, but you don't feel comfortable enough to meet up with me alone for a drink outside the club?"

Go figure genius.

But Mafia Joe is good for keeping the Red Bulls flowing. On a quiet day, strippers resort to drinking excessively and laughing. By 7pm on Monday I was nicely tanked enough to fall off the stage onto my friend Lulu, who was liplocked with a cute Dominican guy. I had maybe 60 bucks from the entire day, which wasn't even enough to cover the house fee. Sometimes it happens. I'd given up on the money part, and was laughing with the DJ and Simi, and tormenting clients, who seem incapable of responding to the fact breasts and a vagina can also possess conversational skills and wield heavy sarcasm. Some Wall Street guys sit down. I wander over and start laying into them. They buy me a few drinks, and the dancers flock around them sniffing out cash. One of them makes me laugh. Then I'm called on stage, and they all disappear into the Champagne Room. A minute later the one who makes me laugh reappears and grabs me off stage to go in the back. And I spend two hours getting very drunk, acting like Mimi instead of Michelle, and having one of the best conversations I've had with anyone in New York. Poor Federico turns up at 8pm and waits for two hours, and when I eventually get out of the club at 10pm, we grab some food.

Sometimes there are moments which need to stay precisely as that - a fleeting beautiful moment with no follow up. On Saturday night it was perfect to kiss Federico on a yacht beneath the Statue of Liberty. And on Monday night it was perfect to sit in a darkened room with a Wall Street guy and laugh and laugh, and find something good, and real, something better than the average Pimping Pussies pervert. But it wasn't good to go from this, straight to Mafia Boy Fed and find he's a self-obsessed prick with a typical South American machismo chip on his shoulder. I knew it was doomed when we grabbed a cab to 34st and I started chatting to the cab driver from India. Federico turned to me in disgust.

"Don't talk to him."

"Why?"

"Because you're just doing the patronising little white girl act, trying to be kind to the third world brown person. You know you are."

I was actually talking to the third world brown person because I suffer from interminable verbal diarrea and love conversation, with anyone, and especially cab drivers, who are always good for weird and wonderful stories. But if Mafia Boy says I was being a patronising little white girl, well... obviously Mafia Boy must be right seeing as he's the poor, underprivileged Hispanic kid, and I'm the White Bitch Slut who takes her clothes off for a living.

Moment over. I wish it had stayed just that - a pure transient movie scene moment on Saturday instead of intruding into my Monday.

I received this in my inbox today. I asked permission from the guy who sent it to reprint, but he hasn't replied yet, and I have insomnia from the heat and too much writing, and I'm not a very patient person:

Have you ever had a ride on a roller coaster?  Do you recall all the emotions you feel as you stand on line waiting to get on?  How about as you sit in the seat waiting for the ride to start? Then the ride starts and you're scared shitless yet so excited all at the same time. Then it's over and your heart is beating so fast and half of you is ready to puke while the other half is ready to stand in line and do it all over again.  You need a moment like that. 
 
On the ride home I was thinking when we first met.  You must have thought 'I'm leaving in an hour and these guys are going to buy me some drinks and I'm going to get a few dollars before the night shift comes in.'  Then you found a sparring partner, sort of a mark, that perhaps you could banter with if not have a dance or two.
 
Meanwhile I'm tired as hell. I'm soaked from the rain. The guys that I'm with only need me there so they can expense the night. I'm planning my escape before I get in. Then worlds collide and here comes the Brit.  
 
I had a wonderful evening. Somewhere in the three hours, at least for me, I forgot where I was and just enjoyed the company.
 
When I walked out and got into the car to go home I realized that my roller coaster ride was over.     

One moment gives way to another. I guess I can answer your question now Gay Friend. Sometimes life is just perfect.

Visa

My visa has been delayed. I need proof that I have ten thousand dollars and another letter from a British based newspaper, to supplement the letter from my employer in the UK. The useless university degrees, the publication history, the profitable butt, the four letters of recommendation and the plane ticket home just weren't enough for the goddamned INS. I have four weeks to find $10,000. I have $1,000.

My friend J. has just been turned down for a work visa despite her Cambridge University education, $20,000 in the bank, mortgage, stable employment, excellent references, impeccable credit history, strong family ties to the UK and expertise in an employment area which the US are currently lacking. Apparently too many vacations in the United States is not evidence of a desire to contribute to the economy and frolic in the Florida sun, but instead means that you constitute an 'immigration threat'.

Marie Gonzalez and her family are currently facing deportation despite having lived in this country for over ten years and become integral members of their community. Their deportation is scheduled for July 5th.

The guy who whispers filth to me in The Champagne Room whilst rubbing his cock against my knee is the Vice President of a huge, nationwide financial services company. I'd take great pleasure in printing his intimate details on this site if the rumor wasn't that he had mob connections.

Spot the respected citizen.

Shalom

Ah shalom shalom.

Fuck the violins, I'm over it. After getting paid 300 bucks for drinking vodka and red bulls with a guy I liked, the next bit with the mafia kid sucked. I'm sorry, but after work I just need a fucking cigarette, cup of tea and my laptop, and some romantic slushy shit just doesn't cut it. Five minutes into Mr Mafia I was like 'Enough already, stop sucking the fucking face off and give me some air'.

Guess I am just as coldhearted as you all think.

Whatever.

Give me a visa, writing and independence and I'm happy. A man ain't nothing in comparison.

Back to the Champagne Room.

50 Men and a Boat

As well as working at Pimping Pussies, I do freelance 'entertaining' on the side for the guy who manages the website for Pussies, Igor. He called me up on Friday and enquired whether I would like to be part of a ten girl group entertaining on a yacht hired out for four hours by a Marble Magnate's bachelor party. $250 up front, the chance to earn tips by dancing, a free trip to New Jersey in a limo. How much more demanding could a bachelor party be than Pimping Pussies?

I failed to foresee a few minor details.

1) 'Marble Magnate' turned out to be a euphemism for 'Colombian Drug Cartel and extended mafia family'.

2) 50 men on a boat makes Pussies look like a hospice for the sick and dying.

3) You should always carry more than one thong in case of emergencies.

I was picked up by the limo at 6pm outside a well known midtown hotel, and introduced to the other strippers. Narissa, a tiny, mouthy ghetto girl studying to be an accountant (apparently), Lucy, a voluptuous, stunning black girl from Georgia studying law at NYU, Julia, a 20 year old single mother and model with a severe alcohol addiction, and Mabel, a short, plump, dowdy African American girl with enormous tits and little personality. What most people find incomprehensible is the fact that strippers are normal people who have boyfriends, friends, ambitions and dreams like everyone else. It's easy to forget this in the confines of the club because the atmosphere places you in competition with one another, and with so many rules, you assume a different persona for the duration of your shift. Whereas in a situation like this, you watch each other's backs, you work together for the tips, and it's far more bearable if you act like yourself.

"Hey, girls, wanna do a lesbian flawr show wi' me?" Narissa demands, popping gum and helping herself to a bottle of Champagne from the limo's cooler.

"I will! Oh what the fuck, how many calories does this champagne have? I have to lose five pounds by Monday or my agent's gonna can me. Fuckin' asshole. Like I have five pounds to lose. Mimi, feel my tit Mimi. Is that a fuckin' tit which can take the loss of five more frikkin' pounds?"

Julia sticks out a bird like chest with two small bumps protruding from her rib cage which I assume to be breasts.

"I had great tits until I had my frikkin' son. Breast feedin' just ate 'em up. They just disappeared. Fuckin' pregnancy."

She grabs the bottle and glugs it. Igor looks concerned.

"Sweetie, I wanna make you promise me you're gonna grab some food in that party. I don't want you passin' out on the fuckin' floor, you hear me?"

We arrive at the Marina in New Jersey. We walk onto the yacht, and are directed to our dressing room. Narissa demands that we swap thongs as my thong goes better with her dress, the rationale that we won't be wearing both dress and thong at the same time for more than five minutes seemingly inconsequential. Hair, make up, perfume, last minute shave, lotion, fake tan, slut shoes, dress - we're ready, and bang! Fifty rich Hispanic men here we come. As soon as we enter, there's a pause, an intake of breath, and then -

Que puta madre!

Chaos. Lucy sensibly latches onto a sweet guy in his mid thirties who 'wants to talk', Narissa leaps onto the lap of the bachelor boy and grinds away like a pepper mill, before attacking Julia, wearing black PVC and already starting to sway. They writhe on the floor in an impressive imitation of lesbian porn, and the twenty buck bills start getting thrown around like candy... For four hours, it's pretty repetitive work, but fun. Julia disappears to enjoy the benefits of Colombia's finest produce up her nasal passages, and reappears invigorated enough to strip butt naked, which earns her more cheers and more dollar bills.

"Dammit, I knew I shoulda brought those fuckin' dildoes," she yells across the bar, just before whipping off my thong and throwing it to an enthusiastic and grateful mafia boss. Fortunately, I am wearing a long dress, and escape outside for a break on the top deck with the other girls just as the boat slips past the Statue of Liberty. A good looking young guy, Federico, looks at me as I gaze in silence at New York, luminous, magnificent, my home.

"You OK?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Pause.

"How do you do this job?"

I shrug, and take a sip of wine. A drunken idiot wanders up and grabs my ass. Federico whips around and delivers a few choice words in Spanish. The idiot stumbles off, chastened. I start talking to Federico, and we talk and talk and talk, until suddenly it's 11pm, and we're heading back to Jersey Marina. I hug him goodbye, and it's the stripper in me, knee up in the groin straight away. He pulls back, and looks sad.

"Don't do that, you don't have to do that with me."

Then he kisses me. Like, a real kiss. Hands in the right places, a finger stroking my cheek, soft, melting, nice.

"Can I see you again?"

I give him the address of Pussies, and tell him to meet me after work on Monday. The boat pulls into the Marina at 11.30pm. The girls whip off their slut clothes and back into civilians, counting out the bills. I made $320 tips, plus my turn up fee. $570 for four hours work. Not bad. That's my rent paid and I've just about made up the money I had to spend on pedicures, manicures, hair, make up, the shoes and the dresses you need to invest in as a stripper. Lucy the lawyer is coming to stay at my apartment for a few days as she's currently staying in a hotel, only recently arrived from Georgia to settle into NY before her course starts in the fall. I wonder if I'll be seeing Federico on Monday night. He's only 23. I lied and said I was 24. I have no expectations, and therefore no chance of disappointments. I've heard too much shit from men to ever believe entirely in what they say.

But damn that boy could kiss.

michelle

I wonder if circumstance changes character or character changes circumstance.

There have been times when I've been in situations and lost the pragmatic approach I adopt when life is tough, and brooded in misery, making the situation a hundred times worse than it could have been. And other times when I knuckle down to it and just keep going, head down, teeth gritted, trying to get through to the end of the tunnel. The last few years have been head down and teeth gritted. I laugh a lot though. It makes it easier. Life, circumstance, character - it's all humorous. It's all a joke. If my life was perfect, I would have nothing to write about, and no curiosity. Recently I've taken to sitting on the wall outside my apartment late at night and just thinking, 'How the fuck did I end up here? How did a nice middle class English girl with good grades spend four years on the road, the obligatory drugs, sex and partying thrown in, to end up as a stripper in NY, with the ability to hang out just as easily with Homeboys as with Oxbridge Professors?'

I don't know. I love people. They fascinate me. I love observing them. Once upon a time I was a shy, gauche girl, and now I'm Mimi, who can talk to anyone and knows no fear. I feel like I should wear my battle wounds with pride, flaunt my sufferings, but I don't think I have suffered. I've just experienced. It's been a hard road to travel on, and it still is. I worry a lot. I scheme a lot. I never, ever get complacent, and it's exhausting. I push myself to do things I previously found incomprehensible, because experience has taught me most things are possible with the right attitude, and living the life I do, the ability to adapt is an essential survival skill.

The one thing which really gets to me, especially after a ten hour dancing shift, is how strong women are. I honestly can't imagine a man having the mental strength to cope with what women do on a daily basis in the strip club, in motherhood, in everyday life. The filth clients pour in our ears every day. I have a feeling many men would end up crying and rocking themselves in a corner, with a good degree of mental disturbance. Whereas the women just get on with it.

We're not impermeable though. I'm not. After ten hours of faking it, the one thing I craved more than anything when I left Pimping Pussies tonight was a hug, a kiss, one of those looks which need no words, and the prickly feeling you get when it's with the right person.

This is not a very Mimi post. Maybe it's a Michelle thang.

Favorite Pussies Client of the Day: Francois

Francois, 47, 4'9" with the physique of a hobbit and eyes which face in opposite directions (east and west, respectively) enters Pimping Pussies most days between the hours of 4 and 6. Francois hobbles over to his favorite table, orders a Bud Light, and after consuming three of these, is inebriated enough to cackle merrily to himself and dance like an extra from 'Saturday Night Fever' with whoever is unfortunate enough to be in his proximity.

Francois has known tragedy in his life. Just ten months ago his mother, with whom he had lived all of his life, passed sadly away.

"It was terrible", recalls Mike, the Pussies' handyman. "He used to come in, order his beer and cry."

One day Don the head waiter saw him, and demanded to know why Francois was weeping so copiously. His mother just died, came the reply.

"Well, if he'd spent a little more time at home lookin' after her, and less time in the fuckin' titty bar she probably wouldn't be dead!"

A pragmatic response.

Francois finally got over his tragic loss when, on Halloween, he won third prize in the Pussies dress-up competition for his memorable effort at recreating Russell Crowe in Gladiator. He recalls this moment, eyes dimmed with tears, every time I hand him a new Bud Light.

Before my heart was softened by over-exposure to the darker side of NY, I may have labelled Francois Prick No. 8 in my 'Pricks I Have Known' Series. But now, older, wiser and sympathetic, he gains a special place in my heart and that of my readers as Gladiator Francois: Favorite Pussies Client of June 2nd, 2005. Congratulations Francois.