Getting Out

"The problem with this fuckin' job," says Helen, bending over and by a feat of astounding flexibility, examining her own anus for the requisite pre-stage 'booty-check', "Is that it's all too easy to get into, but it's fuckin' difficult to get out."

Roxy's leaving. The House Mom. She's been here, in this club, for close on ten years. Before she was a House Mom she was a stripper. Leaving the stripping industry is enormous. It's akin to some kind of cruel and unnecessary social ritual, like female circumcision, which seems a good idea at the time. Roxy cries all night.

"You don't understand!" she wails, great stringy globs of spittle and tears dripping obstinately onto her pink velour tracksuit. "This is my home! These girls are my girls! We have real friendships!". She's leaving to do a day job. Keep a boyfriend. Get a decent night's sleep. A wage you can rely on. She drinks Pink Zinfandel all evening and weeps onto Helen, and then the Managers call her onstage. For a brief and worrying moment she stands in the flashing lights, and there's silence. No one acknowledges her, no one cheers, not one single girl looks up from a table dance to wave goodbye. And then one by one the girls detach themselves from the clients and stream up to the front of the stage and engulf her in hugs, tucking 20 dollar bills into her impressive cleavage as she cries and cries and cries. And all the men sit there, slightly confused, cut out, not used to witnessing this in a club, whatever it is - emotion, friendship, sadness. Escape.

A southern girl sits in a drunken heap by the bar.

"I thought you left," says another girl disinterestedly.

"Ah di-yad. But Ah came back. Ah broke up with ma man. He called me a drunken Ho."

Helen looks at her, and shakes her head. "So easy to get in, so hard to get out."

We order some drinks and sit down, and watch the girls flutter back to their business, leaving Roxy alone and tiny and wrinkled onstage, her huge breasts jutting out like overripe melons, wrinkled bills dripping from her clothes.

"You know," says Helen, and grins widely. "I was talking to my therapist about this the other day, and I kind of noticed this recurrent theme in my life. Once I got paid to be molested in Smurfs. And now I get twenty dollar bills instead. Even if I leave, I ain't leavin'. And neither is she"

She gestures to Roxy, burbling loudly in the corner and winks at me, and it's a good night, even if we didn't get paid in Smurfs.

Or twenty dollar bills.

Cansada

Remember that time at the school dance? The sad kid who no one liked in the corner? Not the really sad kid, who smelled like shit, dribbled, was in the remedial class and wore sneakers from the goodwill store. I mean the sad kid who washed, and had money, and who you knew - really knew - wanted to be accepted, popular, normal, liked. And never could, because he was sad. Fucking sad.

But your friends dared you, and you went over and sat with him, and then you kind of, like, kissed him anyway, because he was like, there, and it was just funny, plus it didn't matter, because you were cooler. And he gave you five dollars for it.

And then years later the sad kid is the asshole earning six figures and you're the fucking stripper grinding his stunted penis and all you can think is, 'When is it 4am?' and 'Why would anyone do this for free?'

"You remember the time you lost it?" I ask, nursing my vodka-soda with lime, reclining against the bar and eyeing the Knicks game on the flat-screen.

"Oh yeah. I was 17. I waited until my third dance and I was still fully clothed. My friends stood at the bar and yelled 'Helen, you gotta get naked! It's a fuckin' strip club!' Everyone told me I'd be a pro at the end of the week. That night I cried, 'cause I'd lost my innocence. And then, by the end of the week, I was a fuckin' pro."

I can't judge anyone anymore, my lips bruised from where someone's forced themselves against me, inner thighs purpled and sad. I just wanna go home.

"I just wanna go home," sighs Helen, and she's 35, and she has a 15 year old kid, and has been dancing for 18 years, and home is where she lives, like normal people, and she looks at me and I know what she means. I'm in the private room and I leave every five minutes, but it's not enough to make it better. And when I call there's no one picking up, so it makes it doubly alone.

"Last night I got so fucked I kept calling my vagina Al Pacino."

"Why?" I ask.

"Like, 'Say hello to my little friend'. Scarface. It looked like Al Pacino. People kept askin' me, 'You drunk?', I was like, 'No, I just look like that 'cause I need to burp.'"

When you call, no one picks up, which makes you wonder why you're bothering, and reaffirms the suspicion that maybe the extra 500 for some tongue action wouldn't go amiss. If only you could switch off.

"You know Helen only makes money 'cause she goes in the private room with a girl whho gives head?" says the House Mom, who even though she's been here for so long, doesn't know the half of it. "Helen don't do that shit. She's a good girl. Knows what goes on. Clever. She lets the other girl do that."

It's a nice myth but Helen likes me, so I know what goes on. "My son's comin'. In two weeks. I haven't seen him for a month," she says, and gurgles happily, and walks off, breasts erect like two bizarre antennae, the rest of her sagging into age 35. The new girl strolls past, whip thin, long, striped hair in thin, braided worms surrounding an angular face. A butt-fuck, give-it-to-me-in-every-orifice, cum-on-my face. I wonder what my face looks like, I wonder idly, and brace myself for a return to the room, the end of the night.

Later, when you call, no one picks up, and it's time to leave, and you should be happy, you earned money.

But you're just not.

Relativity

Nice ended when 'Ali' the doorman took me aside and told me his brother, Hassim, the bouncer, would love to impregnate me. With the manager's blessing.

"You would earn so much more money if you just didn't open your mouth," said a client. I gave him a look of disdain. "Watch this," I mouthed, and wandered off drunkenly to the stage.

What I dance to -

Spin Spin Sugar - Armand Van Helden
Lapdance - Nerd
King without a Crown - Matisyahu. I'm rooting for the Jew boys. Fuck foreskin, I'm into the American cock crew cut.

It worked. I get more tips than any other girl during the night. Unfortunately that meant shit as being pretty and bendy on stage does not equate to a satisfying hand job out back. I suddenly found my left leg could go next to my head. Like, vertically. It's never done that before. I found out in the middle of song 2 and gazed in awe at myself in the mirrors for a full 30 seconds. This did not increase my tips but made me happy. I tried with the right leg, but only one does it. I sat back down again.

"See, I got tips."

The client looked at me.

"Imagine doing that on the floor, but keeping your mouth shut."

Really good strippers are in the enviable position of being allowed to have personality. For the rest of us, whether we spit or swallow drowns out the brownie points earned by decent conversation centering around world politics and a knowledge of Jane Austen novels. I earn less now than I did 12 months ago, as the act wears more and more thin. But now I have more fun. Especially when coercing the club into playing Matisyahu ("too religious") and watching all the Wall Street Bunnies groove along to Hasidic Reggae.

Badly.

Twats.

Good Times

It was surprisingly nice to be back in work. Hugs and kisses all round, proving what I had long suspected. I am an integral member of the stripping community. I ended up dividing my time in between three guys. A hard core Christian, a lapsed Hindu, and an NYU business student concerned about erectile disfunction caused by anti-depressants. I kept hopping naked from one guy to the other for a very surreal set of conversations.

Hindu Guy: "So I go into work, and I'm like totally different to the guy who prays and does yoga religiously every day and never eats meat, and it completely depresses me, but now I can't pray or do yoga because I feel like I'm tainted by being in business.... I've seen you passing the Hare Krishna temple in the East Village haven't I? Fuck. I can't believe I'm talking about Krishna with a stripper. This is fucking awesome."

Christian Guy (intervening): "So every time I have a problem I just talk about it directly with Christ. I mean, it's just between me and Christ. I feel bad that you've let your relationship with Krishna slide like that."

Me: "Er, I'm happy that you and Christ are digging each other. You owe me 40 for his dances. I'm just gonna pop over there and dance for that guy and I'll be back"

Slithers dress on, goes over to Business student looking glum in the corner.

Business Student (Noticeably perking up as dress falls to the floor): "So what were we talking about? Oh right, so yeah. I don't think I'm bad at sex. I think I'm really good at sex. Like, you know, better than average. I'm not a rammer. I love it when the girl goes on top, you know? But it's like, I get it hard, and then I have to move quickly, because if it goes down, I know because of the drugs I'm gonna have a hard job getting it back up again. It sucks."

Towards the end of the evening, around 2am, I danced for a girl at the bequest of a middle-aged coked up fool who was bopping around the floor of the club like he was in some kind of psychedelic disco for casualties of the 1980's. He kicked up a fuss about paying me, mainly, I gathered, because he was in the midst of a huge, coked up paranoia. His friend asked me for a dance. Mr 80's jumped up like someone had stuck a taser up his butt, and sweat dripping off his brow, urgently insisted that I was the spawn of the devil.

I sneaked quietly home before the managers noticed. After 170 dollar pay outs, I took home a mere 160 bucks.

But a good time was had by all.

A Stone in My Heart

I've been sick for nearly two weeks, wallowing in snot, fever and misery, and simultaneously trying to struggle through yoga school while making the hack's life hell. The poor boy is under the delusion I might actually be a nicer person than I appear, and persists in our acquaintance.

Sucker.

I've also been trying to speak to every reporter who contacts me and doesn't seem to comprehend that my phone is incredibly expensive, hence midday hour-long interviews are not the most economic of press opportunities. This has proven a little bit of a headache. My phone is now drained of credit and out of action. No one call me. I'm not picking up until I can get back to work and earn some money, as I'm broke after 2 weeks of no work, moving apartments and paying yoga school fees.

Oh yes, and I'm 27 next week, which officially means I'm in my 'late twenties'. How disgusting.

I'm in a foul mood.

Yoga School. Saturday. Patanjali's 'Yoga Sutras' - the yogic version of the ten commandments. Ahimsa - non-harming, Satya - truthfulness, Asteya - non-stealing... "We want something from the heart," cooed our teacher. "We want an anecdote straight from you, from your direct experience of whatever Yama or Niyama you've been assigned. You'll find this a very hard weekend, a very emotional weekend."

I could do with a little less of the direct experience and emotion and a little more of the funky dinner-party tricks - those feats of flexibility and balance which just look so damned cool. Why else would I be doing yoga if not for those breathtakingly acrobatic inversions so handy for whipping out at a strained family get-together to alleviate tension over Uncle Bernard's will? I find this American emphasis on the self quite draining. Yes, I'm an irritatingly self-obsessed, narcissistic, neurotic female - how the hell d'you think I got the name 'Mimi' from 'Ruth'? But even I get bored of myself sometimes and feel like stepping right out of my skin. Hence the lack of blog lately. I'm bored of me - I'm writing a book about me, a blog about me, and thinking of ways to improve me yogically. And now I have to give an 8-10 minute presentation on .... me. In relation to a universal moral precept.

Me + Universal Precepts = Straight to Hell.

Should be an interesting experience.

The day veered between me feeling like an evil person in the face of so much yogic goodness, and me feeling like an evil person in the face of so much yogic self-absorbed new age crap. 'The Healer' pushed me over the edge into burbling hysteria with a particularly ridiculous tale, complete with mime and acting, about a woman she met in Virginia.

"I went over to get my train ticket from the desk, when this woman looked at me quizically, put a hand on her hips, and demanded 'Honey, are you an artist?'
Well obviously, I didn't know what to say. I'm a radical feminist, an actress, a yogi, a compassionate person, a Healer... but would I be so presumptuous as to call myself an artist? As soon as I said 'Healer' she pricked up her ears and said, 'Honey, I need some o' yer healin'. Now sit yourself down and tell me what yer doin' in this here neck o' the woods.' Something took over me, and I felt this... light inside, and I turned to her, and I said 'I'm following my path'. She said 'Honey, yer followin' the Lord's path'. Now usually I'd get extremely offended by this use of a gendered pronoun in relation to a Patriarchal construct in which personally, I don't believe, but I just felt immense peace, and I said to her, 'Yes. I am following my Lord's path.' I started healing the woman, and as I laid my hands upon her, I looked into her, and I saw a cold, hard stone in her heart....'"

At this point I snorted contemptuously. Suspicious looks directed to me. I assumed a penitent and devotional face with some difficulty.

"So I said to the woman, 'You have a cold, hard stone in your heart.' She looked deeply upset, and said quietly, 'My daughter. She passed away. I can't deal with the grief'. I looked into the woman's eyes and I said 'Make it an offering to The Lord. Write about this in devotional poetry.' 'Yes, I will', she replied. 'I will'."

Several of my fellow students wiped away tears. Several more looked slightly disgusted, hoping, perhaps, for rape and drug abuse, something meaty and laced with self-hatred, instead being treated to a watered-down Virginian version of Fried Green Tomatoes.

There's obviously a stone in my heart, that I can exercise my sarcasm, my own dissatisfaction and cynicism on such a heartwarming, beautiful tale of love and devotion.

Oh well. A few poems to the Lord should sort it out.

The Yoga Teacher

She calls herself 'A Healer' - which, as she is unaware of the exact location of the humerus, worries me slightly, although psychic resonances, she assures me, are not anatomically specific. You will never see her without her string of lotus beads (to represent the Goddess Lakshmi), a book on Ayurveda and some clothing formed out of fabric which can easily double up as a Class-B smokeable substance. Her feet are adorned in Uggs - while one must practice ahimsa and refrain from the consumption of animal product, a gray area exists when it comes to consumerism. Non-gendered pronouns should be employed when addressing a group of people in her company, for fear of offence and reinforcing the negative patriarchal imbalance in society (ie, strike 'guys', 'he' and 'him' from your vocabulary). Acceptable topics include menstruation, lactation and moons. An implacable virtuosity rests upon her rather vacant features, disturbed like the rippling of a lake only by 'positive affirmations' to create a sense of 'harmony and constructive well-being'. eg;

"Your beautiful bodies are performing this amazing pose in a way which doesn't really hinge with the universe guys, so let's work on this together to create more beauty and joy and lightness"

Apparently she teaches tantric sex part-time to couples up in Harlem, when not mentally healing those dying of cancer, AIDs and caffeine headaches. I find it hard to imagine this creature on the end of anyone's lingam - although she, apparently, finds it hard to imagine how anyone would allow me, a lowly sex worker assiduously reversing the liberation of women, into yoga school. She'll gaze at me loftily, before letting her eyes settle into a glazed onanistic thrall as she fingers her little lotus beads frenetically whilst muttering a Sanskrit mantra.

She's universally disliked amongst the other student teachers, and your skin starts to crawl in her presence as you mentally check every other word which emerges from your mouth for fear of 'gender imbalancing her aura'.

The sad thing is, she'll probably make a very good yoga teacher.

Bitch.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti

New Apartment

The giggly Asians are yet to return my deposit. I fear they have found out that prior to leaving I committed the heinous crime of secreting in my luggage two rolls of kitchen paper and a Brillo Pad.

Sometimes my immorality frightens even me.

The move was relatively pain-free, thanks to Adam from England. When we got to the Lower East Side I jumped out of the cab and ran upstairs to get the keys from the super. Upon my return my belongings were lying in a heap on the sidewalk, Adam casually smoking a Newport Light and gazing down the street as an elderly black man rummaged through my underwear. Adam turned around.

"Eh. Fuck off. That in't for takin'"

The man looked around vaguely and shuffled off down the street clutching an old towel of mine.

The new apartment ROCKS.

Radi Radi Govinda

"... So everyone was hanging out on the beach singing 'Radi Radi Govinda! Radi Radi Govinda!' and then I looked out to sea, and this figure emerged from the waves like Poseidon, walking up to the shore. It was Bhagavan Das. I was like, 'Shit - he's naked'. Then I was like 'Shit - he's like sixty', and he came and sat next to me, totally naked, and was like clapping and singing, 'Radi Radi Govinda! Radi Radi Govinda!"

Briana blinks vaguely at the memory, and scrunches her nose as she addresses the class.

"I think he kind of realised that I was like, disturbed that he was old and naked and his thighs were like, touching mine, because then he said 'Briana, I have something for you', and he reached into his hair, untied this stinky old dreadlock, and brought out a statue of Kali. I was like, 'Dude! That's fucking weird! You keep shit in your hair?'. I don't think Kali was too happy about being given away though. Bhagavan Das lost his Prada sunglasses like minutes later"

The class snickers and an anorexic fifty year old leans in quietly behind me and whispers - "Oh he used to do that all the time. Wander round naked. Demand sexual favors from the women on the retreat." She nods wisely, settles back down into lotus position. Outside in the hallway an ancient Indian voice crackles above the general frequency of whining American and can be heard distinctly in class.

"Yoga - is like giving a blowjob. You don't give a blowjob half-heartedly. You give a blowjob with love, with care, with 100% commitment."

I love yoga school.

Radi Radi Govinda