Tranquila. Breathe. Smile. Smh

I try to avoid looking people in the eye when I’m on the streets. They think if you look them in the eye, even for a mere second you want to tell them how your day went, or want to talk about the weather, and other nonchalant blabber. But today I don’t feel like being polite, or playing nice. A car slowly pulls up next to me. “You too pretty not to smile,” somebody from the car says. I didn’t respond or look over. The car drove off.


Too pretty not to smile? What the fuck does that mean. I felt like yelling, “bitch pay me!” Then maybe I’ll smile.

I feel like I’m just existing. And that’s nothing to smile about. I’m going back to work this month. That’s nothing to smile about either. But I need the “just in case” money. Just in case I’m not happy. Pancho makes me happy but there’s always a part of me that says I’m strong, and I take care of myself, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. I don’t think I would run from my boyfriend but I know I’m a runner. When things don’t change right away you just run, and things automatically change. And right now I want a whole lot of changes and I don’t have a a lot of patience. He knows it too.

I know I can calm down if I just get to the beach again. The nights are getting cool here like Atlanta in the winter. I don’t do good in the winter. Last winter depression kept me out of work and I was stuck in Atlanta til New Year’s. I wanted to hang myself, literally. I ended up just choking myself every thirty seconds.

My boyfriend and my nurse think going to Western Physic. is where I really need to go but I’m scared they will never let me out. Plus I’m not crazy. And don’t laugh. I’m just like everybody else. Sure, I’m having a hard time just like anyone else. I’m tired like anybody else. Unlike everybody else, I just don’t grab a beer after work. Or look on the bright side. I just don’t get high to numb how I really feel. I see reality and I half blame my mother, I scream at God, I cry to myself, and I mock my boyfriend every time he says tranquila. Tranquila. Tranquila my ass! . That’s the difference between me and everybody else. I know what I see, and life sucks. And it will be a daily fight to stop it from sucking.  And that’s the future for me because I know myself.  I’m not crazy. I just need to get to the beach.


If I Was Drugged I Still Hate Myself

I’m annoyed to have to write this, but it’s part of my story and it’s the truth. The truth should instantly change people. But it doesn’t. Time always shows the proof of that. The truth has reeled in my head time and time again, and I won’t do it to myself today. Today is a new day. I’m tired of being a victim, and today I will not be subjected to my mind. So I will state the truth plainly to not arouse my mind.


Three or so weeks ago, I was heavily intoxicated working in the club, I felt and spoke of things getting a little  blurry. My customer goes to the bar. My memory is blurry, he is telling someone he wants a champagne room with me. He moves quickly to the lobby. I remember this because my customers usually walk behind me. And there was a tiny step by the bar, and I was angry he didn’t take my hand. My thoughts were floating question marks. Why does he want to do a room? Why is he checking which room he wants? Doesn’t he know how this is going to end? My mind answered back, it’s a room, take the money. None of the cameras work anyway. You’re in control. Let him be disappointed a second time.

I remember the first time we did a room. It was close to a year ago.He was in the lobby. VIP came to me to let me know he was ready to do a room. I remember wondering why he hadn’t told me himself. We sit across from each other. He says “I want in.” He continues about how he has money and for me to name  the price. I say I have no price. It’s not my thing. I don’t have sex. Unconcerned he questions whether someone did something to me, and that someone is going to get it sooner or later. “I want in. I’m not going to wait forever.” I repeat myself. The room is over in ten minutes. The VIP guy is even surprised and says so. He responds, “We skipped to the good part.”

Currently my chest is starting to hurt, but I’ve prolonged writing this so I’m going to skip to the facts.

my clothes came off
he ordered two shots, two club sodas
I am in a position where his weight is over me on the couch
he chokes me
he starts saying some dominatrix shit
he kissed me
I bite his cheek hard
he’s mad he goes to the bathroom saying I don’t think this is going to work.
These events are floating, I am floating and I’m feeling like- something is not right
I go to the bathroom, lean over the toilet.
Somehow my room is over. VIP gives me blue money while I’m still in the room.

My customer requests more time, I say I have to go to the dressing room. Something is not right. But I make it to the dressing room. Im in the bathroom stall. Then my face feels the coolness of the bathroom floor. I hear voices. Then I’m out.


Four hours later, I’m still in the dressing room. I regain some consciousness and then I’m throwing up, til I’m repeatedly dry heaving, crying over and over. Stating over and over that “something is not right. I think I was drugged.” An angel is telling me “Yes, I know. You aren’t yourself today. It’s okay.” I keep crying and tell that angel to go back downstairs and make her money. She smiles because she hears me returning. Then she eventually leaves. I think about what wasn’t right. Sure I had a few drinks but the part that was off was I had felt no emotion. No emotion when I was kissed, or even choked. My bite didn’t hold anger it was a response. I couldn’t move my arms. All I had was my mouth. I get dressed and call a cab. I save my fears, and anger, and sadness for my shower. My boyfriend bathes me as I sit in the bathtub crying while the shower ran. Soup nor water would stay in my stomach all morning. I had panic attacks every day throughout the day for a week. It was annoying, because I didn’t want to look crazy losing my head in public. So I stopped leaving the house. My boyfriend stayed home with me for more than a week.

I would like to say I’m getting better. I would like to say I quit drinking. I like to say I quit my job. Truth is, I’m laying in bed at 2p.m. not washed, eating Papa John’s, waiting for my boyfriend to get off so I can get up, cook, watch a movie, have a beer, and do it again tomorrow.

I’ve been to work once since the incident. Why go back? I’m scared of having nothing again. No purpose. No money. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. It’s like a light should be coming on that stripping is a small chapter in my life. But I keep trying to make it longer, or worth it. And now seeing the end is like seeing the end of pricetag dreams. That day should have been a wake-up call, not a death notice. Yet I keep seeing myself die in this room every day. Though this is easiest way emotions can be balanced and my mind can be at peace. It is what it is. I can’t change how everything is affecting me. Only time can do that. And only time will tell.

Same Ol Song

A  gentlemen’s club can provide a level of intimacy almost equivalent to a genuine relationship. Two key words: can and almost. It is the foundation on what a club builds on. Pretty girls get customers in the door. Witty, and connective woman keep people coming back.

During a dry season, they hire the same hoes back, add a few new girls and again our price value plummets, as the club reaches its sales. Am I surprised? No. Am I angry? Hell yeah, fucking right!
These amateurs are so happy to double a 9 to 5 paycheck, they don’t even see that they’re losing! I’m not as angry at the hoes because on night shift, I will get paid regardless. But lately, I’ve been hungry and ready to work. I want to see Paris next week and Greece next month. My hunger for life is growing and I can’t keep settling with seeing the same ol same ol, doing the same ol same ol, resulting in the same ol shit. My anxiety is getting the best of me. I’m ready to go right now. There’s just one tiny problem: I don’t want to work too hard.

I believe in hardworking America but everyone knows hardworking America works for “smart working” America. I rather work smart.

Stripping may be losing its value as admirable art. People are tired of being teased with what they can’t have, and are willing to forget their fantasy, for the quick satisfaction of every day life.  And in this case meaning sex. Strippers are doing more for the dollar. The same dancers who said they would not do “this and that,” are doing “this and that” and a lot more. All the hard work to stay in the game.


Little do they know, their temporary profits will push them out, unless they pursue escorting or porn. Clubs work like seasons. And when the seasons change, their worth won’t increase because everyone already knows what they are worth. Can’t expect a high bid on something, if everyone has seen EVERYTHING it’s capable of. It’s smarter to just wait out the dry season, perfect your body and pipe game, then to give deals or “extras.” A lesson I learned from the “smart working” America. So I think I’m going to sit this season out. So if your a regular and you miss me, remember I still miss my check! And I still don’t do extras.



The Frustration of Hotel Hopping

Late Post
(Written last friday)


I hate my life right now. Tomorrow I have to check out of my hotel for the weekend and I have no idea which hotel im staying at but I have to check out of this hotel in the morning. THEN be at work at noon. This is so stupid because I am paying to stay at a hotel that I won’t even get to enjoy! Life’s a bitch.

I feel like everyone is content with watching me drown. I can see them looking down at me, pointing and saying “Look at the ungrateful bitch, she finally knows what it’s like to have REAL problems.” Now she has REAL problems like people with a 9 to 5. Maybe it’s all in my head but it’s hard to stay calm when your always worried about the next 72  hours.