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Eros & Mythos

Part 3

I hated men. I hate patriarchy. I hate how the patriarchy has socialized men to believe they are superior. I hated how I exploited my sexuality for the entertainment of primarily men.

But I love the attention. I love the stories of women. I love expressing my sensuality and sexuality. I loved the instant gratification of fast money. I loved that getting dressed for work felt like a form of self-care.

Dancing didn’t feel like I was going up there for the sole purpose of appealing to these men. Yes, that was a part of the job, but dancing felt more personal. I was in my body, in full control of what I was exuding. It was the perfect way to feel yourself and the music, especially when you’re blessed with a great DJ like I was.

I loved my DJ, Kirk. He had a snappy Brooklyn personality in a dad kind of way. He wasn’t my type, but he was a handsome older gentleman with a good sense of humor. He was friends with the dancers I liked the most and was a great person to vent to. Kirk didn’t think I would last in the club. It was clear that I didn’t come from a background similar to the other girls, and my beginning was quite rusty.

I made a friend named “Blaze.” Blaze was a beautiful Mexican woman, the epitome of a pin-up chola. She had incredible artwork all over her body. A mother of three in her late 20s, with huge fake boobs and perfectly winged eyeliner. Blaze had a gentle spirit and a really hard life.

I met Blaze through her regular, “Jamie.” Jamie was great. He invited me to hang out with him and Blaze after one of my stage sets. He was extremely friendly and loved his two dogs. He didn’t really get dances, but he tipped on stage in amounts comparable to private dances. I felt like Jamie was one of the few people who could see through Blaze’s hardness and insecurities. If I could describe him in one word, it would be “goober.” I don’t mean that in a negative way. He was just a cool, jolly dude who was there for a good time.

Sometimes I would give Blaze rides to and from work. The motel she lived in was only five minutes away from my apartment. She was paying night-to-night, so Jamie was really her lifesaver. Blaze had a boyfriend who was a meth dealer. He was both her abuser and her enabler. Blaze would go missing for weeks, and our club mutuals would all quietly hope that the worst hadn’t happened to her, myself included. Then she would randomly text me from a new number or a brand-new Instagram or Facebook account.

One day, Blaze got kicked out of her motel and moved to another one across the highway. This is how the story goes:

Blaze and her boyfriend were having kinky sex, and they both enjoyed consensual non-consent (CNC), where scenarios that simulate lack of consent are actually pre-agreed upon and controlled. They were also into thanatophilia, an attraction to death or the idea of it, which often overlaps with fantasies involving danger or intensity.

They were roleplaying a theft scenario, but it escalated. With meth involved, everything became more intense. The situation ended with Blaze duct-taped in the motel bathtub. Her boyfriend was completely tweaked out and beat her. The motel noticed and kicked them out.

A couple of weeks later, I received an alarming call from Blaze. She needed help moving her things from her new motel to her parents’ house. I met her a couple of blocks away. In my rearview mirror, I watched her approach with a black trash bag. Halfway to my car, her boyfriend appeared, running after her.

She managed to get her bag into my car while he repeatedly asked where she was going. It turned into a game of me circling the block until she could make a quick escape into the car. We sped off to her parents’ house, where her kids lived.

The house was full. Her mother, father, sisters, nieces, nephews, and drawings all over the walls. Her family was sweet, but it was clear things weren’t great there either. I continued to see Blaze for a while, but her situation became increasingly dangerous. It was a lot to handle, so our relationship faded, and so did her presence at the club.

The occurrence of casual sex lessened after I started dancing. Of course, having a partner contributed to that too. But when we were off, the idea of casual sex didn’t make sense to me if I could be getting paid for it. Free sex only made sense when feelings were involved, and even then, it started to feel like a waste if it wasn’t going anywhere.

It felt strange to have those thoughts, but I still stand by them as long as the patriarchy exists. Patronizing sex perpetuates a patriarchal narrative. When the modern man complains about sex work in any capacity, they only have themselves to blame. This is a system built by and around men, so making the same people who complain about it pay for it feels like a power move.

But sex work is more than just sex. A lot of the time, it isn’t about sex at all. What I observed most was loneliness. A cocktail of companionship, love, and intimacy seemed to be increasingly lacking for so many people, both inside and outside of the club. Catering to that cocktail is a job in itself. It’s emotionally and mentally taxing.

Shame shows up in so many ways. And when it’s expressed through sexuality, it can be intense.

Blaze was one of the few noteworthy people I had the pleasure of working alongside and learning from. It was very insightful to gain the perspectives of these women. It was also lovely to witness just how strong and capable women are.

Imagine raising three kids, taking care of your abusive partner, going to nursing school, tolerating a plethora of personalities at work, and dodging sexual abuse both inside and outside of it.

When Kitty came back to San Antonio, we resumed working together consistently. One day, I asked her why she had been coming to work in spurts, and she explained that this website called OnlyFans was working well for her. There wasn’t much need for her to come into the club anymore.

Kitty suggested that I should hop on it too. I wasn’t too impressed. I made three posts and then forgot about it.

In the meantime, I continued working at the club consistently. Kitty and I would also go on dates around the city on the side. There was this doctor who loved to be wrapped in Saran Wrap from head to toe. One of us would sit on his face while the other would jerk him off, and we’d both degrade him and tell him not to finish.

Kitty also taught me about “freestyling.” Freestyling refers to meeting potential clients or partners in person, rather than through apps, websites, or agencies. Once you learn how to do it, you can do it almost anywhere.

Kitty once told me, “A trick can always spot a hoe, and vice versa,” and I’ll never forget it. My “trick detector” became stronger. I could always tell when someone was willing to pay, but I could also tell when someone was trying to figure me out.

Eventually, COVID hit. Luckily, Texas didn’t care too much at first, so I was working pretty normally until the lockdown really set in. By that time, I hadn’t seen Kitty at work for about a month. Her OnlyFans was doing really well. She suggested that we start working together so I could get myself up. By then, the world was changing, and so was I. The club had taught me how to be seen, how to read people, how to hold power in my body. But this felt different. Quieter. More controlled. I didn’t know it yet, but I was stepping into a version of the same work on my own terms.

#photography #short story #storytelling

Eros & Mythos

Part 2

My favorite regular was a white man with terrible breath and an amazing personality. He usually wore a cap, a baggy T-shirt, and baggy shorts. He was in his mid-60s with a gentle demeanor. He touched my body softly and never wanted anything more than a dance. Let’s call him “Jeff.”

Typically, he would come in on Saturdays around lunchtime, when we’d share a club sandwich and kettle chips. Jeff was a great conversationalist. He was extremely knowledgeable about music, which was the most stimulating topic of conversation for me. He would write me poems, and he once described my body as Rubenesque. He was my favorite because he made my job easy. He came to the club only for me, and he was always a generous spender.

Dancing in San Antonio, I was not among the popular demographic. I was a heavier-set Black woman with limited social skills. Because of that, I feel like I attracted a niche clientele that I grew fond of. Every interaction felt like an episode of The Office… but sexy.

My next favorite was a pervert, and I liked it. He was a small Asian man with a long braid, glasses, and worked as a carpenter. I actually don’t know what nickname to give him, so let’s just call him “Carpenter.” I’ll literally never forget him because I hate how much he turned me on. Just the thought of him does something to me.

Here’s how our relationship went:

Carpenter always sat in the same spot. The same spot that I later learned was a strategic blind spot below his waist. In the beginning, we didn’t interact, except for the one time he denied my company, which was embarrassing. He never tipped on stage, at first. He just sat there and watched intently.

One normal day, Carpenter was there as usual. Kirk called me up to do my set. While I was on stage, I noticed Carpenter steadily shaking. He was jerking off. I think a typical dancer would have told a manager, but I didn’t. We made eye contact while I finished my set. I exited the stage and passed his table. I assumed he didn’t want company, as usual.

Another time he came in, he finally tipped me on stage. So I went to his table and chatted him up. Once again, the conversation was dry and awkward, but still nice, funny, and slightly seductive. He didn’t want a dance, just to tip on stage and a little grope. It went like that for about a month. Then we finally graduated to dances.

This is why I liked him: I didn’t have to dance for him. He just wanted to bury his face in my body. I’d stand in front of him, and he’d jiggle every part of me and bury his face in it. It felt empowering and a little humorous. I learned about his personal life, and he became one of mine.

One day, he came in and asked for more. I was doing extras in the club if the price was right and if my financial situation called for it. Luckily, it was a weekend when the manager was more lenient. There were specific girls who worked those days for that exact reason, so I knew I was in the clear. Just don’t be obviously illegal.

So we went to the private rooms, and I was shocked. His dick was huge. I was almost disappointed that we were in the club. We needed space. For it to only last about five minutes, with limited access and a condom, I was left wanting more.

Unfortunately, that was one of the few times I saw him in that way. Normally, I approached those situations with reluctance, with a “whatever, I just need to pay bills” attitude. But those times were completely different. I enjoyed the weirdness of it, and I definitely reminisce with a smirk on my face.

My most annoying regular bought me a bed and paid my rent. His name was “Leo.”

Leo disgusted me. He was the worst husband, and that made me feel like the worst person for being with him. Yes, that was the reality in many situations, but he italicized, bolded, and highlighted it. Still, he was contributing so much to my life at the time. I felt like his relationship with me was predatory, especially in terms of age.

Leo brought out such icky feelings. He was the epitome of a certain personality type that the club was riddled with. A form of loneliness, maybe.

When I first started at the club, Kitty and I worked together frequently. Eventually, I built my own regulars, and Kitty’s presence at the club faded. My financial flow improved, but I was still putting in more work than I was getting in return.

I ended up getting a sugar daddy named Dave, who gave me some financial and physical space to create. He was annoying too. The only positive thing about him was that he was childless and single.

By this point, I was no longer practicing photography, which had been my focus in college. My art had always been erotic in nature, embracing natural forms. I wanted to find a way to translate that sensual language into something more tangible.

So I started drawing. My Kamasutra series came first, and then it progressed into painting. At that point, I was working with acrylics. Dave’s presence in my life gave me the space to hone my painting skills and let my bruises from the club heal.

Eventually, I got an apartment with my boyfriend. Yes, boyfriend. Someone was brave enough to be with me during that time. It was my first relationship, and it was inconsistent. Sometimes we were together, other times we weren’t. We went on like that for about two years before moving in together.

It was simply complicated. Nothing more, nothing less.

At that point, I felt like I was doing what I needed to do so we could all eat. Eventually, Kitty came back, and somehow, nothing had changed and everything had. Months had passed, and we had so much to say, so much to fill in between us.

#short story #storytelling

Eros & Mythos

Part 1

The only job I ever held down long-term was in the club. Who knew?

Only four call centers and three retail jobs later, I found myself at my first strip club. I was living in San Antonio, a 21-year-old art school dropout. There were a couple of things I knew before making this decision:

I was lacking in social skills and charisma, skills I wanted to strengthen.

I had exhausted every entry-level role around the city.

Although confidence was a personal work in progress, I was always comfortable in my body. Exposing myself physically felt less vulnerable than exposing and articulating my thoughts.

I get to dance and look pretty. I would be learning something completely foreign to me, and that was exciting.

I needed the money ASAP.

I found the only club willing to let me dance with no prior experience, Blush Gentleman’s Club. This club was right off the highway, bringing in a high volume of truckers passing through the city. I should note that in San Antonio, strip clubs were not permitted to expose a certain amount of ass and no nipple. So a lot of clubs would paint over your nipples and require you to wear panties reminiscent of boy shorts. Blush was more of a strip club than a gentleman’s club.

I always started work as soon as Blush opened at 11 AM. That was when the lowest house fee, or stripper rent, was in effect. I never worked too late unless I had to. I tried working one night, and the pace was fast. A certain level of charisma and pole skill was needed for me to succeed in that environment. The mornings were slow and felt more like a “gentleman’s club” vibe. Usually it was guys coming in on lunch with a spare $40 for a couple of dances, or whatever $40 could get.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no pole skills, a bad wig, and I was shy. But I was there every day. I refrained from making friends with anyone because I knew the club could be a controversial space, putting me at risk for altercations. So I avoided it altogether.

Every day I was in the club, Kitty was there too. We didn’t speak, but we acknowledged each other. That changed when she asked if I wanted to say mantras together in the locker room. This was new to me, and I was hopeful it would help.

I was there every day, bruised everywhere, only making enough to cover the house fee and maybe some gas. After our mantra moment, I asked Kitty to show me a pole trick. I would have been so grateful just to get something down. And she did.

From that point on, I worked alongside Kitty any time we were both in the club. Whenever she texted me, I wouldn’t respond. I didn’t feel like it was safe to become more than work friends with Kitty, or anyone from the club for that matter. That changed after the third time I randomly ran into her outside of work. I took it as a sign that maybe we were meant to be more than just work friends.

I’m generally terrible at texting, but I was especially bad at texting her as a friend. The thing is, I wasn’t making much money at that club. It got to a point where I was taking extras outside of the club. I started owing the house. If a dancer does not make enough in tips to cover the house fee, she is considered to be “in the hole,” meaning she owes the house money. Blush allowed this three times, and then I had to go.

I reached out to Kitty, who gave me a list of clubs to try next. I found one not too far from Blush, just outside the city limits. This club allowed nipple and some butt. But it was also “extras central.” And yes, if you’re wondering, I worked there reluctantly until I found my home club: AllStars Gentleman’s Club.

This is where Kitty was. Definitely a gentleman’s club. I loved it. A $15 house fee, plus breakfast and a comped drink? I was in.

My DJ was a Brooklyn man named Kirk, and he played whatever I liked. Not only that, but he would mix in his own selections, and it felt like he could read my energy. Kirk could play any song for me, and I knew it would match.

The club was perfect. I was building regulars. My managers and the bartenders were cool. I wasn’t the best dancer, and I wasn’t the most fit, but I found myself deeply dedicated to dancing. It became less about the money and more about the joy the environment brought me.

I was learning about different walks of life, the game, womanhood, addiction, motherhood, abuse, and more. I looked forward to going to AllStars and seeing everyone there. It also felt good to be desired in multiple ways.

I started dancing in 2018 and wrapped it up around the pandemic in 2021. However, I’ve only set the scene for the experiences that shape my art.

#short story #storytelling