It's
almost Viva Las Vegas Day again. On September 30th,
I'll have been a stripper for five years. FIVE YEARS!
And I've loved every minute of it. So much so that
I feel I'm at war with time. I loathe time. It's a
boring inevitability that somehow dictates what we
should and should no longer be doing with our lives.
Goddamn time came when I felt I had to move on or
start to feel the flipside of the beautiful and nourishing
co-dependency I had with the strip industry. So I
left town. But
ya can't just end a love affair by leaving, though
I always try. Here in NYC I've been picking up stripping
gigs where I can, and they've been wildly successful.
But the scene here is such that sex must be packaged
in these ironic or academic or kitschy ways that sucks
all the sexiness outta it! And what worse sin is there
than to leach the sexiness from sex?!? I've become
part of what I've always derided, made fun of, despised.
Here's
how it works. People hear of me and my over-educated
but at least taste-tested theories on the sex industry.
Someone calls someone else and I get a call to perform
before a buncha white hipster folk and preach to 'em
the real values and soul of the sex industry. They
lap it up, discuss a while, then go home to their
sterile expensive lives. I get no money and little
satisfaction,
cuz it's a discursive experiment more than it is an
aesthetic experience. And
in no way is it art. It's a lecture, and I get naked
just to make sure the kids are paying attention.
Now
it's becoming popular. Ironic burlesque is the dish
du jour. Both the Voice and the New Yorker
ran substantial bits on it last month. More folks
are calling. They say I could be quite a sensation,
doing these sterile, unsexy lectures that are naughty
enough to be edgy but tame enough not to really
screw up the status quo. I could name my price.
But again, my high and mightily moral standards
scream that real prostitution is more honest, better
for society, more nourishing for all involved. Maybe
that's my niche.
"Then I slowly get
dressed while talking about white cotton
panties, the importance of bras and buttons and
that the best possible
outfit is a smile."
Here's
what's on my calendar:
ART
GALLERY REVERSE STRIP. Wherein I tell 'em how it's
done. Come out with a robe on, talk about aesthetics
and art, drop the robe and say, "at the end of the
day all a gal's got on are her shoes and her music."
Then I slowly get dressed while talking about white
cotton panties, the importance of bras and buttons
and that the best possible outfit is a smile. Then
I take it all off again. Smart white hipsters of
breeding age love this one.
LOT
61. An Andy Warhol protege runs this superhot club,
but only doles
out about five minutes of fame, for which he pays
handsomely! This is a
high-heeled short-attention-span crowd, so ya gotta
get down to the nitty
gritty faster.
CONEY
ISLAND BABY. The Great Fredini, a sword swallower,
runs this at his Coney Island Sideshow/Museum. He
offers "traditional burlesque that's slightly twisted,"
like it'd be boring otherwise. But really, it'd
be so enjoyable it'd be subversive and that's scary!
VIVA
LAS VEGAS DAY. I'm comin' home to PDX for two weeks
at the end of the month to recoup my strength. Be
there or be square!!
