Don't Let Me Get Bored or I'll Think About Paraplegic Strippers

      Since working at the club I have a lot of free time on my hands waiting for customers to come in. We open early in the afternoon because let's face it men are constantly horny. And no one can put their finger on when exactly one guy will be horny/bored enough to go to a strip club. So to keep up with Mother Nature we try to stay open as much as possible.

     When I first started last August, I'd just fuck around and play on the pole, or attempt to climb it. To this day I can't climb our Big pole on stage two. My fear of heights gets the best of me every time I try. Plus it hurts my shins. Other times I'd play Uno with my coworkers. Actually the Uno days are some of my fave days with the coworkers. If drinking was involved with those games I can see them getting ugly.  Now when I'm bored at work I read mostly. Anything psychology or humorous. Hey I need an edge to get the most out of the customers, and it has worked for me. Or either I'm just very charming, yea that's it I'm charming.

     One night it was so slow. My friends had just left from visiting me after receiving an "I'm bored come see me now" text. A group of four young guys came in. I had already got money out of two of the four before I decided to try conversing with them. There was a pretentious pussy (to make these types of guys feel like less of humans I tell them the truth which is I don't have cable or internet, and I read all the time. Because this country needs more people like me that do this and doesn't give in to the media's propaganda) amongst them that just rubbed me the wrong way so I knew I'd exclude him from the conversation. Sorry I don't speak jackass. The other of the two that hadn't spent money on anything but the bottled water he had in front of him remained quiet. His loss, maybe if he had had got some alcohol in his system he would've been more fun. Worked for me, I don't mind an audience.

     The two guys that did have functioning mental and vocal capabilities were quite entertaining, and one was well pretty cute for a 21 year old. So to impress this younger generation I decide to tell them some of my ideas for some sketch comedy skits. What I think is a diamond in the rough idea that I hope catches on soon. Just try to visualize the following. And I'm describing it just as I described it to these four young men, with moldable minds.


                                                     The Paraplegic Stripper

*Upbeat rock music starts to play, maybe Kid Rock's Cowboy or Metallica's Sandman, I don't know you get the drift.

  Suddenly a sparkle of chrome flashes and catches the corner of an audience members eye as the strobe light reflects off of a wheel of a wheelchair. Patron has a shocked but intrigued look on his face, and is curious to see what's about to happen.

DJ: Gentlemen get situated in your seats just like Sparkle here, because she's here to keep you just as glued to your seats as she is.

*Sparkle now is in full view followed by Jazmin pushing her out to the stage. Patron still curious, watches Jazmin pull something out of her g-string. It's a zip tie. She gets Sparkle to the pole slowly and seductively as the music gets faster. Bending over as Sparkle is flashing her pearly whites to the crowd, Jazmin zip ties the wheel of the chair to the pole and pushes the chair as hard as she can. She then backs off as Sparkle is spinning her little stripper heart out, her hair blowing in the breeze. The chair slows down as the music is winding down. Jazmin grabs Sparkle placing her hands on her shoulders for her finale. She starts shaking her shoulders back and forth violently to make every man in the audience want to be in the midst of a motorboat with Sparkle. Patron taken back by what he just saw makes it rain on Sparkles and Jazmin. Song ends and Jazmin puts a bucket on Sparkles lap while throwing all the tips inside. (Yes if you want to know, Jazmin is jealous of all Sparkles attention and doesn't give her the original 50/50 as per their agreement. She feels she deserves more because well she did do all of the work. Tough shit Sparkles, you should've hooked up with the late Superman when you had the chance and you wouldn't have been in this situation.) Jazmin rolls Sparkles off the stage. Patron now uberly horny patron decides he wants a lap dance from the wheelchair duo.

Uberly Horny Patron: How much is a dance?
Sparkles: It's thir..(suddenly interrupted by Jazmin)
Jazmin: It's $50 the house get's $10 so I like to make sure Sparkles gets what she deserves
Patron: Ok that works
Sparkles: (confused by Jazmin's statement) Let's go over there.
Jazmin: (whispers into Sparkles ear) You're going to get what you deserve

*Jazmin pushes Sparkles, and escorts patron to the private dance area. He sits. Jazmin proceeds to take Sparkles top off, she then dumps Sparkles onto the man's lap. Then moves the chair out of the way. Sparkles is now sliding down the man, and looks panicked. Jazmin catches her before she hits the floor, holds her onto patron and starts shaking her violently like she did on stage just this time on patron. Dance over, Sparkles slithers down patron like lava down a volcano. The money collected my Jazmin, of course and Sparkles loaded back onto her wheelchair. Mission accomplished.


     So once I finish telling my sketch to the guys, they all had a very surprised looks on their faces. The two guys with a sense of humor laughed. Then the cute one tells me this, "Uhm so I think you need to get cable and internet back. You have way too much time on your hands. All the time is making you have sick thoughts. The time wasted on t.v. will prevent you from thinking of crazy shit like that." Then he laughed and said my idea was funny. His more intelligent friend thought it was hilarious. So we proceeded to the topic of nugget porn and how they sign the consent forms. Then of course it led to the conversation of McDonald's Chicken McNuggets. I have a feeling McDonald's wouldn't appreciate my endorsement.

And then there's Tazer Panties.......

Just A Lil Part of The Chapter "I'm My Own Worst Enemy"

Several years, and a gay husband later I met Larry. He was my first military boyfriend and I found him quite interesting. The military world was completely foreign to me. I thought it sounded sexy saying my boyfriend was a sergeant. I think it was the uniform and tattoos that really got me. So like the beginning of any romantic relationship we fucked like rabbits. I'd stay on post in his barracks room three to four nights a week. He'd get up before the butt crack of dawn for duty, and I'd leave later when I woke up. If I wasn't up and out before lunch he'd come back to his room for a nooner, even if I was sick. Which was often because sleeping in his room was like sleeping on the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. Who doesn't love a man that'll bang you while you're hacking up a lung?

One night after a good 20 minutes of rabbit fucking we passed out. Some time in the night my colon decided it hated me, and it was pissed. To this day I'm still not sure how I pissed my colon off that night but I did. No laxatives, Chinese food, alcohol, or fried foods. What the fuck was its problem?

I'm a very thoughtful girlfriend in the way of farting because I won't do them audibly in front of my man. Silently yes, audibly no. I have a strategy for farts around my man, the master deception. Example if we're laying in bed, an urge to fart knocks at my asshole, I pretend I'm hot and start tossing and turning. I position myself with my face towards the middle of the bed, ass towards the edge of the bed. I let my sphincter relax, and out comes the fart. As it's coming out I lift the covers up slightly, and gently fan it outwards. Voile! I don't have to hold it in, and no one knows it's there but me. Unfortunately this night it sounded like Zeus was angrily shooting lightning bolts out of my ass and it felt like it too. Larry was a deep sleeper but I was still praying to God. Praying that if my explosives farts didn't wake Larry up that I'd do whatever he wanted, hail Mary's, kneeling on bricks, sacrificing a lamb/goat/first born whatever. But please, please don't let him wake up from the sound or worse the smell! My God, Mr. Colon was pissed the fuck off. He was letting me know for sure he wasn't going to let me get away with it. The intense sudden urge to release my bowels sent me jolting to the toilet.

A barracks room in most cases is a lot like a hotel room. No real living space, just a place for a bed, and the bathroom right by it. Room for a desk, but let's get serious who really needs that in a hotel, and especially in a barracks room? That's like giving the Dahli Lama a gift card to Pier One. Now clinching my sphincter as tightly as possible to get there without shitting myself was like trying out for synchronized swimming with no previous experience and a fear of water. Running into the bathroom I turned the faucet on and flushed the industrial style toilet for a pre-courtesy flush. So as this ass lava was coming out it would already be headed to it's eternal resting place. It didn't go down without a fight. I'm not sure how long I was in there but it was long enough to consider putting a tampon in my bum so I could sleep peacefully without soiling the sheets. The smell of the Massacre of Bum's Landing was horrendous. I left the bathroom fan on and crept back into bed. Quickly glancing at the time I realized Larry had to get up for duty in 15 minutes. Panic, panic, no don't panic it'll make you shit again. But there's no shit left. I thought to myself. OK I'll pray some more and maybe this time repent and God might possibly make the stench vanish. And while praying just pretend to be sleeping. The alarm went off. He slowly started getting out of bed. Then walked towards the bathroom for his morning pee. This is it, this is the defining moment of our relationship. He's either going to a) not smell it and I'm good as gold, b) smell it, be utterly disgusted and dump me for being an ass pissing bitch or c) smell it, ignore it, and if he does then he must love me and I must marry him. He walked out of the bathroom, puts his hand on my shoulder and asks, “Baby are you alright?”

Minor? (First chapter of my book)

Minor?

The night I went to the Weezer concert was a disaster, but not a complete bust. I was bored and/or lonely afterwards and decided to go to this Latin club in Atlanta called Santo Domingo (wonder if it's still there? I'll have to Google it, because that place was the shit). Before going to the club I had to ditch the computer tech guy. I did the good ol' disappearing act on him, by getting in a mosh pit, making my way out of it to a beer vendor and shamelessly hid behind their trashcan. I knew I was in the clear when I saw him wondering around with a look of what I can only describe as the abandoned dog. I watched him exit the perimeter and felt like a total bitch for ditching him that way. I'm sure he dialed 911 and reported his curly headed fuck for a blind date missing. In my defense his picture on Myspace was pretty deceiving. I was taken with a web cam, at night, by only the glow of his monitor. He had a disheveled look about him which I love because it radiates the “I give a shit but don't want you to know that ” look. Which reminds me to go ahead and warn you in case you didn't already know this, but any guy that only has one picture, no matter how hot he may look in it is most likely ugly or old or married. Ok let me just go ahead and give you the rules of thumb I go by when it comes to Internet pictures. First of all, I go through all the pictures if less then ten, use what you can or more then ten just use ten random ones. If 70% or more you find him attractive in then you might have a winner, if 50% or less don't bother it'll just be a waste of time. Secondly if in every picture his shirt is off then the most you'll get out of it is sex, and that's after he's conned you paying for both of yálls dinner. Lastly he must show eyes and teeth in his pictures, if not, he's hiding something. If he is always in sunglasses doing extreme sports or extreme bathroom photos, he's either a.) hiding a lazy eye or b.) hiding the complete emptiness of his soul, which I can only assume he sold to the devil for those sunglasses because what normal jobless, student can afford Prada? If he doesn't show his teeth, they must be yellow, missing, or just jacked the fuck up, and you don't want to deal with any of those.

Back to the story sorry I like to rant. So yea felt like a big bitch for dumping him that way. But also feeling relieved I didn't have to spend one more second with him. I should have known by his job he'd be boring and play WOW all the time, my fault. I did my walk/drive of shame in my beat up 1988 Toyota Corolla a.k.a POS. POS (piece of shit) had absolutely no A/C unless you consider rolling down all four windows and driving 80mph on the highway A/C, if you do then yes POS had A/C. It also had a leaking windshield, which only mattered when it rained and I was sitting in some random apartment complex “borrowing” someone's wifi, so beach towels in POS was a must, even though the closest beach was 5 hours away, even the closest lake was 2 hours away. And of course like the wonderful mother I am there was always those big ass, overly obtrusive car seats in the back. This car was such a piece of shit that if I drove while it was raining the car wouldn't go faster then 35mph. And even if you're driving in the slow lane of I-75 you're going to get run over. So I took the chance of driving in the rain just to make sure I got some hot Latin ass that night.

So I'm cruising my top speed of 35mph, sweating my imaginary woman balls off, getting pounded in the face with rain as if I had a sunroof down. One hour and 15 miles later I reach my destination, Santo Domingo, my little slice of heaven. By this point in my life the doormen of Santo Domingo knew me, this was either because I was in there more then them or because I was always the only white girl or white person period that ever came in. Even the bartenders knew my preferred drink at the time.....Patron. Look if I'm going to get drunk I aim right for the jugular, balls to the walls, rock out with your cock out, or my imaginary cock and balls. I was so proud I could actually walk into a bar and say, “my usual please”.

With enough money to pay my entrance and one shot of Patron I did just that. Then set on my quest for free drinks from any man willing. Which in a Latin club could be quite a challenge since only about one in five of them speak English and Spanish. And my Spanish was as good as a 100 Mexicans in a Ford Ranger crossing the border without getting caught. Conversations normally went like this:

Me: Hola

Random Hispanic (RH): Hola, Como te llama?

Me: Sherra y tu?

RH: Jose Eduardo Gonzales Jesus Lopez Rojas Martinez

Me: Ok.......(make drink motion with hands and pray for the best)

A short, chubby like creature of mud mask complection finally observed my not so universal display of sign language and got me a drink. After a few minutes of trying to maintain a conversation I realize this fat fuck was married, I guess I would've realized sooner if my eyes weren't so glazed over by the thought of tequila. And it took that tequila shot to bolt me into reality. I had imagined her name was Lupe or Rosa, and they met at a local restaurant they worked at, falling in love over the deep fryer. But this didn't stop me from taking the second shot he offered because I was going to use the little tid bit of information to get rid of him...after I took another shot and before he asked me to dance. Smiling a brief moment to get pass the burning sensation of the tequila going down my throat I suddenly looked horrified. As I grabbed his hand in disgust I yelled. “Marrido!” I stormed off towards the dance floor before I could laugh. Ultimately to avoid contact with him I'd risk being the only white person not only in the club but the only one to be brave enough to grace the dance floor on reggaeton night.

In general I'm not scared of short men no matter how big they are. Because I have this false sense of muscular strength in my body. Which in reality is quite disappointing, and a tad shocking. In my mind it would be easy to beat up a man that's shorter then me even at that time of my life when I weighed a whopping 110 lbs. More afraid of a gay man that's an inch or two taller or shorter then me. Which I should have reason, we're more equal in most ways.

On my way into the middle of the dance floor everyone was staring at me, of course. I always go right into the center of the tight crowd not to be the center of attention but because I don't want as many people seeing me. So essentially I hide in the middle like there's a gunman on the edge of the dance floor willing to shoot the worst dancers ie. me. Think of Dancing With The Stars but the judges have AK-47s. Just FYI I know how to dance now and I do professionally once I have a series of Vegas Bombs in my system. (Vegas also the name of my car, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except if there's a mess, that's a no go.) As I'm “dancing” this tall guy started dancing with me. At the time I don't know if I really thought he was cute or it was the tequila goggles, so we'll just say he was. We made out of course on the dance floor, not ashamed might I add. This tall, cute guy actually spoke a fair amount of English, so the conversation was much easier with him then most at this venue. Mynor was his name, and he was tall like I said, dark hair and eyes, wore glasses, and dressed impeccably (this at times has thrown me off because someone dressing like this normally means they're gay, but that's only in the states, from my years of experience I later realized most foreign men, especially European men all dress in the “gay”fashion) . I find glasses on men sexy, mysterious, and gives them the illusion of intelligence, this does not apply to sunglasses, especially at night and in a club. We danced and danced until I sweat out almost all of my tequila, and needed more. My strategy is to get wasted early in the night, but not throw up wasted and just maintain. Then slowly sober up before driving home. It's my way of being responsible, you know so I won't do any ugly men. He saw the desperation for a drink, it must've been the twinkle in my eye as I looked on towards the bar. Finally! He offered me a drink. Another way that I'm a responsible adult is that I always follow the guy buying me a drink for a few reasons

1. I don't want to be roofied, and have to explain to my mother from jail why I licked the cop arresting illegal immigrants at the bar I'm at while screaming, “Celia Cruz is the Queen of Salsa”
2. So they don't get me a well drink, because that's the quickest way to the bathroom from either puking or the ring of fire(term used for ass pee, wicked sting ring can also be used) and
3. To make sure they pay AND tip, tip because I want the bartenders to continue liking me and therefore never spitting in my drinks.
   It never dawned on me that only 21 & older had on wristbands. I guess I assumed (drunken assumption) that since I was 21 everyone else had to be too. Wrong.

Mynor and I started dating, and I ignored all the little red flags popping up. It was quite convenient for me that he lived an hour or so away, no one could be needy in this relationship. We decided to be exclusive, well I'd already had a boyfriend so it was as exclusive as it could be on my part. Weeks went by, and I was always disappointed with the sex because he was apparently very inexperienced. Which didn't totally bother me because my other boyfriend was. His inexperience was quite charming along with his super sweet disposition. So one boyfriend was entertaining me at some point of the day, I was starting to feel like I needed to make a decision between the two. This is the only time in my life I've ever had this dilemma. Two boyfriends is too much work. The day the choice was made, Mynor called me and asked to come over to talk. I knew this couldn't be good, but it couldn't be bad either. I had just met his family from Guatemala when they were in town visiting the week before. Did you know Guatemalans call themselves “Chapins”? Yea me neither.

I was living with my gay ex-husbands, single mother of one, aunt, Gerri and her one Noel. Noel was just a few years younger then me, so when I moved in we instantly became close. We shared almost everything, well more like her sharing everything because I was always broke. We'd cover for each other, go on trips to Florida, she'd watch my two lil ones during my late night escapades, and I'd do her chores. It was perfect. She introduced me to several of her friends including Albie, the former Abercrombie & Fitch model, boy was he hot! I'll have to get to him later.

Mynor arrived and we went into Noel's room to talk. There is no way to have a serious conversation in my room no matter where it's at. There's always clothes strewn everywhere and skeleton's of Starbucks left on the dresser. Plus in my room there's only three things I ever want to happen in there, sleep, have sex and read...in that order then repeat. I knew I wasn't getting laid this day and if I was it would have to be in the floor in the hallway or the bathroom sink. The thought of rug burn on my ass or knees is just as appealing as having to puke in a public bathroom at a country/western bar on a line dance night while hearing “Boot, Scoot and Boogy”in the background. And leg cramps from bathroom sex is a no go, I like my sex to be comfortable not convenient. Sitting on the end of Noel's bed I could tell he looked sad. He proceeded to tell me I needed someone older, that could take care of me. Totally puzzled because he in no way had ever provided for me. Ready for the shocker? Sitting down?

“I don't paint during the day like I told you. I'm actually 18 not 20 and I'm a senior in high school. I can't do this to you anymore.” I'd love to see my face at that moment. Just picture a midget with a camera that waits in your closet and pops out to capture moments just like these. Those pictures of expressions I'd hang on my wall as art.

Midget hiding in closet: $10/hr

Camera: $300

Look on your face when you find out your boyfriend still buys carton milks at SCHOOL: priceless.

I cried for a moment but not because I was sad he broke up with me but that I had a high school boyfriend and I wasn't in high school. And to top it off I got duped, by a kid. I did the only thing I could do, call Noel. She laughed considerably. Once her laughter was slightly subdued I asked her if she wanted me to hook her up with him, since they were in the same graduating class. Prom maybe?

 Sex Partner Number: 7

If I Had A Nickel For Every Time A Man Has Told Me I Was Trouble I'd Be A Millionaire

               So I work at a strip club. Every night I work I get told I'm trouble. This always bugs me to hear because I'm not sure exactly what they mean by that. I've also been told this outside of the club. What is it I do or say that makes men think this of me? I'm not overly flirtatious, slutty, or give false lead ons to men. OK I'm just not fake, the fakest thing about me is my tits and nails. Other then that I'm always myself through and through no matter what people might think of me. And what do they mean by "trouble"? Trouble as in they think I'm going to rob them, like a hood rat hanging outside a 711 in the ghetto in Downtown Los Angeles? seduce them to cheat on their spouse, and leave them high and dry with either no wife or herpes( I don't have any STD's I get checked regularly as should you, even if you're in a long term relationship because let's face it men are deceitful bastards and they cheat)? make them fall in love with me(not that I've ever accomplished that with a man before) and wipe out their bank accounts, IRAs, CD's, and take their house? steal their kidneys and leave them in a tub of ice? Or the worst case scenario, drug and/or lure them into a warehouse for their dismemberment? I mean really what harm can I cause that I wouldn't feel guilty over later? Yeah I work at a strip club, but that doesn't mean my morals are that off. I do still have some in tact. I don't date married men... anymore. I don't steal ever, because I fully believe in Karma. She's a bitch by the way. I wouldn't even know where to get drugs other then weed, and most times I'm at a loss on that one too. I wouldn't be caught dead in a ghetto anywhere unless I mistakenly took a wrong turn in a foreign country. If you saw me you'd know right away I'm not capable of crime involving my physique. I practically have noodles for arms, and could easily be toppled over by my fake tits. My ass keeps me grounded most days, unless I'm drunk and my equilibrium is pissed at me. And I'd avoid any job that involved blood or scalpels. Except for my internship dental assisting, and that's when I finally said no to those things. People by the way if you didn't already know have nasty teeth/mouths. I guess I was living in a fantasy land where I thought everyone had straight white teeth, uhhhmmmm NO I still have nightmares from the mouths I saw during that internship.

               As a result of being told this a record number of times I asked a friend who had also made the statement to me before, why? Their answer : You're very alluring but yet have that innocent girl look." I don't know if I like this or not. To me that sounds like the girl next door type. Which in general is good, but I'm almost 30 WITH four kids, so I'm NOT a girl. So to me that rings soccer mom or MILF. While I like the whole MILF thing it makes me feel old. Same goes with the soccer mom concept. The issue with me is I feel too old to be a girl next door type, but way to young to be a soccer mom or MILF. Yes for the record I am a MILF if I can be the judge of it. So where do I fit in? I'm not a soccer mom. I don't drive a mini van. I'm a decent person, but not a goody goody. In that same thought though I'm not a gold digger or bad really in any way, you know never been arrested. There's got to be more women like me that feel we need our own category that's not satisfied with these regular standard names or groups. Or you know what? I'm more then happy to be a group of one all by my lonesome. So please someone find my "group" or think of one I'd be good in. I just need a good name for it.

              While writing this I decided I'm going to start a savings account. Not for anything in particular. I'm just going to require that any man that calls me trouble give me a $1.00. I know the title says "nickel" but we aren't in the 50's, 60's or 70's anymore, there's a thing called inflation and I'm going to cash in on it. So let's just see how long it takes me to make a million. Also all the men who've already told me this your bill is in the mail. THANKS!